Writing

Confessional Burroughs style

Posted by amanda on May 6, 2011 in Writing

Why do my most visceral responses disgust me? The notion of being carried away on an uncontrolled emotion is a wild oscillation of flashes in the pan. Better to create a literature to view yourself in; it’s not really happening to you, you’re just reading it note the change of voice
Keep notes in the margins of the streets, create things where the people like you will see them. It is illegal to leave your mark, an unwelcome penetration of street level friendships, another anonymous world to embrace. No, no, you need to become a network face-to-face whether you like it or not it’s an old technology but it works
Sometimes solitude is a necessary counterbalance to companionship. It is possible that someone else feels this way, we agree, but inside I am not so sure. Maybe the vibrations, pulsations and oscillations of hormones in my diaphragm are symptoms of a biological imperative I am desperate to ignore does not play well with others

Don’t tap on the glass

Posted by amanda on Apr 20, 2011 in Blog, Writing

I hereby promise not to encourage crazy people to be more crazy, solely for my own entertainment.

Strangers on a Train

Posted by amanda on Apr 13, 2011 in Writing

I stretch my legs out in front of me, leaning back into the subway seat and rolling my head in a wide circle to stretch out the muscles in my neck. It’s cool in here, which is nice, because I’ve just walked four miles in the warm evening air.
I take a sip of water and close my eyes, letting the broad English waves of Morrissey’s voice carry me deeper inside my head. When I open them again, I meet the blue eyes of a boy on the subway platform, waiting to board.
He smiles through the glass and I feel my lips rise in kind; the contact is broken when he moves to the doors but he takes the seat across the aisle and his eyes rise up along my outstretched legs to meet mine again.
His smile brings the blood to my cheeks and I look down to check the song title on my iPhone as an excuse to cover my blush. Half a Person; it’s the story of my life. I rein my lower lip in gently under my teeth, but it slips away as I return his smile.
His head dips down as he searches his pockets and his hair is like the ocean at night; black waves threaded with streaks of silver like crests in the moonlight. He opens the notebook in his lap and begins to write in a small, flowing hand, then tears the page neatly from its binding. The subway sways to a stop and he crosses to the door, dropping the sheet in my lap as he passes.

“You have beautiful eyes.”

Sometimes You Can’t Go Back

Posted by amanda on Apr 9, 2011 in Writing

It’s not a party if you’re not drinking something from one of those red plastic cups. I don’t know what’s in mine, but it tastes of odds and ends; a strange, fruity mash that bites back and threatens to leave me sick as a dog in the morning. In the distance, I smell marijuana smoke, and even though I know I shouldn’t, my feet take me to the source before I know what I’m doing. I sit and introduce myself and take hits off the whip; these kids smoke from a vape and even though it looks as cheap as mine, I’m kind of impressed.

The drugs start to take hold, deepening the ocean of wine in which I’m currently swimming. The conversation above me is drawing me through tenuous tendrils of conversation that perk up my ears and I turn to listen, dragging the whip with my sneakers.

Yep. Overindulged. Per usual.

This is exactly why I always ask for someone to watch out for me.

I’m used to being completely ridiculous by now, so I untangle myself while the people that noticed laugh and I just keep listening to the conversation hovering above me. Music — I defy you to find a better party topic. I think they know what they’re talking about, and my feet make another decision for me; I rise up to hear clearly. I refuse to believe that these guys were old enough to have enjoyed the things that they say they did; these are the soundtracks to high school parties I awkwardly stumbled through over a decade ago.

At the thought I’m taken back through time and the feeling of awkwardness crushes me, so that I want to sit down again. I say something, “I need to…” I trail off, mumbling something about peeing, or fresh air. I cut my way through the crowd and look for a washroom. Bedroom, stairs, bedroom, socks on the hallway floor, and finally: bingo. The washroom.

I slip inside and try to lock the door behind me. The lock refuses to turn, and I start to laugh — why do the bathroom door locks in these frat-house style parties never seem to work? I go to the mirror and look into my eyes. Red eyes, green eyes, black and blue eyes. I wipe away some of the eyeliner smudges with my thumb and lean on the sink with my other hand. The ceramic lip is cool against my feverish skin.

I breathe in deep and let the air out as a long sigh. That’s what I need, I realise, and I open the unlocked door and make my way back down the stairs. It’s loud and crowded in the main room; people are shouting to be heard and I back away from them into the darkness, closing the door behind me to shut out the sound.

Outside, the night is quiet. I look up at the stars and take a few more deep breaths, slow and long and clean in my lungs. I go through the gate into the dark, empty alley. It’s nice out here, and I can feel myself filling back in. The awkward teenage version of me slowly falls into submission as I breathe.

“Hey!” the silence is broken and my head snaps around to the source of the sound. A silhouette in a pool of streetlights waves to me from the end of the alley. “Hey, miss!”

I take a few wary steps towards him. “Yes?”

“Do you have a light?” he gestures with an unlit cigarette.

I nod, unlatching my bag. “Yeah, sure,” I reply, approaching the edge of the light. “Here,” I hold out my extended hand, the little red plastic cylinder pointing towards him.

“Thanks,” he lights the cigarette and smiles at me. “Do you want one? Before you go back?” He gestures with his chin, in the direction from which I came, and blows a cloud of smoke into the sky.

I look into the darkness and realise I don’t know which door I came from. “Actually, I’m not sure where I am anymore.”

He nods, passing me the cigarette and drawing a new one from the pack. “I know what you mean. Sometimes you can’t go back.”