Where the Road Ends…
On the one-year anniversary of the 2013 flood, in Lyons, Colorado. (The original plan was to drive up this road to go hiking.)
Photo courtesy Kris Duecker
Conversation circa 2001
I’m on the brink of going insane and I know it.
I thought I found a semblance of myself inside a Toronto Chinatown used bookstore, but by the end of the weekend, that semblance proved not to be mine at all.
This guy fell in love with me. He claimed to anyway, cuz I read him my poetry. And he was following me around all weekend. Amalia yelled at me. She said, why do you always make these guys fall in love with you? But I didn’t do it on purpose.
The girl’s mother thought I was crazy because I wanted to sit in the car by myself and not come inside. She came out to get me and I refused to go in. I was organizing my life on the windshield.
Yeah, my whole life fit into the windshield. That was the problem. Or maybe that wasn’t the problem at all. It was that I kept fitting what I thought was my life into the windshield and then new pieces floated in from out of nowhere and kicked all the old pieces out of their places.
I’m sick of everyone basing their whole lives around love. Or not that at all, but the idea of finding “the one.” Because love is actually a beautiful thing.
Truth is I’m probably just a spoiled brat.
One year ago, the rains started and wouldn’t stop until Boulder was under water.
1996, with my friends after a crazy Empire Records-style weekend that I still remember pretty vividly.
Our clothes are AMAZING.
And in the end, there is nothing but the flutter of a blue dress, the feel of your mother’s hand, the sand scorch beneath your feet, the sound of the Atlantic hitting once and hitting again.
There is nothing but the weight of the pail, the grainy surface of castle after castle, the wet fabric of a bathing suit clinging itchy against you, the lacquer of strands across your forehead, the cold touch of a shell pressed to your ear where the whir of the ocean lives and will never leave.
Autumn in State College. It was a real campus, the leaves turning orange, the sky gray. I stood on the corner of Allen and Westerly, talking and talking and wanting to talk forever into those big sparkly green eyes. I didn’t know I was starting new, but I was starting new.
And I was a flirt. And I was certain of my aesthetics. And I was terrified of being wrong. And I was hiding. And I was making decisions. And I was refusing to make decisions. And I was intensely afraid of being known for who I was afraid I was underneath it all.
The town was silent. At night, alone in those long, perfectly white, immaculate Wegmans aisles, I wanted to want to taste everything. I wanted badly to want.
So it came to this: a big jar of Nutella, the empty hallways of Burrowes Building after everyone had gone home, the big red barns, the cows down the road, the long stretches of I-80 curling out toward nowhere.
This cartoonist documents his battle with depression through a series of comic strips. I can definitely relate to this one, in particular. Really nothing short of amazing.
This kid has an in-depth understanding of human happiness.
As seen in Mondsee, Austria
If you were cool in high school
you didn’t ask too many questions.
You could tell who’d been to last night’s
big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn’t have to ask
and that’s what cool was:
the ability to deduct
to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness
means not asking when you don’t know,
which is why kids grow ever more stupid.
A yearbook’s endpages, filled with promises
to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness
of a teenager’s promise. Not like I’m dying
for a letter from the class stoner
ten years on but…
Do you remember the way the girls
would call out “love you!”
conveniently leaving out the “I”
as if they didn’t want to commit
to their own declarations.
I agree that the “I” is a pretty heavy concept
and hope you won’t get uncomfortable
if I should go into some deeper stuff here.
David Berman, Self-Portrait at 28