Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Literature Rant Post.


I love technology as much as the next person, but you know what I don't love? Electronic books. I understand it, sure, and if you love it, kudos to you, but here's the thing: There is nothing that will replace the way it feels to turn the page of a book. Actually turn it, like, with your hand. And books have a scent, it's a smell all their own, and I just sometimes think about my children with their electronic books, and they'll never understand the joy of lugging books home from the library or the smell of old pages and how it's different from the smell of new pages, and they, like so many other people lately, will not understand the power of the printed word.

There is nothing like seven books from the library and the way that stack of books looks on your bedside table. Did you know you can balance teacups next to your bed at the perfect height with a stack of 10-12 paperback novels? You probably didn't know that. And you probably don't know the excitement of reading a book under your covers with a flashlight because you can just turn up the backlight on your Kindle.

I had a nightmare that people were burning books and I kept shouting, "He was right! Bradbury was right!" but nobody understood and nobody listened, because nobody loved the printed word enough to care.

I guess I shouldn't complain about electronic books as long as they keep people actually reading, but I'm terrified of waking up one day and realizing a bookshelf for actual books is a futile device because every book I've ever needed is shoved inside my IPad. (If you've ever seen my bookshelf this is even sadder, because that thing is a beaut.) Books are not only beautiful by nature, but actually, physically beautiful. Have you seen the cover of Catcher in the Rye? And that's before you even open the thing and discover literature itself.

And literature itself! OH! Come on! Read more, for goodness sakes, people! I have never read Fifty Shades of Gray myself (and probably never will), but WOMEN ACTUALLY OPENED UP A NOVEL. This is a success, I say! And they liked it! Maybe they should try Jane Austen next. Maybe they should try Kurt Vonnegut next.

Here is my plea, really, at the end of the day: Just keep reading. The fact that you're reading this right now is hopeful. If I wrote a book (and I will someday), I hope you'd pick it up at B&N or something. Even download it on your Kindle (though the B&N purchase would smell better, I promise). As long as you're reading. That's my plea. Read Shakespeare. Read Chaucer. Read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Read the Harry Potter series beginning to end. Read some poetry. Read Anna Quindlen's Commencement Address at Villanova. Read The Perks of Being a Wallflower and rejoice because you're a wallflower, too. 

And here's some good news: It's getting colder outside, so you can make tea and sit at home and read. This is the best time of year for reading. It will save you from seasonal depression and make you literate and well-read and incredibly dateable. I mean, I date readers. Usually. Or try to turn them into readers, at least. By the power of cuteness or something.

But in all seriousness, there is something about the printed word that is growing increasingly mortal. I am 17 years old and I have seen entire nations destroyed in my lifetime. We are a generally destructive species, but if we destroy literature, destroy the printed word, what comes next? Art in general? Humanity?

We're an apocalyptic novel already, my friend. Go read one if you don't believe me. Just stay word-hungry.

Audrey Hepburn.
All my love,
Addy


"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes."
-Rosemary Urquico

Monday, October 22, 2012

My America With a Capital A

I allowed you to be my cosmos. I thought that was safe. I thought that was romantic. You were the stars in the sky, and I would never let you be my world, because then, even if you left, I still had the world. But, surprise!, you snuck in. You became my Eiffel Tower, my Great Wall of China. You became my mountains and my land masses and my seas. And then you left.

But it's not your fault. It's no one's fault. This is just how life goes. I don't blame you. You might be reading this. You're probably reading this. I don't blame you, my darling. I'm just sad. We never even had a song, and now, because of that, all music is you. I wish you could see how stunning you are when you sleep. I didn't mean for this to be what I wrote when I said I would.

What I can do now is celebrate the little successes: I wrote a beautiful essay in AP Lang today and didn't think about you once. I did yoga tonight; it felt just as good as it always does.
And I wish I believed in fate. And I wish I hadn't done that, let you sneak in. In June, we had the farthest thing from skinny love. It's almost November. I get sad when I think about my earring lying on your nightstand. Your nightstand is a filing cabinet. You are so beautiful. You made me so beautiful. I'm going to be sick now.


I'm grasping onto Warhol's weird weather balloon installation and the way you kissed me. There is an indefiniteness about this that shouldn't inspire hope, but it does. And look, look at me, I'm already the best at overcompensating: I curled my hair today. I'm singing so much. Like, even more than I used to. I'm singing Book of Mormon the musical. I don't want to talk about it. I'm right where you left me. I'll be here when (if) you come looking, probably. 


I think I'm going to fill my world with books now, like it was before you were my world, and books never hurt me. Books never hurt anyone. Welcome back into my life, House of Leaves. Nice to meet you, Angels in America. I know those are probably really bad decisions, but I'm growing accustomed to making those at this point.

The saddest part is that you're still my cosmos.

Marilyn Monroe.
All my love,
Addy


"There were days I wanted out.
But then You would go and do things
like dive into the Vancouver ocean,
big brilliant cliché poem that You are,
water rolling off Your back
as You swam toward a sunset
that hung like a sacred recipe painted
all the way around Your holy head.
And then there were the ways You caught me
moving back into my cave where the wheels turn,
same wheels that drove You off.
I should have told You
before talking in terms of Forever
that any given day wears me out and works me sour,
that there are nights when the sky is so clear
I stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for the stars to shoot at me
just so I can feel at Home.

What’s left of You now is a shrine
built from the pieces I kept of Your presence,
Your incredible stretch of presence.
It sits in Our room like a sandpiper
cross-legged and crying,
remembering the night we met
and the day You left, and the Light
shifting in between.
By the side of it stands a picture of the poem where I promised,
“You will never have another lonely holiday.”
The words “I Promise” and “Forever”
begged me not to use them
but sometimes I don’t listen to God,
so You can imagine how much it hurt
to let Your last birthday pass
with no word. August 3rd.
You weren’t the only one comin’ up lonesome.

Listen, if I had to make a list
of everything everywhere
- and I mean everything… everywhere -
the very last to-do on that infinite list of
every – single – thing – would be – to hurt You,
so I need You to know
that in an attempt to keep my promise
I did write a letter to You on Your birthday.

It was covered in stickers of flock-printed stars,
choir claps, and a bonfire of buttercups stuck in the air,
but when I finally drew enough courage
to send You all the Love in the World
my hand snapped off in the mailbox
from clenching.
It was returned to me with a gospelstitch, a hope stamp
and a note etched into the palm I had to pry open
with the pressure of pitching doves
reminding me
we agreed to let each other go.

There is a point when tears don’t work
to wash things away anymore.
Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.
I miss You so much some days
that I beg for the airplane to crash
with just enough time in the freefall
for scribbling “I Love You” across my chest.
That way – when they find my burning breast plate –
they will tell You how the very last thing I did with my life
was call out Your name.

A. R. L.

I know Your momma didn’t raise no sissy,
so it's best if I believe
that You’ve bounced back and been born again,
but in the bottom left corner of dreams
in the dark spot
where it gets windy and hollow
I can still see you flailing,
eating knuckle cake,
full torque and tender,
heart pounding from being pulled under,
feet bleeding from bracing for endings,
tongue dying to curse Forever
because promises murder us backwards
when people like me don’t keep them.

And sure, we all deserve absolution,
but especially You. You and Faith,
You've got the same hungerpunch,
same song
still rising off the watertrain running through the laws
of a moon dead set on daylight
digging marbles from the trees
in a Love not scared to make no sense
and monkey enough to see
the same devastating reason for living this life
My Giant
Saint
Everything
I promise You
Forever
these words have buckled my lips
so far back to the beginning
that I am now allowed only
Today,
so from my snap-chested heart spraying
fully flying
sending out the birds:
Today I stop believing in words.
Today all my visions converted to blurs
like the night We saw the Light
and I could not shut up
but I swear I was feelin’ silence."

-Buddy Wakefield

Monday, October 15, 2012

Surprise! I'm back and blogging, or The Day I Really Understood Hamlet.



To this day, I swear it: On that corner, you looked like Hamlet, but it might've just been the way the light hit your hipbones. You seemed like no stranger to brooding, and I am no stranger to disaster boys. You looked like a real glorious disaster.

I know what happens next: You go crazy, I go crazy, we both die, but not before you say a few beautiful things about sleep being the cousin of death, you look a little pale, and you're all, "Seems, madam? Nay, it is; I know not 'seems,'" which is a really brilliant line, and believe me, I love you for that one.

I have things to say, though, too, before I lose my mind and drown in a river: Like, "Lord, we know what we are, but not what we may be." Shakespeare took care of his ladies, old pal, and don't you forget it.

They say you might be gay for Horatio, but I'm going to pretend I never heard anything about that. Ignorance is bliss, as I always say.

And you're so angry, but it's brilliant. Really. I mean that. You deliver the To Be Or Not To Be: "To be or not to be -- that is the question:/Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,/Or to take arms against a sea of troubles/And, by opposing, end them." It's brilliant, of course. You're brilliant, of course, but then you're like, "Get thee to a nunnery." Scholars will argue for centuries whether you're protecting me from the antics of men or calling me a slut. I'll keep my opinions to myself.

But I've read enough to know what happens next: You go crazy, I go crazy, we both die. But today, before that has to happen, when you kiss me, I'll whisper into your mouth: "This above all: To thine own self be true." I think it's good advice. I'll take it as my own line now.

"This above all: To thine own self be true." And true that.

I would like an Iphone now.
All my love,
Addy

Monday, October 1, 2012

Manifesto Ultimatum: Day 8: Something That Has Made Me Cry

Do you have any idea how long it's been since I wrote a journal entry? My life is still happening, mind you, but words are not, and it's breaking my heart. 

I have writer's block still, so help me God.

And Connor leaves the day after tomorrow.

I'm just going to stop while I'm ahead.

"For most of history, Anonymous was a woman." -Virginia Wolfe
All my love,
Addy

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Manifesto Ultimatum: Day 6: Unpopular Opinion

"It's all fun and gay until someone looses their rights."

If you don't want an abortion, don't get one.

But Ayn Rand, economically, got it just right.

But Ayn Rand, rhetorically, got it just right.

And if I were to do it all over again, I would do a lot of things differently.

Skinny boys are hot.

And everybody leaves you in the end.

"Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,
slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark."

That's my moon. Someday, I'll write a real blog post. Probably.
All my love,
Addy

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Manifesto Ultimatum: Day 5: Something about bands and set lists.

Let's talk about Band of Horses. I was across the street, halfway across the universe with Emily and Avery and we'd lost everyone else somewhere else and we weren't listening until that beginning guitar riff from "The Funeral" came in -- you know that one? And that song is so good and we went running. We went running down the sidewalk, back across the street, back across the universe, and I think I pushed past a woman with a stroller (sorry, m'am), and Avery shouted something about getting back before the downbeat, but we aren't that fast of runners and we were kind of far away, anyway. 

The point is that that was summer for me, like boyfriends and best friends and dirt poor, so be it, dirt poor and happy to be it because we had each other and that made us rich, rich, rich, starry-eyed and new.

And now fall is here, less sweaty and more apologetic, if you will, perhaps only because it has more to apologize for than its summer-y-ier counterpart.

Fall is here now, and now I am okay it with it, though, to be honest, it's taken me a second to get this way -- I have jeggings, hot coffee, a whole heck of a lot of transcontinental phonecalls, women in overalls, lots of yoga, girls with curly handwriting, and calculus, even, oddly enough, to thank for that. Oh, and Shakespeare. I always have Shakespeare to thank. Thank you, William. You're the man.

And this fall, I'm doing okay, with okay meaning "I really like waking up in the morning."

What I'm really getting at is this: Today, I finally opened a checking account, which made me feel rich, rich, rich in a monetary sense, and I am rich, but not like that. I'm rich because I have a full head of hair and brains inside my skull and boys who run cross country to teach me about rap music and I still get transcontinental phonecalls and someone made a mix of "Islands" by Young the Giant and "Into" by The XX, and that's basically the best song to ever happen to me, and I have good teachers and good parents and good sisters and I wake up every day and I really like it. I really like waking up in the morning, because I am not lonely anymore, because there are people who love me. I've never needed to be lonely. There have always been people to love me.

There are people who love you.
There have always been people who love you.

"The minute you let her into your heart, she'll take all your money and leave you at home." NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA.
All my love,
Addy

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Manifesto Ultimatum: Day 4: Haikus

 
 
 
I am so lucky
To call you my own mother.
Can't thank you enough.

Today, there is rain.
This morning, I loved your laugh.
Today, I miss you.

There's more where that came from.
All my love,
Addy