Not sure what this is. You decide.

I’ve actually been holding on to this all week because each new day didn’t seem appropriate to post this. Then I realized there will never be a good time to post this.

Recently I watched a BBC documentary called HyperNormalisation 2016 which basically confirmed a few hunches that I already had. (I totally recommend this, you can find it here, but watch with a grain of salt: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9m2yReECak)

The basic premise was about how we’ve come to create a narrative about politics and international relations that is based in fact but largely blurs out the complexities and grows on sensationalism.

The reason why the issues presented in the documentary stood out to me has largely to do with my disdain for our two-party system. In high school I was introduced to the myriad of logical fallacies that can be used in rhetoric, and ever since I have been fascinated with how logic is not a singular noun but rather a broad and flexible concept. The either-or fallacy shows its ugly face every election cycle where we have led ourselves to believe our only two options are EITHER republican OR democrat.

Many third and independent parties have tried to break into this paradigm but they still operate within the same system: strictly defined camps along a 2-dimensional line centered around a point that we like to refer as “moderation”.

Over time I have found that once you really get to talking about political issues, most people don’t completely fit into these camps but rather assign themselves to that which comes closest. I have a theory that the cognitive dissonance that this creates is what drives people to zealously cling to their camps and behold even the ideals that they truly don’t care for, just for the sake of seeming genuine.

This has two benefits that work, like everything else in this world, in balance: praise and hate. The dual system of the either-or fallacy only allows for battles that deal in good versus evil, which are (unfortunately) subjective concepts. When a person wholeheartedly commits to one of these camps, they are praised by the community of that camp in degrees corresponding to how ostentatious their displays of membership are (insert Facebook statuses, comments, algorithms, and communities here). Their decision to join this camp also invokes hatred from those of the opposing camp, and the ensuing insults are worn like badges of martyrdom (refer to the Deplorables versus Nasties of 2016).

As I’ve stated, perceiving good versus evil is subjective, which is why campaigns that appeal to morals largely fail (i.e. “Vote your conscience”, the Pro-Choice/Life argument in general). This is also what makes the contention between generations so difficult to navigate for both parents and children, and leads to another set of dual camps: traditionalists versus reformists. The extreme traditionalists feel obligated to carry on the torch of whatever trope their parents raised them out of a sense of familial obligation. The extreme reformists completely (and often vehemently) reject that torch as they come of age and realize their parents aren’t the infallible heroes they always thought them to be.

The rest of us in the middle learn to tow the line between respect and disenchantment, but ironically we will all forget about these differences and expect our own children in return to conform to our beliefs as they grow up, because our children’s early view of us as “perfect” is infectious. Throw in a few politicians that begin to characterize their parties in order to harness the voting potential of these groups, and suddenly republicans become the hallmark of conservative, traditional society, and democrats become the beacons of liberalism and social revolution (characterizations that have evolved and oscillated throughout history, I might add).

The either-or fallacy has become so ingrained in the way we politic that it is self perpetuating. Even those who see the ridiculousness of having to choose between two all-encompassing options will eventually pick one, either out of peer pressure or hopelessness. It’s like these people are approaching a building that has one center door that opens automatically and two on the side that you have to pull. Everyone goes for the automatic door because it’s easier, but that makes the flow of traffic clogged and slow. The manual doors are free and at this point faster but people will still get in line for the automatic door, either out of laziness or social conformity (I watch this happen at my library ALL THE TIME).

We have to stop thinking in linear terms. To be frank, I don’t know how to do that. In the age of information, I read with extreme caution and distrust, which has grown to be one of the 21st century’s biggest ironies. Maybe it’s because of my disillusionment and obsession with the objectivity of logic. But maybe if we could get enough people to look at politics (and “progress,” whatever that means) in a way that mirrors the multi-dimensional quality of humanity, we could begin to achieve the full potential of constitutional democracy.

Nay-sayers will like the idea but not find it worth exploring because it doesn’t fix the short term problems. But maybe some of us should start treating the disease since so many are already grappling with the symptoms.

Pensive

*imagine your favorite, slow piano classic playing while you read this*

A few weeks ago I was driving back to school, blaring M83, and going in on a Moe’s burrito like the world was about to end. I had to remind myself, in regards to the burrito, to make it last. Then I thought to myself I can’t be the only one who has to tell themselves that. 

And so the thoughts flow pretty much whenever I’m alone:

Do trees prefer to die slowly or are they best suited to die quickly? as I watched a single leaf slowly descend an invisible staircase.

Why do I feel like a guest in my phone’s life rather than vice versa? as I contemplate the ownership of the sleek device for the first time in several months since my father’s purchase.

I walk around with my headphones in like I’m starring in a movie about my own life. A song comes on that makes me think this is what I would want played at my inauguration if I ever had one.

It makes me sad that the cat will never have children even though she has no concept of being spayed and she’s content with being pet and fed.

Are there people in the woods that fly by when I drive at night? Something I imagine as a strange cult meeting with a bird’s eye view like you would see in a Stephen King movie.

I get upset when I’m online and I come across someone my age apologizing on behalf of our generation and listing all the terrible stereotypes about millennials. I stomp around town constructing speeches like You don’t speak for me, I’m not like that and refuse to be put in a box.

Do people deserve trophies for reflecting on themselves? as I try to find an incentive for people to conduct a little more self-examination.

Does having hateful thoughts make me a hateful person? as I scan photos on my feeds, justifying my life over others.

I agonize all day long when I inconvenience a stranger by bumping into them or ask for too many favors at a restaurant. Nail-biting thoughts float around whispering I hope he wasn’t already having a bad day. I should be more cognizant next time.

Is there catharsis in self-deprecation? headlines across my brain as I write this, realizing how self-serving blogs can be sometimes. all the time.

Do other people creep on their own profiles as much as I creep on my own? as I admire the world I’ve built for myself over the years.

Maybe this is why I don’t trust loud people that have to be constantly surrounded and heard. When do they have time to think? Do they have hovels that they crawl back to at the end of the day, curmudgeoning into day dreams that mean nothing to the rest of the world? I suppose that’s their discretion.

Arrivederci,

Abigail

Memoirs of a Grilled Cheese Sandwich

A fable about crumby politics.

On my worst days, I think about my best days, when I was merely two slices of white bread waiting for a scrumptious dairy-companion.

Full of optimism, dreaming of the day I would join my brothers in the Pan, I contemplated what kind of cheese I wanted to sandwich. I would be a good pillow and blanket to that cheese, and that cheese would fulfill my deliciousness in return.

Naturally, by the time it came for me to be grilled, I had done my fair share of research, or so I thought. I wanted to hug American cheese, and I pictured a salted-butter sauna that sizzled a layer of Parmesan, because all of the best sandwiches invest in cheese-encrusted exteriors.

But as I was dropped into the pan, I saw that I had only two sides to pick from, and neither were salted-butter Parmesan, much to my dismay. One side of the pan was completely barren of any grilling lubricant whatsoever, apparently for the sake of health. The other side was covered in oleomargarine, an alternative to butter once championed long ago but by today’s standards was run of the mill.

I was horrified, forced to choose between two options that I had no part in creating. So young! So naive! So excited to take part in the Pan, just to find out that it was nothing as promised!

Of all the possible ways to grill a cheese sandwich, I was left with the worst. So in protest, despite the dishonor and judgment I received from my brothers on either side, I jumped.

But as the proverb goes, I was out of the Pan and into the fire. The pain of charring on the blue-blaze stove top was agonizing. Much of my bread turned completely black and my American cheese fried beyond consumption. But in my utter destruction and while my brothers continued to cook, I watched the human reach into the fridge and pull out cheese and bread in the raw and begin to consume it regardless. And when the human noticed my despair, he picked me out of the fire and tossed me on the plate, all the same as the rest of them. Interestingly, the human consumed all of the sandwiches, but the degree of satisfaction was not of the level as my other misguidings had told me it would be.

My body was survived by a single torched crumb, banished to peril at the belly of the stove eye, to watch, for months to come, every other naive cheese sandwich experience the disappointment of the Pan.

As I grow old and no longer attract ants, Nietzsche would be proud. The Pan belongs to only a few types of grilled cheeses, the rest of us ought to start seeing it as just the pan.

*****

“No vote, no opinion” as if the middlemen were ever allowed to have an opinion in the first place.

Facebook Fiends

*I realize that Facebook will be the platform that this piece gets most of its attention from. Go ahead and drink that tall glass of irony-you’re going to need to be hydrated for this.

Do you know how many vacations I’ve been on this year? So many vacations. Some of them have been at the very same time as the others. I’m that good.

Do you know how many socials and date nights I’ve attended this year? Quite a few, especially considering that I’m not in a sorority. Again, I’ve actually attended a few at the very same time as the others. I’m really good.

Do you know how many babies I’ve had this year? A couple. It was gestationally taxing, but I’m managing with all of the fitness programs I’m also doing this year. It’s been so rewarding to watch every single phase of my little nuggets’ lives.

Do you know how many campaign rallies I’ve supported this year? Practically all of them, and on every peg of the political spectrum. It’s getting a little confusing.

“Okay, Abigail, get to the point.”

There are several people that need to take a social media sabbatical, by which I mean go to posting-rehab. Seriously, not every photo is worth posting. Not every gripe is worth groaning. And not every step of the way in any metaphorical/metaphysical/literal sense is worth noting.

My pals are pretty bad about it. They get on Facebook to *humbly detail an instance of perseverance and self-determination and frustration, knowing good and well that a relative is hanging in the intranet shadows waiting to pounce with a comment of support. It’s gratifying for everyone involved, except for the cynics (me) who are just trying to scroll through to the next Tasty recipe.

But the thing is, I would dare to say that my generation isn’t the worst about it. That’s right, I’m dubbing the conceptually adultier adults to be the true Facebook Fiends. The ones with children. The ones with full pocketbooks (or so they would have you believe). The ones with houses. The ones with cruises. The ones with veteran voting status. The ones with suburban fever.

We don’t need updates of your road trip and you’d honestly get there faster if you weren’t searching for a signal.

We don’t need to see 14 of the same pictures of your baby doing the same thing it was doing yesterday-staring at reflective objects and pooping. You could probably take MORE photos of the stinker if you weren’t posting all of the ones you already have. And sure, I don’t know the joys of parenthood and the need to share your greatest gift with the world but I imagine if my parents could raise me without plastering my face all over the internet you can too.

We don’t need to see twenty photos of you posing in your dollar store costume with your five hundred best friends and to be totally blunt I think my eyes are starting to glaze over large groups of white girls and throw them into a brain-bin labeled ASHLEY.

Do you guys remember ECON 1010? You know how inflation works: the more there is, the lower the value. So when you pump a thousand pictures into your homepage market, they’re no longer worth a thousand words.

“Well jeez if it bothers you so much then just unfollow/unfriend/unsee my stuff.”

And my response to that is that I really do care about you guys. I’ve already cut out all of the people that I have no reason to feign interest in. I’m trying to stay up on milestones and special occasions and those chance times you get to shake hands with the governor or Chipper Jones. But I feel like I have to wear polarized sunglasses to cut through the glare of all of the minute, day-to-day stuff.

“But posting the day-to-day helps my family stay a part of my life.”

Shoot them a text. Skype or Facetime. Send an email. Send a letter (that actually sounds like fun). Give them a call. I know you have phones because you post on the go (this reminds me that I need to call my grandma, sorry grandma). You complain that when people have family time they’re just glued to their phones, but have you considered why? It’s because you have nothing to talk about. They already know all of the details of everything you’ve been up to since the last time you saw them. It’s awkward so you just take a picture of them with a ridiculous slice of cheesecake and then spend the rest of the get-together deciding on a filter and the punniest caption. Anything else would be redundant to a dialogue you’ve already had online.

I’m going to go ahead and claim my own responsibility in this downward spiral. I used to be the WORST about social media, especially Twitter, until I gave it up for Lent last year. It was eye-opening and when I returned from my step-back I saw how over the top and quite frankly terrible I had been acting. And I’ve noticed that the good stuff that I post gets way more attention than it used to because people don’t make a general effort to ignore me.

Social media isn’t supposed to be about staying relevant or posting a lot so that people are reminded that you exist. Your existence is not contingent on how many times your friends read your name and see your picture every day.

How is that glass of irony tasting? Still good? Can I get you a refill?

The Facebook Fiends are so up in arms about how young people are getting into socialism but simultaneously promote this need to share everything online.

I’m going to invoke a standard that my professors use when they hand back papers and suggest you take twenty four hours before you respond if you feel so inclined.

Sorry that this got a bit lengthy. Rant over. For now. I’ll just go back to falling for clickbait.

Arrivaderci,

Abigail

 

 

 

 

I Can See You

This isn’t an open letter; open letters are selfish, elongated sub-tweets intended to provoke a target, disguised as popular sentiments meant to make the author’s peers feel validated. This has a very specific audience that I’m calling out, point-blank.

Merry Christmas, to the homeless, whose main focus is staying warm, dry, and fed. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to my father, who brought me coffee at work on HIS birthday and always thinks of me first even though it’s the one day of the year he should have gotten to put his feet up and he had to work himself. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the people checking out at Target five minutes before it closes on Christmas Eve because they needed the 364th day to save up enough money to make the next morning special for their children. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the people who are sick, and are trying their hardest to focus on the joys of the season instead of the impending thought that it may be their last. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the child who will get everything they think they wanted on the 25th, when in actuality their parents are trying to fill some arbitrary void with materialism. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the teenage girl who is smiling and laughing at the family gathering but slips away to throw up all the cookies she ate. I hope your annoying baby cousin catches you and tells on you. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to my mom, who always makes sure that I not only have something to eat, but tries to help me in every way possible even though I now live 50 miles away. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the people that get offended at being told Merry Christmas and every other little thing, because there is a fundamental principle or two that they don’t understand and therefore have created very hard lives for themselves. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the poor souls who never learned to love music for what it is, because they will never know how to communicate with humanity. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to those who do not practice year-end reviews on themselves, and thus never recognize the parts that have room for improvement nor the places that they’re doing everything right and deserve credit. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to whomever is the up and coming artist invited to perform at New Year’s Eve in Time Square, because they won’t get to meet Dick Clark and they have to decide what kind of stereotype they want to perpetuate in their 15 second cameo. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to my grandparents, who I don’t call enough and never get to visit because I’m either working or doing homework. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the women who didn’t ask for anything out of superficial “modesty” but expected everything because he’s “just supposed to know.” I hope you BOTH figure that one out. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the good cop, and the bad cop, the former for being berated for the actions of the latter, and the latter simply because somewhere in your life someone failed you greatly. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the people who only go to church on Christmas and Easter and are having a harder time each year answering the question “Why am I even going at all?” I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the Christians who got upset by the Starbucks cups and perpetuated the idea the Christmas is no longer about Jesus. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the militant democrats and republicans that will spend their precious family time arguing about an election that is still eleven months away. I can see you.

Merry Christmas, to the college kid who thought they were done finding themselves in high school and are shocked to discover that they’re still searching. I can see you.

I can see you, and I love you.

Arrivederci,

Abigail

 

 

State of the University Address

A little report:

The bus drivers have grown grotesquely fat, so much that they no longer leave the bus. The bus itself has become a sort of exoskeleton, so if there were a wreck or a giant boot it would make a huge crunch and purple jelly would just ooze out as the innards of the glutton get cut up by the metal shrapnel. About two or three people and a guide dog can stand on the bus at a time.

Due to the setbacks that this has caused in the transportation system, students have turned to an alternative way to get around campus. Recently, the veterinary school has introduced its hybrid horse-great dane mutation which has become a blend of a 21^st and 18^th century game changer. People now ride these mid-size monsters to and fro, and accommodations have been made to stash these beasts during class.

Girls are now required to pass a “facial exam” in which contouring and toning and other makeup techniques are tested. It is weighted into the admission decision two thirds of the weight applied to your run of the mill standardized test scores. Boys are also required to pass this test because we are a society without double standards and to exclude them from this test would be discrimination by gender.

Abs have gone completely out of style. It’s all about the dad bods. Even for girls. Beer gut or bust (actually either way you’re busting something, whether it be your belt or your love life). Hipsters are the only ones who have stuck to the twig limbs and now dress so retro that they look like they stepped out of a 19^th century catalogue for high society socialites. All of the other girls continue to oscillate between ridiculously baggy t shirts and crop tops (there is absolutely no in between).

Due to all of the rape allegations that have had too few undeniable facts determining their outcomes, contracts now have to be drawn up before intercourse is initiated. It has changed the foreplay game entirely and led to a spike in attorney-role play. The phrase “Did you bring a contract?” has become synonymous with “Did you bring a condom?” and the color of the pen that the partner provides has become as pivotal to attraction as the color of a person’s eyes.

Professors now tweet their lectures because it’s the only way to reach the kids in the back who are glued to their phones. Literally everyone just congregates in the agreed upon room to get within the interface range and then the professor tweets his twenty-first century ass off. No one even bothers to take their headphones out or look up from their phones whatsoever. It’s been a great development for the curmudgeons of the world.

Weed is no longer an offense considered grounds for arrest. It’s still outlawed but cops do not care. They have bigger fish to fry. Like cocaine. And political incorrectness.

Speaking of PC, the campus police now have a distinct department that is responsible for monitoring and evaluating PC violations. There are no standards as to what is considered a PC violation. It’s entirely subjective to the enforcement officer. It’s kind of hard to have a basic conversation these days about anything important.

What was formerly known as the “Greek System” is now called the “Congregation of People with Similar Personalities and Interests System” because actual Greek people from Greece wanted their culture dissociated with that stigma.

Everyone is now required to wear an ID badge with various facts about them advertised in order to promote the use of trigger warnings. Facts such as sexual orientation, gender identification, political affiliation, race lineation, and food allergification are included on these badges in order to ward off any sort of offensive conversation (to be clear, the food allergy warning is not so much intended to prevent the wearer from consuming the allergen as it is to make sure no one mentions that forbidden food and therefore causing them distress from missing out).

Women’s Studies is now a required minor for graduation. Need I say more?

We don’t get a lot done, and we don’t seem to be having a lot of fun, but we’re still learning, and no one’s feelings get hurt, so I guess you could say we’re doing alright.

Unworthy of the Sandman

It’s a little after 6 AM here on the east coast, and I’ve been awake since 3. As the high school bus drove by, I got fed up with my three hour battle and decided to head downstairs to the computer (because the internet on my phone wasn’t sufficient enough, I suppose). Slinking down the stairs, I noticed that the sun was starting to come up, and now I’m truly irritated.

I’ve had trouble with sleep for the past few years. My nights aren’t filled with sound, solid sleep; they’re more like a series of fitful naps. I never feel sleepy per say, but I am always tired. I’m afraid of the medications that might help with this because I don’t want them to affect the other parts of my day.

It’s a bit of a lonely business. There’s a submissive melancholy that washes over me when it’s time for bed because I know the frustration and torture that is going to bed with me. I didn’t mind it so much during the school year because I had homework or a good read that I could do in the mean time. But here I am on a brief visit to my parents’ house and I left all of my things back at school because I wasn’t expecting tonight (this morning) to be worse than usual. I’m stuck in this awkward limbo between semesters and jobs, and I think the absence of pressure is allowing my thoughts to balloon and run rampant.

Imagine that you have all of the time in the world to ponder every decision you ever made. You are idle enough to dissect every person you’ve ever known. And just wait until you get started on the what-ifs. You could careen through the valleys of what-ifs beyond the end of time. You don’t just have plans A-G worked out because you’re overly proactive, they’re worked out because you had all night to get through them.

Now, doesn’t that sound like fun? And my friends wonder why my head can be such a basket-case at times.

Day has broken. On to the next little activity I suppose.

Arrivederci,

Abigail

Addressing Dress Code

Here’s Cara Delevingne showing her shoulder. Still curious about how sexy a shoulder can be?

Call me marginalized to my age group or whatever, but I see a lot of anger online from high school girls, especially the budding-feminist type who want to challenge the dress codes of their schools (not a snide comment).

There’s this whole argument on instead of teaching girls not to dress provocatively, we should teach boys to not objectify women. This is where they usually delve into the fact that we can’t wear tank tops that show our shoulders and then they beg “how sexy can a shoulder actually be” and then they throw a bunch of curse words in the mix to show how grown up they are (definitely a snide comment).

I would just like to make a point or two (or three) (or four) about this.

I’ve been to private school with uniforms, shoe standards, the whole shebang, and I hated it because dressing is how I express my individuality. Other girls have told me that they like uniforms because they eliminate the pressures of dressing to impress. I understand this point, but I can’t empathize with it because like I said, I dress for myself, and I don’t quite care what’s “in” or what will get me compliments.

Let’s switch to that extreme of the argument. My parents switched me into public school and for the majority of my life until graduation I dealt with the tee-tottering line walk of expressing myself within the constrains of my school district’s rules. It was honestly fun for me because it was challenging.

I broke that dress code several times, but I always did it modestly. My shorts weren’t always an agenda length from the bottom of my knee, but they also didn’t have a non-existent inseam. My shirt didn’t always cover my entire shoulder, but it wasn’t strapless nor was it a crop top nor was it “chesty.” And you know what the best part about this is? Our assistant principal that was deemed the “Dress-Code Nazi” (inconsiderately enough) complemented my dress-code-iffy outfits.

There were several outfits of mine that were technically code-correct but probably inappropriate for a learning environment. I wore tight, long-sleeve dresses, jeggings, dark makeup, whatever was my cup of tea that day. You don’t have to show skin to look hot, and you know that. Which brings me to my next point:

Dress codes are not necessarily centered around the “objectification of women.” Because if they were, they would have us in long, draping burqas, which I know many of you find “oppressive” (a lot of women that wear them find them liberating, actually but that’s another day, another conversation). It’s about time and place. School is about learning. There are social aspects to it of course, but if your outfit is the most important thing about your education, you might need to re-evaluate your priorities.

I now am in college, land of the free I suppose, where there is no dress code. And HERE’S A FUN FACT YOU GUYS: I have an on-campus job where respectable clothing is expected, because it is a place of business, so guess who still doesn’t wear crop tops to class? Yupp. Me.

Let’s just, for a moment, talk about the side of dress codes that IS about sexuality. So boys should learn to control their urges. Most of them do, don’t they? But here is the stance I have on the whole teaching men not to rape argument: “That’s fine and dandy and valid, but who is actually promoting rape in this world? The same people who steal and lie and cheat and destroy and hate. The same people who do the other things we’re taught not to do.” There’s evil in this world, and in the process of eradicating it, you also have to protect yourself. A soldier does not go into war with just a gun to kill, he goes with armor to protect. Your outfits are your armor against pervert-administration, or young boys who have innate motivations to turn everything into a poon-tang joke.

And then there’s this other thing on my mind. I would like to pose a crass question: Have any of you young, adolescent females, in discovering the functions of your body, had to learn how to keep a boner down in public? Me neither. So let’s tread lightly on the “control your urges” argument. I was going to marginalize this section to middle school boys, but then Serena Van der Woodsen from Gossip Girl popped in my head, and she was a 19-something female who was terrible at controlling her urges. “Oh he looked into my eyes and our hands accidently brushed, so we had sex on his desk because I couldn’t help myself.” So please tell me how that argument doesn’t come with double standards.

I think we confuse “the patriarchy” with “decency” sometimes. Just chew this over for a minute before you whine about how oppressive your school dress code is.

Arrivaderci,

Abigail

Night Driving

The sky is white and the clouds are blue. It’s dusk and the sun has already dipped down to the next continent, but the light remains for the next ten minutes. The road stretches out grey before me, a pounded and weathered reminder that nature will always reclaim the glaring black tar that we lay down. Steam rolls up in baby stacks off the pavement and fog clings to the trees, the drying remains of a day of intermittent rain. Everything is soothed with that cleanliness that follows a hot shower.

You’re barreling down an empty six-lane road that has been expanded in anticipation for the growth that the area will see in the next thirty years. Atlanta is crawling north, it’s starting to happen here, but for now, this place still belongs to you. Your long hair is neatly yet carelessly tossed into a high bun to avoid the rapture of the breeze. You’re wearing your new favorite black and white striped t-shirt, your new favorite black glasses, and you’re driving your stark white car. The black and white cuts clear lines through the grey evening, and for a few moments, the grey area in your mind.

Your car doesn’t have an aux-in port, so you’re reduced to CDs and radio. It’s frustrating at times, but it makes you appreciate a good song all the more, when it comes on by chance, intermixed with the ones you don’t care for. You’re listening to a CD that you made from one of your favorites, the Lana Del Rey, Born to Die- Paradise Edition. Her voice makes you remember a time you weren’t alive for.

A few measures in, you realize that you’re listening to “Ride” and you chuckle at the situation. Cruising down the road, you realize how perfectly the music emulates the way a nice drive feels. That happiness of looking into the infinite road, disappearing over the horizon into a million possibilities, made wise and weary by the past that you occasionally glance at through your rear-view mirror, it’s all in the song. A hum of exhaustion, her history in the first two verses, her present in the chorus, a burst of frustration in the third verse that establishes the peak of it all and you stick your arm out the window because you can’t help but tangle your fingers in the wind.

You don’t need to fly in this moment because the ground is enough, you’re already soaring but it’s different. The orchestra will lift you up on its wings soon enough and you’ll soon be so close to heaven that you lose all of your woes, just for a moment. You’re about to close your eyes and be taken along when suddenly the song’s falling action and eventual end reminds you that you are in fact driving and should probably come back to earth.

You spend the rest of the ride aimlessly pulling at the steering wheel with your right hand, twisting your favorite necklace with the left, lost in the taste of the bliss that is slowly slipping away with the rest of the evening’s light. You pull into your driveway, radio rolling softly, and turn the car off. First noticing the silence, you revel in the freedom of driving and you refuse to get out for a solid five minutes.

We love to ride. We love to drive because it’s the one obligation that should not be multi-tasked. No phones, no work, no chores. Maybe a bottle of water. Just the steering wheel, the pedals, the music, and your heart.

Drive safe, drive free, drive forever, in everything you do.

Arrivederci,

Abigail

Jiminy Cricket

Sometimes you just have to get it out. Like an illness. The cursive sits in my veins like a poison, needing eradication, needing to be spit onto the tangible page. Physically visible so I can hate it from a distance, so my mind’s eye can take a brake (oh dear you have spelled “break” wrong) and my actual two eyes can try to make sense of the mess, of the hate, the love, the anger, trust, longing, confusion, understanding, ignorance, of the web that fogs the spectacle that my mind’s eye grows headaches in spending all damn day and the better part of the night peering out of. Or does it peer into the spectacle? Tell me, is Jiminy Cricket on the outside looking in, or is he looking out from the inside? Is that moral little bug a soul of his own, or is he an appendage of your imagination, designed to make the tough decisions for you because long ago some vehement authority told you you were incapable of conducting your own life? And now you’re thinking about the parent or that teacher or sibling or whomever of merit that told you how pathetic you were when really I’m trying to get you to remember if Mr. Cricket was even there before that awful person broke your heart or if there was no nagging voice, you just did it out of virtue of doing. You can’t remember. In fact, you can’t remember most of your childhood except that it might have been a happy one.

Isn’t that all that matters? That you were happy?

That insect-man drives me nuts. He chirps all day and I can barely get a pen to paper in time to write down his words. He chirps all night and I can’t find him, hiding in a corner of the room, chirping truths and to-do lists and regrets and worries and memories and day-dreams that will never turn into night-dreams because he will never let me go to sleep. And when I do finally sleep, when I do finally put the pen to paper, make the thoughts tangible, I can trap Jiminy in that paper and squish him to silence (not quite death, he will be back), I am asleep and an otherness that the professionals call my “subconscious” takes over.

And that’s when I truly live, in my sleep, not trying to control the quiet images surfacing after a long day of being talked over by Jiminy Cricket, the moral compass of torture.

We love to go to sleep, to be unaware, hating to wake up and acknowledge the night as a love lost, a love you didn’t really know when you had it but you love it now nonetheless. And while you were floating through that other place where things just happen and no one seems to decide or ponder or triangulate, Mr. Jiminy Cricket was regaining his strength, crawling out of the paper, out of the trashcan, back into his corner, picking up his fiddle of morality, rousing you, to start the day, to start the madness that sits just behind the gleam in your eyes, all over again.

Rereading this made me tired.

Arrivederci,

Abigail