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

Speak For Yourself.

It doesn't have a name, but I wrote it sometime around 2 am this morning. Still didn't have a name when I performed it tonight, but it was rewarding. 


I'm past knowing what I want to do when I'm out of high school. I think it's about what I'm supposed to do at this point.

How To Be Cool At High School (colon):

a list that might be more appropriately entitled “How To Survive At High School”.

One: Listen to rap music.

Two: Like red meat, and also like football –

all types of football, yes, even if Chase Hansen is not playing.

Come on, people, beggars can’t be choosers.

Three: Wear skinny jeans and do your hair everyday.

That goes for you, too, boys.

Four: Get good at kissing. Get really good at kissing.

Five: Look bored during class, but actually pay attention,

because believe it or not, you actually have to graduate.

Six: Don’t say too much and don’t sing too often,

but do say something and sing when that one rap song comes on –

You know it; I believe in you. You’re cool, remember?

And seven: Say the right thing.

Or, maybe just forget all of that.

Say the wrong thing and do whatever you please,

because that’s what makes people fall in love with you,

and that’s what makes you endearing.

I’ll be honest: I struggle with myself.

I say the wrong thing.

A lot.

I tell myself that’s what makes me interesting,

but I’m also a liar.

And a procrastinator.

And I have really big feet.

This is my palm; would you like to read it?

I’ve been told that I have a lot of stress and anxiety lines,

but I’m pretty positive that’s just because

I’m growing up in an incredibly grotesque world.

We’re born, we watch people die, then we die ourselves,

and in between you need rap music

and you need to be hot

to get through high school,

and that’s disgusting.

I’m sorry –

I get worked up and I forget to calm down and stop…

for a second.

So when I get down on myself

and down on the world,

I remind myself to remember The Beatles,

who made art that will outlive every single one of them,

and us

and probably our children

and maybe even their children, too.

I think about Martin Luther

and the day he hung his complaints

on the door of that church,

and I think that without that one moment

of courage

we might not have the first amendment.

And I think of you.

I think of the day you were born,

and how the doctor cut the chord

and handed you to your mother,

and in that moment, she loved you so much

it was probably unbearable for her.

and she cannot deny that,

and if she does,

she’s lying.

And I think of God –

if you’re an atheist, I apologize.

I’m not the best person, but

I still believe in Him.

Maybe because I want to,

or maybe because I need to.

I need to believe that we are not alone around here,

and that all of this isn’t an accident

or a coincidence

or a mistake.

And, yes. I’m afraid of dying,

partly because I don’t think I’ve lived enough life yet,

but also because I’m worried that what life I’ve lived

might not be good enough for God.

But this isn’t about me:

It’s about how God created the world in less than one week,

and it’s breathtaking out there.

So take my hand, with all of its anxiety lines,

and run with me,

and together we can see past

How To Be Cool At High School,

and I think that’s important, because one minute

we’re going to be sitting in a bowling alley

counting down the minutes to midnight,

and then we’ll blink,

and it will be November,

and I really think we might regret it

if we didn’t stop and smell the roses.

Pay attention, would you?

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

Stumble.

 

 
 
 
 

 

How to Say the Right Thing:

by Addy

1. Don't state any facts. Don't say, "This is bad weather," even if it is. Don't say, "That shirt is ugly," even if it is. Don't say, "I'm smarter than you," even if that is a real-life fact. Don't mention that it is still dark and you are already finished with one class, but you don't remember it because you were so tired, even though that ought to be completely understandable because it is still dark outside, even if that's a fact. No one cares about facts that much usually, because they can already see them.


2. Don't verbalize your feelings. Don't shout "I'm so obsessed with you," because that will overwhelm people. Don't shout "I hate you," because it makes people hate you back. Don't say "I don't know how to be all of the things I am supposed to be," because then people feel choked by your feelings and they're like, "Uh."


3. Don't mumble. Also don't say things like, "Meh," or "Ag," instead of real words. And maybe refrain from meowing very much.


4. Don't make an inside joke (e.g. pointing at the ground, or "Totes obv awk," or "I HAVE KIDNEY STONES") because it makes anyone else who is not a part of that joke feel left out and when you've made someone feel left out you probably said the wrong thing.


5. Make the right facial expression for the situation. Furrow your brow when the conversation is about death, blood, break-ups, or math; smile when the conversation is about books, neighborhood boys, sweaters, or Matt Davis. And cats. Smile about cats.


6. Speak loudly and clearly.


7. Look at their eyes.


8. Don't mention cats. Most people don't understand the cat life.


Or maybe just scrap all of that and say the wrong thing all the time, because saying the wrong thing makes you the friends that you actually want to have and and saying the wrong thing gets you the jobs you actually want to have and saying the wrong thing is what makes people laugh and because the saying the wrong thing is what makes people fall in love with you.


In childhood.
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

Crystal (well, you know...)

I am stuck in the crevice between real life and fake life. If I'm being honest, I don't like it here much. Both real and fake life seep their ways in and make my head spin.


I promise you I'm not insane. Let me explain "fake life" and "real life" to you. It's really not all that confusing, but people seem to think I'm loosing my mind when I say things like, "It happened in real life," thinking that of course it happened in real life. Ha. False.


The following things occur in fake life:


1. Boys love me (and you, for that matter (not that they don't love you already (because they really actually do))). In fake life, boy are always like, "I love you," and sometimes I'm like, "I love you back."
     1b. Boys try to kiss me. So much, in fact, that it is exhausting. When they're totally beautiful I usually give in and I'm all, "Okay, okay."


2. Fake life is also when nothing feels real. Perhaps you've woken up at, say, five in the morning and headed off to dance in a parade: Definitely gonna be a fake-life day.


3. In fake life, romantic experiences don't freak me out.


6. In fake life, boys toss rocks at windows and life is a bit like an '80's movie.


7. Fake life is full of spontaneous bursts of song and dance. It's sort of like a musical. All the time. And everyone harmonizes perfectly pretty much every second of (fake) life.


8. In fake life, Matt Davis never wears a shirt. (What?)


In real life, however, boys don't always love me and I don't always love them back. They also don't try and kiss me. Real life feels real, three out of four romantic experiences send me into small anxiety fits, and life is like 2011, not '80's movies (or even real life '80's). In real life, most people can't harmonize or dance, let alone do both at once. Plus also, Matt Davis wears shirts in public. It's fine.


That, my friends, is the difference between fake life and real life. It's not all too confusing. You have fake life, too. Admit it.


But here I am down in this crevice where some boys love me, but I don't love them back. Where half the day is very fake and the other half all too raw. Where only two out of four romantic experiences are giving me angst. Where people dress like they're in the first few minutes of 13 Going on 30, but no one is standing in my yard with a boom box. Where musicals are real life on stage, but then I realize that I'm getting weird looks from the window washers in my basement when I am singing RENT really, really loudly in my house. And Matt Davis was spotted shirtless. Once. It's fine.


It's exhausting in here - in this crevice. Sometimes I don't mind it all too much, but when things happen that I can't differentiate between, I get angst and my head hurts and I run away super quick.


So, if you're looking for me, I'm just here, down in this little mixed-up crevice. I bet you will be able to find me here for a while, I fear. 


"Anxiety killed the cat, probably."


Maybe someday we'll each have an Independence Day of our own.
All my love,
Addy


[Edit: I just realized I left out numbers 4 and 5. I'm not going to fix it, though. Ha, ha.]