I am finding my voice again, slowly. I spend my days catering to the voices of others, reveling in the ability to be a chameleon — a faceless ghost who manifests in the form of communalistic prose. It is difficult to transition between the daily grind and my own work. I’ve tried in vain to find an easily relatable comparison.
It’s tough to break boundaries when you spend 10 hours a day trying to stay safely within them; hard to muster up the desire to tell your own stories when you’ve spent the best of your day telling someone else’s. The inspiration I find I tell better in a letter to a friend or even a passing acquaintance, perhaps wondering in passing why I’m giving all this away. Why words are meted out in pennies per.
Writing is a solitary pursuit, even when we go about it in collaborative fashion. We are all of us alone; just searching a way to be less lonely in the process. The layer of dust on my guitar could tell you better than I how boring my life has been. If I dust it off tomorrow; if I find my fingertips bearing metallic grooves once again, what then?
A voice exists to be heard.
These are things tossed out of the windows of my mind. Catch them. At worst, I am brilliant at breakfast.
At best ....
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I’d been following him for awhile, but for some reason (or no reason, really) we’d never spoken. Then he posted a story that would’ve knocked me off my damn feet if I’d been standing (I s’pose it’s a good thing I was sitting down), and I shot him a message on tumblr like there was a loaded gun to my head. That story was “She Likes Hair Bands,” and a thick-as-thieves friendship quickly developed between us.
We swapped life stories and phone numbers, and he became not only my constant texting companion but also my muse. The most popular piece I’ve ever posted to tumblr? He inspired it. And those text conversations? I was writing a story, and I asked him what 3 songs he’d pick on a jukebox if there was a girl he had his eye on. Then I realized: “Fuck it. He should just write the other half of this piece from the guy’s perspective.” Thus was born the first of several collaborative writing efforts, and he remains my favorite collaborator — a title I don’t see him relinquishing any time soon. There’s something about our process that just clicks. Writing with him makes me excited about writing again, makes me love writing again.
He’s picked me up when I was down, and I’ve tried to do the same. I don’t want to imagine what my life would be like without him in it. I literally would, and have, placed my life in his hands. To the best of my recollection he’s the only person on tumblr who’s ever seen me cry.
We’ve had our ups and downs; who hasn’t? We’ve survived more than our fair share of soul-darkened nights, anxiety, struggle, pain, shipping on tumblr — but we’re still here. If nothing more can be said, at least I can say that. When my mind retreats to darkness, he is always the first I reach for. It’s instinctive.
And over the course of the better part of a year and thousands of tumblr messages, texts, Skype conversations and phone calls, I’ve had the great privilege of bonding with a man who is a brilliant writer with a beautiful soul and a legendary ass. So tonight seemed as good as any to make this public declaration:
Nicholas Desjardins, I love you. You are the greatest friend, confidante, counselor, amateur therapist, co-writer, conspirator, and occasional muse I have ever known.
Happy birthday, Nick. If this doesn’t cause you to crack a smile, then fuck it, I give up. That’s a lie. I never give up. And I’ll never give up on you.
It should’ve been ideal. It should’ve been perfect. The perfect guy on the perfect date on the perfect night. Instead it was irritating, and it all started with orchids. My corsage. I’d insisted upon them, because I was a spoiled brat and my dress was a lovely deep violet, velvet and satin, and only orchids would do.
The instant you placed the expensive corsage on my wrist, the itching started. Halfway through dinner I noticed a rash extending to my elbow, crawling upwards from the locus of the furious red ring the corsage itself had made around my wrist. Rings echoing still others I’d sought to hide. I took the thing off. It took several more months for me to remove you; the onset of your rash was more subtle and less immediate.
To this day I tell people (if it comes up) that I’m allergic to orchids. I don’t touch them and I don’t let them touch me. But still I think they’re the most beautiful things. And still I don’t know if I’m allergic to orchids, or if my histamines were trying to tell me something.
I’ve heard it said that whether a day is “good” or “bad” for you depends on your focus. I think that’s hogwash. There are some days that are objectively bad no matter how you look at it. But there are also a few days that are objectively good. This is the story of one of those days, and it just happens to be Christmas Day, and it starts with a red coat.
It didn’t start with a red coat, actually. It started with me actually waking someone up for once. I’m a night owl, and I never wake up anyone, including myself. But I woke him up this morning. We are “Christmas orphans,” mostly by choice. While everyone else is spending Christmas with their aunts and uncles and parents and siblings and all the rest, we spend Christmas alone together. We had Christmas Breakfast (on Christmas Day, it is decreed that everything you do is capitalized and titled “Christmas [Thing]” — a tradition that can get quite ridiculous) with Christmas Coffee, and then it was time to open presents.
The first thing I opened was a beautiful hand-made blanket, purple on one side, the other side a print with dozens of adorable owls. It was beautiful, and wonderful, and perfect, and I immediately wrapped myself up in it as we opened the rest of our gifts. My haul included a Shel Silverstein box set and a year’s supply of my favorite pens, and a wonderful sock monkey scarf, amongst other things. And then I opened the box containing the red coat.
A little disclaimer is perhaps in order: I dislike other people buying me clothing. Socks, scarves — eh, alright, take a shot — but actual items of clothing, no. It’s just not advisable. Other people have a difficult time figuring out the sort of thing I would like, and most of the people who buy me things anyway are family I don’t see but once or twice a year. So when I determine a gift is an item of clothing, my eyes immediately narrow.
But this — this was a beautiful red coat. Although I don’t often wear red, I’ve always wanted a red coat. And this one — this one is just perfect, and it has a big, deep hood, so I could actually be Little Red Riding Hood if I wanted, and I’m sure the light from my smile was visible at least to the Canadian border. I loved it. I knew I wanted to wear it. Today. And so it was that, for the first time in nearly two years (particular occasions excluded), I asked myself “what should I wear?”
I haven’t always been a low-maintenance girl. I used to dress to the nines every day. It was rare to see me not wearing a skirt or a dress and heels. It was the way I rolled. After the car wreck and the ensuing recovery, I found I couldn’t muster up the motivation to care. Jeans and t-shirts and hoodies and Chucks were comfortable and struck the appropriate “I don’t give a fuck” chord. But there’s a difference between not giving a fuck and not giving a fuck, and that I (re)discovered today.
Half my closet was thrown on my bed as I weighed my options — items I’d forgotten I even owned. I’ll admit I’ve not even been in my closet in near a year — I’d wear things, they’d get washed, I’d wear them again straight out of the hamper. I didn’t even bother. Today, I bothered. Today, I remembered how good it feels to know you look nice, as opposed to trying to convince yourself you don’t care if you look nice or not. And today, I looked nice. Today, I put on nice jeans and a fitted black sweater under my new red coat and my sock monkey scarf. I still wore Chucks — though they were black, and they matched my ensemble, and my socks even matched. My Christmas Knee Socks are black and gray and red and white striped and I’m wearing them still.
After Christmas Presents and Christmas Liquid Lunch we traipsed off to the premiere of Les Miserables. The “unpopular” theater, where you can usually walk right up 2 minutes before the movie starts, buy a ticket and walk right in — the theater where you normally watch a film with maybe 4 other people in the entire theater — was packed. The line at the ticket window spilled out well into the parking lot. We had second thoughts, but in the end, I really wanted to see the movie, so I thought we should give it a shot. We parked and took our place in line, briefly debating what we should do if we get up there to find it’s sold out.
After about 10 minutes a girl came out and said loudly “If there’s anyone in line who are only two people waiting to get tickets to Les Miz, we have two extra tickets!” My arm shot up as soon as the “Miz” syllable was out of her mouth, and I was pulling his arm as I rushed towards her. She confirmed we were two wanting to see Les Miz, and told us to follow her. Inside, we joined her sister and mother at the inside line for pre-purchased tickets. Her mother explained she had purchased tickets for her other daughter and her son-in-law, but they were unable to come, so they’d all three decided, in the spirit of Christmas, that they would give the tickets to two people in line. We offered to buy their popcorn and drinks, but they declined. We talked while we waited. The girl who’d brought us in from outside, Jordan, was very excited. Her older sister, whose name I never got, confessed she’d only recently dyed her hair pink, and it was the first time she’d ever dyed her hair, so sometimes she’d wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, catch her reflection in the mirror, and not know who she was. I almost asked her if she had a tumblr. Mom got the tickets, gave us our two, and we exchanged Christmas wishes before parting ways to find seats.
The film was wonderful, and I am wonderful, and I’ve had a wonderful day. Sometimes all it takes is a red coat and a gesture, to remind you that you’re not alone. There are good people in this world, and there are good days. And sometimes, good people have good days too. Sometimes on Christmas.
Focus. Your mind goes where you tell it; you can control it. You have the tools. Focus. Not on the horrors of this world; they exist all around and happen every day. If all of us focused on all the monsters in all humanity we’d all fucking kill ourselves. We’d all deem this world uninhabitable; this life not worth living.
It’s not a problem of humanity; it’s a problem of focus. All humans are capable of both good and evil. This is true because we invented the concept of good and evil, and defined such as such. This is a logical argument. Pray, set your religious beliefs to the side and read on. No matter which road leads us to the conclusion, we can still believe the conclusion is sound. There is a collective consciousness. There are things we all agree are unconscionable, condemnable. Condemn them then. But condemn them with your inattention. Despicable acts should not be probed publicly and pondered over. They ought be shunned. Attention is the currency of our society. Expressing horror and outrage is understandable; memorializing victims is understandable. I will defend to the death your right to create.
But do not give attention to those who don’t deserve it. Focus, instead, on those who do. It’s not naïve — it’s truth. Focus. The filthy need for all the filthy details of the filthy person who committed a filthy deed are just that — filthy. Pornography is sold in back rooms while serial killer biographies make the best-seller list. Fuck that. You want to bitch about society? Look in the fucking mirror. And focus.
We all see positive news as fluff. As not “real news.” I’ve worked in journalism, I know. But you know what? Positive news is real news. Adjust your focus. We’re all so inundated with negative that positive seems an afterthought. A chaser to your shot. What if it were the other way ‘round?
What if positive stories were the lead, followed by “oh, in other news, this random gunman [unnamed] shot 3 innocent civilians today before killing himself, so the threat’s been contained.”
There will always be pain. The only question is how you’ll frame it. There will always be violence. The only question is how you promote it. Focus.
The outpouring of love and grief for Kayla is a beautiful thing, and it warms me that so many of you were so touched by this tragedy that you felt the need to write such beautiful poetry and prose for a beautiful soul who is too soon gone.
Your pieces are lovely, but I think it’s important to remember that Kayla was more than a blog URL, and her passing is more than a writing prompt. She was a girl with talents and skills and interests and hopes and dreams — just like you. And just like you, she had friends. Close friends who talked to her every day and loved her.
It is great to remember and memorialize Kayla, but if you really want to honor her life, reach out to those who loved her and were closest to her. When I heard the news this morning, my first thought went to Mara. I’ve been texting with her all evening. And after her post, I felt compelled to say something. There are others who loved and cared for Kayla. Seek them out. They will appreciate your caring and compassion. Listen, and let them grieve, knowing they’re not alone. Honor the dead by holding tight to those who still live.
This is not what I expected to write. I expected I’d write you a poem, as I’ve often done. When that failed, I expected I’d write you a sweet short story, a fancy fairy tale with yourself as protagonist and a thinly-veiled me as the object of your affection. Then that failed too, and I didn’t know what to do but this.
Every night I swim seas of regret to reach you. Every night I fail. Every day I dream dances shared but never offered. I’ve no words left to say to you save three: I love you.
I understand if you don’t buy them; I understand your reticence. You protect yourself as I would protect you, too. As I do. Let me be your shield and we will be our thousand years. You may be no one; nothing — but you’re all I crave. You’re my nicotine and I need a smoke, and I’ve lied. I’ve lied to you. I said I’d never hurt you; yet I have. And in so doing, I’ve hurt myself. Take my tears for your own. You are my all.
Please bring me back. I want to live in the moment I didn’t realize existed. For a time, we owned a moment. I’d like to bring it back. I didn’t know it existed, at the time. Now I do. I love you; give me a chance. Take me, keep me, write me.
It seems silly, doesn’t it? It’s rather difficult to explain to other people. And it’s not for everyone — so many come and go. But this Tumblr thing we’ve got here, it’s pretty damn unique. Perhaps you know what I’m talking about, and you know what I mean when I say that the best and worst aspects of humanity are perfected here.
This is meant to be something in the way of a “thank you” post, because ‘tis the season and all that, but such sentiments are overdue and ought to be done every day (although that would be monotonous and words are cheapened when spoken too often).
Here I’ve found some of my greatest friends. There’s a certain freedom in learning someone’s heart and mind before you are assaulted by the superficial things. We fall in love, metaphorically, a hundred times a day with a hundred people. But a few of you are sap and together we stick and our friendship is the perfect syrup, thick enough to compare it to thieves and sweet enough to cause smiles to crack on even the cloudiest faces. I can’t tag you all and that would be redundant anyway. If I’m writing this about you, you bloody well know it. Thank you.
Thank you for you. And thank you for sharing you with me.
I’ve been trying for hours
hours which compounded to days
which compounded to months
which compounded to a year (or near),
to tell you —
to write, for you, the perfect poem,
to tell you, but —
the pressure is too great
and I fear I must
here
admit my failure.
I cannot abstain and
words cannot contain you.
I only know that what I hold
cannot be helped, and what I feel
cannot be held.
I love you.
I do not need to say
much more than that.
I’m one of those people who doesn’t say thank you enough. I say it to shop clerks and restaurant servers and baristas and others who are merely doing their job, who are getting paid to do whatever I’ve thanked them for, who would do it regardless of whether I said “thank you” or “fuck you,” because they enjoy their income paying for things like food and rent.
Perhaps as a result, I don’t say thank you enough. Not when I really should. I’m not one for such and I’m not one for compliments. If we’re close, a comment from me that I hate you for writing something is as good as platinum. It’s a defense mechanism, perhaps, but it’s how I roll, and if you roll with me you learn to deal with my shit.
Nevertheless, I feel I simply must say something now. Thank you, to all of you who have expressed support and sent me encouragement in various forms regarding the birth of A Literation. I have high hopes for this journal — higher than you may ever know or conceive — and your support strengthens me.
This is the largest project I’ve ever undertaken. If I’d been the type to think twice and plan before making grandiose announcements, I’d have done a double take, said “Fuck that!” and tabled the whole idea. That I didn’t, and that you responded, provided me with the momentum to move forward. I couldn’t have come this far without you. I wouldn’t have come this far without you. And I can’t go further without you. You are my momentum, you are my driving force. Without you, I’d have never had the opportunity to prove myself wrong.
I can do this. We can do this. I need you behind me, and behind this project. We will show the world. There are amazing writers waiting to be explored. This will be bigger than any of us anticipate. This is, and will be, the largest project I’ve ever attempted. But it will succeed. I owe you all no less than that.
And I appreciate you. I appreciate you for supporting me. I appreciate you for buoying me up when I was down; for holding my string when I was floating away. I appreciate you for volunteering and for (potentially) submitting and for being part of this amazing project that I am merely fortunate to be in a position to bring to life.
I appreciate you.
Thank you.
