Metropole

The Lawrence Arms

Metropole

(Epitaph)

I must be extremely hard headed - my skull so thick that not much leeches in and certainly no insights are allowed to escape.  I seem to need constant reminders to mentally engage with life.  Even when I do make an effort to sort out important aspects that I have allowed to lag, all the other stuff gets all dusty and disheveled.  It’s an endless cycle that generally winds up with me giving up all efforts out of feelings of futility and letting everything around me decay for awhile.  Once I wake up again and give it another go, I find myself further behind and less likely to be inspired to reach whatever lofty and elusive goals I set for myself.

Life always feels so fleeting and disposable.  I spend way too much time focusing on the emptiness I often feel about how fast and difficult things always seem, and lose focus on actually living what little time I have available.  What is the point of life?  Is there one?  Things continue on – people die just as more are born and each generation continue to make the same mistakes over and over again as everything is eventually forgotten.  Similarly, I find myself continually sinking into patterns, repetition, and lethargy as the days pass and turn into weeks and months and then years.  It seems I need to be reminded that I hate feeling complacent and barely aware of another year passing by.  Yet, here I am - still hoping to get myself sorted out and find a direction that doesn’t overwhelm me with stress and frustration – right where I started.

The Lawrence Arms have always understood this.  They shook me out of my state of sorrow and self-pity back in 2003 with their amazing album The Greatest Story Ever Told (see why here) and now nearly eight years after their shredding last album (2006’s Oh! Calcutta! – my #1 pick of the year seen here), they’ve returned to kick my sagging ass with their sixth full length Metropole.  Much like The Greatest Story, Metropole is a unified work.  Every song hints at the passage of time and the struggle to keep one’s spirit alive at least as long as our bodies. 

A sample snippet of the closing track, “October Blood,” opens the album with the line: “I was born and I died, and just a moment went by” and it serves as the de facto thesis for what the next 30 or so minutes of punk rock have in store.  Both Brendan Kelly and Chris McCaughan are clearly agitated by the realization that all of those dreams and goals of the young all wind up futile and lost.  The first verse of “You Are Here” – the first sneak peak we had of this album in December begins with: “Where you are is where you are / and it’s just the way it is / days keep rolling on / they won’t miss me much when I’m gone.”  The wash, rinse, repeat dominance of our lives is a constant target throughout (“most days I take the train from here to there / then back to here” – from “You Are Here”).  The shouted vocal of the rousing “Hickey Avenue” urges us to “get rolling out of this shitty yellow light / ‘cuz we’ve been droning through this endless parade of identical days / nothing changes / it only rots away,” as they are trying to wake us up: “What are we doing here?  Nothing.  That’s what’s killing me!”  Elsewhere, in “Acheron River” (or ‘river of woe’ for the ancient Greeks), Brendan sings “I’m just on this train and stuck in several thousand different ruts” as he teeters on the edge of giving it all up completely (“take me down to the river / take me to where all the poisons flow / and let’s ride this fucker home”).  Fittingly, this rambunctious, yet fatalistic song is followed by even more fatality.  “Metropole,” which opens quietly, as Chris strums an acoustic guitar and sings of “years on repeat” and “years of defeat,” while Brendan steps in with the line “the traffic lights blinked a million times / I blinked twice and twenty years went by” before they both repeat at the conclusion “This is the end of all things.” 

The end of all things indeed, as a dark “Raskolnikovian Gloom” ( see Dostoyevski’s Crime and Punishment) takes over the middle third of the album, as Brendan’s explosive, could give a shit rant “Drunk Tweets” slaps anyone and everything in sight with loads  of ‘F-you’s’ as he cuts down our society’s waste and blind belief in ignorance, before concluding that we’re shooting ourselves down as a whole  – “but there’s no unraveling the rings of the tree / Lord keep my soul…the fuck away from me.”  Then, Chris’ “The YMCA Down the Street from the Clinic” guides us through a melancholic tour through more moral decay and emptiness (“Back when I was a boy there were okay ways to go / but baby, I got old / and somewhere I ditched my soul”). 

There is a lot to take in here.  The Lawrence Arms have always exorcised major demons in their expertly performed songs, but usually with a lot of humor and cynicism.  But this one, after the first few listens, brought back all of my memories of being a little kid sitting in the bathtub with plastic boats floating around me and imagining only blackness after death and becoming inconsolable.  But there are moments of light that eventually come through.  The aforementioned call to action in the fitful “Hickey Avenue” shows signs of life.  And though “Seventeener” dwells on the sudden realization of getting old (when, let’s face it, if we’re 40 or 50, or whatever, there’s still a big part of us inside that feels like the same little kid we always were inside.  Somewhere along the line, we miss our own passage of time); he still manages to find a way to restart – even if it means going back to writing ‘teenage’ poetry.  In “Beautiful Things,” Chris also finds solace in his desire and passion for writing songs as a way to search for “truth in the dust.”  Meanwhile, in “Paradise Shitty,” (they continue their occasional Guns and Roses song re-titling) the fight against complacency is handled by hurtling oneself into life and not worrying about dangers and potential consequences.  Luckily, the album closes with the most uplifting song.  “October Blood” brings us back to the beginning: “I was born and I died and just a moment went by,” but instead of dwelling on this tragic notion as much of the album, Chris defiantly states in the chorus “I burn on / I burn on / endless summer in my heart,” as he takes the time to take in the beauty and majesty of what we do have in life - which is probably the simple answer to the meaning of life question: do your best to enjoy it while you can.

(facebook.com/thelawrencearms)

"Seventeener (17th and 37th)"

Lush and Green

A new start. Isn’t that what we all are always asking for? I’m always screwing up all of my grand plans. Time to begin again. Too often the reminder comes from another’s end. It’s that reminder of mortality that shocks my mind into realizing that I waste all of my time and achieve none of my goals.


I’ve always envied those who believe in an afterlife. I never have. Not as a young toddler. Not now as a jaded and tired adult. It sure would make things easier to handle - believing that this is just a stopover before some sort of paradise. Of course, since I have not been blessed with an all consuming faith, I will instead apparently be headed towards a torturous eternity. Or so I’ve been warned. I don’t care. I don’t pay any attention anymore.

How does one ‘move on’ from a loved one’s passing? I sure haven’t figured it out. Are we supposed to? Why is it that I can feel guilty when I’m not completely absorbed in sorrow for those who are not here anymore?

I contemplate these thoughts as I stop on a small dusty platform that has formed alongside the steep pathway that has been forged over years of hikers passing quietly through this forest. A partially exposed tree root the size of my leg keeps the crackled hard pan level. I can feel my heart pound and my accelerated breathing dries my throat. Sweat drips from my temples and coats my exposed arms. I never remember the ground getting so dry when I grew up near here. Now, that I’m a tourist, it’s always sunny and warm. I take a deep breath as I try to restart my stiffening legs and return to the uphill trek. Not much farther to the top. Dust rises as I shuffle my feet to regain momentum and get back to stepping up the pathway.

Once I reach mostly level ground along the pathway, the trail widens and the surroundings become greener.  I can see the sky and some clouds have partially obscured the bright sun.  A sign post marks the name of the trail I walk along.  It portrays a sketchy map of the remainder of the trail that ends in grasslands high over the ocean, but I only know that from experience.  The lines on the map don’t really tell me anything.  A crinkly pile of paper snagged together by a dangling clipboard waves in the freshening breeze displaying guest sign in sheets.  I glance through the handful of names written down in varying styles of handwriting.  There have been visitors on this very day from as far away as Germany, Japan and Australia.  I wonder how they knew about this place.  I lived less than 10 miles from here as a kid and didn’t know about it until I hung out with a school chum whose family lived nearby.  Most of the people who have signed are from the northwest.  If I were to visit Australia, I wouldn’t know about anything there.  My only accumulated knowledge is from Men at Work and Midnight Oil lyrics in the 80s and some of those local flavor pieces on the NBC Sydney Olympics coverage in 2000.  The ones I would generally avoid by flipping to other channels.  Oh and how could I forget those Australian Toaster Biscuit ads?  I grab the carved wooden pencil that is attached to the clipboard with a white string.  I scratch out: “OZZY” and “HELL” on the lines next to “NAME” and “FROM.”  This is what I have always done when visiting this place, ever since my 5^th grade class wandered through here with my hippie teacher in search of deer scat.  The humor long ago wore off, but I remain intent on keeping up traditions.

I kiss the wind and make the rain

Jealous enough to fall for days

I fall on you when I hear thunder

I kiss the ground you lie under

Moving on ahead, I notice that the firs are starting to become taller again, and the shadows grow into a severe darkness. The horizon in front of me disappears as the trail begins another upward trajectory. I am completely exhausted. It’s difficult to believe that this trail used to be so easy to traverse. Only one more steep stretch and then the ocean will become audible, the towering trees will end abruptly, and daylight will be regained.

To my left I see the small river widen far below as it merges with the oncoming ocean. Just past it is the inviting beach. That beach will always signify the last time I truly understood the innocence of childhood play. It was there where a few of my friends and I were on the precipice of adulthood and the push to do adult things and become responsible, but shrugged off the pressure and played like 8 year old boys. That beach is perfectly framed between two trees poking up from below me. This is the place. I carefully step off the narrow pathway created by countless footfalls smashing down the long grasses that would otherwise be blowing in synchronized dances with the wind. I continue off the trail and slightly downhill until I feel like it’s no longer safe. I sit down on a piece of what looks like driftwood, but cannot imagine that it drifted all the way up here. Sitting below the level of the grasses and small shrubs mutes the roaring of the violence of the sea crashes into the rocks several hundred feet straight down. From here, I know only the most keenly aware passersby will be able to detect my presence. I am, after all, not supposed to stray from the trail.

Now I only sleep when spoken to

So I'll lay here still in morning dew

Drink up with the flowers and trees

Above you all is lush and green

I contemplate what this place means to me. It does not evoke memories of my mom. It is supposed to. This is where she wanted her remains to be placed. I never realized how much this place meant to her. To me, it will always evoke thoughts of running around at dusk with 25 grade school classmates playing what seemed like the most majestic and grand game of Capture the Flag in history. It reminds me of eating beef jerky for the first time. It reminds me of my experiences with my childhood friends. I don’t associate this place with her at all. Guilt wells up inside me. This has always been the problem. When she got sick, I was away at college. When I returned home, I was never fully there. I had spent most of my teenage years dreaming of escaping and finding my feet in a new life – a life built around my passions somewhere else. My small taste of freedom was still fresh and I wanted to go back. I had started to build a new group of friends. I thought that I had finally found love. I thought that I was finally building a foundation for my future. Then I found myself back at home, stuck there recovering from surgery, while trying to handle watching my mom wither away. I was selfishly strongly aware that what she was going through was likely what I would have to deal with sooner or later. It felt sooner as I struggled to recover from a disastrous month long hospital stay. The biggest difference is that despite my battle, I did eventually start to feel my strength return, while she continued to decline. As I felt better, I began to pull away again toward the pull of life. I will never forgive myself for this. I was at home to help, but I wasn’t there at all.

My thoughts are interrupted from the sound of muffled voices coming from the trail above. I stay completely still, as if they might’ve heard the thoughts swirling around in my giant head. I think that I hear Australian accents. I smile to myself, because I’ve always enjoyed many of the Australian accents I’ve heard over the years. Australians always sound enthusiastic. They get me fired up. This may have everything to do with most of those voices coming from television, where people are trained to sound excited about everything they do. I wonder what my life would be like if I never went back to my home, but instead headed to some warm white beaches along a coast of Australia somewhere.

The voices fall out of earshot. I return my gaze towards the wildflowers and the waterway they look down upon. I don’t know when I’ll be back here. At the rate I’m going I may not be able to make this trek without aid. Why is it that I only decided to return here when the sickness returned?

 

Now I kissed the wind and made the rain

Jealous and it'll fall for days

And I drink up with these flowers and trees

And I still love you

All is lush and green

Above you all is lush and green

*Lyrics and Title provided by Grandpaboy, or Winthrope Marion Purcival V, or Paul Westerberg, 1997



Only in Dreams

Recently, I was lucky enough to see my first Dum Dum Girls show.  It turns out it was the finale of their big tour for their spectacular second LP Only in Dreams released early last fall.  It was a huge album for me and I wound up ranking it in my Top 5 for all of 2011 (#4 to be exact – see brief overview here).  I absolutely love their sound.  I have always had a soft spot for the 60s girl groups (I loved the Shangri La’s as a little kid!) and over the last few years a lot of great new music has been heavily influenced by these classic sounding pop groups.  I think it was the fun-loving Pipettes who first suckered me back into this exciting sound, but now we’ve got Best Coast, Vivian Girls, and The Ravonettes, among many others.  And the Dum Dum’s manage to capture that fun vibe and overhaul it with some updated punk energy and a huge amount of heart.  It’s a mix that makes me dizzy with delight. 

Normally, I do not spend a lot of time writing about all the shows I’ve seen over the (gulp!) last 27 years. I have seen hundreds upon hundreds of bands live and have cherished most of the memories along the way. The problem with writing about live music is that it’s fleeting. It’s a ‘had to be there’ sort of thing. Sure, it’s nice to get a feel of how a band might be perceived in a live setting according to a trusted music writer beforehand (maybe I could’ve avoided a few of the disasters I’ve encountered), but circumstances change from night to night – one never knows, unless they go check them out for themselves. I can be heard chattering on and on endlessly about the shows I see to my friends who choose to miss out – in order to remind them that they indeed MISSED OUT. This was definitely the case earlier this year when the occasionally reunited early 90s band Swervedriver rolled through town and blew the doors off the venue and exceeded my already high expectations from four previous experiences dating back over 20 years, or the angry Bob Mould show supporting Black Sheets of Rain in 1990, or that Echo and the Bunnymen show in ’88 after they’d had a spat with the club owner and proceeded to shred through a fiery set at the Starry Night, or that time that Jeff and I went ‘against the grain’ down in front at La Luna for Bad Religion in 1994, or that weird show at the Madrona Hill Winery that featured a bunch of Slumberland Records bands where I was smitten with the aggressive drumming of Amy Linton (who would later become a favorite with her mostly solo act: The Aislers Set) of the schizophrenic Henry’s Dress (also in ’94), or, or….

So, why am I writing about the Dum Dum Girls show? Maybe it’s because of all the shows I’ve attended over the years; this one has left me lost in a daze of a lingering sadness. I’ve experienced emotional moments before while seeing/hearing a gut wrenching song performed, but I left this show amongst a group of people giddy and energetic and satisfied with the elevating renditions of much of their catalogue, while I slowly strolled out melancholic and stunned. After parting ways with my accompanying friends and hearing the Only in Dreams CD continue its repeated rotation quietly in the background of the road noise during my drive home, I was on the verge of tears - fighting back an overwhelming urge to bawl my head off. What has made this especially powerful for me is that this feeling has not really dulled since the show nearly two weeks ago.

The Dum Dum’s bandleader Dee Dee Penny lost her mom to a fatal illness, since writing, recording and releasing her debut album (2010’s promising reverb drenched mostly solo home recording I Will Be) a fact that I neglected, or chose not to mention in my previous write up. I do not know Dee Dee, beyond her wonderful music, but I would imagine that she and her mom were incredibly close, since a picture of her mom graced that debut album, as well as a 2009 EP. By the results of her songwriting for the follow-up album, the one that was an immediate favorite last year, Only in Dreams, she was indeed very close to her mom. At least half of the songs on the album and I would argue that seven of the ten are directly about witnessing the effects of her mom’s illness and trying to cope with her passing. It is a heavy album. It is a sad album. It is an emotional and insightful look into the mind of someone trying to come to terms with the unanswerable questions regarding the pain, suffering and death of loved ones. It is absolutely heartbreaking.

The album starts out innocently enough, as the opening song “Always Looking,” picks right up with a moment of excitement from an early spark of a love affair. It’s loaded with energy and fire and handclaps and a refreshing surf guitar fill that carries the song. The second song and first LP single “Bedroom Eyes” comes in with a timeless sound and a serious aching for a loved one during a time of separation. Interestingly enough, the third song, “Just a Creep,” turns out to be a big kiss off. The handclaps and surf guitar return, but so does some spite (“poor thing / it must be hard / to be yourself each day”) as Dee Dee smoothly tells some creep off. Then, like most albums, we get bounced back to the longing love song. Much like the sentiment of “Bedroom Eyes,” this one finds another lonely moment, where Dee Dee is in need of loving company (“I can’t live without your warmth / I just wanna be adored / oh, I’d do anything to bring you home / tonight”).

This is where the album turns and it turns ugly. Five of the final six songs are painfully forthcoming and wallow in the freshness of deep sorrow - clearly the sorrow from losing her mom. Most people would not notice the bleakness within, as the songs continue to pound away with the same classic pop and finger snapping upbeat music, other than the epic, slow burning “Coming Down.”

The first song to get to me emotionally was also the first one that made my spine shiver, when I first heard Dee Dee’s voice trill during the closing moments of “Heartbeat (Take It Away).”  Here she pleads for an end to her sorrow and to find the strength to continue living life (“how can I tell myself / if I can’t tell anyone else / I’ll stick my thoughts on a shelf until tomorrow”).  This sentiment rings strikingly true for me, since when my mom passed, I could not talk about it at all for years.  My only coping mechanism was complete avoidance.  My only survival was to pretend that nothing happened (“Take it away…Where can I go where sorrow will not find me?”).

“Caught in One” is the opening song of side two and it begins with a nice sing along vocal, until we realize what we’re singing:

“Death is on the telephone

I lie and say she isn’t home

If only he would make a move instead

He sleeps in her bed…

“I waste away my days with you

I’d rather spend them like you do

All skin and bones

But in your eyes, I say to you

You’re still alive…

“You can tell me time will heal

But you don’t know the way I feel

I never had imagined death

Beyond the vague and cold last breath

But now I see his many forms

The way he builds up like a storm

And all the pain and all the sighs

The world I’m in…

My mother’s eyes”

“Coming Down” gives a reprieve from the sadness by giving us another break up song. This time it’s more dramatic as she seems to be leaving an abusive relationship. Instead of flippantly dismissing her victim like in “Just a Creep,” she gives us redemption by beautifully holding the note, and once again melting my heart, with the triumphant line “there I go!”


At first listen, “Bedroom Eyes” felt like a ‘missing you’-style love song, but the more I listen to this album, the more it feels like a precursor to the more open and stabbing “Wasted Away.” The belting and gut wrenching line “fear I’ll never sleep again” on the bridge of “Bedroom Eyes” can take on a different urgency when interpreted through the eyes of the album as a whole. “Wasted Away” meanwhile, presents us with the frankness of Dee Dee sifting through her mom’s possessions, while struggling with the idea of losing her memories of her mother and the guilt of not being able to take her pain away while she was still alive. It’s absolutely crushing and the onslaught continues on unabated with the penultimate song “Teardrops on My Pillow”:

 

“My nightmares have a sudden tone

It’s dangerous to be left alone

I wander blindly through my fears

It’s strange and dark and you’re not there

Cause you’re gone

You’re gone…

“Heartbreak washes over me

Like moonlight soft I cannot see

I’m angry I recall your face

Now there’s nothing in its place

Cause you’re gone

You’re gone”

“Hold Your Hand,” the old fashioned sounding closing ballad, tries to wrap up the messy and irresolvable feelings that come about from such loss by proclaiming that “You’d do anything to bring her back … Oh, I wish it wasn’t true, but there’s nothing I can do / except hold your hand / ‘til the very end.” 

I think the live show brought this emotional trauma into focus for me.  Up to that point, despite knowing all of the sadness inside these songs, I had managed to still listen to the songs and bop my head around and sing along without a care in the world.  It must have been seeing Dee Dee sing some of these horrifyingly tragic documents in person that brought everything to a head.  Seeing the pain in her eyes as she sang these hurtful words, after so many performances in so many cities around the world, led me to absorb the sheer power of her expression.  There were moments while I stood amongst the crowd and with friends – near the front – I was overcome.  I felt like I was a sponge that could only soak up sadness.  The Dum Dum Girls came and ripped my heart out, stomped on it repeatedly and shoved it back in with no expectation for recovery.  And yet, I wouldn’t trade that experience for the world.  The show wasn’t doom and gloom at all.  They played all kinds of songs from their early material, all of which sounded much improved from the recorded versions with the full band.  They played a short burst of a song that I did not recognize that I am hoping beyond all hopes is new material, because it was stunning!  Then during the encore, they pulled out an amazing cover (damn these gals have great taste!!) of the old Pale Saints tour de force “Sight of You,” which put a huge grin across my face as I felt that  irresistible bass-line vibrate through my chest.

This was a cathartic experience.  It has opened up all kinds of lingering emotional wounds from when my mom passed away so long ago now.  I miss her today as much as I did when we first lost her.  It has made me realize that I am still avoiding and not addressing my grief.  This lingering sadness from what is normally a celebratory experience has forced me to reflect and stew and to look inside my heart and to make an effort confront my sorrow.  This music has given me an understanding voice that I can relate to and that I can learn from.  This is the power of music.  Oh, and by the way, if you weren't there, you MISSED OUT.

photo by Nicki @ Doug Fir Lounge 5/27/12

Thank you Stephanie

The Book of Love

Yesterday, I made a half-hearted attempt at trying to sort through the stacks and stacks of stuff I have allowed to pile up in my place. By sorting, I really mean purging. The goal is to get rid of it all. This will not ever happen, but I like to believe that it will. After dumping a bunch of useless paperwork, I tried tackling a box of my old writing. As I’ve mentioned before, I have random notebooks and loose sheets of paper piled in drawers and boxes, crammed with handwritten writing efforts. This is when I discovered a little yellow sheet of paper crumpled up and smashed into the corner of the box I was going through. It was not titled. Since I have been unable to get myself to write at all in recent times, I thought I’d share this scattered thought from my past, which may have been a rough draft as an intro for an old issue of the “This Wreckage” ‘zine. I know I did not use it. Clearly, I came to my senses.

“I’m only pulling pieces
From the pages of my former life
Stiff and wrinkled paper
Written in a different time
Are you gonna cross the line?”
- Corin Tucker, 2010

Being careful. No, you did not want to hurt her. You left no traps. Only an open door. Biting your tongue and smiling through the pain. Everything is perfect in here. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is happy.
Being too careful. Being someone different, because what you are is not enough. Nothing will last from this. Everything built on a foundation of lies.
Nothing works. Relationships are always doomed to fail. Fear, lies, miscommunication, misunderstanding and then, finally, truth. Inevitably, truth is the end. It’s really sad too. The simple delusions we put ourselves and others through.
Nothing works. Failure can appear from nowhere. All feels fine. All feels good. All feels right. No. Let’s screw it up. Let’s walk away.
Sometimes I wish I knew someone who believes in things spiritual. I don’t believe and I can’t (this person would disregard this). I wish I could be convinced that there is a plan, because I do not like what I see. I do not like what I feel.
Sometimes I get so anxious that a big ball wells up in my throat making it difficult to breathe. My lungs quicken, my hands clench into fists and my heart pounds erratically. This feeling arises far too frequently these days and at times as disparate as being pulled over in my car by a cop to seeing what I think may be a cute girl wandering around a half mile away. But this feeling is strongest when I’m alone and wishing a girl who used to like me would pretend to again. It’s during these times when the feeling of regret becomes so overwhelming that I cannot fathom why I made such rash and harsh decisions without care for how this could affect anyone, especially me.
Last year, was easily the worst year of my life. Half of it was bad, due to my own stupidity. The other half: I had no control over. It scared the shit out of me. Three down and I was nearly the fourth. Things may have turned out better if I had. Maybe I should’ve gone. If only the nurses hadn’t acted so quickly. Maybe if a doctor had not been available. I never did like to make decisions for myself. It’s too hard.
Full circle now. I’m left feeling nothing these days. Not a damn thing. Empty. Hollow. Yes, that’s right, kind of like a relationship where one or both people has lost interest, yet they keep it going. Why keep it going? It’s going to fail anyway.
- May 7, 1992

Country Mile

My back was against the door handle of the backseat of the car. The sizzling sound of the wheels on the wet blacktop outside irritated the inside of my ears. The green dashboard lights began to illuminate the interior of the car as the dusk darkened the sky. In the fading light, I watched the scrambling beads of water on the opposite window dance across the outside of the glass. The shapes stretched and expanded trying to break free from their constraints, but were unable to do so. Behind the action, the darkening sky was briefly brightened by a sliver of blue peaking in between the menacing autumn clouds and the green horizon they were moving towards. My legs were extended across the backseat and my feet were pressed firmly against the other door. I imagined her sitting next to me, where my legs were. I could see a smile forming at the corner of her mouth the way it always used to when she didn’t want to think I had done something funny. It had taken me a long time to realize that I really loved her, so I never told her. The last time I saw her, she was standing with a group of her friends. I had considered going over to say goodbye, but instead I nodded and exited, oblivious to the sadness in her eyes. The car rocked from a hole in the narrow two lane highway, knocking me out of my reflection. My stomach burned. I was going back home to regret.

****

The first time I remember feeling something different about her was years after we met. A lifetime. So long that I don't remember ever meeting her. She had always been there. This day was different. We were playing Connect 4 on the back patio of her mom's house in the shade. Our parents were sitting on the lawn in the sun drinking lemonade and talking about whatever. Being with her must have always been an indifferent experience - until that moment. Things had never been bad nor good when I was with her. I had been conscious of what everyone else was doing and what I was not. But, now, there we were at the table competing, which seemed to be our history. We had always played games. This time, I could not win a game. We were sitting on either side of a round patio table. I kept my gaze on the blurry textures of the glass table top. I was keenly aware of the towering dark green hedges surrounding the rectangular yard and of the slowly moving shadow of the house drifting across the lawn. I could not look at her, because I was afraid of my nervous confusion. She continued to laugh at my continuous demise and I would half-heartedly quote the bitter kid from the Connect 4 70s TV ads: "Pretty sneaky sis." This was the moment I first realized that I had become lost.

****

I followed a crack in the blacktop pathway. The incline stiffened the deteriorating joints in my legs, as I strained my neck upwards to see the top of the hill. I released a long exhale at the peak and released the tension that had built into my body and up into my temples. The low sun sat behind the seemingly endless rolling hills, making me believe or wish that there was no longer a civilization. At the same time, I felt like the tiny bumps of trees and clear cuts to the south were blocking something grand. I pondered this idea, but lost the thought while examining the shadows of the scattered pine trees dotting some of the hillsides. These shadows became the only thing in my vision that offered definition, yet they were ethereal. Those shadows aren’t really there. My mourning was tempered with pride and determination. I am better having known her.