Project XIX

We’ll Be Alright

projectxix — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 02:44:32 +0000

It was the night that before me and Eric left for our trip to explore New York and New England, and Dani stole me away from the rest of our friends at the college group. That night she wore a green sleeveless dress red lipstick and a flower in her hair: I think she decided to spite my going away with her beauty. We took a walk and I spoke for most of it. My talking was a simple action of speaking up and sharing my thoughts, but it was the product of many conversations, arguments, falling outs, and disagreements between us that had gotten me to this point. She was quiet, and I thought at first that it was a conscious effort on her part to speak less, and listen more (something she was trying to do more of), but then I stepped back to consider the context: I’d be going away for a week tomorrow, and if I got the okay from the landlord, I’d be moving out to Philadelphia in a week and a half. It was a good bye of sorts.

We sat on the field near the church that had seen the games when we went to youth group. She wanted to sit under a tree, so we sat, and I’m sure a few years earlier we had done the same, and I imagine at this time I sat with her to watch our friends play soccer, because I lacked the eye leg co-ordination. She put her hands on the dirt beneath the tree and spread her fingers, and I did the same almost interlacing our fingers, but spacing them so they didn’t touch, “This would make a good picture,” she said quietly.

Ours had been a relationship that at times mimics a couple minus the sense of romantic attraction. At times over the past couples months, even the past couple weeks, ours was one that mimicked a married couple working through a rough spot, on the verge of divorce, but becoming stronger and closer because of it, “We’re going to be alright, you know that right,” I reassured her by putting my hand on top of hers and she nodded, but didn’t try to fake a smile. The night was marked by silence, and I asked her what was on her mind, and she told me she rather not. The silence spoke for us both.

We walked back she gave me a hug, and I met up with our other friends. I got a text from her, “come out and give me another hug already.” I met her at the car and did. She gave me the flower in her hair. I think she looked beautiful just to spite me.

Story of My Life (elsewhere)

projectxix — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 10:00:37 +0000

An early day for me comes elsewhere. Today, it’s a morning in Philadelphia. I sit in a café, wondering about the direction life is taking me, trying to articulate a creative thought, and brushing up on theology while simultaneously checking out the women walking by the store front window. It is the story of my life.

Pre-Seattle

projectxix — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 04:41:41 +0000

Written the day before I went to visit Seattle in Late February.

A week and a half ago, She stepped out without saying goodbye, and I tell my friend she’s pissed at me. It was something I said, but it was more factors of layers, time, and who we’ve been and who we are becoming. The electronic medium provides a place to write each other our thoughts, she probably wrote hers in minutes, transcending emotions, and her needs. My process was a little slower (something to do with my inability to do something straight through: a fault), making sure everything sentence is thought out, and every point defined, and, more difficultly, every emotion unfamiliarly expressed. Between the two of us we probably write 10 pages over two days. It all hit me hard, what we had to say coupled with my realizations about myself. The day after I was listening to From a Basement on the Hill trying to see if Smith can give me some insight into who I’ve been. I’ve been somewhere between Coast to Coast (is there anything that I can do that someone doesn’t do for you?) and Get Lost (burning every bridge that I cross, to find some beautiful place to get lost). Baby, it’s a weird place to be. I remember coming home, pulling into the driveway, turning of the car, and sitting just sitting there as the heat left… just sitting there. I was thinking about what was going on between me and my dear friend, and I was thinking about all the things I’m not or haven’t been. Baby, it’s an awful place to be when I feel like you’re talking about me like I’m every other boy. Sometimes there is a rift in communication, even between friends so intimate, and the remedy is more than just laying it all out there. What happens when my issues of commitment and movement affect the people I know, and when my moving for the sake of motion lifestyle comes against the need for consistently? I’ve been there, but the problem is I’m nomadic and living the life I want. I hope you find what you need out there. Sweetheart, I don’t know what I’m looking for; I just want to get lost for awhile even though I never exactly felt found… but I like it this way.
Right Some people told me that Philly is the city where I need to be. I’ve been there, and stayed over night about three times this year. I’ve spent late nights roaming, on the dance floor dancing, observing. I woke up to a glass of wine, and reading poetry with a friend. I’ve been around and gotten a different taste of Philly from different people. I’ve generated business, and made connections. I’ve had roof top photo shoots with beautiful people, who are rapidly becoming friends. I’ve slept on floors, and couches. Recently, I submitted my application to get accepted to Temple University. I’ve fallen in love with that city.

If its love, then this is the part in the relationship where I tell Philadelphia, let’s see other people, just for a little. I hope she understands. I’m 3,000 miles away from there, finally breaking through the time zone. Now, I’m Sitting in an airport, waiting…

Suburbia

projectxix — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 02:23:47 +0000

My Friday errands are done. So, I pull into the poorly designed shopping plaza to get something to eat. I eat alone in the corner, as the families eat among themselves. While trying to open her kid’s toys, the mom sitting a few tables ahead of me gives up for a second and puts he hands to her head and is just still for a few minutes as her kids prattle. No one gets that upset about opening a toy, so this is her reaching the breaking point as she realizes again and again this isn’t what she wants. She’s pretty and dressed well, but now she has a family to take care of, and nowhere to go. In between telling her one child to pick up his food, and the other to put her shoes on she immerses herself on her laptop. She just wants to escape, and she’s in luck: they make pills for that. An acquaintance walks my way and we plugs the names, numbers, and topics into the formula for conversations with acquaintances. The father sitting next to me has been in waking comatose states breaks out of it to slide his eyes up and down the girl I’m talking to, paying no attention to me. His wife comes back from watching his kids in the play center and he helps his three kids get dressed as the glaze over his eyes comes back, because the mother of his children has the body that says such. Now she’s the mother of his kids, but is she still the woman he wants? He doesn’t need pills for this because that’s what the internet is for. I zip up my utility coat and get ready for my night out; and people ask why I hardly think of marriage.

The Start.

projectxix — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 06:24:50 +0000

My 19th year started out a little over a week ago on January 30th. It was ushered in by my Granma’s voice on the other end of the phone singing happy birthday to me at 6 am before work. I wouldn’t have had any other way. A few people at work knew. I didn’t tell the ladies because I didn’t want to give them another excuse to eat cake. They had enough.
Whether I am working in my dad’s cubical in the engineers’ office, across from final assembly, or salvaging parts that’s all I hear: these middle aged women talking about food in this scandalous, pleasurable manner that causes them to moan. They talk about when they are going to get it, what they are going to get, and who they are going to get it from. Exchanging restaurant and kitchen talk with no detail spared. I usually feel dirty after the exchange. Though, maybe food has been the only thing that has consistently given them sustainable pleasure. We all have our vices.
I get it from my parents, not being into celebrations, but Sarena insisted on taking me out to eat. I enjoy hearing her speak her thoughts on life because they seem so uninhibited and candid, like her. I also enjoy eating ribs, so I was pleased.
I make my way over to a party that wasn’t my own. I’m too low-key to plan my own birthday party so I go to 20s theme graduation party instead. I, dressed like a g-man, talked about the Man, and his Big Brother (from Orwell’s oracle), and how they are going to take the middle class man down. I was sipping champagne earlier that night, I’m in my favorite garb, and baby I’m feeling smooth. Night wore on and my fingers got flighty, so they walked on egg shells that I mistook for shoulders, and I deftly shut a closing door as she slightly recoiled (so much for sushi). Nineteen is still young enough to forget got move within context.
I later find myself back in Reading at 2 in the morning. The weather is winter, but her clothes are arguing summer; she just wanted to dance, but her plans came to not. That night the mascara wasn’t holding up, and I move within context. Our conversations mimicked the ones we have been having for years. But we’ve aged a few years, and our talks are layered with experience. I look at her and know I’ve grown cold because I’m not as brave as her: to love untamed. For a second I don’t hide behind my stoicism and self-disclosure. It made my eyes feel warm with water. Nineteen is old enough to know this won’t be easy. This is why we it would be impossible for us to be romantically involved: because if anything happened to this, what would we do?
20 hours later I’m in Philly. After the Meg and Maeve give me the cake they made for me, they got dolled up in black dresses, boots, and heels: those girls just wanted to dance. But nineteen is still young enough to get laughed at by bouncers when trying to get in a club. Because of their persistence and tireless search of 18 and up clubs we find one.
The cabby that took us was Algerian and loves cranberry juice, and he was kind. Funny, he could have been one of the guys I call prick as he cuts me off, but talking to him sharing a conversation about America, and life, makes me think that we could actually be having that same talk at some café. He aided in our search when one club was closed, he cruised to another across the way. Nineteen is still young enough to feel good when the bouncer checking the ID wishes “happy birthday.”
That night I was Meg’s escort, body guard, and bouncer. I told Tai I’d take care of her. I take that seriously. When the guys come close my arm is the velvet rope, “Sorry man, that’s my boy’s girl,” and repeat seven times. I pass my duty off to Maeve’s friend for a little, but keep them in eye sight as I move through.
I weave through the crowd getting a feel for the place. People are moving, and crowds form in the crowds. People watch vicariously as couples do a lot of thrusting, and less dancing. The fella’s are on their game in one area, and they battle, moving in ways only. Another couple are getting to know each other through dance a little more playfully strikingly reminiscent of that anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better scene and song. Other guys just come out and do their two steps with their friends. I’m feeling the beat, but I’ve always been picky.
Eye contact.
I move closer and so does she leaving the guy she was dancing with to become another anonymous face in the sea of faces. She thanks me for taking her from him. We dance. I have a very short history dancing, but I danced. There is something to be said about how sound brings two strangers into synchronicity. There is this slight synapses through it all from start to finish that communicates when words don’t (I realize now in every interaction it is always this way). In a crowd, in a moment, and that’s it. We talk a little, she wants to be a pediatrician, I love kids. I always enjoy knowing just a little bit more about a person when proximity is shared; otherwise she’d just another beauty with a nameless face. I’m ballsy enough to initiate the dance, but brainless enough to ask for a number (gave her my card though because I network where ever I can). I repeat the process one more time.
So this is how it goes. We go to feel attractive, and attracted. When it seems right it starts with a connection; a synapses. Then we get close and share brief time moving in sync, share proximity, communication and living in the moment. Then we go away with maybe a memory… maybe not. I’m not sure if I described the dance floor or most of my relationships. Though, one of the allures of strangers is that there is no immediate need for commitment.
Jim’s is open till 3 and we were last in line. A drunk lady orders food, and her friend reassures her that they already ordered, a man slips another guy a 20 so he can get 10 spots a head in line: this is Philly. As we wait in line the middle aged black (that was kind enough to be my aunt) behind the counter looked at me and whispered, “You’re my favorite customer,” and when meg looked up, “you too, ya’ll going to get free sodas… shhh.” She told us how good it was to see us smile. She said that when you’re miserable you should stay your ass home because it’s contagious: so is a smile.
I drop Meg off to catch her bus the next morning. The soulful, bluesy, jazzy mix plays the perfect soundtrack to getting lost in Philly (We don’t get lost, we find new places). I end up at a café, and loaf as plans crumble due to my inadequate planning. It cut my Sunday short. Though, I remembered that when things go a rye I go indifferent. I think it’s a gift. It made for lazy day, and an early sleep… which even though I’m a working man, I don’t get enough of. Nineteen is old enough to appreciate sleep.

This is a small start

projectxix — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 04:55:29 +0000

One day I felt like a prophet and said that this year was going to be some sort of genesis. I still think that.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a kid with a stuttering problem. I get these ideas, or something in my head that I want to communicate, but I can’t for the life of me. So, this is an attempt. This project is seeing my life through the concept of a story. This is an attempt. This won’t be fiction, but this won’t always be literal. This is an attempt. We experience so much, but communicate so little. So this is an attempt. This is my 19^th year.

This is a smaller start than I imagined. Though, you see, if I don’t start now I probably just wouldn’t start. Cause I’m a half hearted boy that just can’t commit. So this is small, but its a start.