I've been storing up thoughts here and there to string together in my latest edition of Non-Sequitur Thoughts and Musings (Or whatever I've called it in the past.) Not a lot to write about lately, or possibly there is much to write about, but little desire to do the writing. Anyway, here goes:

Non-Sequitur Thoughts and Musings (Or Whatever I've called it in the Past):


Tonight, I was at Wal*Mart, and happened upon Ashlee Simpson's new CD, I Am Me. Apparently, her first CD was called Autobiography. Sources tell me that her next release will be called Self-Interested, and that she may or may not be putting out an unplugged re-release of songs called simply Ashlee Simpson, or perhaps Ashlee Simspon's Ashlee Simpson: The Best of Ashlee Simspson (Unplugged).

People are always commenting that she's obnoxious and talentless compared to her sister. I've never had much love for Jessica Simpson, but it doesn't take much to beat out a self-obsessed diva with a severe case of sibling rivalry and an identity crisis. Then again, Jessica Simpson's CD titles are apparently Irresistible, Sweet Kisses, and In This Skin, so apparently this a genetic thing, like their family need to make up unique spellings of names and words (Jessica Simpson's Christmas Album is Re-Joyce, because apparently the memo that the word "Rejoice" already is related to the word "Joy" was in the same envelope as the one about the actual contents of Chicken of the Sea.)

I just hope there aren't any more Simpsons siblings on the way.



There's this commercial that's often showed on the Turner Networks (IE, Adult Swim on the Cartoon Network, and TBS, which has somehow managed to obtain the rights of every show I love.) about the Gerber Grow Up Plan, which is Life Insurance for babies. In the commercial, the mom/spokesperson is talking in a heart-to-heart sort of way about how the Gerber Grow Up Plan will protect your baby. At least four times in this commercial (I will get the actual count) the phrase "Protect your baby" is used. So, uh, excuse me for pointing this out, but, uh...

The goddamn plan doesn't do *anything at all* unless YOUR BABY DIES. Then it gives YOU money!

Protect your baby by buying into a varitable lottery that pays off in the event of it's untimely childhood death. SIDS has never seemed so fun!

Assholes.



Last but not least, fucking Paul Newman. Fucking Paul Newman.

Paul Newman has a line of Salad Dressing's called Newman's Own, which, incidentally, is the only kind carried at McDonald's. Newman's Own is a Non-profit Salad Dressing Company, and on the back of every container (or in my case, little, difficult-to-open packet) the following line of text is proudly displayed: Since 1982, Paul Newman has given more than 175 Million to Charity. Of course, one's initial, thoughtless reaction to this is something along the lines of "What a charitable, upstanding fellow." But I got to thinking about this.

Now I'm not saying this is exactly how it happened, but if I were one of Paul's personal accountants trying to protect Paul's already sizeable assets and movie star earnings from the wicked IRS, and if I were a very bright young accoutnant, indeed, I might come up with the idea that Paul should start up some sort of organization, say, a food company that was named after him, that, after a minimal initial investment (Quickly paid back), would end up being self-sustaining (Make no mistake: Paul's not personally signing the checks or paying the bills, the money earned from the salad dressing, etc., does that, and then whatever's left goes to charity.). That way, millions of dollars that *technically* belong to Paul are going to charity every year, which creates a nice little tax shelter for Paul, who now gets to casually keep the income from those little *film* things he does, and he gets free advertising for the fact that, unlike most of his contemporaries, he's not dead yet, and he's got millions of people (and studio executives) thinking "What a charitable, upstanding fellow." And all he has to do for it is occasionally pose of a drawing of him in a funny period costume, and, let's face it, they probably got one picture of him on file years ago and he stopped coming around after that. And, who knows, he may even get tax-protected royalties on the use of his likeness, or even his name.

I'm probably going to get a bill.

Now, obviously, this arrangement benefits everyone: the charities, the accountants, the many factory workers that toil over his salt-saturated sauces, and Paul. It would be bad for public policy to be overly critical of set-ups like this, and certainly not in anyone's best interest to suggest, for instance, that he is less a hero of the people than, say, a Dirty Tax-Evading Piece of Hollywood Trash. For example. I just feel it's my duty to point out that maybe, just maybe, the next time you're looking at a tally of how much money Paul Newman has given to charity, you won't have that obligatory twinge of a middle-class guilt, nor the accompanying defensive feeling of a half-assed admiration. And for god's sake, don't feel the need to buy the awful dressing: buy whatever brand you like that doesn't taste like Little Miss Morton's Vomit and shove the (probably sizeable) price difference into the Jimmy Fund jar in the check out lane, or, better yet, the cup of the blind guy pan-handling outside. That 50-75 cents just tripled or quadrupled the amount of your Newman's Own purchase that would eventually have gotten to charity, after the bulk of the money got deposited safely into the accountant's 401k. Tax free.




On with it.

I was taking a survey stolen off of Emily's Livejournal (friends only, so I won't link) when I ran into the following question, and it stopped me:

(what is) Your most missed memory?

Oh man. No way I can fit that into a tiny little answer field.


My most missed memory? If I take even a second to reflect on what the number one might possibly be, I am pelted with them, in no particular order.


Jill's house after school. Band with Mr. Judd. Mr. Ladd's little corner office at the high school. Joe Boss sitting behind me. Bus trips to isleborro and truth or dare.


(I pause before this all becomes about that particular set of people-- early high school, bandy people. I re-open my eyes, and close them again.)


Falling in love with Jeff-- How I'd never felt about anyone the way I felt about him, genuinely, unstoppably wanting to be with him. EL proms: Chad and I dancing and him telling me that there wasn't anyone in the world he enjoyed spending time with than me. Casey and I in line for photos (it took forever) and I turned towards him and he wrapped his arms around my waist and there was no reason for any onlooker to know that that one night was our only one night in that context, that it would be the only night of our lives we ever allowed ourselves to pretend we could care that way about each other, and the way it felt that he still felt the same way about me that I'll spend the rest of my life feeling about him, except I have to pretend it isn't true, because I've made my choices, and I've grown up, and I'm a big girl now and I know what's realistic.

(Close. Open.)

Zack.

The hours preceding our first kiss, the way it felt to lie next to him, the exact position we were in (it's a missed memory because it's a gone memory, all except the memory of knowing the next day how perfect that one moment felt.) How we were before the vaginismus-- before the drama. If we'd stayed that way forever, I would have escaped myself and the way I cling to anyone even vaguely worth clinging to. (an earlier question in the survey was your weakness? To which I replied "falling in love with people." I do it too much, and undo very rarely, though I've recently learned, finally, that I do, in fact, do it.)

The first time he made me cry out of joy. The day I text messaged Jenn that I thought I might want to marry him. The night I (He?) proposed. The night I confessed to him every transgression I'd been storing up to confess...and found out he still loved me, really loved me, and, oh, god, how much he must love me.


(Close. Open.)

Mr. Leighton in the library. Various lunch tables. Drama! Crying in front of Max in the school library.

Duchess.

Tying Brent's hair in knots. My family, when it was the basic four. Campground convenience stores and the way they always smelled, the things they always carried. Playing badmitton with my sister in one of the Carolina's. Kissing a seal.

California. The first words Rachel said to me, whispering seductively into my ear: Wanna be Reiki'd? Midnight talks with Sherry in the hotel room. L.A. with Heather, and the weird devil-costumed street performer who gave us "dream stones". That guy on the plane who recognized Zack's Beal's Lobster Pier shirt, so we had pizza together during the short Chicago layover (because we were both scared out of our minds to be away from home for the first time.) Roxane, happily wearing the red prayer blanket I bought her like a cape-- the smile on her face.


Standing in the Balisque de Notre Dame in Montreal. Laying in the grass with Greg in Vermont.


Playing the Bee Puppet game with Jeremey. Bringing Mrs. Deraspe a Birthday card every year. Driving to Land's End with Emily. Her mix tapes.

Sex and whatever facilitates sex.

All the music that was special to Jenn and I-- singing out loud to the Newsies or Robbie Williams in her car and feeling like her and I really belonged together. Being associated as part of a pair with her-- Jenn and Linda. Linda and Jenn.



The sad part is that I know there's more I'm missing, and it's bound to be that this was my last chance to remember some of it.

This is why I write.


On with it.

All too often, I regress to portraying mine and Zack's life together as being melodramatic; hurried and half-chance. I guess that's because, all too often, it feels that way, but it doesn't tonight. Emily and I had a long conversation tonight about money and relationships, people and home, and afterwards I should have gone to bed, but I wasn't tired, so I decided to organize and clean up a little, partly because it needed to be done, and partly because doing something like that makes me feel less guilty than staying up arguing with some jerk of a poli-sci major, or some other fruitless, destructive activity.

I decided to find a few folders and a box to act as a makeshift filing cabinet, something we've been needing badly around here, and as I started sorting through our life, in crumpled paper form, I started to get a sense of the bigger picture of us. How simple and pleasant our life might appear to a distant onlooker. How wholesome and all-American we just might be.

We got married young, and now work full-time to put ourselves through college. It's a daunting task that we surmount gracelessly, but at the end of the day we get it all done. More times than not.

There's a jar on the counter that I've decoupaged with pictures from a travel magazine, and we put all our spare change in it, and even bills, when we can part with them. I got the idea the first month after we moved in, when I was feeling particularly depressed about the less-than-glamorous route my life was taking: I was afraid I'd never do all the things I wanted to, see all the places I wanted to see, and after a little outburst, I calmed down and we went out and bought the jar and the magazine. We have strict rules about not taking any money out of it, and we only cheat some of the time. It's not full yet, but it's so heavy now that it's hard to lift, and every time a put change in it, I feel a little bit better.

Our living room rug is the battle field for a never-ending odor war with our dog, whom we haven't trained as well as we should (or at all), but who I'm confident is happier with us, and does not remember anymore being abandoned in the past.

The laundry rarely gets folded or put away, but does get cleaned a little more often than it use to. We stack our dirty dishes precariously on the edge of the sink, and there are cans scattered throughout the house; we put on Zack's Marcy Playground CD when we clean.

Our creditors have the high ground in our constant battle with money, but I still believe that one day, we will pay off our debt.

We get stressed out more often than I'd like, and it feels, all too often, like we are about to fall from the delicate balance that we so narrowly have over it all. But whenever I stop to look around, we haven't fallen yet.

Our song is "Moon River." I don't remember how it first became our song, but I remember dancing to it on our wedding day. I'm listening to it now.


One day, Zack and I will be organized, and more financially secure, and our problems with making love will work themselves out-- rather, we will have fought them out, together, with love, and unity, and patience that carried on in one of us, usually him, when it ran out in the other, usually me. In just under two weeks, it will be our two-year anniversary. By now, we've probably outlived any bets in the pool. If you all pay up, we can probably afford a nice hotel.

Or at least bring me some change for my jar, next time you come around.

On with it.

(P.S. I haven't quite figured out how to use the blog picture service, so until I do, just assume the below pictures are all part of this post.)

We took Max a long for a hike up Bradbury Mountain in Pownal this summer. It was a nice day. This was taken at the summit. 

This was the only picture where Zack and I both had a good expression on our face. It's a little fuzzy, but still nice. 

Happy Max. 

Max loves Zack. 

He walks out the door and starts off to work, upset. He is, and I am, and it's everything. All the little frustrations that build up, lately, mostly scheduling and time, but not without the influence of money and sex. Some little complication earlier had let us to be cast aside from each other, laying on the bed, stewing in the terrible irreconcilability of our problems, until my mind had sped in frustrated circles too long, and I got up and walked from the room, saying "I can't do this anymore" and not looking back.

I think, maybe, the trick of marriage lies not in the solving of the problems, but the willingness to overcome by sheer gumption, and attitude, and changed pespective. And a myriad of other things that I do not have.

It doesn't help much when we formulate a feeble plan, largely because we know that the formulation of it was just a distraction in the first place. Something so that we feel more resolved. There is a break in the tension, and then something sets it all off again, and by the time he has to go, we've both grown up to the extent that we must face once more that ever-present principle of "you can't always get what you want." But not much further than that.


In terms of what I want out of myself, what I'd like to get along the way, I think, from my mother, dependability and, from my father, his sense of responsibility-- or one that's vaguely like it, but not as unfaultering. The older I get, the more I realize that it was his feelings of duty and obligation to his family that probably did the most damage to his life, taking him away from the dream of music as a full-time career. Then again, maybe it did him good. Who knows where he'd be as a musician right now? And perhaps I have inherited some what he has in that department. I am, after all, working my way towards securing a career that I can count on, while writing waits patiently on the back burner. My father has acted as an excellent role model when it comes to embracing one's passions without being starved by them-- all these years, he would work his obligatory forty hours, and come home to his guitar with whatever energy he had left. Now, though, he is paying for failing to really impart those kinds of lessons on both of his daughters, and because of this he has continued to support both of us, to some degree, into our adulthood. This is unfortunate, because what he wants, now, is to spend the rest of his years doing what he loves, however many he has left. As far as I'm concerned, it's his time.

That's why I built him the site, and that is why I'm working towards what I am. If I take my turn to be a starving artist right now, he'll never get his. I hope my sister eventually catches on to this same theme; the rumor is that she is, now that she as well has enrolled at Andover. All I can say is that she better be, because I won't have the patience for another mistake. My parents still grudgingly have the market on that.


On with it.

Driving home from school this afternoon, I stop at my parent's house because my dad needs some help maintaining the website I built him for his birthday, IDoTunes.com. Driving up to my house, I see him in full-on early fall ritual, playing music on our front porch like it's his own personal Carnegie Hall. South Street's own Stephen H. He does it all throughout the summer but moreso, I think, when his oppurtunities are about to run out. Occasionally, a few passerby's will gather on the front lawn to watch him, or the creepy kid from up the street will come to play harmonica in accompaniment.

As I walk from the car to the house I'm overcome by the exhaustion of working late nights and schooling early mornings, so instead of walking up the steps I crawl, and stop halfway, settling their in the sun laying across three steps. My father is singing Lionel Richie's Hello, except I don't know the name of it, and it is warm outside and the leaves are just starting to tint, and I'm not sure whether the performer has even noticed his audience, but I lay there and listen, and in the moment I am writing this in my head, which is a feeling of tremendous relief.

I've had writer's block for the past month and a half, and it has been an empty feeling.

I might be able to write more than this now, but I don't want to chance that I will get frustrated and abandon the whole thing, aside from which there are things to do. Somewhere amongst the clutter, there is a card I received in the mail. On the front, it is decorated with a collage of all things perfectly autumn, with the exception of my father on the porch. Inside, there is a statement from my credit card company saying that they want me to enjoy my fall without the stress of adding further damage to my credit report. As far as I'm concerned, I haven't done as badly at they're making it out, a few late payments, maybe one or two missed. Still, they've kicked my interest rates into the freaking-impossible-to-ever-pay back numbers, so it's time I overcame my pride and called, to see what they can work out for me. Because this is adulthood, this is responsibility; this is what people in the fall of their lives do.

Just figures that when I finally sit down to get it out of they, I can't find the damn thing. I guess, like today, there's some summer in me yet.

On with it.

Okay, that motherfucking commenting thing is a little more difficutl than I, at first, suspected. In the meantime, I wanted to post a little something to distract you: for those of you who haven't read the first draft, I wrote a short story with the working title "Doublewides" quite a few months ago, and now that I've had some time to let it air, I'm thinking I'll go back and work with it, give it some more depth, maybe turn it into a novella (because I haven't acted really pretentious in a while.) Anyways, I was looking it over and I realized that if I edit it that much, the following excerpt will probably change, and I think that would be too bad, because it's a kick-ass excerpt. So read.

---

They were both quiet for a few minutes before he spoke again. "Trish?"

"Yeah?"

"We need to talk about last night."

"Yeah." She nodded. "What about, exactly?"

"Well, you know. Shit went down."

"I know." And it was silent again.

"I think we're both worried about me going back to college." He was hoping for her to interject
at this point, but she did not. "Like, what it's going to do to our friendship."

"Eh." She shrugged.

"And...we....uhm...."

"We kissed, Tracy."

"Good. I wasn't sure you'd remember."

"I was really gunning to forget. Guess I'll need a little more Vodka next time."

"Please, no." He examined the water-stained institution-style plaster of her ceiling. "But I think why it happened was...you know."

"We were trying to fit a round peg in a square hole."

"Yeah, exac--huh?" He turned his head towards her.

"Trying to...make sense of what we are. What we're supposed to mean to each other."

"Right." He agreed. "I mean, to an onlooker-"

"It'd seem like we were supposed to be like that." She said. "Romantic."

"Exactly. Because--"

"Because that's what soceity is trying to make all the good stories into. Love-fuckin'-stories."

"Romantic Comedies." He added.

" Best Sellers. Because no one understands a deep connection if it doesn't fit into a stereotype. "

" Because a hero is not a hero unless he's getting some."

"Yeah." She said, and it fell silent for a moment.

"But...that's not us, is it?" He asked.

"I fucking hope not. You're a bad kisser."

"And you're a slutty drunk."

"I'll drink to that." She turned her head to look at him, now.

"So...that's out of the way. But what about...the other stuff? When I go back to college. What's going to happen to us?"

"God, Tracy, let's not have this discussion. I mean, Christ, the last thing I need is another cling-on."

"What do you mean?"

"All these people, from my past. From the different waves of friendship-- a new leading man or woman for every stage of my life. Some last a month, some last a year, but they all come and go, except none of them ever really go. It's just that the relationship fades out, becomes dimmer and worthless, and sometimes I cling to them, but mostly they cling to me. In hopes of, god, I don't know what. In hopes that if they say 'I love you, I miss you, things have changed' often enough, than things will magically be the same. As if you can ever really go home again. You can't."

"So what happens?"

"They cling on. And we talk online every now in then in short conversations, and they complain I never have time for them anymore." She sighed, heavily, and looked back up at the ceiling. "Then I have to explain to them that I have long days at work, and things to I have to do at home, and when all is said and done after devoted 90% of my life to things that have to be done, then I have to divide what's left between all the different people I'm struggling to keep in touch with. Except..."

"Except what?"

She sighed again. "Except what I don't tell them is that all of the people I'm really trying to keep in touch with are just different versions of myself." She was talking slower now. "One by one, I lost them-- the ones with ideals, the ones with strengths, the ones with ambitions. Ants go marching."

He mock-shuddered. "Dave-fucking-Matthews."

"Oh, god, I did, didn't I?"

"You did."

"Shit. There goes the version of myself that didn't make references to songs by overrated pop singers." She looked at him again. "So I think we've officially reached the worse version of myself."

"She ain't so bad."

"Not to you, maybe."

"So get the old versions back."

"Can't be done, I've tried. I've tried more than you know, Tracy."

"Are you telling me you really don't believe that people can change?" He asked, hopefully.

"No, are you kidding me? I believe one hundred percent that people can change." She smiled, casually. "Just not for the better."

He let that sink in a moment, and tried to get things straight in his mind, tried to compute what it meant if she really thought she was just a shell of herself, but in the rush of it all, it came out as hollow words jumping around his head. He knew there was some inevitable conclusion to be had, but he just couldn't put his finger on what.

"So what about all the people who still care about you? And what about us, Trish?"

"I'm glad you asked, because I have a theory I've been waiting to unleash on this one." She flipped on her side, and propped her head up with her arm as he waited in careful attention. "In all non..family oriented...what's the word? Of or relating to family?"

"Familial."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

She shrugged. "Okay, then. In all non-familial relationships, there is a basic formula: Stage one, discovering your similarities. Stage two, getting over your differences."

He nodded, in schooled agreement. "What's stage three?"

"Heh," She chuckled, flipping onto her back again. "If I ever get that far, babe, you'll be the first to know."

----

Incidently, the story was originally not supposed to have a romantic element to it at all, but it evolved (not unlike the story of my life, in that regard). I had e-mailed the beginning of the story to a certain ex-librarian of mine, who automatically interpreted the relationship between the two main characters, Trish and Tracy (Tracy's the guy), as being romantic, or pre-romantic anyway. At first I was offended by the notion, that a male and female character automatically had to be involved in that way. The more I got to thinking about it, though, the more I realized that it was unrealistic not to at least approach the subject: the average reader would always be wondering, and hell, it's not like any character based on me wouldn't be. So, I took the oppurtunity to clear the air and add a little of my own commentary to the situation. Trish, unlike her non-fictional counterpart, has the benefit of not falling in love with every guy who shows her the least bit of attention (the wording there was a clear sop to anyone who reads this who knows the reference, I know there are at least two out there.)

I love writing dialogue like that because it gives you a chance to give a voice to your theories, or theories, in some cases, that you don't even really believe, but you just want to give them representation. You can experience with different ideas through characters, have arguments that help the real life you decide who you are-- are you a cynic? An optimist? A romantic? Why go through years of personal evolution when you could take all of these outlooks for a test-drive? Micheal Crichton, for instance, wrote Jurassic Park as a showcase for discussion of the Chaos Theory via Ian Malcolm, who many speculate was a character largely based on Crichton himself.

Tracy's real-life counterpart doesn't believe so much in writing for the sake of theories and dialogue; he relies more heavily on action and plot. At least, he did a while ago. But things change.

On with it.