Speak for Yourself, pt. i

If you were there last night, I can't thank you enough. We had a really great time and I'm so honored to have shared the stage with Angie, Tim, Matt, Avery, Soleil, Roah, Jake, Cody, Mr. Nelson, and Jesse. You all blow me away. Here's my part one (of two).


Our Favorite Food is Formaldehyde or The Tribute Poem


Look: We were absolutely glorious. We were absolutely glorious and we were nothing else. Everything we had was rimmed with some sort of light, telling us we'd gotten it right for once, just because we'd found each other, and that was enough for us. All we really wanted was to glow, you know? We wanted the sun at our backs and the moon in our eyes, and then we could really be something.


We reeked of fame and stardom and said things like, "Paul McCartney told me not to namedrop!" We knew about love and we knew hatred and we knew about what it was like to be not liked, but it felt almost endearing, because at least we weren't liked as a whole, because at least we were a whole.


We smelled like flames and beauty that bleeds, and you wouldn't believe the way we gave gifts, like Trader Joe's, but better, like the entire nation on Christmas, but better, because we were the ones that were giving them, and that made them absolutely golden.


We were shaped like somebody that somebody else might long to be, like beautiful long limbs and shiny long hair and glory, and when we walked through the door, nothing else mattered. We owned the place right then, no matter who was paying the mortgage.


In those months, we tasted like perfection, like a weird mixture of Carmel Apple Cider and Salted Carmel Hot Chocolate and Chai Tea and White Mocha and Cat Cookies, which sounds like it wouldn't be tasty, but it was tasty because it was us.


I wish you could've read us, back in those days, we were the YA section one moment and the philosophy section the next. We were gender studies and classic fiction and the interesting part of the nonfiction section. We were Ayn Rand, we were a House of Leaves, we were daunting -- Look: We were the whole library. You'd never run low on us, never run out of us, 'cause in those stolen moments, we were forever interesting, always something to talk about, always something to cry over.


The sound of our voices was something else, "We're getting the band back together," we'd rumble, nothing short of thunder, our glow turned to lightning. We were truth like the Bible, brilliance like Shakespeare, we were somebody's love child, and you heard it when we talked, it was there, you didn't even have to listen closely hear it.


We dwelt in our own devastation. We were stunningly worldly, surprisingly materialistic, and shockingly honest about it. If we were ever going to kiss again, we'd kiss each other. Our favorite food: formaldehyde. We tasted dust Monday mornings, but we built an amusement park with our bare hands in a single weekend. We were dead set on catching up with the moon, and when we did, we were the prettiest things to have ever set foot in that place.


And The Man Upstairs, He gave us one year, said, "Be back by September," and we slipped out of the cracks in the foundation, timid, contemplating veganism, illiterate, freshly-washed. Tomorrow, we'll saunter back home, carnivorous, well-read, sweaty. Look: There we'll be, absolutely glorious. He'll ask for a report and we'll show Him our palms, an almost gory allusion, but He'll understand. God always understands. God will laugh. God will say, "I hear the whole of you was so bright it got you kicked out of business class seating." We will laugh. Someone will make the obligatory "smoke follows beauty" joke, and God will pat us on the heads, and this is what He'll say to us: "You are here now. You are here now, and now you understand."


But the best part is that last night, we realized the pains in our backs were only because we've been sprouting wings.


Speak for Yourself.
All my love,
Addy

All that glitters is not gold.

I think I might be little bit of a perpetually-nostalgic person just by nature, but sometimes, nostalgia slips into my house and tip-toes through my bedroom door and climbs into my bed with me and we stay there for days, under my covers, nostalgia and I.


I don't mean to. I don't like to, really, but it just happens.


Today, nostalgia and I found a lot of old notes and we cried. There was one from Matt Pockrus where he used the wrong form of their/they're/there, and I had scribbled all over it in red pen, and now I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd have left his improper "there" untouched and kept it forever. (Also in that note, Matt said, "You should get a boyfriend.") There's a note from Avery with a picture of a giraffe that says, "Here is a giraffe for you. Because I love you this much." There's a series of notes from Emily Luse, her crinkled cursive, and when I read through them I relived the too-short handful months we had together. Her car didn't used to lock, ha, I remember that.


And I liked summer a lot. I liked August a lot. I liked Kaitlyn's van and how The Fountainhead brought us Kyle and Matt. I liked how late it got. I liked the way everything felt like we were getting away with murder, but not, obviously, because this simile doesn't make any sense like I meant it to. I liked riding bikes and taking pictures and everything was easy. I liked how we were freckled, tanned and kissed and full and musical and alive.


But I'm pale as ever again, and I have to wear real shoes now, and I don't get any notes in typewriter-handwriting from boys, and I don't control the universe of my math class with Madison. I don't control the universe, not any universe. And then college and Ukraine and Italy and New Jersey and Florida and then I thought I felt it back then, and I wrote about wishing for quality in my motions, and I've tried, but I'm feeling it now. Again. I'm feeling it all now again.


I'm going to have gray hair soon, and no one will pick me up and carry me around and I won't get notes from anyone at all soon and I can't even think about where I'm heading, so I'm trying to embrace what I've got: Golden years. Golden years. Golden years.


Who knew?


I guess I get stuck here with nostalgia because I know where I've been, but I don't know where I'm going. It scares me, because the future isn't predictable, even I know that, with my horoscopes and fortune cookies, I know I can't predict the future. I can't even predict the weather. But I look at where I've been and who I was, and how I became who I am, and the people that got me there, and the way they shape their capital "I"s and their haircuts (or lack thereof), and I remember how I got here. I can't believe it's been a year since... this.


If you need me tonight, I'll be under the covers crying lavender tears with nostalgia. We'll wake up tomorrow, just give us one night, and I'll give nostalgia its suitcase and kiss its cheeks and thank it for its time: I will tell nostalgia that I can't stay stuck there under the covers crying lavender tears forever, it's almost May, I have things to do, thank you very much.


It's almost May, I have things to do, thank you very much, it's almost May.


"And, as I always say, "If it ain't baroque, don't fix it!""
All my love,
Addy

Cyrano?

It's hard to explain. Basically, this is about noses.


I like how people smell. I like how houses smell. To be honest, I sometimes even like them when they smell a little bit bad (key words: a little bit). It's human; it's home. And I always wonder what my house smells like to other people.


Sometimes, I will walk through the smell of Avery. Other times, it's Kaitlyn. Or one of the Matts or Kyle or Morgan or Daniel or Madeline. Sometimes it's my parents or my sisters. And I don't really realize what they smell like until I am just walking along and I will smell something like... I can't even describe it.


Avery smells like hair and words and poetry and owning three pairs of the same jeans. Kaitlyn smells like freckles and Ibsen and rice, Matt Davis like climbing and chai and knives, Kyle like record players and equations, Morgan like country music and vanilla bean, Daniel like statistics and purple pants, Madeline like her sister. My mom, for lack of any other way to describe it, smells like perfect energy, my dad like dancing and fatherliness, and my sisters smell like violins and puzzle pieces and crayons, and all of that together smells like home.


I think I smell like songs and like I have too many words for anyone to handle, and like falling in love easily, and I think I smell like falling in love easily isn't always a bad thing.


I mean that in the most metaphorical way possible --  no one smells like owning three pairs of the same jeans. I mean that in the most literal way possible -- people really smell like equations and country music. But how can I describe a smell? It just smells. Like an old folks home and a grape jolly rancher and lighting design.


And it's January now, and things smell like January. Things smell new and old and oak-y. Things smell like learning to shop for wood and learning to appreciate differences of opinions. Things smell human, and they smell like the renaissance. Mostly, things smell different, and things smell like they're changing, but I think that's misleading, because I keep walking through the scent of you.


Goodnight, folks.
All my love,
Addy

I want to cause you a miracle.

11/11/11 was magical in its own way, don't you think?


I'm still a little broken, just like Kyle's car that I backed into, but maybe that's the magic. Maybe the magic is that we are a broken people and yesterday, we lived one single day where we could wish every single second for anything that came to mind, and no one could stop us.


We could wish away our fears and that was fine for one day. Caffeine and doughnuts could show up in room 111 on 11/11/11 just before 11:11 and that was entirely very acceptable. It was fine to hold pinkies in circles and wish little wishes and even throw world peace in there. Beautiful boys have to come visit you at high school. Everyone has to forgive you. 


We all do what we can, and it's magic.


Even your heartbeat is beautiful. What? Carry on.
All my love,
Addy

And I was like, "..."

We said we were growing down, and we liked ourselves better in cat sweaters. But all it really was was growing up. We realized what mattered and what didn't, don't you think so? We felt childish, but really we realized what we could handle and realized just how much that was. And we realized we didn't have to do things on our own.

It was the realization that we needed each other and that was fine to need someone, because we were children again, and children are allowed to need other people. But really, we were just growing up.

We stopped trying, I think. We stopped wishing so much and pretending to be someone who we were not. Even with keys of our own, we allowed ourselves to be a little bit younger, but also a little bit older.


They gave us so much growing space, but we didn't even notice all of this immense emptiness and crazy-cricket quiet. We just filled up the space and shed our skin and then all of a sudden we were these beautiful, fleshed-out individuals with drivers licenses and Friend-Boys and friends in general and music and youth -- a lot of youth and a lot of growing down, but growing up, also.


We stopped ourselves from overwhelming everyone and we did something right. I think we said something that changed someone or maybe we wrote something that inspired someone or maybe we sung on pitch. Because karma repaid us. Karma repaid us in pop art and telepathy and thrift stores -- but mostly it gave us each other.


Each other and growing down.


It wasn't about being mature and looking old anymore. It was about cat sweaters, but cat sweaters made us smile and our smiles gave us life and our life gave us maturity, but we were too excited about the sweaters that we didn't really even notice how old we'd gotten and how much of our growing space we had filled.


Maybe it's a paradox. Maybe we're a paradox.


We all teetered on the edge of adulthood, but we couldn't see the cliff through our mustaches and our rainbow cupcakes and photobooth pictures. 


I can't even really explain it to you correctly. 


We're children again, but our souls filled up this enormous space in which we were asked to grow and we didn't even see that whole thing going on until it was quiet and our voices were glowing yellow like the fire and our s'mores tasted like hope and also like the past, but a little bit like the future. 


"Now."
All my love,
Addy

A little less Titus.

Loving someone doesn't mean you have to love everything they do every second of life. Being best friends with someone doesn't mean that you have to want to talk to them every second and that you can't ever be annoyed with them or sometimes hate the people they associate with. Being a family isn't about never disagreeing or making mistakes.


It's about something so much bigger. Well, actually, I take that back. It's about something smaller.


It's about the way they smell; it's about recognizing that smell and knowing that when you smell it, you're home and you're safe and you've made it. It's about the way they shape the letter "u" and how you'd recognize that handwriting anywhere. It's about that smirk they wear when they are composing some sort of witty retort to what you're saying long before you've finished saying it. It's about hats. It's about misty-eyed laugher. It's about their fear of thunderstorms. It's about the dinner discussions. It's about Mondays. It's about cyber-stalking; it's about real-life stalking. It's about Legally Blonde the Musical. It's about how they have so many books that they can't even sleep on their own bed. It's about fake emails and bunheads and The Boy Book. It's about shouting "Drop dead!" too much. It's about singing "First Day of My Life" in a big crowd of people. It's about having secrets. It's about helping clean up the messes you've made together. It's about hair ruffles.


It's about the way they shape their words and the way your hearts beat together like a song and knowing that even though they might bother you sometimes or make you feel immensely jealous or incredibly small, that that doesn't matter at all. 


XXX.
All my love,
Addy