Monday, January 30, 2012

This is my best friend Dallas. We were kind of bopping around in life and we chanced upon each other and both liked the same music and had the same jean size.

She's got blonde hair and small hands and she writes the prettiest little sentences. Once she scored a game winning soccer goal, because she's a bad ass like that. She likes Winona Ryder and carmellos and different colored cowboy boots. We went to Lake Mona in the summer and she told me she wants to be a marine biologist or a vet and live in a neighborhood by the beach in California. She sometimes needs her inhaler for anxiety. She laughs and listens to Coldplay and the Shins. She thinks that society killed the teenager.

Sometimes I'll ask her a question and she won't reply and I think it's because she's lost in all the pretty thoughts tangled in her hair. She might be lost, but I think all of us are really. Lost in wonderland, or something of the sort. She even looks a little bit like Alice and she's completely bonkers like her, too. "But I'll tell you a secret, all the best people are."

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

We're always driving down the canyon. And it's usually after dark. The mountains seem closer, looming blue and tired next to the road. The moonlight smudges the sky and dims as it seeps inevitably towards the ground through the thick black night, giving only a faint glow to the aspen trees. Aspens are my favorite, and they're yours too. And they're the biggest living organism on the planet, even bigger than the blue whale.

You look straight ahead and I look out the window. I look at your profile and your hands on the wheel, and the ache in my stomach climbs my throat and bruises my lips. I say something to fill the silence. I prop my head against our two hands.

And that first time, and every time since, you told me you were going to show me something. At the most winding part of the road, you turn off the car lights. And for a fraction of a second we drive in complete blackness. The road disappears. You can't see anything at all. Then you turn the lights back on and the road, back from oblivion, is beneath us.

And I can see your profile and look out the window. Everything illuminated by the two yellow lights at the front of the car, leaving a broken trail behind us like smoke after a rocket ship.
I have a best friend Dallas and this is her tumblr:

Check out the latest videos, y'all.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

“…He forgot the danger he was in, grateful for the world which purposefully puts divisions in place so that we can overcome them, feeling the joy of getting closer, even if deep down we can never forget the sadness of our insurmountable differences.”
- Nicole Krauss The History of Love

Thursday, January 5, 2012

I'm terrible at endings.

Someone once said if you don't know where to begin writing, write about it. Write about the sense of searching, longing. The feeling of reaching into empty space and the feeling of empty space reaching back. The aching awareness of the nothingness in the cavity of your chest and in the slip of space between your skin and your bones.

And perhaps that same reach, that same step from undefinable point A to nonexistent point B, may remind you of something.