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[introduction]
Zealously I have begun to type an introduction
to this new zine at 2:31 AM. You're expecting too much of me, really,
if you think I'd have my introduction done any time before that. Xerography
will get done at the last minute as well, because how can a publication
like this be a publication if not for those last?minute moments.
Well, here it is: a new and improved look to a nearly dead zine.
Various delays have occured to prevent me from writing a zine sooner,
particularly getting through my senior year in high school. Undeniably,
I should have done more work on this sooner, but I couldn't hold myself
to it.
Times have changed for me in the last year, and I'm realizing now
how very concerned I am with everything I do. Simply writing doesn't
give me pleasure anymore, I have to write to make others happy as
well. Right now, I am hoping that this issue will help me realize
that I don't need to worry about what others think, and move on.
Quite frankly, however, these stories & essays are the most personal
things I've ever written and were very hard for me to publish. Perhaps
the most frightening fact of all is knowing that my friends will see
this and read it, and I hope they don't take anything too personally.
Overall, I would say this is a significant change. Nearly everything
(some of the titles are pseudo?song references) in this zine is entirely
of my own creation, unlike the copyright?infringing self I may have
once known...
Most importantly, though, I want to thank you for reading this.
Loan it to a friend when you are done, or if nothing else please recycle
it. Kind notes are always appreciated, but I'll read any letter that
comes my way and will respond as soon as I can. Just try your best
to enjoy this zine, and that will make my day.
I have things to say that I left out of this zine too. HID #4 consists
mostly of lonely winter stories, and I hope that a bright summer read
isn't exactly what you're looking for. Graduation will be here soon
and I will have more time to write about the season I'm actually in.
Finally, I want give you a bit of the soundtrack listened to during
the creation of this zine: Elliott Smith. David Gray. Clem Snide.
Belle & Sebastian. Aimee Mann.
Thanks again for reading.
I got inside your
car for the first time in a long time the other day. It smelled like
rain and must and stale cigarettes. I cracked the window for some
fresh air, but the smell didn't give me discomfort. This used to be
one of the most comfortable places on earth.
Oh, my refuge,
where did you go? When I needed you, you and this musty old car that
you loved pulled up and made the pain go away. Now I am left. I suppose
you were got of me, sick of me riding on the passenger side, tired
of seeing me writing more, saying more, doing more.
I forgive you.
And I apologize. I used you. I kept you in your place. I didn
t care, I recklessly
treated you like something less than me. I thought I knew the best
for you. I thought I understood but it=s apparent that I don't and
that I needed to stop. So I did. And I will.
We don't talk
anymore. A few civilities when appropriate will suffice. Neither of
us create spoken bonds that will never die, and those bonds we made
before faded from never to maybe and will soon be completely forgotten.
I listened to
the car rattle and shake as you talked to three other friends you
had with you. I recalled having shotgun even when others called it
first, sitting behind you that day. Here I felt safe, I knew everything
was alright. Here it was simple. I was accepted.
I know things
we treasure become things we all give up in us. Something comes between
people and splits them apart, or something comes and withers the links
between two people.
It won't be long
before I never see you again. I will wonder what happens to you, what
you become. I will wonder if you ever fill you dreams, if you are
happy.
I got out when
you reach my house. I said thank you, but the door jammed. I found
myself trapped inside my refuge this one last time. Quickly you came
to let me out of my cage, say goodbye again and drive laughingly away.
I slowly climbed the steps to my door. Suddenly my bag felt even heavier
than usual.
When you never
see me again, will you wonder?
I stepped insid the door.
The first time
Kiora saw you, she wished she barely noticed. She was with a friend
at "their" café. You were sitting in their booth. The little nook,
in the side of the wall where a fireplace had once been, now torn
out and replaced with a table and two chairs.
Every Tuesday
and Thursday they went to this café, got their espressos, and sat
down in at their table. But that day, it was occupied.
They never had
a problem before. For months, they came in and sat down like clockwork.
The baristas must have thrown out people sitting in that booth before
they got there.
She saw you there.
She wasn't happy. Come on, everyone knows that's where they sit. What
are you, some kind of new guy to the neighborhood? You think it's
ok to just waltz in and take her seat without any thought of consequence?
"Some jerk's in
our seat," Kiora said to her friend as they walked up to the bar.
Her friend blinked at her, and pushed back a lock of hair before continuing
up to the bar to order her coffee. They knew what she wanted, knew
what Kiora wanted too. Of course. They were regulars here.
She turned her
attention back to you. You, the cheat, you, the one who snuck up from
behind to steal away her very simple joy in life. Did you realize
how very unfair you were being?
Kiora watched
you, but could only see the back of your head. Your dusty blonde hair
was an untudy pile, and your clothes were hanging from you like things
you would like to disown. She bet they were unwanted gifts from your
mother. You wore them only because you didn't have the energy to find
something of your own.
Kiora wanted to
hit you, the first time she saw you.
She turned to
get her latte from the counter, and her friend began to chatter away.
Life story, no doubt. Utterly important, I'm sure. She wasn't listening
much. She was trying not to foam at the mouth.
The first time
she saw you, Kiora hated you.
Then you were
gone. The girl Kiora was with just sat down at their table. She continued
on about clean cars and last week at lunch while Kiora searched out
the window for you. She didn't see you. You were lost. Poof. It was
magic. She didn't see you walk away.
How did you do
that? She always wondered. Rest assured, you saved your hide the first
time she saw you.
The second time
Kiora saw you, she didn't even think of the first time. There you
were, at the video store. She only saw the back of you, again. She
observed you, holding a book in your left hand, a journal. In your
right, you picked up the last copy of The Usual Suspects, which was
the only movie Kiora intended to see that night.
The second time
Kiora saw you, she realized she should never attempt to rent movies
on a Friday night.
The third time
she saw you, Kiora saw you for the first time. She had gone to a party
with her friends, but some of them got bored with it. They decided
to go to the park, and there you were, locked still on a swing, looking
up through the lense of your camera. The third time Kiora met you,
she began to wonder about all this. She saw your face fade from concentration
into a smile as you gazed into the trees. It was nearing dusk, and
you knew that this shot had to be just right before you could go home.
Finally a loud click shuttered the frame into your mind. You took
down the camera and put it around your neck.
The third time
Kiora saw you, she finally looked at your face.
The third time
Kiora saw you, you were beautiful.
You weren't grinning,
but she could tell you were content. To look at you! Your hair, still
haphazard, but not in an unattractive way, sky-blue eyes that could
read much more than they would ever let on, skin that looked smooth
and begged to be touched.
She remembered
the first time she saw you. Kiora remembered wanting to hit you. Now
she wanted to faint.
The third time
Kiora saw you, you looked up at her and smiled. You smiled a smile
of someone who wanted to let her know everything was all right, that
all you ever wanted to do in your life was see her smile in return.
Your look made her feel beautiful again. She wanted nothing more in
her life than to smile in return. She tried, but suddenly a silly
boy came up from behind and grabbed her. She dropped to the ground
and screamed a little, giggling. After the shrieking had died down
and she had broken free of the torturous tickling, she jumped up.
She wanted to find you. The third time Kiora saw you, she desperately
wanted you to see her smile back.
You were gone.
Your swing was untouched, unmoving. She wanted to cry.
"What, what's
wrong? What is it?" The boy next to her demanded.
She bit her lip
for a minute. She couldn't search for you, but she knew she had to
see you again. She had to put the third time she saw you out of her
mind. "Nothing!" She said. She smiled at the boy she was with. They
ran down the hill to the swings.
The fourth time
Kiora saw you, you were in her spot at their café again. You were
pouring your heart into your journal. What was it? Poetry? Fiction?
Observations?
You were perfection.
Did anyone ever tell you that?
She wanted to
run over, to say hello, say something, see you smile at her again.
What would she say? What could she say in his presence? You were all
caught up in your writing anyway. She wouldn't want to interrupt you.
That would be rude.
They were asking
the Barista what drink would be good but different than the usual.
Kiora poked her friend's shoulder. Finally, she wanted to tell everybody
about you. Kiora saw your beauty, and wanted to share some of it.
She saw your content look but noticed a quiet longing at the same
time. She wanted to tell you that they should . . . hang out? She
didn't know. There's no easy way to say, "I want to spend my life
with you."
"Look at that
guy at our table," Kiora whispered excitedly in her friend's ear.
She looked over her shoulder at you, at caught you staring out the
window, searching for something. Kiora knew that look. It was her
favorite look to have in this place.
Her friend turned.
She looked at Kiora blankly. "What are you talking about?"
Kiora looked at
her, and looked back. In that instant, you were gone. It was impossible.
"Oh." she said.
"It's nothing, I guess."
Nothing, nothing.
Nothing at all.
"You have too
much William on the brain. No, don't look at me like that," she grabbed
her mocha from the counter. "I can tell. He likes you, you know. You
should ask him to the dance. Or to a movie, or something. He'd like
that. He talks about you all the time. . ."
She went on. About
William. Nice boy, he was, but he isn't you.
Kiora didn't know
what to say to her. She didn't know what to say at all.
You became more
important than anything else. Every person with a similar build caught
her attention, every journal left on a table was yours, every swing
set had you on it. Every coffee shop in Seattle, you walked out just
before Kiora got there. She was sure she knew your scent. You smelled
like mint, but not too strongly.
Boys came and
went, but she still haven't seen you again. What would she do if she
did? Kiora didn't know. It's traumatizing enough knowing that you
are out there, and that she may never again see you. She may never
be able to say to you, "you are the most beautiful thing I have ever
seen, and everything else looks tiny, tarnished, cold and empty compared
with you."
No one comes close
to you. Her friends all think she's crazy, refusing their blind dates
and convincing her to see this boy or that. It makes perfect sense
to her. Why bother? She's seen you, how can she ever find anyone else?
Kiora was at a
loss. Maybe once she got to know you you wouldn't be anything she
wanted, you just seemed her perfect, absolute, match. Was she being
unfair holding out for you? Were you just a figment of her imagination,
something Kiora used to hide herself from what she truly felt?
She wanted to
shake herself from you. You are absolutely unobtainable, but there
you are, again and again, a mist of a person that exists in Kiora's
hope. She's never seen you again, but all she wants to do is wait.
The
last time Kiora saw you, she loved you. She knew she would never see
you again.
It's one of those nights I know I should sleep but there's no way I can yet. I just spent the evening out with some people who don't honestly interest me. Is that elitist of me? I concern myself with wanting friends–with being lonely–all too often. Once I get out there with people I want to be friends with, I might be happy, even elated, or more excited than ever for a bit. I always wind up back home more miserable than before.
More often than not, I find myself saying the same thing. Everything I write or do or think is repeated over and over and over like listening to the same average pop song that you have memorized by the end of the first three minutes. Thoughts fill my head until it spins, the same refrain on repeat, the same dilemma rattling around, leaving me dizzy at times.
The Barista at my favorite coffee shop is modestly entertaining. His name is Victor. He is a barista veteran–he's been pulling the shots for 6 years. He always makes me "the best latte I've ever had."
He works every weeknight. He dances around and makes up special grilled-cheese sandwiches piled a foot high with fresh organic vegetables. He's a true actor, an entertainer. He designs the tip jar signs every two weeks or so–"Free Intelligence* (*with purchase of Chai)," "George W. Bush, ‘Why I love Chai,'", "Hot gypsy love–inquire within," etc. More often, they are more pleasing to look at than the art on the walls.
We have spiritual, deep, meaningful conversations when I attend this coffee shop. We crack jokes, box people into bad movie references or mock Starbucks together. The topic of the day is always widly amusing. I've been known to bring him flowers. We discuss world affairs, fate, our choices as people in America, and usages of the word, "word."
Word.
Once a prepared drink is ready, I pay and sit down. Victor fades from importance.
He wants to go to art school. But he is afraid. Afraid that the competition will be too much for him, nervous that others will be better than him, scared that he won't like what he's doing.
I'm frightened the same way. I'm afraid every time I look in a mirror. I see this body. Sometimes, all I can think about is how I am the only one who thinks the way I do. I am inside this thing that pulses and thrives and allows me to move and think and be–but I can never get out, not until I die. And what happens then? Do I even get out? I become terrified and dizzy. I have to sit down, put on Revolver and read something, a flyer on the latest environmental crisis, to calm myself down. I feel like the world is going to collapse on me.
About thirty seconds later, I am riddled with guilt. I am more terrified of life than death. Look at me! I am so lucky. I have such a life to live. I have so much. I enjoy what I do, who I am.
Or do I?
I can never decide. I am constantly lost. I hurt on the inside. I know it shows sometimes. It shows at night when I get home from school. I am so exhausted the fake falls from me and all I can be is myself. Not even myself, a fatigued shell of a person who remembers what it's like to have free time, to smile, to want to write, to want to learn, to care about other people. I come home and I am nothing but an empty and hollow memory. Not because I am fake, but because the artificial me, the "me" I need to survive, the personality that sustains me, takes over and wears me down bare as close to nothing as I can get. Wearing uncomfortable shoes for eight hours tires me and wears me down. The personality I show so many makes me miserable by the end of the day as well.
After all this, this day spent in an artificial me, I have no rewards. No one I act insincere to gives me any great pleasure of association. The only friends I feel I have are ones who I know are willing to see me real, see me broken down into shards of who they remember. The acquaintances I have, the people I will never know, I wish I could disregard.
That is a lie; I wish, honestly, that I could feel comfortable going to any of them with anything.
There is no way I ever could. "Asshole," I began to scribe. "Jerk. Egotist. I never understood you, I never will. Why did you treat me like this? Why do you still?"
I sat back. This wasn't what I wanted. I wanted him to "get it," but I was being unfair. I crumpled up the paper, sighed. I had been working on all this for far too long.
After all, if I had known what was good for me (and I'm sure for him too), this all would have been over and done with anyway. And the two of us would have been better for it.
Long ago, I recalled an amazing, beautiful, sweet boy. Over coffee, we would spend hours upon hours talking about nothing and everything. There was happiness, a sparkle in him, and genuine wisdom.
Months back, he was my best friend. I wanted more than anything to escape into him. When I was with him, a new glimmer of hope shone in me, the tingling excitement of a springtime crush rushing through me. I wanted to be near him always. I never wanted to leave his sight. I was constantly afraid to touch him, for fear I would never let go.
I thought for a while that this was happening between the both of us. I saw him so frequently, but was always so intoxicated by the sight of him that I often turned to stuttering or thoroughly examining the ground around me. Usually he could pull me out of it, making me smile and dragging me to some useless comedy. I really never knew what I had done without him.
I thought, well, this is it. I never have to leave my hometown. I've met him. He's here. I couldn't stand to leave him. Not ever. I'm sure he thinks the same way too, and one of these days, I should say something about it. He was shy, terribly shy. Maybe that was it.
Suddenly I knew I wasn't important anymore. I couldn't see what it was. I was surrounded by phobias. I didn't eat for at least three days. All I ever really wanted was one good kiss, but questioned myself even for that desire. Was it even what he wanted? If it was, I knew now that he would never have that kind of strength.
I gave up. Giving up makes it sound like it was easy. I fell into a sea of quiet and remorse and shame and grief. Finally, I gave way to new friends. I was happier, I supposed, and certainly better for it.
But now, recently, he's been back. And he's been . . . something. He's been an almighty block in my self-esteem, with half-filled promises and vague insults. The kind that referred blatantly to me.
And the rest of the human species.
So now I want to tell him off. Get him out of my life. I want to tell him everything, but don't know how to say it. I am angry, sad, bitter, lost. All I can really do about the situation is cry.
"I wanted you to know me inside and out. I wanted you to be the one. You weren't, you were just you. I know that now but I hope you understand what I mean.
"You need to hear this because I was that girl. That girl you were so afraid of. I was so happy just to be in the same room as you. You changed so much that I don't want to know you anymore. I'm sorry. There is someone for you, I know it. Don't let them pass you by. I don't hold myself in the highest regard but you passed me up.
"I would have loved you, if you had asked." [Cold and Alone: December 13, 2000]
Just one more cigarette tonight, she thought to herself, lounging in the dark at the local diner at 2 AM. And one more coffee, black, that'll be good too.
She glanced shyly around the room. She saw the younger kids packing the place. One at a booth would be eating their side dish and leaving shitty tips, while their friends sat distracting other customers from their meals (or lack of meals in her case). Those kids, in turn, were receiving plates from an underpaid, bitter waitress who did god knows what to it in the kitchen. There was the occasional pair having a serious discussion about something or other, something that would be irrelevant in a few days. There were the homeless, sitting in the back, eating what they could with the change they received while pan-handling earlier that day.
She turned a little, and gazed fixedly out the window into the rain and shimmer of headlights from drunk drivers attempting to make their way home safely.
God, it sucks to be alone this time of year. She continued to search through the raindrops on the window for a solution, but whenever she thought she found one, it quickly slipped away. She knew exactly what she wanted, and knew she would never find it. "Some one who understands." That ambiguous phrase that can never be achieved. People aren't perfect.
She knew it. She had been trying to remove herself from the concept for years, but she still couldn't succeed. It seemed impossible. The only way it could be remedied was by ignoring the situation altogether. She couldn't really. She had gotten to a point, a plain, a level ground she was accustomed to. It wasn't what she wanted, but it was what she had. She was left alone with her thoughts, constantly chastising herself about wanting more. More more more. More than this.
All she wanted was to feel that glimmer of a smile. Not even for herself, what she truly wanted was to make someone else smile. Not the smile of some thankful stranger, but the smile of familiar and warm face, a smile that had more behind it. She had felt it before, the simply divine emotion of knowing she had made someone happy, but it was long since passed.
"You doin' alright here?"
She jumped. Waitresses snuck up on her in this place. She checked her food, eggs and hash browns that hadn't been touched. She glanced to the homeless in the back, devouring every morsel. I wish I could be that grateful. She asked for a refill on her coffee.
The waitress poured the black bitter liquid quickly and quietly. She drowned her coffee in sugar and gulped the dark, warm semi-liquid again.
"Hey!" She turned. Bouncing into her booth were friends and acquaintances she had met in some pathetic place like the technical drawing class at school, long ago. They were high and tired and bored and boring and looking for something to do. They were ready to have some fun.
They had come to the wrong place.
"What's up?"
She didn't respond. She turned, took one last drag off her cigarette. None of these people knew her. They were just there. She watched the flame glow red and then fade into a tiny wisp of smoke, gray and lifeless in the ashtray. Why the hell are they here? Why the hell am I here?
"Excuse me."
She threw some cash down on the table, including a generous tip, and began to get up. She understood fully that her actions would have repercussions, but she was no longer worried about her reputation. She began to wonder what kind of impact kids in her technical drawing class could have on her already nonexistant reputation. She put on her coat and walked away. They were them, and she was her, and tonight she really didn't have time for anyone else.
"Hey, are you going to eat that?"
She escaped into the night, closing the door that dinged behind her. The rain began to pour down her face, onto her clothes, into her mind. Sometimes for days at a time, rain was the only thing that kept her sane. Its necessity had always been a part of her life. She knew the silver glimmer on long lonely nights could reassure her like nothing else. Well, almost nothing...
As she continued her walk home, her thoughts became misty and unclear. Sometimes when she made this walk she would break down, sit on the sidewalk, and sob until her throat ached and her eyes were dry. Tonight she was too cold for that. She drifted over the fog of thoughts that could sometimes devour her entire spirit. Tonight she spared herself, by resolving not to leave that café before she had had four cups of sugar with coffee in it.
Her feet were cold, but she stomped through the puddles until the water soaked through her boots and she began to shiver. She knew that this night would haunt her, her strength, her ability to think, for many more to come. But for now she innocently swept it away, fading into the darkness of the cold and rainy night.
Her boots caught my attention and wouldn't let go. My focus on the
dirty street became blurred with cold and fell onto the black leather
knee-high shoes that enveloped black tights, planted assertively over
flattened gum and dark cigarette butts. The lack of movement startled
me–they did not stomp (they were not angry), they did not shake (they
were not nervous), they did not slip (they were not clumsy)–simply
they held their ground with displayed inner strength. The boots were
far from scandalous, although 30 years ago they would have made the
evening news. Now, today, they were not shocking in any way. Today,
in fact, all they would do was capture the sights of girls like me
and distract me from the bitter cold wind.
I want a portrait of who I am. I can't describe me, can you? I am not brilliant, but I wouldn't consider myself stupid either. I have grades, but what the fuck are grades but letters? People can say I'm smart but I'm not exactly sure what that means anymore. I've grown apathetic towards many things, and that's a bad thing.
I don't know what to say. All I Know is I want to be good, and I want to be happy, and I want to find someone that matches me. And I know that I am a bitch for not wanting what I have. I am trying to deal with that fact.
Other than that, I am your average teenager. I have emotions that must be a mystery to modern science. I wonder what I am doing, who I am. I want this all to go away, but I don't know if it ever will. All I can do is hope that soon enough I will actually believe myself when I say, "It's all going to work out in the end."
A goodbye to remember. Believe me, it wont be easy to say it. Coming from a girl that never moved once, I can't understand exactly how I'll get through it.
Day to day it's not all that different. Everyone acts like it's normal, like something we all have to do is going to split us up in just a few months. From experience, though, it won't be the same. Good friends at home are left for new exciting things. High schoolers leave and disappear. It's not their fault, it's just something that happens.
June is a few hundred minutes away and the friendships are fading with the minutes. Kids begin to drift apart, attempting to avoid the pain of leaving so much so soon. Loneliness consumes many of us, and we spend hours reminiscing over the good ol' days, attempting to refresh our memories.
Moses is coming with me to Emerson! Now, how could I be sad or upset if he's coming with me? Of course, I can't count on my hands the number of friends that are staying here or going somewhere else. People that I know better than anyone, people I trust my life with, people I don't want to lose. Quite possibly, I won't lose anyone. Right now, the friends I have are very close. Saying goodbye now will not mean never seeing each other again.
Times like these will come in life, and now I'm supposed to face them. Under most lights, a smile appears when I say I'm going to Boston. While driving around to a coffee shop and laughing about some Moby Song, I'll see myself become upset.
Xylophoning isn't something we do yet, but I could see it happening before I go. You just have to understand how crazy we can be. Zig-zagging through good and bad, I think I've finally made it, but I couldn't have without any of you. |
