A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 28, 2006 || 12:35 am

For my friend, who is twisting in the wind, hurting.

Magnolia trees are so fucking pretty.

…but there is something acrid and unpleasant about them, especially when they are swinging into full bloom. They smell dangerous. I don’t understand people that like the scent of the Magnolia. It’s safe to say that I don’t really trust those people. Not with any great certainty, anyway.

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When we were in Florida, Tess and I stayed in a place that was ‘different’. The whole shebang shut down flat by ten pee emm each evening, for the most part. This struck us as odd for a touristy pocket, as sweetly hamletish as it may be. We would stay out quietly, smoking our lungs out and drinking.

One night –maybe our third there– we went for a walk in boxer shorts and tank tops; we had wet heads and drunk brains and bare feets. We turned a corner onto one of the main roads and something hit me like a brick square between the eyes. I stopped dead in my tracks and raised a finger in accusation.

“The benches, Tess.

“Those benches are all facing away from the street.”

It was eerie, because for all my travels, I don’t ever remember seeing such a thing. But there they were, those benches, angled away from the street. Not even fully square with their backs to the thoroughfare, but slyyyy. It smelled sort of Twilight Zone-y.

It wigged Tessa out, as well. Who would do such a thing and for what purpose?

I pushed myself over to one, made myself sit down on it for a good five minutes. If you know my particularness with regard to seating arrangements, then you will realize that this was no mean feat. Sitting with my back to the wide-open of the street and beyond was a terribly uncomfortable thing for me. Like, terribly. Terribly with big icky oozing sores and gleaming razors for teefs.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

When I was little, like six or seven, I was claustrophobic. One day I decided that claustrophobic was A Very Silly Thing For A Big Girl To Be and devised a plan to remedy this. We had a huge Davenport sofa. We also had huge floor pillows that my sister and I flopped our snakey limbs all over when we watched the boob tube.

The day I decided to make a conscious leap forward in development was sunny and terrific. I was wearing a halter top and boxy little tailored shorts. I picked up one of the massive floor pillas, which made about two-thirds of me, and made my way over to the couch. I threw the pillow atop it and then climbed into the corner. I got flat on my back, working my knobby legs beneath the pillow, and lie there for a moment to gather resolve. I watched the peachbrown skin of my belly go flat and still as I breathed myself into zen calm.

When sufficiently prepared, I grabbed that pillow by both corners and slid its bulk up over my face and head. I was cocooned in tight darkness, a sort of textile sarcophagus. I stayed as long as I possibly could before exploding from beneath, gasping for reality and air and the measured calm that had taken leave of me.

I did this for several weeks, days and days on end, trying my best to stay under that pillow, worked into my psuedo-box, for as long as my human limits would allow. I never told anyone what I was doing; I’m sure everyone viewed it as a sort of game. It finally came to me in a startling realization one day that a ‘prep session’ was no longer needed. It was shortly thereafter that I realized I could lay there so long that I could grow comfortable enough to get completely drowsy.

“For shitsakes, I am cured!” And I sit here today, you people, blessedly unencumbered by a fear of being boxed in by small spaces.

I told this story to someone for the first time about six months ago. My best malepal Miller and I were lapping beers and swapping anecdotes about our childhoods, laughing and poking fun at ourselves. He grew serious.

“That’s pretty amazing stuff from a little kid.”

“What?” I said, thinking we were still in heckling the stupidity of younger selves mode, “Shut up!”

“No really. You showed some pretty big forethought on that one. Not even counting your plan, what first-grader shows that kind of resolve? Wow, d00d.”

I shrugged. I’d never thought of it that way, but it all boils down to this: Some things you just have to do, damnit. You just have to.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

If you twist and turn away / If you tear yourself in two again / If I could, yes I would / If I could, I would / Let it go / Surrender / Dislocate / If I could throw this / Lifeless lifeline to the wind / Leave this heart of clay / See you walk, walk away / Into the night / And through the rain / Into the half-light / And through the flame

If I could through myself / Set your spirit free / I’d lead your heart away / See you break, break away / Into the light / And to the day

To let it go / And so to fade away / To let it go / And so fade away / I’m wide awake / I’m wide awake / Wide awake / I’m not sleeping, oh no, no, no

If you should ask then maybe they’d / Tell you what I would say / True colors fly in blue and black / Bruised silken sky and burning flag / Colors crash, collide in blood shot eyes

If I could, you know I would / If I could, I would / Let it go

This desperation / Dislocation / Separation / Condemnation / Revelation / In temptation / Isolation / Desolation

Let it go / And so fade away / To let it go, oh yeah / And so fade away / To let it go, oh no / And so to fade away / I’m wide awake / I’m wide awake / Wide awake / I’m not sleeping oh no no

// U2, ‘Bad’

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