Dug

I always talk about my mama, but I so rarely mention my dad. He's simple, but I don't mean stupid. I just mean he'd probably connect with most Bruce Springsteen songs, and when I asked him what he wanted for christmas this year, he replied: “a shoebox full of hunnert doller bills. I dunno kid, I have everything. but I found what we can get your momma. maybe a battery powered floor sweeper and/or some one piece pajammas. I saw some advertised on tv.”

When people ask his name, he says, "Doug - like you dug a hole yesterdie," and he's a firm believer in small government and getting in and out of stores as quickly as possible.
He really loves music, too. A few years ago he taught himself how to play guitar using online videos and whatever lessons we could afford. Now he has a collection of guitars and plays music in his garage with our poker-loving neighbors every weekend.

He hates pop and loves bluegrass, but he likes music fast. He doesn't want the banjos and guitars to melt together like two people melodramatically making love; he likes their sounds to leap through the air together like two frantic, happy deers in the wilderness. You can tell when he loves a song because he closes his eyes, takes a sip of beer, and sits relaxed with his elbows on his knees.

Growing up I hated bluegrass music. I thought it was for old people. But now, the very sound of it, especially the first few seconds of every song, is comforting. What's safer than music you heard in your daddy's garage when you'd spend the evening listening to the radio, making fun of the voices singers used? Sometimes we'd dance along as well, going in circles and slapping our knees. I'd have to make sure not to step on his tools or kick over his beer.

It went like this: a mixture of a lady singing "don't let your deal go down, go down," my dad's laughter as we mocked the singers' voices, the sound of people clogging in the background, the smell of my daddy's beer, the feeling of summer air at night, and the shadows of moths and nats dancing in the lights. As John Steinbeck says in East of Eden, "the memory of odors is very rich." My dad's garage always smelled like cut grass, rust, dust, gasoline, old tools, and the thousands of tiny bolts and nails he keeps in boxes for work and stray projects.

My dad's certainly not a shallow man, and I know his soul contains multitudes I'll likely never know. Stories about the war he was in, about what it was like to be a biker, how he felt when his parents died. Over fifty years worth of stories, and only a few have surfaced. I'm okay with never knowing, and I like to think he's okay with never telling. The times I've experienced his gentle spirit have been concise and sincere - "I'm proud of you, kid," "If there is a Heaven, I know nanny's in it," and "you need to do more around here to help your mama."

It's shown in actions, too, like all the times he's changed the station when songs about fathers came on the radio. All the times he's let me win our political debates. All the times he's picked me up from parties and skating rinks. All the times he's held his anger in when I've almost wrecked his car or made messes in the house.

We keep a safe distance from each other. We're never sentimental without our affections taking the form of subtleties, and it always seems right that way. If he had to pick a lyric to describe his life, it'd probably be something like the lines from Bruce Springsteen's The River - "I got a job working construction for the Johnstown Company, but lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy."

He's just Doug, like you dug a hole yesterdie. He comes home with smashed fingers from work; once he caught his pants on fire and fell off a roof; and he's spent weeks full of late nights re-building Hardee's restaurants so my family will be able to eat every night. He's just my dad, and I really wouldn't have him any other way. Balding head, strange political views, and all.

Wild, Wonderful West Virginia

My dad used to always tell me that I'd grow up to be just like my parents - no matter how hard I tried to fight it, and I think West Virginia may be one thing he was right about. I've been so obsessed with going back to Princeton and making the 2 hour drive through the mountains and tunnels and seeing what used to be my nanny's house and that old park across the street and the mattress store and the air that always feels so cold and fresh and the feeling that time has gone backwards about twenty years or so. I would do anything to go back there and stay in my nanny's house again, if only it would be completely unchanged once I arrived.

"they will recognize all the lines of your face in the face of the daughter of the daughter of my daughter"

Only on an Autumn day will wading
through death make wading more fun

as sidewalks turn to graveyards made

for the leaping of the living

and the bodies of leaves burst -- midair!

to the sound of children laughing.

When I was younger, I was constantly amazed at my existence. I would hear myself speak, look at my hands, or see a photograph of myself and immediately think "my god, I'm alive. I'm a real person. How can this be?"

Now that I'm getting older this rarely happens anymore. As unfortunate as it is, it's like I've finally adjusted to being alive. 

When I was in Elementary School, my mama sent lunch money with me in the tiny bags that came around her packs of cigarettes. She'd give me forty cents a day, and sometimes a little extra for ice cream. One day I remember the lunch ladies asking me, "where does your mom find these little bags? They're so handy!" And I remember blushing when I said they were from Doral Full Flavor 100's - probably from feeling proud and embarrassed all at once.

I think it's so fitting that now - now that I'm getting ready to leave for college - she's sending all my things with me in boxes she took from behind her favorite bingo parlor. She's still as resourceful as ever. Plus it means a lot that even when she's dealing with her favorite things, she still looks for ways to make me happy. What a gal, that mama of mine!

"Many feel that the study of human memory is the closest one can get to a systematic study of the human soul." -Gabriel Radvansky

Tonight is so lonely and rainy and stormy and dreary and lovely. It's actually 5:55 AM right now, but it's still dark, so I'll still say tonight. I'm happy because one of my favorite things in the world is the beginning of a rainy day. What makes it even better is knowing that I don't have to leave the house. I can open my curtains and stay under the covers and read all day long!

Earlier today I fell asleep and had a dream about Austin. His mama brought him into a place I was working at, and she put him down and let him run to me. I knew immediately the baby wasn't Austin, though. This baby was only a little over two years old, and I knew Austin had to be older by now. I kept telling them, "this baby isn't Austin, stop trying to trick me. Austin is five now. He's starting kindergarten. This is not my Austin, so where is he?" And then she took the baby back.

When I woke up, all I wanted was to see the real Austin again. I miss him so much. I can't believe he's really started school now. He probably has a little backpack and light-up sneakers and toy dinosaurs he keeps in his pockets. His mama probably gets to pack him snacks every day. She gets to hear his little voice talk about everything that happens. I hope she always knows how lucky she is to have such a wonderful baby.

I can't sleep.

So I'm going to do a 30 day song challenge all in one night. Or at least until I get sleepy. Pretty impressive, huh?

Day 01 - Your favorite song

The Geese of Beverly Road by The National. It's the most perfect song I've ever heard, and I never get tired of hearing it. Matt Berninger talks about Beverly Road in an interview: "It's a beautiful neighborhood that feels more like Savannah, Georgia than Brooklyn. The houses are all free-standing with nice yards and wrap-around porches. I was sitting outside one night watching a bunch of kids running up and down Beverly setting off car alarms. The song is theirs." I know there are a ton of different interpretations as to what the song really means (Micah says it will always be about marriage to him), but Berninger's explanation has always been enough for me.

Day 02 - Your least favorite song

There aren't really many songs that I particularly go out of my way to hate, but I suppose I'll have to go with Getting Ready For Christmas Day by Paul Simon. Don't get me wrong, I adore Paul Simon, but this song drives me crazy, and for no good reason, really. I think those voices in the background sort of ruin it for me.

Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

Good Intentions Paving Company by Joanna Newsom. When I first heard this song, it really reminded me of Charlie Brown for some reason. It was also in the middle of Summer on a sunny day in Baby Blue. Micah and I were driving to Winston-Salem and we had gotten to our exit and Micah said, "see, listen to that little banjo part," and I've been in love with it ever since. Not to mention the fact that the song is just precious in general. "How I said to you, 'honey, just open your heart,' when I've got trouble even opening a honey jar."

Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

Call Me on Your Way Back Home by Ryan Adams. I don't know what it is about this song, but it destroys my soul more than any other song ever. And that harmonica part, oh gosh.

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone

Sleeper 1972 by Manchester Orchestra has always reminded me of my nanny. I remember listening to it over and over again after she died because certain lines were just so fitting and perfect. This verse in particular: "I still see you/ inside of this god awful house. / You move awfully quiet now./ And I still feel you everywhere." My nanny always had a walker she'd clomp around our house in, and I still listened for it a long time after she died.

Day 06 - A song that reminds of you of somewhere

My Girl by The Temptations will always remind me of New York City. When my school visited I remember all of us walking through the city singing that together, only some of us replaced "my girl" with "my school." My Girl makes me miss my little Early College so much.

Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event

Cardinal Song by The National always reminds me of the time I saw them live and they played this song. When they sang the line "Jesus Christ, you have confused me - cornered, wasted, blessed and used me," I looked out into the crowd from my little seat and everyone had their hands in the air singing along as if they were in church. I remember feeling like a part of a religious community for the first time in a long time - only it was a very confused and conflicted religious community (one that I'd actually feel at home in).

Day 08 - A song you know all the words to

A song I know all the words to? Hm. I know all the words to a lot of songs, but my favorite song to sing along to is Kanye West's Power.

Day 09 - A song that you can dance to

I can't dance, y'all!

Day 10 - A song that makes you fall asleep

Well, if any songs made me fall asleep I probably wouldn't be doing this right now. I'd just listen to that song and then BAM, out like a light. But no. I feel like I can't leave two blank, though - my one cop out was the dancing song. So, let's see. I think I've fallen asleep listening to Cosmia by Joanna Newsom a few times. Not because it's boring, though. It's just dreamy and peaceful. "I couldn't keep the night from coming in."

Day 11 - A song from your favorite band

My favorite band is the National, and I've already put two songs by them on this list. So, we're going to go with my favorite nostalgic band, mewithoutYou! Here's the song that made me fall in love with them back in the day, Nice and Blue pt. 2. "All or what little joy in the world /
seemed suddenly simple and endlessly mine."

Day 12 - A song from a band you hate

What's with all the negativity?!

Day 13 - A song that is a guilty pleasure

I have a whole entire guilty pleasures playlist that contains almost 100 songs, so I'm extremely guilty. My current favorite, though, is All I Have by Jennifer Lopez. Party because it's catchy, partly for nostalgia, partly because it's so fun to sing along to.

Day 14 - A song that no one would expect you to love

Tonight The Stars Speak by The Glorious Unseen. I suppose nobody would expect me to love this song because it's a worship song, and I'm not particularly religious. But if any song could make me want to worship anyone, it's this one. I also love it because it reminds me of Taking Back the Streets and sitting out in a field under the stars with this band and a whole slew of super wonderful people. Also, this is the one song I remember The Glorious Unseen playing live, and I miss that night (and era) so much.

Day 15 - A song that describes you

Pimpin' All Over the World. The video explains why!

Day 16 - A song that you used to love but now hate

Basically any song by Neutral Milk Hotel. In The Aeroplane Over the Sea is the one I'm most sick of. It's my fault for overplaying it, though.

Day 17 - A song that you hear often on the radio

The one I've heard the most lately is Rollin in the Deep by Adele.

Day 18 - A song that you wish you heard on the radio

For some reason when I read this, the song Contact High by Architecture in Helsinki came to mind first. I suppose it's because this song is so catchy and unlike typical Architecture in Helsinki, accessible. But still so good!

Day 19 - A song from your favorite album

There's already a song from my favorite album on here [Aligator], so I'm going to put one from my favorite EP. Sufjan Steven's Heirloom.

Day 20 - A song you listen to when you’re angry

La Dispute will always be my official "pissed off at the world" band, especially when my reasons for being mad are relationship-related. Here's Andria. "I felt my anger swelling / I swam into its sea."

Day 21 - A song you listen to when you’re happy

The Gardner or really any song by The Tallest Man on Earth. And he automatically makes everything happier.

Day 22 - A song that you listen to when you’re sad

The song I listen to most when I'm sad is no doubt A Song For a Lover of Long Ago by Justin Vernon. I love the rawness and the honesty and the lyrics. It's so perfect for those really late, rainy, gloomy nights. And when Justin Vernon's voice breaks at the end it kills me.

Day 24 - A song that you want to play at your funeral

In tenth grade I told Hallie I wanted Radios in Heaven played at my funeral. Even though that's not true anymore, she'd kill me if I didn't put that. Plus I don't even want to die, much less have a song picked out for when it happens!

Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh

I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers. It's just so cute.

Day 26 - A song you can play on an instrument

In elementary school I could never quite figure out how to read music, so I sat in music class and watched as all my piers learned Beethoven on their recorders. I learned how to play the very first song in our book, Peace Must Be Our Goal, because it had letters instead of music notes. That's the only song I've ever known how to play on an instrument.

Day 27 - A song you wish you could play

Patti Smith's cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit always makes me so sad that I never learned how to play my banjo.

Day 28 - A song that makes you feel guilty

Another song by The National, imagine that! The song Val Jester made me feel guilty for a little while after my nanny died, mostly because of the lines "you should've looked after her better" and "take your time when you tell her how she lives in your blood." I should've done both of those things, "cause one day when she goes, she's gone."

Day 29 - A song from your childhood

This song, Baby Write this Down by George Strait, is the first favorite song I ever remember having. I used to scream when the music video came on CMT, and I wanted to be one of those people in the audience holding a sign up so badly. I would've been seven then.

Day 30 - Your favorite song at this time last year

Hm, favorite song last August. Probably Days Like This by Van Morrison. I was going through a major Van Morrison phase, and that was the song that hooked me.

Why I should not freak out about going to college:

• I'll only be 30 minutes from home.
• I'll be living with my best friend.
• Doc always says, "if you get accepted to [INSERT SCHOOL NAME HERE], you can pass classes at [INSERT THAT SAME SCHOOL NAME HERE]."
• I'm going to get everything done.
• I have a job already.
• I've always heard that teachers at Salem really do care about their students.
• I was lucky enough to have four wonderful teachers at Surry who never babied us or treated us like "Community College kids," and I'm sure I'm actually ready thanks to them.
• My family has faith in me.
• Hallie has faith in me.
• We're going to somehow pass Spanish together.
• I don't have to take anymore math classes after Statistics.
• No more Trig. No more Pre-Calc. No more Trig wheels. No more Sin/Cos. No more math tutoring.
• I'll be at school all the time, so I'll be less lazy (hopefully).
• Hallie and I have a calendar to write important things down on, and we won't forget about them.
• I won't have to wake up at 7 AM to be at class on time.
• I did fine at the Early College.
• I'm going to love everything I'm studying.
• I'm not going to write all my papers the night before like I always have (yeah right).
• Brewnerds.
• I'm going to stop being loony right after I post this.
• It's gonna be fine.
• It's gonna be fine.
• It's gonna be fine.

I'm not sure why, but Autumn and Winter always seem to be the craftiest/bakiest seasons of the year. I'm so happy they'll be here shortly.

On Memory and Flooded Kitchens

One day, gathered around a table decorated with dishes of potatoes,

our grandchildren’s names will leave us

and we will hunt wildly for them within the wearied old well of our minds.

Their beginning letters will sink to the bottom, and every name

will become a face - a he, a she,

A lazy, giggly tader-head over there.

We’ll forget other things, too:

to turn right by the white house,

to make sure the old dog gets fed,

to turn off the spicket in the sink.

Our kitchen will flood, and we’ll ask our old minds what to do

and finding an answer will be like finding the cards

we thought we bought for birthdays passed but never did.

Our grandkids will ponder where to keep us, and we will ask who they are;

they will ask who we are,

and we won’t know, and they won’t know, either.

Then, one day, gathered around a table with dishes of potatoes,

all we know will leave us.
All the answers in our wearied old minds

will be next to the cards

with the beginning letters of our grand children’s names,

beneath the dog food and the spicket

at the very bottom of the well.

Oh, and on a slightly less optimistic note, I absolutely hate when things happen that challenge the decently-sized amount of faith I have in the human race.

Things that are Nice

(that I've been thankful for lately):

• Cats. I've been re-reading William S. Burrough's book The Cat Inside today, and I just don't get how anyone could hate cats. It's such a wonderful feeling when a generally misanthropic cat (Arthur) attaches himself to you and follows you everywhere. It's equally wonderful when a little white cat (Mary) runs to the door whenever it's time to check the mail because she loves walking with you to check it. It's even kind of cute when your only true boy cat (Paul) goes through an "I'm tough and I hate my mama" phase and won't let you hold him anymore.
• Being sick. Even though it sucks and I've felt horrible these past few days, it's so comforting to think I'll be less likely to get sick this winter. Because really, what's worse than being sick in the middle of February when it's freezing out and you just want to lay in bed all day, but you can't because you have to go sit in a class where you sniffle obnoxiously the whole time?
• That little piano part in Bruce Springsteen's "The River."
• Cube Crash. I feel like a complete loon for saying this, but seriously, that game is so calming. Who knew that trying to align squares of the same color could prevent so many potential anxiety attacks?
• The fact that nobody really reads this blog. Looking back on some older posts, man, there's some pretty embarrassing stuff.
• The book Proust Was a Neuroscientist by Jonah Lehrer. I honestly didn't have high hopes for this book, mostly because of some bad reviews I've read, but gosh I love it so far. As someone who can never fully commit to any one mindset (a scientific one or an imaginative one), it's nice to see them merged so tastefully and intelligently. Maybe Marcel Proust wasn't actually a Neuroscientist, but he (along with all the other artists in the book) sure did know a heck of a lot about the human condition. And I think that's the most important thing to take from the book: science and art don't have to be separate. "Science is seen through the optic of art, and art is interpreted in the light of science. The experiment and the poem complete each other. The mind is made whole."
• My mama. She goes out of her way to make my life better so often. Whether it's spraying ant killer in my room for me, trying to cook the foods I like from Taco Bell at home, or trying super hard to find me a bookbag I like, that gal is always cookin' up something. She once wrote in a card to me that she just wanted me to be happy, and I'll never believe that coming from anyone else as much as I believe it coming from her. What a lady.
• Books. I think I love them an irrational amount. Earlier I put all of them in one pile, and it was so nice just to be completely surrounded by them. I've probably only read about 25% of the books I own, but that doesn't make them any less wonderful. All I kept thinking earlier is how happy I would be if all my walls were bookshelves and there was nothing in my room but a little bed to nap and read on.
• Hallie. Let me tell you a few things I love about my best friend. Sometimes she bursts out laughing at the most random things in the world, things you'd never even expect her (or anyone else) to laugh at, and it's great. It's contagious, too. She's also a darn good cheerer-upper, and she's letting us have a brown rug in our dorm. I love knowing that I'm lucky enough to be best friends with my favorite feminist ever, the most precious future librarian, and one of the smartest gals I've ever met. She's a firm believer in letting people "have their moments," and she deserves to have her own moments so much more. She's never stopped believing in me, and I'm so thankful she believed in me enough to let me copy her homework back when I was a lazy little thing. Not to mention how unorganized the Young Dems would be without her and her Leslie Knope attitude/emails. We have the strangest collective life, but it's also the most fun, most silly, and most ridiculously lovely collective life there ever was. At least to me.
• Finally having enough motivation to start packing for college. It feels great to be almost ready, to have almost everything. Minus some some scissors, three books, and some magnet-making supplies at least.

Ranting

I love my mama. I really do. It's amazing what she's able to endure - physically, mentally, and emotionally. She's the most selfless lady; she's smart; she's funny; she's lovely. She's just wonderful.

But good lord, she can drive a daughter crazy. Sometimes it's like she destroys her health just because she can, just because she knows it's hers to destroy. I keep watching her fall apart more and more, and people keep saying, "why don't you do something - just cut back on your smoking? just change your diet a little." But she never does, and she never will.

Why doesn't she want to get better?

There's currently a huge pile of used tissues on my bed beside me right now (yeah, gross, I know), and that basically sums up how I've been feeling lately. And by lately I mean the past two days. But goodness, y'all, they've dragged on and on and on and on.

"But stop what? Maybe just growing up."

I always feel so perpetually melancholy. I don't think it's bad, though - the feelings are a mixture of nostalgia and realizing that the present moment, especially when it's particularly happy, is being transformed into a memory just as quickly as it's happening.

Maybe it's because my life has been so full of changes lately. And Hallie and I do stop so often to reflect on how wonderful our lives have been these days. We always say our 10th grade selves would be horribly jealous of who we are now, and I've never heard anything more true. It's just that sometimes being overly sentimental means every joyful moment is thinned by a tiny pinch of gloom. And time just moves so quickly. And I want to capture everything. And I don't want the good days to keep ending.

All I know is that no matter how old I get, I never stop being afraid of getting older.

The day my family took a boat ride to heaven (and got really, really sunburned):

9/11

September 11th, 2001 is no doubt one of the most significant events any of us will ever live through, but I was so young when it happened - only nine. I feel like I'm constantly trying to catch up. To understand what happened, why every person put a flag on their front porch. To mourn with every American who felt sadness on that day, no matter how late I may be. I always feel guilt when I remember how my heart didn't ache when my mama and I stood in front of our television set and watched the planes crash over and over again.

Every following year on the "anniversary of 9/11" - as people on the news still love calling it, us students were required to write a paper - sometimes just a paragraph - on where we were when we learned about September 11th. I never knew what to tell the teachers, though, so my papers were either blank or fabricated. That's because my memories are shadowy at best - I remember the faces of my teachers crying, their whispers, seeing the smoke, the bus ride home, wondering if my grandpa was okay, and hoping my trip to the Stokes County Fair that night wouldn't be cancelled. And how do you tell that to a teacher in a paper? "On September 11th, 2001, I worried most about getting the cotton candy my mama promised me." I was only in Fourth grade, mind you. But still.

Now I mostly remember the sunshine of the day, how it warmed everything. How the school year was still so new, my clothes were so new - how everything in September always feels so new. But then the black smoke came through and tainted everything, and I never really understood. Sometimes I still don't understand. After September 11th life was narrated by a string of overly-patriotic country songs. And fear. Complaints about airport security. What were you doing when it happened? The flags. The God Bless Americas. What ever happened to September 10th? Our country looked like a perpetual Fourth of July. And time went by, drawn by slow horses.

And that was then. These days I feel like I'm constantly having delayed reactions to September 11th. Last year the day fell on a Saturday, and I wrote this in my journal: "How can life still go on today? How can my daddy be at the dump right now, and how can my mother be waddling through the kitchen looking for bubble wrap? I feel like this should be the only thing on anyone’s mind. Death and planes and buildings are terrible things to fill a Saturday with."

Even though it was sunny, I stayed in bed all day that day listening to Chris Garneau's song "Saturday," which very appropriately mentions the stopping of time. It was like I was finally reacting to what had happened ten years ago. Ten years. I also wrote: "I feel like the whole world should be required to stop today. I don’t feel like anyone should be able to function on the anniversary of 9/11. Maybe because it seems to be all anyone has talked about for so long. Maybe because it truly was awful, and I was too young for my heart to ache when it actually happened, when the world really did stop." And I felt the same thing earlier today when I stumbled across Jon Stewart's reactions to the events on the internet.

But even now I'm not sure if I'm reacting to what really happened or if I'm only reacting to reactions. I can understand - but I can only understand objectively. I'll never know what it felt like to hear the news for the first time - or rather, to hear the news and understand for the first time. My memories are still mere shadows, faces, and facts. Somedays I wish I could just go back in time and be older, wiser. And not in Fourth grade. Maybe then September 11th would mean what it's supposed to mean to me.

Things that are Nice

My parents have never had very much money, and I think that's one of my favorite things about belonging to this family. That's because when there isn't much money, everything instantly becomes more meaningful. Trips to the library when I was little, gadgets from my eye doctor's toy box, clothes that weren't from yardsales, books from the book fair at school. I always got to pick out one toy - but only one toy - on all of our Wal-Mart trips. I also think it's due to my family's lack of money that I've always imagined the smallest places to be the happiest. Little wooden cottages seem most appealing. Places filled with only the things we need and maybe a select few, very-loved extras.

F. Scott Fitzgerald describes exactly what I'm talking about in The Ice Palace:

It was a large room with a Madonna over the fireplace and rows upon rows of books in covers of light gold and dark gold and shiny red. All the chairs had little lace squares where one's head should rest, the couch was just comfortable, the books looked as if they had been read-- some-- and Sally Carrol had an instantaneous vision of the battered old library at home, with her father's huge medical books, and the oil-paintings of her three great-uncles, and the old couch that had been mended up for forty-five years and was still luxurious to dream in. This room struck her as being neither attractive nor particularly otherwise. It was simply a room with a lot of fairly expensive things in it that all looked about fifteen years old.

The nice thing isn't the poverty, though; it's the simplicity. The joy of knowing everything you own has some sort of story. That it means something.

All I want is a tiny house filled with meaningful things and meaningful people.

Things that are nice

I just want to take a minute to say how much I love the Young Democrats of Surry County. I've spent a lot of the last two days with them (minus a few Young Dems who were dearly missed) at the park playing games, grilling hot dogs, wading in rivers, and feeling at home. I remember Hallie and I used to always complain about the laziness and apathy of our generation when we learned about how much younger generations have done in the past - we felt like there was never any way to be involved with service projects or political activism in our little town. But having the Young Dems solves both of those problems, and it's just so nice. It's so nice to be around people who explode at the sound of sexist ideologies - people who sincerely care about plastic bottles being recycled. Out of all the groups of best friends I've had in the past, this group is my absolute favorite. This is cheesy, but I'm just so thankful for all the wonderful people I've met and/or grown closer to through the Democratic Party of Surry County.

Things that are nice

Even though Micah and I always complain about how few pictures we have together, and even though I agree entirely that we need more, it's kind of nice only relying on memories to recall certain days and events spent with him. They're much more dreamy that way, more sentimental. Tonight I keep thinking about the evening we went to thrift stores to look for books in a town that was sort of far away from Akron. We were in Baby Blue and Micah was listening to Neil Young's On the Beach. The sun was setting; our windows were down; we had new bags of books; I remember driving by a lake. Micah was telling me memories he had that involved the town we were leaving, and I remember loving every second of them. I didn't take any pictures that evening, but that's okay. It's perfect in my mind and now, right here.

I usually hate the beach. I hate the houses and their silly signs with silly sayings; I hate how they all look the same save the color and the phrase. I hate the sand, the heat, and the gift shops. I hate the rebel flag keychains, trinkets that glow in the dark, the three-week tattoos, and the 5.99 t-shirts.

Plus the beach has always reminded me of parents, of adults and control. A lack of freedom. Someone yelling to not go in too deep because of rip-currents, because the ocean will take us away and never give us back. The beach also reminds me of a parent who's afraid of sharks and jellyfish, of sea creatures in general and us losing our toes or legs to them.

But these things have never happened despite how deeply we've ventured out into the ocean. Sometimes we've swam far past the point of breaking waves, leaving a frantic grown up at the shore to yell, and it seems we still have all our limbs, and we're still on land; we're not floating out in the Atlantic somewhere. The warnings of adults have always seemed nonsensical to us kids. We see the ocean as it's portrayed in an episode of Spongebob, friendly and explorable. They see the ocean as if it were a watery monster - angry and waiting for us to slip.

Despite these differences, however, several moments of my beach trips are always much more pleasant than others. In my most recent trip, most of my favorite memories involve the evening the adults let us kids walk the 10-minute walk to the ocean without any of them coming along.

Nothing incredible happened on this trip; it was actually pretty normal. I had to get onto Ashton and Justin for talking too loudly and walking through people's front yards on the way there, and we ranted and complained about how strict our family is. But it was also in those first few moments that I realized how much I enjoyed having two other young people on the trip with me, even if they did come with an extra adult.

When we got to the ocean, it was almost sunset, but it had been rainy that day. Walking on the beach was like pushing through a misty dream. A collage of sea glass and broken shells clanked below our feet as we walked and looked for shark teeth. The sky was purple - a blueish tint, and the clouds were literally lined with silver from the sun. People were animated silhouettes in the light, at least until you approached them. Then they became friendly and detailed.

I thought of Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man - "to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea," and remembered that Micah was obsessed with that song when I first met him. He always told me it was the perfect illustration of freedom, and now that I think about it, those few moments on the beach with Ashton and Justin were, too.

As we walked on, discussing how much time we'd have to explore, I noticed a dog running into the water chasing a frisby. With the splashing of the water and magic of the day, he looked like a chariot driving into the clouds. At one point I compared the ocean to a Heaven where profanities were not prohibited - after writing my name I turned around and realized my nephews had written several of them into the sand, and they were never sent away or expelled from the sea. They never even had to seek forgiveness.

Sadly, though, we had to cut our exploring short because the tide was coming in. We watched as the water swallowed the shore in tiny gulps, until it had nearly reached the steps, ready to drink our shoes, too. We got to them just in time.

I didn't think about it until now, but that particular trip to the ocean played out as if a writer of magical realism had sprinkled magic all over the realism that is Topsail Island, North Carolina (and most other beaches). A dog turned divine; the clouds turned silver; the remnants of death and aging turned to art beneath our feet. I didn't even mind the houses lining the shore - they, too, looked magical in the natural lighting of the evening.

And I think that's why Magical Realism will always be one of my favorite literary genres and if it's okay to say so, philosophies. It doesn't avoid the truth or create a fantasy - it simply adds beauty and magic to what's already there. Did my experience change the fact that people feel the need to put disgusting houses all over what should be considered nature's territory? No, but it made them a lot more enjoyable to be around.

But the magical realism of real life can be created by more than just sunsets and weather. It can be a scientific discovery (Richard Dawkins refers to science as "the poetry of reality," and I've always liked that). It can be the way the world looks when you're tired and everything is funny. It can be the presence of someone you really, really love. And it can even be a certain mindset. These are the things that make an experience transcendent and life meaningful. And the very best thing about magical realism (which, in this case, was nature itself) is its ability to create a new world without ever leaving the old one. The magic only adds -- it never takes away.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Love

One year ago at this time a tiny blue car (who goes by the name of "Baby Blue," if you were wondering) was traveling through the mountains on the way to my house. And I was terrified. I remember being so scared, in fact, that I played Paul Simon's "Graceland" over and over again on a little tape player I kept beside my bed. That was my favorite break-up song, and I wanted to mentally prepare myself for the worst. I kept listening so I would know what it feels like to lose love, to have a window in your heart. I knew it would happen, and I wanted to be ready.

That night the power went out. I was worried about how Micah would find my house before, but now even more worried about how he would find it without the porch light. That was the end of my Paul Simon listening. I sat on the bed I made for the first time this year and practiced the apology I would make when Micah finally got here and realized he'd made a huge mistake. There were a few candles burning beside me, and my belly was full of bumblebees. I hadn't seen Micah in over a year; he was on his way to my house, and I was in a room with no power, feeling scared and in love. A few hours later I got a phone call from Micah saying he had reached the North Carolina state line.

I met him at the local McDonalds that evening, much to my mother's dismay (it was well after midnight when he finally arrived), and we rode to my house together. My belly was still full of bumblebees. The only thing I remember about our conversation is Micah saying, "my hands are sweaty, so I can't really go in for a hand-hold," and I remember thinking that I'd never wanted to hold a hand more than his, no matter how sweaty.

When we got to my house we carried his things in and put them in my room; it was finally a mess again and felt like home. Micah hugged me and all my bumblebees went away. The rest felt like a dream. We spent that night talking and laughing and hugging, and I realized I wasn't going to lose love after all - not that night, at least. The power blinked on and off and we heard musical flashes of Paul Simon's Graceland on the tape player beside my bed. This carried on until morning, until my mom warned me that my father would be waking up for work soon. And that was the first of many all-nighters I would spend with him, in person or in conversation, realizing that I didn't have to be so afraid of losing his love after all.

I've learned a lot this year. That Micah likes to sing in his car when he drives, especially if it's Kanye. That it's hard for us to talk about what it's like to live in the south in a civilized manner. That Micah finds monkey vaginas extremely funny when they're on television and he's tired. That I can never talk about Hitler's perhaps-unstable mental state in a serious manner because that lets him off the hook.

The most important thing I've learned, though, is that it's always important to have faith. More and more these days I find myself wanting to completely forget that I'd ever believed in a God; I want to try to give up the search and continue to re-shape my life without religion. But Micah never let's that happen, and I'm so grateful. Whenever I'm feeling desperate I tell him it's impossible for me to have faith, that I'm literally incapable of it, and he says, "Tracie, every single thing you do requires faith," and I remember that I only need to practice more.

Most of my favorite memories with Micah are simple: sitting on the kitchen floor after church, drives in the middle of the night when we're all bundled up, kisses at stop lights, visiting book stores, spending an evening making silly voices and laughing, reading together on his bed. When I think about this a quote comes to mind. I don't actually know who said it, but it goes - "Whether you're skydiving together or sitting at home and doing different things, it's always comfortable. That is fucking love." And I am always comfortable with Micah, and happy, too, and I don't really know what could be better than that.

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself for being in love with someone who lives 9 hours away, but then I realize how lucky I am t0 be in love and more than that, to be in love with the person I'm in love with. Micah is someone I take for granted far too often - someone who reads "How We Decide" so he can talk to me about neuroscience, who tells me there's nobody else he'd rather share a meal with. Micah is a constant source of motivation and inspiration to me. He makes me feel pretty and even though it's cliche to say so, complete.

I've always thought people were silly for saying a person is all they ever think about, but now I understand what they mean. I can see a peach in a grocery store and think of Micah, and pomegranates are even worse. My mind is never safe - a picture of a president, a love poem, a certain highway we've traveled on together (that chances are, I've gotten us lost on). He introduced me to the music I like the most and we've watched more movies together than I can keep up with. I wake up every morning and talk to him all day, and I wouldn't change that one bit.

But this isn't to say that everything is perfect - we fight and love with equal amounts of passion. Micah's far too honest to tell me exactly what I want to hear at my command, and even though it makes me mad in the heat of the moment, I've always found that so endearing. He hates when I tickle him, and I hate when he gets sleepy too early (even though I know this comparison is hardly fair - a desire to tickle can be suppressed much easier than the desire to sleep). But the thing is, after an argument, I realize I have exactly what I've always wanted: someone who is honest - someone I can trust entirely and therefore, love freely.

And that is what I talk about the most when I talk about love, when I talk about Micah: freedom. The freedom to sit on the kitchen floor on Sunday afternoon and talk, the freedom to tickle (even though I know it will make him mad), and the freedom to love without holding anything at all back. Whether my belly is full of bumblebees or I'm crying on the phone to him after a silly argument, I know he will bring me comfort. And to me, that is exactly what love is all about. The associations, the memories, the motivation, and the freedom.

It might be silly and sappy to say so, but I'm so thankful I can be best friends with the boy I'm in love with.

Nobody has had a bigger influence on my life than this fella right here:

And y'all, this lady could not be more grateful!

looking for blackberries

Tuesday Morning, 6 AM

I haven't slept in 21 hours, and I'm feeling pretty loopy. And by loopy I mean ridiculously in love with everything- the sun that's currently rising, the barn across the street, the mess all over my bed, my best friend who's asleep in her little house on Main Street, the boy who will be waking up for work in an hour. I'm in love with the past, the present, and the future. And my mother, who has been the only one to know me during all of my past, even before I was born. Whenever I get into these crazy sentimental moods and realize the beauty of life all over again, I just want to capture everything in words, photos, and little souvenirs - like receipts and dried up flowers placed into books.

I keep taking pictures like this one, pictures of places I've seen my whole entire life, just in case my memory one day proves to be fallible:

Even though I'm only going to be 30 minutes away, I feel like once I leave, coming home will never quite be the same again.

christ-haunted

Flannery O'Connor short stories are often tragic. My favorite, "The River," tells about a little boy who took religious ideas literally and drowned himself in a river while looking for happiness and the Kingdom of Christ. The current pulled him under, and the story ends with the boy looking from the water as Mr. Paradise watches him float away. Of course the story is heartbreaking, but it's beautiful - so full of passion and hypocrisies and characters with good intentions who are terminally thoughtless and narrow-minded and blinded by their preacher's interpretations of Jesus Christ. This is the south to me, too.

Lately I've found myself more and more conflicted about living in North Carolina, especially since I happen to live in one of the most Christ-haunted (as O'Connor would say) areas. I'm right smack in the middle of the Bible Belt, where Baptist Churches are as common as hungry old dogs and the word "y'all."

But don't get me wrong - I'm not against religion. I think it can be incredibly meaningful and freeing, just as long as it isn't used to justify hatred - as long as it doesn't do harm to another human being. The problem is living in my little Southern town, all the oppressive aspects of the Bible are brought to life and inflicted upon everyone, even if some people don't happen to believe in Jesus.

A good example of this is the Christian flag debacle that occurred in King last Autumn. What happened is a person realized the Christian flag at a public park was unauthorized and requested it'd be taken down. As you can imagine, the public fell to pieces. Miniature Christian flags pinned to automobiles flapped through the wind; thousands of bumper stickers proudly proclaiming "Fly the Kings Flag!" were sold; and one church even bought a Christian flag the size of a school bus and placed it in the church's lawn. There was a riot, too - the Christians swarmed through the town of King like angry hornets, spreading the love of God all over the place in the form of $1.99 flags and some poster board.

That month North Carolinians probably spent enough money on Christian flags and stickers to feed the homeless for a year. If someone went into Gullions looking for a flag, they'd more than likely be out of luck because an earlier crowd of raging Christians had already been there. Kurt Vonnegut's quote about Americans constructing their lives from things they find in gift shops always comes to mind whenever I think about the drama of last Autumn (that still hasn't entirely fizzled out yet; you still see stray flags and stickers here and there).

The conflicting feelings I spoke of earlier all arise outside of the churches - out on the street, at dinners, or when I'm enjoying the general warmth and beauty of the South. A few weeks ago I was in downtown Mount Airy with Hallie eating ice cream, and a man walked by and said how good it looked. He smiled the whole time.

Whenever I go to Peggy and Willie's house, who live right down the road from me, they never let me go back home without having a home-cooked meal. I sit at the table and Peggy makes me cornbread and Sara makes me Kool Aid and we all eat together. Whenever I was younger Sara and I would spend the afternoon exploring the woods and sneaking on top of tobacco barns. Combined we had over 200 acres to run and pick berries and swim and get lost. My feet are still tough enough to walk barefoot for miles.

And these aren't stray occurrences; where I live, this friendliness - this caring - is the norm. Say what you want about my little piece of North Carolina, but you can never call this place insincere or unfriendly. This is the South that I love and will take with me everywhere.

The problem is that I know if I were different - perhaps if I were gay or Hispanic or African-American or just extremely weird, a large majority of the people I love so much would treat me differently. And the last thing I want to do is spend my life benefitting from the oppression of others. The same Bible that tells them to be kind is the same Bible that justifies their hatred of people who aren't exactly like them. But I'm not speaking of all Christians, just those who use God to practice intolerance, which sadly makes up the majority in these parts.

But what is there to do about it? I could leave, but that wouldn't change the fact that every Sunday more little children are scared into Christianity for fear of spending eternity with flames and a devil they probably imagine to have red eyes and a pitchfork.

Arguing and debates certainly don't help, either. Since the Bible is the supreme law of the land, generally speaking, a Christian's interpretation of how its message should be handled overrides any sort of logic and reason. And to me, forcing ideas of secularism onto people of religion is just as intolerant as religious people forcing their ideas on others.

So, essentially, I'm stuck. Usually when writing, a solution comes to mind, but that just didn't happen this time. I feel guilty for adoring the South and benefitting from such harsh ideas, but leaving would not change those ideas one bit. But whenever I think about this for awhile, I come to the same conclusion Kurt Vonnegut came to when a woman asked him if she should bring a baby into this horrible, horrible world: "I would say it is still a wonderful thing. What makes life worth living are the saints I meet -- they can be long-time friends or someone I meet on a street. They find a way to behave decently in an indecent society."

For now the only solution is to wait - to look for more people like Hallie who believe it's possible to be tolerant and religious, who would strive to be a good person even if God never told them to. The only thing I know to do is to keep enjoying the warmth and passion of the south and to continue to stand up for those who aren't as free to do so.

The best place in the world:

things my parents talk about on Saturday mornings

"How many types of toothpaste are they gonna come out with? Wal-mart already has a whole damn aisle of toothpaste. I just buy whatever is cheapest."

"Me, too. That's what I do. I just buy what's cheapest."

"That Ultra bright."

"Yeah, Ultra bright."

Why I now love science!

I've always had a strange relationship with science. When I was younger, I absolutely hated it. Not because I thought it was boring, but because for me, examining life on such an intricate level meant sacrificing my ability to see beauty within it. I saw no point in picking apart nature and giving unpronounceable names to the parts that make up a leaf; there was never any reason to explain the moon. Selections from Thoreau's journals constantly gave my feelings life and form, and I held onto them tightly throughout all of my High School Biology and Physical Science courses. Thoreau and I felt that science is the often like the grub which, though it may have nestled in the germ of a fruit, has merely blighted or consumed it and never truly tasted it (7 March 1859).

At the beginning of the summer all of this changed when I decided to re-read* the book Phantoms in the Brain by V.S. Ramachandran. My decision was revolutionary because in this particular book, Ramachandran makes the topic of science an existential one. The book sat on my shelf for ages before I actually read all of it again, but the day I picked it up, I felt I was tossed into a brand new truth-seeking journey that I had never even wanted to be a part of. Using science and poetry combined, Ramachandran's book (in an extremely simplified way) explains tiny pieces of what it means to be a person. Immediately after I finished Phantoms in the Brain, I wanted more. (I learned quickly that any answers found within the world of Neuropsychology come equipped with a bag of questions.) I kept asking myself:

How much of who I am is pre-determined by genetics?

How much of who I am is shaped by experiences?

How involved am "I" in making my own decisions?

Where do my words and ideas and memories come from?

How can I think without knowing how it happens?

How can I move without knowing how it happens?

How can I talk or sing or love without knowing how it happens?

And so the journey began.

In my studies thus far (keep in mind that I'm writing this as a person who has barely skimmed the surface of knowledge to be gained about the complicated machinery of the human mind), I've learned about many unsettling aspects of the brain. What we've always thought of as the soul - ourselves in a cohesive spirit that eventually exists the body - actually comes in damageable, examinable parts. The brain and the mind are one and inseparable. When Phineas Gage was working on the railroad and had an iron rod shot through his frontal lobe, his family members found that he was never quite the same again. He had became angry, short-tempered, and irresponsible. These concepts - the idea that a person can lose such a large portion of their identity simply by damaging a portion of their brain, that the soul can fall apart and break down in pieces - are the most uncomfortable parts of learning the science and philosophy of mind.

But, while reading and reading and reading some more, I've also stumbled upon several interesting studies that reveal the sincerity and beauty of human nature. The pessimists who claim that love is merely lust atop of more lust, for example, are partially mistaken. Love is a messy sea of hormones and emotion and sexual attraction, but it also involves the same sort of deep attachment that occurs when mothers and babies bond. Humans really can need one another; our minds are wired to connect.

And now even evil can be mapped out. The actions of those who have no moral compass, like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy - can be at least explained in part by examining the size and function of the Amygdala (what controls fear and allows us to feel empathy) and the prefrontal cortex (what is most involved with decision-making). Psychopaths can harm others so easily because they do not feel the pain in another person within themselves. Feeling sympathy is impossible. What this means is there is no longer any need to philosophize over the good or evil nature of humans because science shows us people neither good nor evil: we are complex and shaped by the shapes of our minds.

What makes Neuroscience so wonderful is the way it forms an inseparable connection with philosophy and human nature. Love and sadness come in the form of chemicals and hormones; our memories are scattered about everywhere – different types in different places; and a map of all our whole entire body – our fingers and toes and legs and arms - exists on the brain, and little balls of energy that travel at speeds of 90 feet per second tell our bodies how to move.

Still, knowing all this, it's important to keep in mind that so much of science involves the naming and discovering the nature of different elements. Knowing that feeling in love involves the activation of different hormones does not change the nature of being in love. It merely picks apart the feeling and names all the little pieces and explains how they work. People are intricate and beautiful and complex. Language is our invention. It's important to remember that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. In other words, knowing all the parts that make up a banjo or guitar or piano does not change the beauty inside the music they create.

*The first time I read this particular book, I was much too narrow-minded to accept the information being presented, so it never really stuck with me.

Early Morning Portraits of a Wintry Kitchen

A collection of haiku poems



I.

As blood fills all limbs

After a night of sleeping,

The sun, too, wakes up.



A morning with air

As damp as cold bath water

Spills about the day.



Eighty-two sixteen

Rutherford Street sits next to

The used mattress store.



The tiny white house

Has pear trees and an old dog

Making sure it’s safe.



II.

Smoke surrounds the red

Chair, yellow table, and fridge.

It hides the kitchen.



The kind grey haired man

Has an old heart that likes to

Swallow people whole.



His wife, a joyous,

Plump, robe-wearing soul, has just

Misplaced her false teeth.



Newspaper headlines,

A little cup, and warm food

Appear as smoke fades.



III.

Drenched in cold sunshine,

He devours his eggs, and

She drinks her coffee.



Both crispy and bright,

Happiness, it seems, has found

Its way to their home.

scraps collected over the years

♥