So the 1975 released an album. That was big.

 

Oh and I’m in Denver. That’s also big. Both things made me cry, though Matty Healy moves me more than mountains. Even the really beautiful ones.

 

I discovered something pretty amazing on the way to Denver though–Im not afraid of airplanes anymore, which is not only super cool, but also SO MUCH more convenient.

 

For the entirety of my childhood and adolescence I could not get on an airplane without a combination of physical force and Benadryl. Little Al could imagine nothing worse than putting my life in the hands of two strangers and a tube of air.

 

A tube. Of air.

 

And you’re so high up. I still don’t understand how they work. But! I no longer need drugs so I guess that saves me like seven bucks.

 

Oh, and John Kerry was on my flight. Democrat–former Secretary of State–definitely a silver fox. My mom recognized the back of his head as he bopped on by the rest of us peasants waiting to board. He just breezed on by. Meanwhile, I felt myself lose the few good years left in my spine while I shifted my backpack from one numb shoulder to the other.

 

Rich people never have back problems, man.

 

When we FINALLY boarded, and I had given up on being able to hold my future grandkids, we saw Mr. Kerry sitting prettily in first class, a cup of coffee already in his hand. I hiss-whispered to my mom that I was going to shake this man’s hand. And that she could follow suit–if she dared. I didn’t have a reason other than I was bored and he was there, but God damn it I was going to do it. My sweet, misguided mother grabbed both of my arms and forbade me, a 21 year old, adult, woman, from speaking to him. And so I eyed him from the isle, cursing my mother’s ability to feel secondhand embarrassment.

 

I watched John Kerry take a neat bite of a chocolate biscuit, and thought maybe I should say something anyway. Something like, “I loved you on the bachelor.” But. I did not. Pitty, really.

 

I wonder what he was doing in Denver. I wonder if he’s listened to A Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships. Is he married? I’m single, John Kerry. Yes, I’m sexually confused, but I’d let you buy me a coffee and chocolate biscuit, Mr Kerry, any day.

 

Also, guys. My Mom went to a weed dispensary. Without me.

 

She knows nothing about drugs, and asked the saleswoman, in a voice that I can only imagine dripping with innocence and sincerity, “Which one of these do you smoke, and which do you eat?”

 

Best wishes from a higher elevation,

Allison

 

 

I feel emotions hard. Usually, new things make me crazy. I always seem to bend and shift and make myself different to accommodate exciting newness. But, dear reader, have you ever felt that something was completely right?

I have.

And let me tell you. It’s an incredible feeling. There’s no need to alter yourself to a new reality–this thing just fits in perfectly. A path opens up, a person shows up, new information is introduced into your life. But it doesn’t Change you–it’s just there alongside you.

I wrote a poem about this feeling because it felt important. It goes like this.

We Sleep As Cats Do

Things that make sense do so quietly.
There’s no fuss to what is right
To what has always been
Behind one veil or another

It simply settles in the chest
And we go on

–Taking it with us

Past the window, now bare–and we–
The ones who cast the drapes aside
Sleep as cats at the foot of it

At the foot of the glorious sun

 

You haven’t read the Bible, dear reader. I think knowing my demographic, I can pretty safely say that. If by chance you have read it in its completion, I give you permission to stop reading my nonesense. In fact, I urge you to stop reading my nonsense; it must be boring you.

Anyway, to the rest of you, there’s a biblical character that I’ve become quite interested in lately. His names Samson.

The story goes, this man, Samson, was given Devine strength to aid him in fighting his enemies.

With his bare hands, Samson completely destroyed a lion and massacred an entire army of Philistines using only the jawbone of a donkey. Really awful demonstrations of hypermasculinity, but hey.

Now, what’s the catch? See, Samson’s hair was really long. So long and so beautiful that God must have taken notice, because if by chance his hair gt cut, he would lose every bit of his strength. Punk rock, right? God knew.

Samson was a questionable guy–good in a lot of ways–but he had a lot of enemies. The man killed A lot of people.

He took refuge with a harlot named Delilah to kind of ride out the storm he’d created by murdering literally everyone.

The funny thing about their relationship was that Delilah never stopped trying to strip Samson of his strength. Turns out she was bribed by his enemies to find the source of his power, and to ultimately take it away. But still, Samson stayed.

Every night she asked him how to take his power from him, and every night he would lie to her. But eventually, he found he couldn’t lie anymore. He loved her, you see. So he told her the truth.

That night, as Samson slept in her lap, Delilah ordered a servent to cut his hair.

Samson woke up nearly bald and with every human weakness.

He was quickly captured and made to work as a slave for his enemies, until eventually he grew too weak to continue. He asked his captors to let him lean against a supporting pillar to rest, and prayed to Punk Rock God for strength.

And wouldn’t you know it, God gave it to him–Samson had his strength just long enough to break the pillars around him. This caused the temple to collapse, killing Samson and all his enemies.

So there’s where his story ends. I’ve left a lot out, but I kept the best bits.

The thing that gets me heated though, is that The Bible never gets back to Delilah. Her past, her future; her fate is never known.

But then I realized something, and it all became very clear to me.

So I’d like to clear it all up, if I might. With a haiku.

 

Delilah’s fate is

Never known because she is

Just a horrid bitch.

 

Thanks for reading.

I have been alive for twenty one years, and in that time I have been hurt.

I have given my body to people who don’t care for it, I have given my body far too little to exist on. I have given myself without hope of reciprocation.

I have been hurt. But haven’t we all?

I have hurt others too–I have. I lie a lot, I’m selfish, fearful, demanding. I often can’t feel the weight of my actions; I get prickly when I feel I am in danger; I lash out. I’m human, whatever. I hurt people.

I have been loved too. Genuinely loved. Which is nice to remember. People have cared about me, Allison, enough to tell me how much. It’s a wonderful feeling; like a dream.

It’s hard for me to trust that someone could love me, as I can’t see past my too-long toes. In myself, I see only the result of really terrible decisions–starving, lying, hopelessly needing.

They see me differently, the people who’ve loved me. Surely they must. Or they see the freakish toes and think, “This girl must never fall over. I guess I’ll stick around.”

I hope to live into that someday, to live into the something else they must see in me.

They promise to take me places, these people who care. Which is wonderful, as living in plans is something I do compulsively. I sit still and dream about what-ifs all day. I never really Go anywhere. But dreaming is nice, no?

I want, more than anything, to stand atop the Grand Canyon and cry. I want to see the great empty space and I want to feel small in front of something massive. I want to look at the earth and be completely astonished by something fucking real. Real, real, real beauty that I can See with both my eyes and trust to be material.

I tell this dream to nearly everyone I meet, in the hopes that someone will want that too.

I started dreaming at 19.

Her name was Jackie. I had just entered treatment for Anorexia, and so had she. She was 21 and we were fast friends–almost too fast. Within a week we knew everything about each other, apart from when exactly we were going to recover.

Late one night, we decided to make bucket lists. At the top of mine, for reasons I cannot seem to remember, was “Go to Mexico”. Something about Mexico called to me that night, and though I don’t completely understand it, I respect it. I was in a weird place.

Anyway. Number two was “Get a Tattoo.”

I was stuck on number three. I turned to Jackie and expressed my concern; I couldn’t see far enough past treatment to make crazy, extravagant plans for my life.

“Well” she said “What do you love?”

And so I told her a story.

There’s a famous environmental activist named Katie Lee who, as a young woman, explored a place named Glen Canyon.

Her and two friends, both men–one a photographer, the other a geographer–spent weeks here, living in awe of the land. Katie describes it as the most alive she has ever felt. Surrounded by beauty, with only her body and a camera, she found something worth living for, worth loving.

I’ve watched recent interviews where she attempts to describe the beauty of this place, and she always end them in tears. She speaks of a beauty so complete that it left her dazed; beauty that couldn’t touch Eden. She is was in love, absolutely, with this place. With this time in her life.

That’s love I want.

Glen Canyon was flooded after the construction of the Glen Canyon dam in 1966, and Katie lost her Canyon under twenty feet of the Colorado river. She has never stopped fighting for its return.

When I finished, Jackie said, “What about the Grand Canyon?”

Well, what about the Grand Canyon?

Since then it has become my dream to see this beautiful thing.

She promised to take me there, one day.

Jackie and I hardly speak now. And though I know she meant it at the time, I know we will never go to this place together.

I have loved I have loved I have loved since then. Lots of people. Only a few enough to ask about my dreams.

So many people have told me they’d take me there–that they’d go with me on my dream and stand at the top of the Canyon and hold me while I cry into this big hole.

And one day, someone will.

I will go West. I will find my Canyon. I will stand at the top and cry and love and my body will be full.

I will Never let it go. I love too much, too often, with far too much of myself to stop.

Dear reader, promise to take me there, even if all we ever do is talk about it.

I promise it’ll be worth it.

Dear reader, I haven’t much to write about apart from the stale fact that I’m sad.

I cannot bring myself to unpack bags.
I cannot be alone with myself long enough.
I just walk.

I have been taking long walks around the town where I grew up; up and down the streets that took me to school, around corners where my friends lived, past fields where I used to tie pieces of grass together. I just walk.

Nothing changes here. I’ve passed the same house, with the same bright, blonde children playing in the yard, for years. Laura and Jordan–they call each other’s names.

This morning I went to the same beach, sat on the same bench, and thought about the same dream. Here, I talked to a friend about expectations.

What Should I Do?

I think you should go West.

To the Grand Canyon?

To the Grand Canyon.

What if it isn’t what I imagine?

To this she said:

I think it’s probably the one thing that is.

 

My heart beats differently than yours, dear reader. This is not a metaphor–not a pretentious statement of uniqueness–my heart is weird. I have a condition called WPW; Wolff-Parkinson White. It’s an irregularity in the electrical functioning of the heart.

Instead of the standard path that impulses take through the heart, mine does a kind of loop-de-loop. I have an extra little fiber in there that steals the current, and redirects it momentarily. This puts me at risk for episodes of tachycardia–extremely high heart rate–that could cause the currents running through my heart to cross.

This could stop my heart.

Though I have never experienced an episode of tachycardia, and crossing currents are extremely rare, theoretically this could happen at any time. Because of this, a cardiologist recommended that I have my extra fiber extracted. Remove all risk, he said. In order to remove the fiber, they would put me under, stick a tube in my chest, and zap it.

I am a healthy young person, and I need heart surgery because I was born wonky. Of all the things I’ve done to my body, none of them have messed me up as much as something completely out of my control has the potential to. This news incredible to me.

But the more I thought about this, the more I realized that this is a painfully obvious truth.

We are vulnerable to everything outside our tiny sphere of influence. This is why we cling to control so desperately; this is why we drink; this is why we starve; this is why we numb.

If we allow ourselves to feel it, however, vulnerability is both terrifying and incredibly rock and roll. Like that bus wants to hit me? Nothing I can do. My heart wants to stop? Literally helpless.

I was BORN vulnerable, and so I often choose to live into this–not always in the wisest ways, but usually in important ones.

I’m not scared anymore, I’m more indifferent than anything. Numbness often wins. But when I live into it, when I acknowledge the danger–the fear, it’s good. It can be so good. I just want to be here, with the terror and the rock and roll and the feelings, as often as possible. I don’t want to live in the numbness that allows the world to keep on–that allows people to go on without feeling.

Hardly anyone looks inside; hardly anyone sees our vulnerability to pain and death as this beautiful thing. Once you do though, oh man.

I’ve written a poem about this feeling. It goes like this.

 

Maybe I’ll stay here
Where the days run
Together like so much
Water
Where floating feels
Like salvation
From the rest of it.

The rest of it–
Bound by land
Where once I stood
Toes curled under
Breath shallow
Waiting for some
Molecular difference
To make sense of me

But now it runs–
All of it. Gloriously.
Through my fingers.

God, how I love
To forget myself here–
Where Water bends
To make space
For my body

Where I have been carried
Just a little further past
My feet.

 

After graduation, my sister wanted two things: to be in New York, and to do some math. It was a list that required a bit of acrobatics, as she preferred Manhattan, and Manhattan preferred 30 year old men with experience.

 

After a few agonizing months of rejection, my sister landed an accounting job in Brooklyn.
She found two women from her college who were also looking to move to New York, and, wouldn’t ya know it, also preferred Manhattan. (Did I mention she went to a private school?)

 

They eventually found a three-bedroom within their price range, in a location they all deemed suitable. The catch? Instead of a living area, they have a bar counter and a stool.

And oh yeah, my sister’s bedroom has no window.

 

I thought there was something hilariously appropriate about this, so I wrote a poem.

It goes like this:

 

Space to Move

This is space in The City.
A kitchen for brushing teeth
A place to sit
A drawer for socks
How lucky I am
Even without a window
In the bedroom.
I sleep with my eyes shut
Anyway.
 

This one was for you Mol. I love you.

 

Here I am, friends. On the floor again. Freshly rolled from fetal position to a cannon ball, just for you. Like a nice sushi–which, as we all know, is the emo king of takeout.

I arrived here after quite a trying day, friends. Quite a trying day indeed. The carpet smells alright, better than I’d expect an old, shag rug in an old, shag house to smell. So, already looking up I’d say.

I’ve cried a lot today.  

It feels awfully good to cry. If you’ve never known the mind numbing death of ambivalence, you may not agree. To you, crying may feel messy–unattractive. But to the rest of us, crying is a God damn blessing.

I dedicate this next tear to you, my dissociated friends. You, who want nothing more than the ability to feel enough at once to get the fucking pain out of your bodies. I feel you, buddies. I really do.

When I’m here, on the floor, it always helps to laugh. So for you, my lovely, gorgeous reader (ooo getting frisky in my fragile state) I will unearth some of my finest, comedic content.

For a long time I used my twitter drafts as a diary. Everything that was worth thinking about, I condensed to a lil tweet, and filed away in the relative depths of the internet. At first they were disgustingly emotional; this boy, this girl, etc. Then, about a year ago, when I stopped feeling emotions, they got funny.

One good thing about ambivalence is that you come up with really creative ways to make light of situations that should be emotionally debilitating.

So. Without further whatever, here’s last year’s twitter drafts. And yes, they are all real. Promise.

So happy that I wake up everyday next to a large jug of vitamin-packed grape juice and not a person.

It was then, when she sent him a gif of a minion in a thong walking in slow motion, that she knew she was in trouble.

*Cries into wanton soup*

Just to put your mind at ease, yes, I would date a fan.

When you’re so bored at work that you rewrite “dancing on my own” from the perspective of a bee. Relatable content.

I pretend a lot of things. I pretend my wisdom teeth aren’t growing in; I pretend someone named “Galleria” isn’t texting me rn.

It’s a sad day when you’re listening to discover and you hear an indie girl mumbling to acoustic guitar and you’re like “same.”

I’m going for Mia Thermopolis pre makeover.

I once yelled at my friend for making noise with a can of monster and sometimes this keeps me up at night.

Boring, boring, boring, fake, love of my life, boring, boring, boring.

Really beautiful hands though, really nice eyes, great hair.

Thought I’d let everyone know that my worst fear was realized last night. It’s okay though, the waitress apologized for giving me a kid’s menu.

I feel so guilty when I speak English in Montreal that when someone speaks to me I go with whatever French I can think of. Today I responded with “La Vie en Rose” and a little shoulder shimmy.

The caffeine shakes turned my stats homework into abstract art and honestly, proud.

Whoops used to much data. Time for the monthly brawl.

“You should probably cut your hair before people start mistaking you for a Duggar.”

“What’s wrong?”           *sniffs* “Ukuleles are sexy, right?”

The word “cuddle” makes me want to drag my face across gravel.

I broke my mug. I loved that mug.

Mood: the host of Chopped who never gets to taste any of the food.

No one makes me feel like a sexually available man like Ginuwine.

“Had a party” is easier to explain than “got drunk alone and cried over women’s Olympic gymnastic trials” right?

I was your orientation leader, child. Do not comment on the roundness of my backside.

Raisins should re-brand as “dried grapes”. Ppl fricken love grapes.

Watching gymnastics and a girl just bashed her head off the beam. The announcers said nothing. I just don’t know.

Never thought a 2009 Kelly Clarkson album track would be so relatable, but here we are. Here we are.

In an unexpected turn of events, the creative writing major couldn’t find the La Croix.

That’s all for now kiddos. I love you.

I talk too much when I get my blood drawn. It’s a problem born mostly of nerves, as redirecting my thoughts from the emptying of my veins to the phlebotomist’s children is an effective way to reduce anxiety.

I’ve learned a lot about strangers this way–it’s really been quite a pleasure. I now know that an older, balding nurse makes horror films in his free time, and that he really loves his girlfriend. Great to know, really.

In exchange for their life stories, I give them mine. I tell them I’m a writer–that I want to be a writer. They often wish me luck, only slightly doubtfully, and I always thank them for this, only slightly callously.

In thinking back to these conversations, it struck me that these people are taking my blood–an actual piece of my body–and in exchange we learn about each other. Something about this was really beautiful to me.

This sounds like crazy nonsense, but stay with me here. Too often we, myself included, give ourselves without realizing that the other person doesn’t know us at all.

When I give myself, my body, to someone else, I want them to know me–I want them to want to know me.

I love a lot. I try my very best to make the people around me feel what I don’t–worthy, strong, able. However, too often, the people I love don’t know, or even care to know, all of my weird, phlebotomist-chatting quirks.

They get attached to the love and praise I offer them, not to the girl who loves line dancing; the girl who sings to herself in crowded rooms to feel less lonely; the girl who loves to write about space because it scares her.

I decided to write a poem about this feeling.

Here it is. It’s called “Night Stand.”

 

 

Night Stand

 

She folds tablecloths

On dinner dates

Makes galaxies

Of water glass rings

Speaks in broken

Spanish Piroettes

Line dances

Because it feels good

To hold a stranger.

 

She talks too much

To Phlebotomists,

Dear boy

Because when she gives

Her body

To someone else

She wants them to know her.

 

But how often they forget

How often they look down

How often she wishes

To rise from her chest

like glory

And mix with the air

So that they all may have

Just a fraction of her.

 

But, dear boy

Even if Saturn’s rings

Dry on the edge

Of her night stand

She’ll still be there

In the morning.

Invisible.

Beautifully Average-

Floating somewhere

Between teacup stars.

 

Nothing gets me like someone telling me what I’d like. Sounds bad, but hear me out.

I have always been deeply intimidated by my mother’s brother. He is an extremely intelligent, painfully successful engineer, who now works as a professor at the Rhoad Island School of Design. His name is Brett.

Brett has what I would call a photographic memory, but what he likes to call a thorough way of storing information. He often comes to dinner with a problem on his mind, drops his fork mid bite, and run upstairs to his office. Solutions just come to him after his second bite of spaghetti. It’s amazing. In the midst of dinner conversation and battles over broccoli, his brain does backflips. The man breathes in calculous.

In addition to untapped Jeopardy potential, he is incredibly trendy. Brett, his wife Liz, and their three young kids, live in a renovated mansion in an incredibly old and crumbling part of Providence, Rhode Island. A historical society had a party at their house because they thought it was so cool–no lie.

Brett is a minimalist; he has exactly two shirts, two pairs of pants, and zero embarrassing reality TV addictions. The one exception to this lifestyle is his library–the man loves books, and has hundreds of them. He organizes them by genre: nonfiction, fiction, art, and children’s–don’t forget about his 14 month old, 3 year old, and 5 year old children. And yes, they are as cool as you think they’d be. Kelly, Brett’s 5 year old son, can sing an entire song after hearing it just once. Though this is too often channeled in the direction of Pixar films, kids got pipes.

His wife Liz, in addition to being the most beautiful woman I have ever met, is incredibly kind. She is raising her three children to be empathetic, problem-solving, philanthropists. When they go to the park, before they play, they pick up garbage–without gloves. Kelly goes to a bilingual, public school in their neighborhood, and each morning Brett walks him to school; they only use their car (singular) when necessary.

I lived with my aunt and uncle for a month and a half this winter, and was absolutely terrified when I moved in. These superhumans embodied what perfection meant to me; they were everything I wanted to be, and everything I knew I was too helplessly lame to grow into.

I had no idea how to be around them; everything I said felt dense and immature. Any opinion I held felt undersupported; I wouldn’t consider honesty under any circumstances. For example, how do I like my coffee? In truth, I like it with sugar, lots of sugar. Did I tell Brett that? Oh, no. Sugar is for weak, silly people who can’t stomach reality. I threw back black coffee with a grimace for weeks.

I got comfortable with Liz first; her unending kindness broke my fear after just a few days. Every night we cooked dinner together, and every night I was sad to set the table. To talk to her was to remember why people get married. She’s wonderful and funny and LISTENS. She understood me. Simple. She didn’t condescend, she didn’t judge, she just got it. And let me tell you, nobody just “gets me” like that. Nobody. I’m an odd one.
It took me longer with Brett. His mind, his goddamn mind, scared the shit out of me. This man has designed very real, very beautiful, parts of Manhattan. This man teaches at the most prestigious art school in the Northeast. How could I, a neurotic, former One Direction fan, have anything of significance to say?

He broke me when we started working our way through Oscar-nominated films. After watching one, he would tell me what he thought of it, how it compared to the others, and would then ask me what I though. I would usually agree with him, restating in some way whatever he so perfectly articulated.

When we got to the final film, The Shape of Water, he asked for my opinion before stating his own. His eyes were on me, and I had no buffer–nothing to agree with or reiterate. I had to say something, or I would look like even more of a helpless idiot–and so I did. I told him I loved it. I said it was weird and beautiful in the best way. Every shot felt intentional, purposeful–no fluff, all art.

He agreed.

I then asked if he had seen Harold and Maude, a beautifully weird cult classic with a similarly taboo love story. Brett hadn’t seen it, though he’d heard of it. I explained its premise, a 20 year old falling for an 80 year old, and he was intrigued.

He said we’d watch it next.

After this I was infinitely more comfortable around Brett. He started lending me books of short stories, and folded down the pages of his favorites.

One night, after the kids had gone to bed, Brett turned to me, and as if a thought had struck him and if he didn’t share it immediately it would disappear, he said “You would really like Francis Ha.”

This struck me as extremely beautiful. Someone I admired so much had just acknowledged that they knew me well enough to, with confidence, tell me what I would enjoy. During the weeks that I had been living with him, he had gathered enough information about me to make that judgement, and to make it without hesitation. In short, he cared–he had been listening. He had said “You would really like it.” He didn’t say “This is a good film”, or “You should really watch this film.” He said “You would really like this.” That just meant something to me.

Listen to people when they tell you what you’d like. They aren’t being pushy, they’re telling you they care enough to know you.