We only live forever in the lights we make
When we were young we used to say
That you only hear the music when your heart begins to break
Now we are the kids from yesterday.
All I want is a long, aimless drive on dark, nearly deserted streets, blasting my car stereo, so I can sing as loudly as I want until the music replaces the vague longing I feel for something I can't put my finger on with something else that feels a bit more complete. There are no dark, nearly deserted roads in New York City where I can drive 70 miles an hour, few streets that wouldn't require me to stop every few blocks for a red light.
I experienced a brief moment of the pure joy that comes with accelerating unimpeded to 55, 60, 65 miles per hour and beyond accompanied by music and my own out-of-shape voice tonight while driving back home from downtown Brooklyn along the BQE, and I just wanted it to go on forever. For a minute I got to relive countless moments with friends, boyfriends, my brother, moments where we drove and sang and talked together and felt free and alive, moments I thought were in infinite supply, but which turned out ultimately to be limited.
When I almost ran into a parked service truck on my exit ramp, I got an intense flashback of deja vu from when I did the exact same thing in the exact same place seven years ago, when I'd just moved to Brooklyn, when even the cold felt new and exciting, when the sense of endless possibility was ever-present. For a second, everything still felt possible. For just a second, I didn't mind that it was winter. I thought that maybe if I could keep driving, I could make that all stick, but the first traffic light brought the reality of city driving back, so I came home, and instead tried to bring my memories in with me.
I miss you, nearly pitch-black, two-lane back roads of rural Georgia. I miss you all, my shotgun co-pilots, who'd also shamelessly belt along to ridiculously emo songs or rock opera or hair metal or musical theater until we'd sung ourselves hoarse, then who'd accompany me home to lie on the floor and talk about whatever it was that was so important until the wee hours of the night. There was really almost nothing better than us, my car, and a long night ahead.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Friday, November 2, 2012
Dinner Drivel
(Note: I'm currently discovering old drafts I never published, and just pressing publish if they aren't entirely incomplete.)
Some people are really impressed by certain evidences of achievement--by masters degrees or doctorates, by the names of the schools that others attended, by their employment histories with high-profile companies. Others really enjoy sharing their achievements, sliding them into small talk--or even dominating entire conversations with their impressive scholastic and business accomplishments--as if this somehow affirms that you chose the right dinner partner indeed.
There are some people who really take note of these mentions, who are impressed by them, and who like to surround themselves with people who have perhaps been to Ivy-league schools, who have MBAs, who summer at their homes in the north and winter in their second homes in the south, and who drive their brand new cars in between the two, who know exactly how many square feet each of these homes have.
I personally don't give a shit.
Where you went to school and what company provides you with a desk and a paycheck and how many quality possessions you own--none of these things make me care any more or any less about you, because they don't really tell me anything about who you are. What I want to know are things like what do you really care about--what lights up your eyes and makes you raise your voice with passion? What have you done to make a difference, either in the larger world or in just one life? What makes you different from every other person in this restaurant, on the street, in the subway? I suppose for some, the answers to these questions are the things mentioned in the first sentence of this paragraph. I find dinner conversations with this type of person insufferable. All I want to do is to tell them to shut up, to point out that because they were so busy talking about themselves, they haven't asked a single question of anyone else, as if they presume they have nothing to learn from anyone else.
I want to have dinner with the genuine people, the people you can skip quickly through the small talk and get into real conversations about the things that really keep us up at night, like what we're going to do to make a contribution to the world, like what kind of people we're going to be when we're older, like what kind of people we're going to share our lives with and how we're going maintain these relationships, because we know that none of us is perfect, and that everything has the potential to fall apart if we don't work hard at the important things.
Some people are really impressed by certain evidences of achievement--by masters degrees or doctorates, by the names of the schools that others attended, by their employment histories with high-profile companies. Others really enjoy sharing their achievements, sliding them into small talk--or even dominating entire conversations with their impressive scholastic and business accomplishments--as if this somehow affirms that you chose the right dinner partner indeed.
There are some people who really take note of these mentions, who are impressed by them, and who like to surround themselves with people who have perhaps been to Ivy-league schools, who have MBAs, who summer at their homes in the north and winter in their second homes in the south, and who drive their brand new cars in between the two, who know exactly how many square feet each of these homes have.
I personally don't give a shit.
Where you went to school and what company provides you with a desk and a paycheck and how many quality possessions you own--none of these things make me care any more or any less about you, because they don't really tell me anything about who you are. What I want to know are things like what do you really care about--what lights up your eyes and makes you raise your voice with passion? What have you done to make a difference, either in the larger world or in just one life? What makes you different from every other person in this restaurant, on the street, in the subway? I suppose for some, the answers to these questions are the things mentioned in the first sentence of this paragraph. I find dinner conversations with this type of person insufferable. All I want to do is to tell them to shut up, to point out that because they were so busy talking about themselves, they haven't asked a single question of anyone else, as if they presume they have nothing to learn from anyone else.
I want to have dinner with the genuine people, the people you can skip quickly through the small talk and get into real conversations about the things that really keep us up at night, like what we're going to do to make a contribution to the world, like what kind of people we're going to be when we're older, like what kind of people we're going to share our lives with and how we're going maintain these relationships, because we know that none of us is perfect, and that everything has the potential to fall apart if we don't work hard at the important things.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Remember when...
Music and autumn are the ultimate catalysts for nostalgia.
The difference that is so striking to me is the difference between how much we felt then and how much we allow ourselves to feel now.
Remember how young we were? Remember how old we felt?
Your first love was so unadulterated in its intensity that you swore that no one could have ever loved anyone like this before. And then when he broke your heart, you felt like you would die, because no one could possibly survive such pain. Remember how much it hurt? Do you remember how it took over everything, every last part of your day-- how you couldn't get away from it, how acute the experience was? Now as adults we've experienced loss so well beyond the scope of what we understood then, but we don't get to let that pain out. Instead we silently hold it close to our hearts and really push it aside as much as we can so that we can put on a good face for the world. We no longer get to embrace and express our pain.
(Note: Nov 2012: I don't remember when I wrote this. I know there was more. I know it involved the smell of autumn.)
(Note: Nov 2012: I don't remember when I wrote this. I know there was more. I know it involved the smell of autumn.)
A Facebook message I almost sent
I don't know who gets these messages, but...
Matt, I don't know what to do about the fact that your sisters, the tiny girls who used to follow us around on the beach, now have children. I wish you were around for me to lament about the passing of our youths. Instead, I have the knowledge that you're not there. Except...a lot of the time you still are. I go home, and I see you around the turns on 144. I hear you singing along to Oasis in the car. We hang out in my dreams, and I don't miss you then, because we get to spend some time together. But in my waking hours, and in these weird dark hours where I should probably just go to bed, I miss...I miss you. I miss our past. I miss your future. I want to know what happens.
I fucking hate the shit life deals us sometimes.
Love,
Rebecca
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Last night
It was one of those nights.
"I really want to kiss you right now."
Fuck. It was one of those nights I haven't had since college, I think. Sitting with a friend, having a good conversation, and suddenly, this confession. Blame it on the alcohol -- it's fine when we do that. It's not as awkward later.
The problem is, that in college, this shit happened. Sometimes there were drunk confessions from guys I thought were just close friends. But now I'm at the point in my life where this hasn't happened in forever. I thought it was a thing of the past. I'm too old. Friends are friends. I no longer inspire these feelings of passion that were once (dare I say?) almost commonplace.
But here it is, in this bar, from a dear, close friend.
All I can say is "No." All I can think is "You're engaged." Goddamnit.
And then my feelings. My fucking feelings are all over the place. Because part of me wants to kiss him anyway. Part of me agrees with him. If it hadn't been a matter of geography, we might be together. We might be the ones getting married and working on dual citizenships and an international relationship.
Part of me hates myself. Hates everything. Because it's still too soon after the last relationship, the one I thought I could will to last.
Part of me feels hopeful. Maybe I'm not past my prime after all.
And part of me just feels sad. Like I should just go to bed.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Some days...
Some days everything hurts--the sincerely kind things people say break your heart, the thoughts of what might have been overwhelm you, and the longing to talk to those who can never speak again makes you want to lay down and cry. Some days, beneath the smiles and the day-to-day transactions, you are dying inside.
Not every day can feel this way, though, and I've got to believe that this year will be better. We all have to keep moving forward.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
We lost one of the good ones today. Matt Freeman, Captain, USMC, my dear friend--and friend, brother, son, husband to others--was killed on the ground in Afghanistan.
I still don't know the exact circumstances of his death, and I can't seem to get my head around the fact that he's gone. The last time I saw him was two years ago, at Amy's funeral in Savannah, and now the last time I may see him will be at his own funeral.
Nothing in life prepares you for this, prepares you to start losing the people you love before they turn thirty. I am taking turns feeling stunned, devastated, angry, and empty.
Yes, it had been awhile since we talked, and longer since we had seen one another, but I always felt like Matt was close, like we could pick up where we left off in a second. He was one of those people who would (will) always be important in my life. First and foremost, he was one of my closest friends throughout high school, someone I felt like I could tell pretty much anything and never be judged, which is nothing short of monumental at that age. He could always be counted on for a great conversation, for a laugh, and well, for anything else for which you might need him.
For a time it was more complex than that--he has actually appeared on this blog before, in my very first post, the friend who kissed me beside the pond when I was wearing a gold prom dress. Even though it turned out to be relatively brief, he became one of my first serious relationships, and it helped me to understand what a mature, respectful romantic relationship should be like (as opposed to my previous experiences with what turned out to be a complete scumbag). It ended due to indecision on my part, but somehow we still remained friends--and not just in name, but actual friends.
I remember long, lazy days in the sun at the beach, running back to his parents' beach house to escape afternoon thundershowers. There were late nights in various locations, groups of us sitting up and talking, scheming, planning to change the world. There was drama class and drama club, various plays and rehearsals, field trips and hilarity. There were the days we'd just run around town aimlessly, and then he'd drive me home, speeding like a madman in his teal Geo Metro around that sharp bend on Highway 144, racing to get me back in time for curfew. Later there were oyster roast reunions, where everything had changed for everyone, but somehow it all felt the same. I feel like I don't do it justice, but my memories of high school are memories with Matt. He was part of me growing up, and his friendship likely deeply affected who I became. I am having a hard time understanding that that is where he will have to remain from this day forward--in the past.
Those who know my left-leaning tendencies will understand why I am mad. There's also the greater existential anger--why the hell is it always the best people, the people with the most to offer, who die?
I guess that I should take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he wanted to do. I mean, hell, I am actually hugely impressed at how much Matt really lived in his twenty-nine years. He'd not only traveled all over the world, but he flew a lot of it himself. He worked his ass off and ended up with the job of his dreams--flying planes for the military--and in fact, he had one of the coolest-sounding jobs of anyone I have known. No matter where he went, he still found ways to stay close to his family. He found love (well, rediscovered might be more like it) with his wife, Theresa. A lot of people don't achieve all this in fifty to sixty years, let alone fewer than thirty.
But still, I mourn. I am sad that he won't be a parent--because he probably would have been a fantastic dad. The thought of what his family is going through makes me break down in tears. The realization that we'll never again reconnect on the phone or catch up during a trip home...well, it makes me feel like my youth is dead. And while I know that in the end we will honor his sacrifice in the name of service to country, tonight I feel like my country stole my friend from me. Call me an anti-patriot, but we're all entitled to our various stages of grief.
Matt had a better attitude than I do; in fact, I'm sure he would have argued heatedly with me over the above sentiment. When I spoke with his mom tonight, she said "I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he told me that he was happy that he was finally doing what he wanted to do. And he asked for us to send more pens and paper, things like that, because he said 'Each one of these that I hand out is one less person shooting at me.'" He believed he was helping change the world. I'm positive that he did help change the world. I just wish he was still here to help it continue to evolve for good.
This post is scattered, unfocused, poorly-constructed. I am unable to properly harness words to best convey what I am feeling tonight, so I'll lay it to rest with words from the Bard, from one of the plays Matt loved dearly: "Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
I still don't know the exact circumstances of his death, and I can't seem to get my head around the fact that he's gone. The last time I saw him was two years ago, at Amy's funeral in Savannah, and now the last time I may see him will be at his own funeral.
Nothing in life prepares you for this, prepares you to start losing the people you love before they turn thirty. I am taking turns feeling stunned, devastated, angry, and empty.
Yes, it had been awhile since we talked, and longer since we had seen one another, but I always felt like Matt was close, like we could pick up where we left off in a second. He was one of those people who would (will) always be important in my life. First and foremost, he was one of my closest friends throughout high school, someone I felt like I could tell pretty much anything and never be judged, which is nothing short of monumental at that age. He could always be counted on for a great conversation, for a laugh, and well, for anything else for which you might need him.
For a time it was more complex than that--he has actually appeared on this blog before, in my very first post, the friend who kissed me beside the pond when I was wearing a gold prom dress. Even though it turned out to be relatively brief, he became one of my first serious relationships, and it helped me to understand what a mature, respectful romantic relationship should be like (as opposed to my previous experiences with what turned out to be a complete scumbag). It ended due to indecision on my part, but somehow we still remained friends--and not just in name, but actual friends.
I remember long, lazy days in the sun at the beach, running back to his parents' beach house to escape afternoon thundershowers. There were late nights in various locations, groups of us sitting up and talking, scheming, planning to change the world. There was drama class and drama club, various plays and rehearsals, field trips and hilarity. There were the days we'd just run around town aimlessly, and then he'd drive me home, speeding like a madman in his teal Geo Metro around that sharp bend on Highway 144, racing to get me back in time for curfew. Later there were oyster roast reunions, where everything had changed for everyone, but somehow it all felt the same. I feel like I don't do it justice, but my memories of high school are memories with Matt. He was part of me growing up, and his friendship likely deeply affected who I became. I am having a hard time understanding that that is where he will have to remain from this day forward--in the past.
Those who know my left-leaning tendencies will understand why I am mad. There's also the greater existential anger--why the hell is it always the best people, the people with the most to offer, who die?
I guess that I should take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he wanted to do. I mean, hell, I am actually hugely impressed at how much Matt really lived in his twenty-nine years. He'd not only traveled all over the world, but he flew a lot of it himself. He worked his ass off and ended up with the job of his dreams--flying planes for the military--and in fact, he had one of the coolest-sounding jobs of anyone I have known. No matter where he went, he still found ways to stay close to his family. He found love (well, rediscovered might be more like it) with his wife, Theresa. A lot of people don't achieve all this in fifty to sixty years, let alone fewer than thirty.
But still, I mourn. I am sad that he won't be a parent--because he probably would have been a fantastic dad. The thought of what his family is going through makes me break down in tears. The realization that we'll never again reconnect on the phone or catch up during a trip home...well, it makes me feel like my youth is dead. And while I know that in the end we will honor his sacrifice in the name of service to country, tonight I feel like my country stole my friend from me. Call me an anti-patriot, but we're all entitled to our various stages of grief.
Matt had a better attitude than I do; in fact, I'm sure he would have argued heatedly with me over the above sentiment. When I spoke with his mom tonight, she said "I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he told me that he was happy that he was finally doing what he wanted to do. And he asked for us to send more pens and paper, things like that, because he said 'Each one of these that I hand out is one less person shooting at me.'" He believed he was helping change the world. I'm positive that he did help change the world. I just wish he was still here to help it continue to evolve for good.
This post is scattered, unfocused, poorly-constructed. I am unable to properly harness words to best convey what I am feeling tonight, so I'll lay it to rest with words from the Bard, from one of the plays Matt loved dearly: "Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
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