Perfect….

Have you ever had one of those moments that you were pretty sure “perfect” was supposed to feel like?

Actually, I have. I’ve had….a lot of them.

But with “perfection”…comes…some sort of compromise that I seem forced to make. 

It’s like life says to me: “Here. You can have perfection. But it’s not going to be perfect.”

It’s the kind of perfection that comes at fleeting moments that could never be planned. The kind of moments I never thought I would be having. But sure enough, I have them. They are the moments when you act solely on internal impulse. 

What the inside of you is telling you to do.

And because these moments are influenced by all things internal, they don’t take into account anything external.

They are their own moments, that exist in their own world. Where no one else can see them. Or appreciate them. Or understand them.

“What if time stopped, right now, at 5:17. And we could do whatever we REALLY WANTED to do, and it wouldn’t matter. And then we could just go back to THIS life, when we were finished.”

These moments…that feel so perfect…yet…aren’t, because their very existence proves that things are in fact NOT perfect….are what I am interested in.

Because that’s where the good shit is.

The evolution of Corie:

I was raised in a tight-knit, (from what I knew) upstanding, (from what I heard) model (from what they saw) Catholic family. There were two boys and two girls. There was a mother and a father. The mother and the father were extremely active in the local Catholic church. Growing up, church functions made up about 70% of my life. My father was the man in charge. With a well known background as a law enforcement officer, he directed the religious education programs at our church with a sense of authority that was both intimidating and effective. But it was also surprisingly approachable, to many of the teenagers both he and my mother dealt with over the years. They all thought my father was so funny. And that my mom was so sweet. And not that either of those aren’t true at all. They are.

They had these four children, who all had rather enviable qualities. They were either smart, or funny, or charismatic, or good-looking….or….all of the above. They began to marry and reproduce. And their spouses were all lovely additions to the family. And of course their children were beautiful as well. They were the kids that everyone went over to see after the church service was over. I remember, every Saturday that we went to evening mass, it was a good twenty minutes or so before we could even leave, because of the people that would come over and almost seem to….pay their respects…or something. To my family. And I would wait impatiently. Or chase my nephews around. With my long dark hair. That I was never allowed to cut.

“If you cut it all off, you’re no longer going to be that beautiful little girl with the beautiful long hair,” I remember my mother telling me once.

“You’re just going to be a regular girl.”

Once I cut my hair, I never looked back. It remained above shoulder length until just a few years ago. It was like I resented that long hair. And now…that it’s long and thick and most people want it…I can’t even bring myself to part with it again. And I don’t know what THAT means….

When I was younger I remember always doing things to get a REACTION out of people. That seemed to be my biggest motivator. I wanted people to notice me and to laugh at something that I did. I was usually willing to do whatever it took to get a laugh. To give myself some reputation of….the funny little clown. I wasn’t afraid to be downright obnoxious. If SOMEone thought it was funny.

My insatiable desire to get reactions out of people spilled over into high school. I acted the same way, just in the way that a high schooler would act. I did ridiculous things just to be funny. Said ridiculous things just to get reactions. Wrote ridiculous things just to get people reading. Or talking. Or whatever. I was never afraid to stand up and fight for what I believed. I jumped at the opportunity.

And now, when a situation like that arises, I almost cringe.

At some point, I grew tired.

I grew tired of putting on a show. So I dug down deep into myself and began to analyze things to no end. I developed a side of me that people could never see from the surface, but became undeniable to those that were able to break the seal.

That family, that I was talking about, dissolved, more or less. I sometimes look back at my childhood and think about how lucky I was to have what I had. Maybe I took it for granted. I can’t ever decide if I would’ve rather had my family the way it was then, or have it the way it was then–NOW. That I’m an adult. And could…appreciate it more.

The illusion that we were all putting on for all of those people that would watch us sitting in the front pew of church every week began to fade away as well. And I often wonder how much of that had to do with what my life is today. Because I can personally attest to the fact that….reality isn’t always what meets the eye.

I used to go to sleep with curlers in my hair, so that I would have the most beautiful, curly hair in the morning–on special occasions. Holidays, first communions, etc. My father used to wear a suit and tie nearly every day. My mother, always had on pretty earrings and pretty necklaces and smelled like the perfume that my father always got her. My sister was pretty. She still is pretty. She didn’t know it maybe, or didn’t think it….but she was. And I always hoped she thought I was pretty too. My brothers wore polos or sweaters and khakis. And always looked like nice, young men.

Now…nothing is the same. I wonder, if I went back to that church, what they would think of me? I have tattoos all over myself. I have nothing really to show for myself. I have a lot of mistakes I’ve made. I have a past….that has birthed an evil twin as a future.

Now I stay quiet, much more than I used to even…in the last few months. I’ve been told I argue back a lot less. And…I do. Because, I’m just tired of it.

Just today I was thinking, “I really wish I could write down some of the internal conversations I have with myself. Because they are good.”

Isn’t that what writing is all about?

Or is it the ability to RECOGNIZE those internal conversations. To actually listen to them. Take part in them. Look for meaning in them. Because…sometimes I feel like I do that too much. Maybe I spend too much time in my head.

But I don’t really want to be spending much time anywhere outside of it either.

So, a blanket of silence falls.

And I put my head down.

And I do what I am told.

Most of the time.

And I just try to prove that it’ll be okay.

A look inside my brain: (1:24 a.m. Friday morning.)

There are several tabs open in my internet search engine. One of them is a copy of some song lyrics. Of a song that I have been listening to quite frequently lately. (Of course I will share them….)

“I don’t know how we were created
But I know we all die

Go pick up all your tools and build a roof
I’ll pick up all mine and build one too

I just do as I do
That’s all I can do

Listen to the cars just passing through
Help out all those friends that helped you too

You just do as you do
That’s all you can do

Open up your arms and hold on to
Everything you own that owns you too

And just let it all go
Because that’s all we can do

And that’s all we can do”

-Portugal. The Man.

I’m not sure if there’s anything I could say right now that that song doesn’t already say for me. And those lyrics accompanied with the vocals and the instruments and a cool summer night’s drive with the windows down….really provide for an excellent example of what goes through my brain these days.

Another tab open is a list of MFA Creative Writing programs. Anymore, it seems that my any sense I can make of my life and what goes on in it is slipping through my fingers like sand that I’m walking along the beach picking up. Trying desperately to take just a handful of it with me. But by the time the walk is over, I look down at my hand and it just has a bunch of sand type shit all over it. That I just have to brush my hands together to let blow away in the wind. 

Some of it gets in my eyes.

“Fuck!” I say. “Sand in my eyes!”

And then I can’t see anything for a little while.

But, the point of that analogy that went on for way too long, is that….writing, is what I have to get back to. 

No.

I have not been putting myself through some of the hardest shit I could ever imagine just because I want something to write about. I would’ve chosen a different passion already if that was the case. This wouldn’t have been worth it. 

It’s just…the hardest shit keeps happening. And…laying on my bed the other day, trying to rationalize about 567 things in my life, I realized that, I’ve said this before, but….I’m sometimes good at saying things that other people can’t. And, I’m not trying to brag or anything. But, one of the best compliments I can ever receive, is after someone reads something I’ve written, when they have that reaction that’s like, “I feel the EXACT same way sometimes!” or “I KNOW what you mean!!!”….if there is something that someone, even just one person out there is feeling, but doesn’t know how to say it; well, I would be honored if I could figure out how to put it into words. And have them read it. And say….”I know what she means…”

I feel like not jumping at the chance to write about any and everything I can, is just a waste of….a knowledge of words and how to put them together…along with a waste of…one hell of a life so far. (And I’m not even 25!)

So…..Kansas City, you just keep breaking my heart. And I would be lying if I said I wasn’t exploring other options. But If I am pressured in anyway towards this decision I don’t think the outcome would be good for either of us. So…just…give me some space. I’m trying to figure out if we are right for each other anymore. I could never picture my life without you. I never could. There was a time when I embraced everything you were…and I knew we were right together. But there was a time when I thought that about a lot of things. And…right from wrong…up from down….no relevance in my life right now. So…let me just think. And we’ll take one day at a time.

Harper has no desire to be in my room with me right now. 

And that makes me sad.

Tonight I was with friends. There was a time when I was laying in a chair, distanced from the rest of the people in the room. I just didn’t have anything to say. I wasn’t preoccupied. Well. I was. But…my phone wasn’t full of text messages popping up left and right. I was just laying there. And the rest was background noise. And that seems to be a common theme these days. I just lay there. And the rest….is background noise.

We went to a fast food restaurant right before they closed. We felt bad but didn’t care too much. It was the strangest experience I’ve had in a fast food restaurant, ever, I think. After it was clear that they were closed, we were only about halfway through our food. All of a sudden, some strange sort of rave-ish, ecstasy/shrooms/acid type of music came over the speakers. And, I was just trying to eat some chicken nuggets. And then a man starts banging on the windows. And this music….just trippy ass music….and this dude…banging on the windows….and I look over at my friends shirt…and it’s fuckin tie-dye. And I ask, “am I on shrooms right now?” And then the sound of a telephone starts ringing. Like, that had been a part of whatever sound was coming through the speakers. 

And, I know it probably makes no sense. But I was genuinely freaked out for a minute. And completely sober.

Earlier tonight, after making loads of money as my fantastic job (you know those are both lies, right?) I ran into the gas station for another friend. When I came back out I handed her her pack of cigarettes and asked her to hand me a cup that I wanted to throw away. The window was slightly rolled down and we were trying to fit the cup through the crack in the window but it would just baaaarrrreeeeeely fit. So I said, “roll it down just a little more,” as I’m trying to awkwardly fit this cup through the window.

Naturally, she accidentally pushed the “window up” button and rolled up my hand into the window.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Hard.

And it was that kind of laugh that made me feel good.

Even though sometimes, everything feels like such shit.

Also, I am currently interested in no romantic relationship whatsoever. I’ve tried everything. 

They all…..suck.

So the next dude…is…reeeaaaally gonna have to sweep me off my feet. And even if he does, I’ll probably freak out.

And if they talk to anyone from around here, I doubt they will want to.

I don’t know.

I’ve known life a lot of different ways.

But I don’t remember ever knowing it without you.

It’s the green that makes the world go ’round…

I’m green with envy. That my life can’t be what I wish it was. That I’ve never really gotten one situation to end up with me “winning”. I can’t remember the last time I came out of something and thought, “Man. That really worked out for me.” I’m envious of anyone that has any money to their name right now. That can afford to pay their bills, and then like, buy an iced latte afterwards. That used their money to pay for educations that have gotten them jobs where they make….not that much….but at least enough to survive. Or maybe I’m envious of those assholes that didn’t (or were smart enough not to?) go to college and have jobs where they make….not that much…but at least enough to survive. 

So money becomes the purpose. Stupid, dirty, disgusting, bad-smelling money. I lower myself to standards that I try to brush off with “I’m only doing this for now…just until school is finished…” and I beg for jobs back that I never should’ve even gotten in the first place. Well guess what? School should’ve been finished by now. But it’s not. So I’m sorry for that.

And then I look for some way to just paaaassss the tiiiiiiiime while I’m on this hunt for money. Completely forgoing what I REALLY wish I could be doing. What I should be doing. I have no choice left but to make money my main priority. And currently, I’m doing a terrible job at even that. So I start to find distractions. Ways to make things go by quicker. I make new friends, I get new habits. I build new relationships.

And then I land myself in a green…swamp…of….shit. Some mess that I’ve created. And it’s turned into a monster. A Frankenstein. A green Frankenstein. And I can’t even control it anymore. What have I created? And it’s turned my whole life into this hazy shade of green. Where I can’t even see what my best friends look like anymore. I can’t see my family. I can’t see people I love, or thought I loved, or still do love, or who love me but I don’t love them….I can’t see…anything.

And then I become nauseous. My face….turns this sick shade of green. Because here I am. Sitting in this mess. Being hung upside down by this monster I’ve created. All because I was a little bored and a little too smart and a little too creative and maybe even a little crazy…..

And I explode. 

All over.

And it’s green. 

Because that’s my favorite color.

Scenes:

I sat at my desk with my head in my hands.

I wasn’t depressed, or anything. Just, one of those times when you….feel the need to put your head in your hands. Maybe I just wanted some quiet time. Some time to think my thoughts in my head, without being interrupted by the constant drone of others telling me my thoughts to think for me.

I open them. They land upon an ashtray that sits next to my computer. It’s shaped like a toilet. It says, “Jamaica No Problem” on the top, and then reads “Your Jamaican Ashtray” around the toilet bowl.

“See that?” she said, “YOUR Jamaican ashtray.”

“This was my favorite one, and I chose to give it to you.”

Eh.

I tried to think of anything else. But research has proven that when you try your hardest not to think of something, you usually end up thinking about it the most.

I opened my back door to look for my dog. 

Couldn’t see any evidence she was anywhere out there. She does this, sometimes. She will go out there at night and disappear. And I have no idea where she goes. For all I know she could be with the neighbor’s dog down the street. But she always comes back. They always come back. I’m great proof of that. But I can’t personally attest to it’s 100% truthfulness. I always go back….but they rarely come back.

Anyway, as I looked out the back door, for the first time I saw fireflies. I feel like this moment is one that probably gets written about too much. It’s over done. That moment at the beginning of summer that everyone sees fireflies…oohhhhh it’s magical…I knnooowww….

But, it still sort of is….

They all just looked like they were popping. And it dawned on me that…shit…it’s already summer. Again. 

And I started to think of the phenomenon of men’s softball leagues. What is the deal with that? All the time, men’s softball leagues. Is that just a midwest thing? Do they have those on the coasts?

“Definitely not like they have them here,” he said.

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

I received a text message the other day:

“Hey, where’s the comcast store again?”

I immediately became sad. Flooded with memories of what things were like a year ago….

Damn! I remember A YEAR AGO writing about how things were A YEAR AGO….and talking about how things were going to be A YEAR FROM NOW. Time keeps….moving.

And so does this insanity with which it brings.

Seriously.

Insane. Shit. 

(I didn’t mean for any of this to happen….)

What’s normal, Corie?

I have no idea how to get over the feeling of missing somebody. 

Or something.

Or someplace.

Or some time.

I have a close friend who lost her mom.

She never gets to see her. Ever. She must miss her everyday.

How does she deal with that?

I have several close friends who lost one of their close friends.

They were so used to her being around, being there, everyday, being funny, being smart, being stupid too–”dealing” with her. But, they liked to deal with her. They didn’t LIKE it….but they were used to it. Because they loved her. And they knew that she was a good person. They knew she had good intentions. They knew she would pick herself back up here at some point, and get “on the right track”. They knew she was just having a rough go of it. She had been for a few years now. And then one day, they realized….that they didn’t know where she was anymore. And to them, it felt like she kept getting further and further out of reach.

I read books, I watch television, I spend time with friends, I take drives that I sometimes feel guilty for, but at other times I know that I really NEED them. Because during them, I sometimes feel really good about things.

I make the same jokes, and I get the same laughs, and I notice when people talk to me hesitantly. I notice when they internally wonder….”what’s been going ON with her…?”

I’m just ready to go back to normal.

But it occurred to me, that I have no idea what that is.

Sometimes I just want to say…

Look. I get it. I know what’s going on.

I’m a smart person.

That makes….dumb decisions.

I know that I’m smart. I know that I SHOULD have the capability to process the decisions that I make and their consequences. To think about things before I do them. Say them. Feel them. Act on them. Not….act on them.

I realize that you look at me and say, “she’s a smart girl…” and then your voice kinda trails off a little bit and you don’t quite know how to finish it.

I wish I could just tell you that, some of the things I do, I literally just have to do them. Some of the things I feel, I just have to feel them. Some of the things I think, I just have to think them. It’s just….it’s what I have to do.

And I wish that I could reassure you of all of the things you think that aren’t true at all. I wish I could make you believe what I believe. 

If I’ve learned anything. Anything.

It’s that, it’s going to be okay.

But I don’t know how I expect you to believe that.

How do I say this….

I think it mostly goes without saying, that as children…of parents…we don’t generally look forward to any point in time where we have to deliberately disappoint our parents. I don’t think anyone ever TRIES or WANTS to do that. It’s not something that is enjoyable to do.

Just…it’s not.

But I think after that consensus is agreed upon, we can begin to make divisions, on the kinds of people we are. Or…who we have been made into.

I think there are two different types of children: 1.) Those that are not afraid of what their parents will think of them or the decisions they have made. They tell their parents most everything that goes on in their life, they feel no shame or need to make any secrets of anything. They realize that their parents may not approve of certain decisions or lifestyle choices, but they also are aware that they have taken themselves to a point in life where they are completely in charge of where the rest of theirs is going. It’s no longer their parents decision. It’s theirs. They are adults. They do what they want.

2.) These, are the other types. Down here. The ones who….aren’t quite what the children up above us are. We…are painfully afraid of telling our parents most everything that goes on in our lives. Not because we are ashamed of it, or embarrassed by it…..or even regret it. But because we are just afraid that they won’t understand. That they will be mad at us. That they will be disappointed in us. Again. We were raised around dinner tables and before and after church services. We had the perfect families with the perfect lives and the perfect houses. Our parents did everything they were supposed to do to raise us right. They followed ALL the rules in the Bible. Those people above us up there, their parents….they didn’t even take their kids to church! They divorced multiple times! They smoke and drank and their children KNEW ABOUT IT! So why is it that they have better relationships with their sons and daughters than ours have with us?

It’s a question I’ve looked at a lot over the last few years. Not just because of or even specifically in relation to my own, personal experiences. But because of the experiences I watch my friends have. I watch my friends who were raised in the same kinds of households I was raised in. And then I watch those who were raised in the OPPOSITE kind of household I was raised in. And I’m not saying anything about how that contributes to who a child grows up to be. 

I don’t know what I’m saying, actually.

So maybe I’ll just stop saying things.

 

 

….Nah. What fun would THAT be?

More on whistling…

If you know me at all, you know a few of the things that I am truly passionate about:

Anything with bleu cheese in it.

The perfect ponytail.

Writing. (?)

Jokes about farting. Anything to do with farting. I think it’s hilarious. Always will.

Whistling.

(This seems like an adequate list for an almost 25 year-old to have, right?)

I recently have just given a little more thought to my passion for whistling. I can’t even remember when it started. Actually, I guess I sort of can. I remember sitting in the backseat of my parents car on the way home from church. My dad always used to whistle whatever songs we had just sung at church that day. I would sit there, silent, staring out the window, listening to his whistling or my mom’s talking or the a.m. radio station’s crackling, and think to myself, “that’s not even that good. I can whistle better than that…”

I’m not sure how I knew this, but, sure enough, I could. I could whistle those church hyms three or four times louder, more on key, and just overall better sounding that he could.

So I started to whistle EVERYTHING.

And never stopped.

I remember I would just absent-mindedly whistle any jingle or tune that I had most recently heard. One time, it came out as the theme for Trojan condoms. I was in the kitchen with my mom and brother. Couldn’t have been older than ten or twelve, and was doing something by myself-entertaining myself-which I remember being much better at than I am these days-and I just started whistling that theme song.

My brother said something like, “How do you feel about the fact that you’re daughter is whistling the theme to the Trojan condom commercial?”

I don’t think she paid much attention to it. It was just Corie being Corie.

Over the years several have tried to challenge me on my whistling abilities. It’s not something I like to use to show off. So, I’m generally not up for whistling duels. I WOULD ritualistically have “whistle-offs” with one of the Mexican, barely English speaking kitchen workers at my job every Saturday night when we were closing. He would whistle something and I would whistle it back. I would whistle something and he would whistle it back.

It was entertaining for all involved.

For the first three minutes. Then they became annoyed. As most everyone does.

One time my mom told me that people that whistle are usually in good moods. “You must be in a good mood,” she would say.

I remember thinking, “Oh. Cool. I’m in a good mood!”

Not that long ago a friend told me that her mom told her that crazy people whistled.

…………..

I try to think of the specific times I whistle, and there really is no way to tell why I do it. I whistle most often at work. I do it loudly, relentlessly, incessantly….sometimes I hit notes that even make mySELF annoyed. I can’t imagine what people who come in there to eat think. When I’m working. Sometimes…it’s really noticeable.

I whistle in the car, alone, by myself. When others would sing, I whistle.

Just now, I received some news that I thought wouldn’t be coming. And sure enough, it came.

And I hadn’t whistled all morning.

But I started.

And….who knows…what that means.