Run Run Run

(the following 3 posts were written for a writing class that i took in the fall of 2006. i was just re-reading them, and these three just sort of stuck with me. this one is about a Placebo concert that i went to with Sydney last year. the opening act I refer to is She Wants Revenge.)

“The lights, they glow sideways and up and down
The beat takes you over and spins you round
Our hearts steady-beating, the sweat turns to cold
We're slaves to the DJ and out of control”

It’s cold outside, as we wait in line. Our eyes are wide, trying to take it all in. People dress like stereotypes, parodies of their normal selves. Dark eyeliner is a must, and red lipstick. Their hair looks like they went at it with garden shears after a night of drinking: chopping wildly, randomly. Close to Halloween, they dress in costume. I can see the mad hatter, a vixen nurse, and several corsets. Anything goes. Everyone is waiting anxiously, rocking back and forth and looking towards the door that should have opened five minutes ago. Some of these kids, the ones at the front, have been here for hours, waiting, in the cold, in their tiny tank tops and fishnets.

You can tell a lot about the band by who shows up. This crowd is different than usual; I knew it would be. This band plays to the outcasts. We’re all a little odd, a little kinky. I see some leather pants; I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had a whip.

The doors open. Security knows what they are looking for, nothing I would be hiding in the pockets of my black blazer. My drivers license is checked, ticket torn, and I’m in. Suddenly I can move freely, as freely as possible being surrounded by people. You learn to maneuver, how to slide your body through groups of people without disturbing them.

The first thing to do is reevaluate the crowd. Who is in the balcony? Who are we going to need to squeeze past to get to the front? Probably don’t want to try to squeeze past that big guy; he could take me out pretty easily. Those two girls shouldn’t be too much of a problem though, and even if we can’t get in front of them, it won’t be too hard to see over the tops of their heads. No, wait, if we go over there, that really tall kid in the denim jacket will block our view completely and he looks like he knows what he’s doing here so he won’t be easily pushed aside. Oh well, the opening band hasn’t even started yet, we have time to work ourselves around them.

The DJ starts playing. He’s alright, he knows the crowd he’s playing for and suits his music to our collective taste. No one’s really dancing much, just sort of standing, having as good a conversation as can be expected in a loud environment like this. We’re still people watching: The emo boy to my left is far too good-looking for the girl he’s with, this girl in front of me doesn’t look like she fits into this crowd at all. She’s here alone. I wonder why she came.

We are approached by a man with a shaved head and a beer. He appears harmless, a little drunk, very social. We talk about the strangest things: the DJ’s suit—it’s red, but not quite the right shade, and did anyone win the World Series yet, do you know? He asks which band we came to see, the opening act or the headliner? He nods approvingly at our answers.

The opening band comes onstage to do a quick sound check before beginning. The lead singer would look like a joke it if weren’t so obviously intentional. Maybe that’s the joke. He has exaggerated the fact that he is balding by pushing his sloping afro as far up on his forehead as possible. It looks straight out of the ‘80’s or early ‘90’s, a Paula Abdul music video maybe. His body is long and sinewy, exaggerated by his ultra-thin stained t-shirt. He is graceful and captivating. His body moves with the music, his face remains completely blank. I am too busy watching him sway—trace lines in the air with his long thin fingers—to notice any of the other musicians—keyboard, bass, drums. His voice is deep and flat, entrancing. My friend leans over and puts her mouth to my ear. She shouts,

“WHY DO THEY LOOK SO FAMILIAR?”

I shake my head and shrug. I think I would remember this guy if I had seen him before.

She’s positive she’s seen them somewhere else, and for the rest of the night, it bothers her that she can’t think of where. We run over the mental list of concerts we’ve been to together. It’s a long list; we’ve been doing this for years... Nope, nothing. It must have been one she saw without me.

The set feels long, probably because one song sounds like all the rest when you don’t really know any of them. By the end, they’re starting to sound familiar to me too, but I think it’s just because the sound is predictable. Oh well, at least it’s good.

This girl who we are standing behind is driving me insane. She’s got about two feet of space in front of her, which for a sold-out standing room only concert should be a crime punishable by death. I try to bump into her, accidentally catch her hair, and brush her with my elbow to get her to move forward, but she doesn’t budge. If anything, she moves backward. Every time she sways to the music, the hood of the sweatshirt she has tied around her waist brushes my thigh. It bothers me, but I can’t scoot back, I am sandwiched. The thigh brushing becomes distracting. I really want to shove her hard in the back or yank hard on her hair, but I won’t. Every time I brush her, she gets annoyed and looks back at me, but doesn’t move.

“Thanks for coming tonight, to support us and our good friends from across the Atlantic, PLACEBO!” (The crowd goes wild.) “We have just one more song.” He starts singing again, alone, without the band.

“Run run run would you wear that black liner baby,

Run run run, run run run...”

His low deep monotone seems to cut through the air. Everyone is silent. His emphasis, timing, rhythm are perfect. We are all captured, slightly terrified of this loud voice that hits us straight and hard in the chest. The drum comes in on top of the vocals. The beat resonates through us. We don’t hear it as much as feel it. It becomes our heartbeat, the only pulse we can feel moving through us. We are a single entity, beating as one, led by this God onstage who has complete control of our bodies right now...

The song is over. We gasp, our heartbeats become our own again. The stereo system starts playing some modern rock music while technicians move equipment on and off of the stage. They unplug amps, coil mic cords, tune guitars. I could get a job like this, there isn’t much that they’re doing that I don’t know how to do, and I bet they get to meet all the bands and hang out with them backstage.

We have managed to squeeze our way to close to the front. We are so good at it, it’s almost scary. We did it without making anyone really angry also, which is the real accomplishment. We are so close that we will probably be breathing the same air as Brian Molko, our hero, the lead singer of Placebo.

It feels like we’ve been waiting forever. It’s one thing to stand cramped in with strangers when there’s a band playing but when it’s just waiting, it’s nearly unbearable. I can’t even talk to my friend anymore, since she’s in front of me and it’s so packed that she wouldn’t be able to turn around without getting squeezed back.

Finally, Placebo takes the stage. Of course everyone is going wild, reaching towards them, screaming. One girl near me faints at my feet, hardly anyone notices. I help her boyfriend pick her up and try not to go down myself. They leave and their space is instantly filled by more screaming fans. People are pressing into my back, I am pressed into my friend’s back. I can’t move my legs, there’s nowhere for them to go that isn’t already occupied by someone else. My arms are protectively covering my chest, they aren’t going anywhere either. I can feel the heat radiating from every body. Someone could suffocate in here.

Brian Molko is different than I’d imagine him. He’s much shorter. He also shaved his head since the latest photo of him I saw. Nonetheless, he’s drop dead gorgeous. He’s got style, sex appeal. I’m obviously not as big a fan as the rest of the crowd; I don’t even know the names of the bass player or the drummer. They’re hot too.

Most of the songs that they play are off their new album, the one I don’t know as well since I only bought it a few days ago. I’ve been listening to it non-stop since then, but I still only know the words to certain choruses. Everyone around me knows every word. The girl to my left is getting really into it, singing her heart out, wanting to somehow become one with her idol by singing the same words as he is at the same time.

“Carve your name into my arm,
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed...”

Her arms are outstretched, reaching toward him. No one else exists to her now, it’s obvious just by watching her. I envy her a little. Even if I knew all the words, I don’t think I could get as into it as she is. Near the end of the concert, I glance over at her. There are tears streaming down her face, her perfect black eyeliner stripes down her cheek, ending around her chin. I’m glad I saw it.

They don’t play my favorite song, the one I wanted to scream along to. There’s always that one pseudo-obscure song that I really want to hear that most people probably skip when they play the CD. Oh well. It’s hard to be disappointed after that. Man, what an amazing show, what an amazing crowd.

As I’m heading out, I stop at the table to buy concert memorabilia. While we are waiting in line, we start a conversation with the keyboardist from the first band, the one I barely noticed. He’s cute and modest and even a bit shy. We talk briefly, then he leaves. Every time he passes us, he nods at us and smiles. I love him.

Outside, the night is cold and quiet. Walking fast feels strange, walking at all feels strange, because we’ve been constricted for so long. My ears are ringing. I am high on adrenaline. Whenever I am out this late, I can’t help but feel sexy, I don’t know why. I walk with confidence through the parking lot to my car.

We drive home in silence. We are at the same time both exhausted and incredibly awake. Tomorrow we’ll go out and buy that CD, the opening act. I’ll glue the ticket stub into my scrapbook, she’ll burn me a disc with the photos from tonight on it. I’ll print a few of them, maybe, and stick them in the scrapbook with the ticket stub. Maybe I’ll even write a few lyrics to go with them. Then, sometime, next week, next month, I’ll turn on the radio and hear

“Run run run, run run run.”

I Miss You

(this was written probably in october 2006 for a writing class. i wrote it because i needed to write it, however melodramatic it turned out.)

I’m driving home, praying that no one else will be there when I get there. I just want to be alone. My car is silent and I feel like crying but I can’t; my mind isn’t empty enough to let myself break down—I have too much else to worry about. All the lights in my living room are on—everyone’s probably sitting in front of the TV, just like every night. I drive past my driveway. The cold dark solitude of my car is what I need right now, not the warm distraction of my house, my room, my homework.

I am upset, and I am upset at myself for being so upset. This is ridiculous. I am overreacting. I am letting my emotions get in the way. This shouldn’t be about more than business but I am making it more. I’m letting you be more to me. I’m letting you get to me, you manipulative bastard. I am letting you in and you’re hurting me.

I used to look forward to you, to the afternoons when you’d be around, and I’d be around, we’d be together. I still look forward. I want to see you even though it’s not good for me. You’re not good for me, with your insincere sweet-talk. I can taste the sugar coating on every word that comes out of your mouth. It’s nauseating.

I turn right at the next stop sign. I no longer know where I am. My neighborhood is like a maze to me. Right now it feels good to be lost. I want to pull over and start walking, but it’s cold and my coat is thin. I’ve also been warned about walking alone here at night—this is the bad part of town, as bad as bad gets in a town like this. I drive, not looking at street signs, not looking anywhere but at the road straight ahead of me. My headlights cut smooth beams of light through the darkness onto the pavement in front of me. The trees on the side of the road flash like ghosts as I pass. No one is out walking, I don’t know if it’s the neighborhood or the weather that is keeping them indoors.

I still can’t cry. I know I’ll feel better if I can let it all out, but I can’t. I hold it inside myself. My white knuckles gripping the steering wheel are my only show of emotion. I don’t have to be tough right now, there’s no one here to see me. I won’t cry. It’s instinct.

I hate myself for thinking it, but the only thing in the world that I want right now is to see you, to hold you, to melt into you. I want to hear you tell me in your sugary sweet voice that everything is alright, that this’ll all pass. When I left, you came up to me. You reached your arms out to me—

“Don’t touch me.” I said.

Of course you won’t call.

It’s my fault. I wanted too much from you. For a while, it seemed like you wanted it from me, too. I guess this isn’t the first time I’ve been wrong. I’ve set myself up for disappointment before.

My finger is on the talk button, ready to call you. I should. I need to smooth this out, we can’t keep this up. It’s not good for you and it certainly isn’t good for me to be this upset. All I need to do is call you and we’ll be better. You’ll be sweet, I’ll ignore the fakeness of your voice, I’ll feel better, reassured. I’ll miss you tonight.

I shouldn’t call. I need to keep my distance for a while, let this all cool down. Maybe it would be best if I just gave up, used all my energy to forget you. If I call, things will be fine for today, maybe I’ll sleep better tonight, but what about tomorrow? Tomorrow you’ll hurt me again. I hate this cycle. I use my steering wheel to flip my phone shut. I pocket it and start looking for familiar street names.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to drive home happy, practically giddy with excitement. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world to have found someone like you. The late nights, just the two of us—the innocent jokes. Somewhere along the line, things changed. It got too hot; it got scary. It stopped being real, we started faking it, then we gave up altogether. I distanced myself. When we worked together, we worked in silence. I began to recoil when you touched me, turn away, make excuses to keep my distance.

No one even noticed as we began to fall apart. On the surface everything remained as it was. We talked business. I still drove you home, but the car rides changed. I drove fast, uncomfortable with only the small gap between us. The radio was the only thing breaking the almost painful silence.

I’m not mad anymore. My drive and the few minutes of allowing myself to become completely lost have cleared my head. I’m not perfect, but I’m coming to terms with this. It’ll never be how it was or could have been, but that’s alright. Tomorrow it’ll be different. Tomorrow when I see you I’ll smile, but I won’t hold you tightly when we hug. I won’t press my entire body against yours, I won’t relax into you. We won’t joke, not even a little. While I’m working, you will stand above me and plant a kiss on my head and I won’t look up, won’t even smile.

I miss you.

Time Repeats Itself Here

(This was written after the Fall 2006 show at Boulder High, Where I'm From.)

Time Repeats Itself Here

“Promise me, Pooh, that you won't forget me ever, because if I thought you would, I wouldn't leave.” -E.E. Milne

The show is over. We made it. I’m filing out of the auditorium, wondering if the tears in my eyes are noticeable by everyone who looks at me.

I’m walking through the crowd, the faces are all different, all strange, but the fundamental human emotion is the same on every face, the same now as it was six years ago, when it was my school, my lobby, my theatre, my show. We are all so glad that we did it, so sad that it is over, so full of energy and so exhausted. The hugs are the same, there’s always someone else in the sea of faces to greet, to congratulate—there’s always more human contact to make.

Soon, most of the audience leaves—to drive home, hopefully touched, maybe even teary, like me. I head back into the auditorium, to clean up, to feel busy while I’m waiting for everyone to leave so I can lock up the school.

I sit in the back of the auditorium, while everyone else dances onstage. They jump wildly, the music pounding, the lights dim and flashing. Their joy is apparent, the relief of being finished, the pure joy in how well this all turned out, being so glad that they created it, and that here they are, who are capable of creating it, and now that they can celebrate, let loose.

The song ends, and their life resumes—actors head understage to change—to discard their characters into a heap on the floor, to turn back into themselves. The tech crew congregates in the lobby, planning their evening—are they going to go to the cast party with the actors or have their own private party at Martha’s amazing house?

The auditorium—onstage and in the house—is completely deserted. I am walking onstage, unplugging lights, moving set pieces, still trying to busy myself while everyone else is leaving.

She is walking down the isle towards me, hands in her pocket. She joins me on the stage. We stand together, we who have come, gone, and come back to this place. We stand onstage, as we used to, understanding, knowing, connected. We are in tears, looking around, remembering. She is a year younger than me, but more than anyone, she is my generation. We were on crews together, knew the same people. We ate dinners together, pushed barricades, carried Styrofoam rocks, wood benches. Once in the middle of the night, we sat together in a playground—talking, thinking, just breathing—while the world spun madly and chaotically around us. Now, we stand alone together, staring into the lights, the seats, into the deserted wings as we used to and no longer do. Everything is the same here, we have changed. Or have everything changed around us, and we are still who we always were?

We haven’t spoken for three months at least. The last time I saw her, we were parked in my car, connected in the dark. We aren’t good friends, but our friendship is a powerful emotional one. We share moments—silent moments where there are no words for what we understand.

Now she’s gone. Not far, physically, but far enough. The new ones won’t know her name, won’t remember the barricade or those benches. They won’t remember.

We immortalize ourselves here, to try to keep from being forgotten. We use permanent markers to try to convey to future generations who we were, why we mattered. For someone about to leave, the simple act of signing, finalizing, is as purging as Confession.

She tells me that she left without signing. Now feels right, she should do it now, while we still feel the way we do. Now that she is coming to terms with being gone from this place. We search for a Sharpie. Things never change here, of course we can’t find one when we need one. We pry the lid off of a can of black paint, racing, faster, faster, to immortalize this feeling before it fades. We race past actors, swinging the paint bucket madly. She pours the paint on her hand so that she doesn’t get too much on the brush at once, touches the brush to her hand, and begins. She wrote, I sat, reading the signatures on the walls as if they were epitaphs: “Brighton Beach Memoirs- 1993,” “Prop Goddess, 1982.” They all sound the same. Ten years after the 1993 production, we did Brighton Beach again. I don’t know anyone who remembers the old one, and few who even remember the newer one. She was in the newer one; we have that memory together.

While we are signing, the now kids, the ones who were in the show, pass. Although they don’t understand what we are feeling, they can sense that it is important and profound, timeless.

“Thank you,” they say, walking past in their jazz shoes and high-tops. The same shoes we wore, when we used to walk down here. I look up at them, smile, and they’re gone.

Soon, everyone’s gone, and I’m alone in my dark theatre. I am walking through dark hallways that I know better than I know the hallways in my own house, locking doors, picking up garbage. I find a black Sharpie on the floor of the girl’s dressing room. I walk down the tunnel until I find my name. I kneel down before it and uncap the Sharpie. My hand pauses—there are no words for what I feel, and trying fit it into words would be to diminish what it truly is. I recap the Sharpie and pocket it, but I remain kneeling in front of my eternal section of the wall, reading about who I used to be, trying to see myself as an outsider.

As I am writing this—frantically scribbling snippets of memory and hoping that they will be intact enough to understand and feel later—there is black paint smeared on the palm of my hand. Like the Sharpie on the walls, it reminds me of something that once happened, an event that will never exist again exactly as it did before. The paint will wash off, and the marker on the walls will fade into the many other signatures and be forgotten. The people will come and go, their lives will be changed, and they will be the only ones to remember. My hand will be stained with black paint again, and again, I’ll wish it would never wash off, so I could be reminded of some incident or other that—however fleetingly—touched me.

"therefore let's kiss."

I decided I need to learn more about poetry.

So I browse the poetry shelf at work, and I decide to read some ee cummings.
This is not the greatest idea, though, since ee cummings is the poet I know best to begin with, and reading more of his stuff is not really going to improve my knowledge.

Anyway, here are a few poems that I found, and since love/sex is very much on my mind a lot these days, I want to put them here to remember them, since I can't bring myself to buy this book yet since I haven't fully exhausted the 3 ee cummings poetry books that I already own.


as
we lie side by side
my little breasts become two sharp delightful strutting towers
i shove hotly the lovingness of my belly against you

your arms are
young;
Your arms will convince me,in the complete silence speaking
upon my body
their ultimate slender language.

do not laugh at my thighs.

there is between my big legs a crisp city.
when you touch me
it is Spring in the city;the streets beautifully writhe,
it is for you;do not frighten them,
all the houses terribly tighten
upon your coming;
and they are glad
as you fill the streets of my city with children.

my love you are a bright mountain which feels.
you are a keen mountain and an eager island whose
lively slopes are based always in the me which is shrugging, which is
under you and around you and forever:i am the hugging sea.
O mountain you cannot escape me
your roots are anchored in my silence;therefore O mountain
skillfully murder my breasts,still and always

i will hug you solemnly into me.

***

skies may be blue;yes
(when gone are hail and sleet and snow)
but bluer than my darling's eyes,
spring skies are no

hearts may be true;yes
(by night or day in joy or woe)
but truer than your lover's is,
hearts do not grow

nows may be new;yes
(as new as april's first hello)
but new as this our thousandth kiss,
no now is so

***

b
et
wee
n no
w dis
appear
ing mou
ntains a
re drifti
ng christi
an how swee
tliest bell
s and we'l
l be you'
ll be i'
ll be ?
? ther
efore
let'
s k
is
s


(more poetry later as i delve deeper.)

Tea

It's pleasantly refreshing on the occasions when someone decides what I want for me. The other day a friend decided that I wanted chamomile tea, then he made it for me. It was really nice, to just get a cup of tea.

And then we threw the boxes of tea on the ground.

I'm sorry if that's never happened to you.

The Magic Position

I like to watch this when I'm in a bad mood because Patrick Wolf is amazing and he makes me feel better.

Embedded Video

Blogged with Flock

For Sam

Haircuts.

i'm thinking of getting my hair cut like the one on the top right.
yeah?

Makes Me Want it Harder

The best playlist ever, do you see a pattern in the songs?

1.Fuck Her Gently- Tenacious D
2.Little Red Corvette- Prince
3.Like a Virgin- Madonna
4.Lover I Don't  Have to Love- Bright Eyes
5.Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk- Rufus Wainwright
6.Striptease- Hawksley Workman
7.When the Lights Go Out- 5ive
8.Sic Transit Gloria...Glory Fades- Brand New
9.These Things- She Wants Revenge
10.Closer- Nine Inch Nails
11.Pull My Hair- Bright Eyes
12.Sweat (A La La La La Long)- UB40
13.Hello Time Bomb- Matthew Good Band
14.You Shook Me All Night Long- AC/DC
15.I See Monsters- Ryan Adams
16.Come On- Lucinda Williams
17.Love Child- The Supremes


It tells a story, too.
This is what me and Hannah do when we're bored and sexually frustrated.

mmmm.