1942; A Year in Retrospect

 

I fondly recall the scent of aftershave and 1942. A man who knew his vices all too well and indulged in them daily. Cigar in hand, he smiled with all his pearly whites and loved his mockery. The year started on a Thursday and every single citizen of the town was in an optimistic mindset. World War Two drifted among the people. It invaded their sleep and left them with an eerie feeling of discomfort, of unease. An unsettling aftertaste that no one knew how to cope with and that wasn't discussed. A darkness seeping through the cracks, unseen to the human eye. But time went on. Minutes and seconds continued to perpetually tick away. Win after win, Joe DiMaggio played on. In living rooms all across the country the good wholesome people tuned in. Reliable Cary Grant played his role as well in the grand scheme of things. I played mine too. We all did. Even if the ending was predictable, we all played along. It was inevitable. Suits were worn on Sundays and ladies' best dresses made an appearance. The blue tie, the green tie, the red tie, but the details are insignificant. Wednesdays were always crisp clear days that year but that is irrelevant as well. Nobody remembers the specifics of the Technicolor motion pictures. The very same motion pictures that consumed our Saturday nights at the drive in movies. Suburban dates at the soda shop on Friday nights, high school sweethearts went to prom and have the grainy photographs to prove it. Boyish good looks were glorified and star athletes were worshipped with secrets to hide and the shoes of great men to fill. They tripped on the untied shoelaces, embarrassing their generation and growing up to be successful businessmen. We all walked around with our own vague notions about the meaning of life and all the kids rode their bikes around the neighborhood. He saved up money to buy a red convertible and I wore a pink bow in my hair. The year ended on a Thursday. I climbed a tree, tore my best dress, and said goodbye to 1942. I was living in a passing phase. I knew it in my bones and could not deny the powerful force of time that was covering up everything I knew and all aspects of the modern world. My teeth began to hurt with the sheer pressure of everything. Every thought and every fact I'd ever learned. I climbed down the tree, scratched my knee and went inside. The year ended without a bang and the first hour of 1943 was spent in good company making ridiculous wishes and predictions for the New Year. Meanwhile, people across America were living their lives to the fullest. Drinking champagne, losing inhibitions, proclaiming love, fighting joyously and fighting epically. The year of 1942 was a year of bloodshed, self-inflicted to be exact. We put on a show in the supermarket line and in the newspaper articles, and we won science fairs. I am partial to regressing back to this time. The good old days were not so perfect after all, but endearing. Endearing like a family dinner and Cary Grant's films. 1942 was a year unremarkable overall, but quite grand in detail. But I suppose it comes down to the mere fact that you just had to be there. For the scent of aftershave is quite linked to the decor and the bright able-bodied youth and self-indulging adults.

Burning with Existence

Burning bright. Bright with the fire and love of the youth. Burning, oh so lovely, with no one around to see. Flames of despair and ecstasy that never die down. Defining us. Burning bright with existence. Existence of the weak and of the mighty. Our glorified notions in our pretty heads. Searching out meaning in anything we can get our hands on. Searching for meaning in one another. Perceiving dreams as reality and reality as dreams. Confusion and happiness galore. Accidental self-sabotage. Trusting fate blindly because everything has to be okay in the end, it has to. Everyone deserves a happy ending. Dying happy with everything to your name... right before your name is forgotten. Misplaced values and confused intentions, blinded by the greed. Giving in to it all and getting swept away, down the river, away from here. Swept away.

The Mere Sight.

The mere sight made my stomach drop. The moment passed by so quickly and yet seemed to last so long. It was as though my reality was crashing in on itself. All that I perceived seemed unreal. How could this happen? My stomach dropped, my eyes widened, my breath ceased. I physically could not stop myself from looking. I felt outside of my body, outside of the normal, functioning world. The mere sight stunned me.

Magic Nights.

The stars aligned in such a perfect way that it seemed almost suspicious. On that warm night, looking up from the grass, there was an electricity in the air. Summer nights spent roaming and dancing like nymphs and sprites, swaying with the breeze. Illuminated by the gentle light of fire, our bright eyes danced. Playing pretend and reveling in night games. The elusive stars seemed to wink. Magic in the air.

The Gap Between Thinking & Feeling

There's a gap between thinking and feeling. At some point, at certain times, we're merely mammals. No logic, no meaning, no other factors. Sometimes we can't help ourselves. The human impulse. Yes, at a basic level, we feel what we feel. It's as basic as that. It's chemical reactions, it's the inner parts of our mind doing what the brain does. It comes down to science. Although it may not seem like it. Our minds can be quite logical and take things into account. But how we feel knows no boundaries. Of course we usually hide our feelings. Never wanting to appear weak. Human nature is all about self-survival. All men for themselves. And maybe I'm exaggerating. Things aren't clear as they seem at first. If you look beyond what's obvious, there is always more than first appears.

The Ocean Of My Heart

My mind is a galaxy and my heart is an ocean. I am quite complex, you see. My heart is an ocean. Waves crashing, ships sinking, lips smashing. An ocean... with so many things hidden beneath the surface. Undiscovered notions and sentiments in the depths. the ocean, as far as the eye can see, inside of me. My mind, the galaxy, encompasses it all, looking upon the ocean that beats in my chest. The galaxy, ever expanding, beautiful to behold. The galaxy consistent in its behavior, prone to reason and logic. My galaxy, my mind, does not understand my ocean. The ocean does not make sense, irrational. the ocean, my heart... does as it pleases.

City Of Angels

I know of a place where the most inconceivable of dreams come to life. Where celestial stars reside, the luminous human forms. The whole metropolis, a magnetic field drawing in people. A landscape where transparent crystals adorn flawless skin and daisies get tangled in long hair. This is a place where golden haired, bright-eyed children star in motion pictures and everyone is eternally young. Black and white film stars used to roam the boulevard and you can still see their ghosts if you look hard enough. This is a place where everything is fleeting but the pavement and blinding sun. The waves are never-ending and they’ll crush you if you aren’t careful. This is a modern safari complete with man-eating lions in disguise and a fast paced highway. The only type of faith here is in the silver screen. The living damned, cursed in a city where the air is thick with sex. This is possibly the most dangerous collection of streets and buildings and angels you will encounter so watch your step. But it’s worth it. For a moment, as you watch the sunset from a rooftop with palm trees in the distance and a hundred of your closest acquaintances, you can feel the magic more intensely than ever before.

Battle Wounds

I shudder in the dark night air, toss and turn, and roam aimlessly. There’s a sense I’ve missed something. The sense that it all passed me by, oh so fast. And now it is difficult to recall the exact details and dates and sensations. Everything has seemed to come undone. I can’t find the meaning of my dreams. I can’t quite pinpoint the meaning of anything. The smoke burns my lungs, my thoughts, and all I’m doing is smoking the memories of days past. The world is in the grimy gutter looking up at the elusive stars while I look on from afar. My knees are bleeding from battle wounds and my angel wings are holy. My blood tastes like betrayal and empty words. While my skin and mouth taste like sugar and ecstasy. Everyone around me is trying to find lines and excuses. They’re apologizing to my vacant face and weary insides. Their faces are a blur. I spend nights wandering the suburban streets, staring down at sidewalks, staring up at streetlamps. The voices are getting louder and my heartbeat is quickly becoming steadier. As I wait for the time to pass. I am awaiting the next sunset and forgetting the past.

Let's Get Lost

It seems anything worth remembering happens at night. I’ve always had better luck when it’s dark outside. Whether I’m at some frenzied teenage party or by myself. Though to be honest, most nights I end up alone in my bed, a candle burning, imagining all the possibilities. Things I could have said or could have done.  But I’m not always stuck in the past. I dream about the things to come. I live in memories and notions of the future. The present hardly ever seems as appealing as the past or future. It seems like most of my time is spent perpetually waiting. I’m waiting for the bell to ring, for the end of the day, the end of week, the start of summer. I’m waiting for that guy to call or text me as I fidget with my bracelets.  I am waiting for the sun to set and tiring of each new dawn. These are my teenage years. My fingernails are never bare and my weekends are never dull.  And he’s always on my mind.

My friends and I are good Catholic schoolgirls by day. Exclusive private schools and worn out textbooks thrown around. You can catch me in Chemistry or French class staring out the window or acing a test. But by night we transform into nymphs. We roam the streets on summer nights, walking under the streetlights of abandoned neighborhoods. We plan our Friday and Saturday nights. We reign empty houses that fill up quickly with lustful sixteen and seventeen year olds. We party, we put on makeup, and we flirt, all well learned skills. We play our music too loud. We pound it in our cars, in our bedrooms. We like to feel the vibrations in our bones, to feel it at the very core of us. We stumble down the sidewalks of downtown in four-inch heels.  We are blazing bright, wishing on falling stars and airplanes. We are always confused and pretending we aren’t. We like to pretend we’re royalty, thick royal blood running through our veins. We pretend we’re all grown up. We pretend lots of things.

And yes, he’s always on my mind. The way his body and mine fit together. The way he makes my heart race and my mind full. The way he stares just a second too long. And I smirk knowingly to myself. I’ve learned there’s a lot more to everything, and I do mean everything, than first appears.

I am perpetually dreaming. Dreaming of everything and anything. I am whispering misconceptions to myself in the dead of night, aren’t we all? Our knees and hearts are scraped. We are the youth. We believe our generation will be the one. The one that never fades, always burning bright. But we are all walking around in a daze of lust and misunderstanding. We are all afraid, confusing television static with reality. We all just want someone to love us and hold us and fuck us. We don’t know what we’re talking about sometimes and often we pretend, pretend to just get by. In this day and age, you have to learn how to play your cards right. And so, I lay on my back, take off my top, and smile, saying this is all of me. After all, we’re all trying to get lost in each other.

Le Grand Garçon

"The Tall Boy"

Up on stage, in my room. No end in sight. Lips smashing, waves crashing, sinking ships. Thrown together in the grand scheme of things. I realize that almost every song was written for me, and all the other kids in the neighborhood secretly think this too. And life seems to become like a movie or one of those books I read. Every moment is like a scene to me. The dim lighting, the music in the background, it all has significance to me. I am one of the youth and I want to make every moment last. After all, this is the American dream, we've found it. There's no such thing as an unhappy ending in my world.

And so he and I sit discussing everything for hours, contemplating life and meaning and why nothing seems to ever work out. This is how the majority of my free time is being spent during the high school years. Reveling in my adolescence. Tick tock hearts beating to the rhythm of thoughts. In the end, we all fall down, down the rabbit hole.

We Are The Youth

We are the youth of the lost generation,
Driven by fame and affection,
Always running,
Leaving behind snapshots and
Glitter on the abandoned streets.
Always looking for something
But we don’t know what.

We are our own personal heroes,
Dreaming in soft focus
And living in a harsh reality.
Memories of empty houses, empty bottles.
Endless nights.

We are the rock stars of local fame,
Driven by the next fix,
The next house party.
We are all the masters of a personal war,
Playing with paper dolls.
Always in over our heads
By the glow of a cell phone.

We are the chosen ones,
Born to save ourselves,
Born to dream,
Fueled by meaning and hook ups.
Existing in the age of lost innocence.

We are the modern children,
Wild ideas in our complex minds,
Looking for a way to feel alive,
Tearing everything apart,
Grasping desperately at each other,
Naked and vulnerable.

We are the stars reflected on Earth,
The prince charmings and princesses,
In a world of land and seas,
Of pavement, swimming pools, and sin.
Modern fairytales playing out.

We are the lost causes,
Living for the moment,
Believing in second chances,
Living in a blur,
The details lost.

We are the best, the worst,
The ones left standing alone,
Rebels with hidden tragedies,
Losing, gaining, destroying, creating everything,
At a fast pace.
Singing along to every song.

We are the future leaders of the world,
The homecoming king and queen
And everyone in between.
We are perfect in our parent’s eyes,
Nightmares in our parent’s eyes,
Nothing in our parent’s eyes,
Fending for ourselves.

We are the beginning of a revolution,
War paint and weapons in disguise,
Six packs and skinny dipping,
Bubble gum and blowjobs,
Barely legal, barely passing.

We are the only ones left,
Turning ourselves inside out.
Someday we’ll die,
But for now we are immortal,
The youth’s reign eternal,
We are the lost generation.

The Noise Of The Beautiful Youth

They’re all so loud, drowning in their youth. Flesh on display, long lanky bodies falling around. I stand quietly against a wall. I smile to myself. Someone is talking to me but I’m not listening. I stare at them, nod blindly, take a sip, gulp, nod again. This person seems barely coherent enough to form a sentence. Why is it so goddamn loud? I turn my head away from the football player in close proximity who has now rested his hand on my hips. The faces of my peers are displayed before me. They’re all intoxicated with sex and drugs and the pounding music. They’re the happiest I’ve ever seen. I can’t decide if this fact makes me sad or not. Mostly I feel indifferent towards them. I feel his hand massaging my leg now. God, it’s all so obvious. I almost want to laugh at it all. But his eyes are surprisingly sincere. I look away again, my neck exposed. I’m too dizzy to tell him to stop, to do anything. I see all the grinding bodies in a frenzy, what a warm atmosphere. He kisses me and I don’t protest. He has blue eyes, a good body, and no intellectual thoughts. That’s enough for me. His body rests against mine and it feels nice. I close my eyes, darkness. Darkness, lust, and the noise of the beautiful youth.

Move Closer

We are irresistibly drawn. I move closer just to feel you breathe. Inhale, exhale, my heart swells, no physical indication. You sigh like you belong here. I breathe in with my lungs. We stare at my bedroom walls that depict the world’s history. I imagine I am in your dreams. You move closer and I lick my lips. My mind speeds up and slows down. There are the unwritten laws, etched into our common knowledge. Finally, frenzy, an assumption of power. Kings and queens and the royal court approve. Your kiss on my body, stitched into my skin. Your name invisible on my wrist, fondly. After, I feel your effect echoing in my bones and in my nerves. And again, you sigh like you belong here, and perhaps you do. Your heartbeat is strong and steady. Your heartbeat speaks to me over and over again. Then there are unexpected words, words of compromise. And you are gone, yet my skin smells of you. My empty room holds your scent. It feels so personal, like I’ve discovered a secret, your humanity captured. And I lay on my back losing any such illusions I might have created. And you leave with your conquest and radical vision of me. Reality has slept with fiction once again. The joker’s heart exists, still beating. And I am the fool. My lips are now raw but my skin is oh so soft.

A Quite Grand Supply Of Blood

Someday my time will come, my reign. High ambitions. No one stepping all over me. After all I am a human too, equality and all that. I am in possession of organs, bones, and a quite grand supply of blood. Oh, don’t I have a lot to offer? Look at me, look me in the eyes. Discover the truth, the real me, the whole me. The complexity of a human being, alive and well in such a hopeless time.

Recalled to Life

I am recalled to life, recalled from the dark grave. Reminded of why life and everything…and everything matters. Reminded of you. Us. What times. My past, my present, my future, all connected. A linear fairy tale. With an end…and an epilogue. So be happy, let your heart swell. So happy that you feel as though you could burst, explode into stardust. You and the whole world. Floating through the universe, you and I, holding hands. Because really, how strange it is to be anything at all.

Burning Bright

When he walks through the doorframe, I am sitting on the desk right before his eyes. The desk is an antique, beautiful and intricate. My legs are crossed. This desk was once in Versailles. A short black dress covers my body. The dress falls short and my bare legs are mostly exposed. I am perfectly poised, waiting for him.

He walks in, stands before me, his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a frayed flannel shirt and black wayfarers. He takes them off, his eyes bright.

The room is dimly lit; I can hear the cars passing outside.

“You look pretty.” He says quietly, sitting on the big bed with the white sheets.

I smile at him with my pearly whites.

The room is mostly bare with high ceilings. I can hear the sound of water rushing, someone down the hall is taking a bath. I always take baths. I seep into baths so hot I can barely breathe.

He takes off his shoes and sighs, his dark hair disheveled. He is handsome, though I never tell him so. In a way, he knows. There are always the unspoken words between us. The way we eat breakfast together in bed, how I lay against his chest.

I take a sip of red wine and lick my lips. I lay down next to him.

My dress slips off and my warm skin against his is the only thing that matters. We are together in our sad little room in the heart of the city. Burning bright just for each other.

Dinner Parties

Dinner Parties

My mother liked to do, what she called, entertaining. When I was little, there’d always be some new people coming over in fancy clothes and funny-sounding drawls. The woman would click-clack with their high-heels on the hardwood floor and their lipstick. The men with cigars and various colored ties who would always bring some sort of odd present. They’d all talk about society and politics and I’d sit there quietly sipping milk and eating my food. My mom would wear one of her fancy dresses from Milan or Paris and I’d get my pink striped pajamas on at nine o clock. I was always expected to go out and say goodnight to everyone. I hated it. The adults were all so loud. I’d tuck myself into bed and pet my cat until he purred loud like one of those old cars from the fifties. Muffled conversations drifting into my bedroom. My room dim from the sea-shell shaped nightlight in the corner.

Rusty Regrets & Trillions of Light Years

I do not want the rusty regrets of a misspent life. The ghosts of past haunting me. I must make my life what I want it to be. Oh, I shall. I must. How can I live with myself otherwise. Do you remember when everyone’s biggest dream was going to Disneyland? I do. That was all our biggest hope. Now our biggest dreams are seemingly out of reach. We turned ten and now all any of us want is our fifteen minutes of fame, preferably longer. We believe firmly we are entitled to it, our birthright. Success means a trophy wife and an empty mansion. The lives of barbies and kens, fake plastic that doesn’t break down or decompose for three or four times our lifetime, maybe more. It isn’t real. And when you realize that, and that realization is inevitable, you can’t outrun it. When you realize that, you feel like you just got stung by four wasps at once out on a old farm with miles stretching all around you.


Apparently space is constantly expanding. Think about it. Trillions of light years on and on. Seemingly neverending. Just all the polychromatic galaxies, stars, universes, on and on. And then somewhere in all of this, there’s us. Earth, our planet. All the history, all the evolution, all the stories, have occurred simply on these seas and lands. Every human being since the dawn of time has lived on this same planet with its humble seven continents.

head cracked open

It'd be like my head cracked open on the concrete sidewalk and my mind spilled out, exposing my innermost thoughts and feelings. Everyone would crowd around and gasp in shock. It's appealing in a way, the idea of being completely and utterly honest with the world, or at least a few select people. To tell them how I feel, to tell them anything I please. Then sit back and relax, waiting for their response, their reaction. And after this grand revealing of all that floats around my conscious mind, I could live without regret. I wouldn't have to worry about the 'what ifs'. But as deliciously appealing as this sounds, I am a coward. I keep a majority of my feelings trapped inside my head and stream of thought. I wouldn't count on them being spilled on the sidewalk anytime soon. Just blank pages meant for my eyes only. I'm not quite prepared to display my insides, my beating heart, my organs. It's all the same, isn't it? My scandalous decisions, my lungs, my vulnerable side, my liver, every part of me. There's just something so charming about telling someone your entire life story, sparing no details.

Bones of gold. Bones of silver.

(Bits and pieces of writing)


Tongue-tied teenagers,
Kissing under trees,
Rustling, leaves fall,
The youth lost control,
Lost innocence,
Lost in the forest.

We are all trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Our own personal struggle. trying to make sense of everything around us, everything that happens to us, everyone we meet. It's all one big puzzle, but we're missing pieces. Happiness. Bliss. Success. A Soul Mate. Meaning.

The glamour and darkness of rock and roll. The sweat and drugs, black leather and bare chests. Sex on stage.

The moon, the stars, the universe, fireworks to the eyes. grand spectacles of great proportions. I am so tiny in the grand scheme of things. The vast corridors of space surround me, going on forever? The mind boggles, cannot comprehend it. The stars, the universe, galaxies, such a sight. truly eternal, for all the ages to see. Generation after generation, dynasty after dynasty. All the centuries, all of the civilizations can gaze upon the very same stars, the very same moon, the very same sun. It is a wonder.


We all walk around with our personal tragedies. We feel alone and cold deep down. But there is a glimmer of hope hidden. We all believe things can get better. Inside of us we hold our optimism dear to our hearts. we grasp onto it with our stubborn, clinging hands. Hoping that our charcoal, under all this fucking pressure, will transform into a diamond. We won't give up. We want so desperately to touch or be touched, but we're too afraid to reach our hands out. Maybe if we just reach out, open ourselves up. if we slice ourselves open, expose ourselves, be honest. Maybe it'll work. Maybe we'll be okay. But we have to do it together, there's power in numbers.
WE DON'T HAVE TO BE LOVERS TO LOVE.