Soul Mates

This was a ten-minute writing exercise.

I can vividly remember the first day I saw Connor. He was leaning on Preston’s car and smoking. Preston said something and started laughing. Connor’s smile spread up the right side of his face in amusement. His hair was dark and scraggly, but not dirty. Just messy. He was my type incarnate.

These days, he’s my soul mate. Not in the ‘get married and live in a house full of happy children’ way. It’s more like no matter what I’m talking or thinking about, he always understands. It’s uncanny. I can be uncanny right back, though. Like I said—soul mates.

And we also fuck. Not usually when we’re sober, though. When he’s sober, his type is usually missing a vagina.

Tonight, we ate ice cream cones and walked the train tracks while the sun was setting behind us. We walked away from it because we like the dark. Things happen all around you in the dark, and most people miss them. We don’t miss them. We are them.

As the town around us got darker, we grew calmer and reverent. We sat down under a tree off the side of the tracks and watched as the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon. The few moments between the sun setting and the day’s light diminishing completely were used to unfold a small strip of paper containing two round hits of acid. One of the little circles stuck to Connor’s finger and was dropped onto my tongue. He mimicked the action for himself and crumpled up the little piece of paper and swallowed it. Leaning against him and sighing, I closed my eyes and smiled.

I could see him clearly in my mind. He was smirking and spinning in circles in the middle of the ocean. I was dancing and laughing; it was glorious. We were standing on the water and playing god. He made the waves into shapes and sent them flying over my head. I reshaped them and sent them back.

Tulips, guns, pies, horses—back and forth, back and forth. When I remembered that my eyes were closed, I opened them to find Connor in the tree above me.

“What are you making up there? Did you make that tree?”

“I made this tree. I made the birds and the worms. Sugar, I grew the fucking roots into the soil. We are gods of this world.” I giggled. He was glowing blue. I felt spiritual. This was my religion. My world had no deadbeat mothers or frisky boyfriends. It was just me and Connor. And our world of magical possibilities.

Natalie and Kara

An extremely short story from a while ago:

They sat on the wall in front of her house. The trees shading them were gorgeous shades of rich oranges and reds. Neither one wanted to start the conversation. It was going to be awkward and messy.

Natalie stared at an ant crawling across the sidewalk so intently that everything around the ant went fuzzy. It was carrying a piece of red leaf. Possibly to its anthill. Or perhaps it would just keep the leaf for itself. Nature could be so giving, but it could also be selfish. Nature didn’t give a damn if you were dying or a glutton.

Such is the way of God. Or whoever was floating around up there.

Kara was the one to start talking. She spoke of pianos and purple skies. She mentioned horses and ketchup. Rambling about nonsense was a specialty of hers. Talking about reality was not.

“I dropped the ketchup in the piano while I was tuning it. Now the C above high C sounds odd.”

“Kara, stop.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Things are different now.” The times when Natalie would lie in bed with Kara and listen to her talk about whatever subject floated into her head were in the past. It was saddening because Kara had the sweetest voice. Every word flowed like a concerto. Every syllable seemed to be meticulously chosen, but it wasn’t. That was just Kara. Natalie missed her voice—her songs and words, her moans and cries.

That time was gone. Empty shells and glassy eyes were left, and neither girl knew what could bring life back into the void.

“I can’t take it back. And I don’t want to.”

“I figured that out. I can read you like a book,” Natalie smirked. Kara rarely did things that she regretted later. She was rash and impulsive, but everything she did had an intention behind it—regardless of whether it was conscious or not. Nothing happened without a purpose.

The ant had disappeared into a hole in the sidewalk. His fellow workers were congregating on the little mound surrounding the opening. They all had offerings of sustenance and were diligently working toward winter food reserves.

Natalie hadn’t looked at Kara once. When they first met, Kara’s facial piercings looked foreign to Natalie. After only a few days, though, they were familiar features, just like a little nose or beauty mark. She wanted to know if Kara’s youthful face had grown worry lines or blemishes, but she couldn’t bring herself to look. It would hurt too much.

Besides, she knew that Kara’s lovely face wouldn’t have acquired anything detrimental to her exquisiteness. Someone else was lucky. Someone else could hold her and look at her face and know that she would be there when he awoke.

Natalie wasn’t sure when she would be okay with that knowledge. Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow.

“Your birthday’s next week. You’re gonna be 21. Any plans?” Natalie had forgotten her own birthday.

“I’m probably going to drink a Jack and coke and be done with it.”

“You do that every night.”

“I’m also going to cut off all my hair.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Where Kara was open and intuitive, Natalie was stubborn.

“I can read you like a book, too, Nat.” Natalie flinched. “You’re not going to cut your hair. You think it’s the only thing that’s pretty about you.”

“Exactly.” The ants were almost all inside now. The sky was turning red and orange to match the trees as the sun left half-circle flashes in Natalie’s eyes when she blinked.

“Do you think we’ll ever come back here?”

“No. This is over.”

“Yeah.” And Natalie knew this little session of closure had ended. It was time for a new period in their lives. One without them together. It was time to find out how to live separately. This was good for them. When one would breathe, the other would exhale. It was like that in bed and life. Now was a new age.

Natalie realized that she was wrong. Maybe she could be okay that night. It wouldn’t take until tomorrow. It certainly wouldn’t take forever.

It's a very, very mad world.

I'm foregoing studying. I quit!.......until morning. I know--I have no backbone. Let's face it, kids, I talk a big game, but the only thing I follow through with is school, bills (most of the time), and listening to music. If I tell you I will check out *insert band or artist here* then I will listen to them. That's all I can guarantee.

I'm listening/semi-watching the Dresden Dolls most recent DVD, Live at the Roundhouse. It has a duet between them and the lead singer of The Red Paintings, Trash McSweeney. Both are revolutionary. I could go on for many days and pages about my love and devotion to the Dresden Dolls and Amanda fucking Palmer (solo), but tonight, I mean to write about the epic-ness of The Red Paintings.

The Red Paintings are a band out of Brisbane, Oz, and will make you laugh, cry and want to touch yourself. Or not really....not the last one, but it sounded good, right? Besides, they might cause that reaction. I don't know about your personal life, loves. Anyway, they successfully mix art, theatrics, costumes and music to create one big amalgam of mind-blowing sensations.

I recommend the Walls EP and Destroy the Robots EP. If you come to fancy those, then dish out the moolah for the LP. All their tracks are for individual sale on their website, which can be found here.

And since I can't keep it in anymore, go listen to "Delilah" by Dresden Dolls. It's amazing-well thought out, well-written, beautiful and simple.

If you're feeling really froggy, then go watch the eight-part video series by Amanda Palmer, lead singer and pianist for the Dresden Dolls. Just follow from this first part on to the second and third and so on.

I'm on a dramatic kick lately, so the next band I choose to blog about will probably be one that wears outrageous costumes and sings about boats and pirates. (I already know who I'm writing about, so I know for a fact that they sing about boats and pirates.) Kudos and a mix cd to anyone that can guess who it is....two words....initials are AP. And, no. It's not Amanda Palmer, who I will from now on abbreviate with AFP.

k

Hopefully this will be a novel one day.

Rita and Fran would make a lovely story. Here's a taste of their friendship. Enjoy and leave con crit only. That means don't be a mean ass.

It had been a tiring day. The rest of the week was going to be hectic, it was only Tuesday, but it would hopefully be a good hectic. Like I-feel-like-I'm-in-a-bubbly-warm-whirlwind hectic.

I'm sure my hair would come out in a better state if I was caught in a whirlwind. For the first time since I was fifteen, I was sent to a professional hairdresser who thought putting multicolored streaks in my blonde hair would look 'edgy.' Because lead singers are supposed to be 'edgy.' Who knew? I guess my bandmates weren't allowed to be edgy. Poor them. They have hair that is not gay friendly. Also, I now have bangs that fall into my face every damn time I move. It's annoying as hell.

"I mean, how is that even a relevant question? 'Does your mother approve of your offensive tattoos?' "

"I don’t know, Fran. Maybe she was jealous of your pinup girl shooting at a man." My hair fell into my face, and I tried to tuck it behind my ear.

"Maybe she didn't appreciate your rad hair. Of course she liked it when you mocked her, who wouldn't, ya know?"

"Shut up, Fran."

"Respect your elder."

"Respect your lead singer."

"I can't respect anyone with hair that's gayer than I am."

"Shut up, Fran."

And all was right again. That's how it went with Fran and I. She was my friend. My accomplice, my sister. We were by blood too, since we both got in a bar fight, with other people, of course, when we were sixteen. It's a much better story than when boys cut their hands and hold them together to become blood brothers. She held her bloody knuckles to my bloody lip and we smiled while standing over the guys we fought.

I was the one that needed to be brought back down to earth most of the time, though. Not because the fame (tiny fame?) had gotten to my head, but because I just got caught up in life and in my head more often than the normal person.

She was the one that needed to take care of everyone because she is our band mother. Unless you count Erik, our manager. He is our band father and is more like a disciplinarian that only cares about making you a better person. 'If you just play some shows where you don't try to use sarcasm with a bunch of kids that won't get it and find it offensive while you find it amusing, I'm just saying that it might be nice to try. Or I could book you at another rich kid's birthday party.'

My bangs fell into my face again and I made a low, growling noise, followed by Fran huffing, grabbing a bobby pin out of the ash tray and tucking my hair out of my face. See? Just like a mommy.

"Hey, Rita?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you hope kids like our new album as much as I do? 'Cause, I'm trying the whole, 'I'm proud of it, so it doesn't matter if anyone else likes it' thing and I still want people to like it."

"I want people to like it too. Like when you make a new friend that you want your old friends to meet, but you get nervous that your old friends won't like them, and they'll get mad at you for it. But, then deep down you know your old friends so well that you know they'll like that new friend. Like…"

"I get it, Rita. Nice analogy, but focus on the traffic, please. You almost side-swiped that blue jeep."

"Yeah, well, yellow jeeps are better."

"Thanks. I miss my yellow jeep."

"Me too. That X-Ray Spex tape you made that got stuck in the tape player was awesome. Hey, do you think bobby pins lying around loose in the car would pose a hazard if we crashed?"

"Probably." She took the other three pins and put them in the glove box.

I miss the magic

I've been trying to finish up the fourth chapter in one of my stories, but the characters are just not cooperating. They suck at life right now, and I think I'm forcing it. I'm not sure how I want to get to the next integral part of the story. I'm not studying like I should be. Studying be damned. I hate academia. On Thursday, I could very well die a scholastic death and be done with it.

Probably not that extreme, but it will probably be bad. I need so much to have a break. Hopefully that will come in the form of Jason and V-day this weekend. Some red wine and lovin' couldn't hurt. Heh.

I'm tired. I just thought it was time to come back to this blog and post something. Maybe next time it will have more depth and less whining. And maybe a character development scene. Who knows.

k