A Memoriam: Discussions with a Friend Named Denver

Denver died.


For months I've noticed that there was something "off" with him. But I ignored it.
I noticed his fins getting frayed and small and I ignored it.
His sapphire scales were turning into a dull gray and I ignored it.

It wasn't until he stopped eating his food that I began to stop ignoring him.
It's because I'm selfish and self-serving. Because feeding Denver was my activity and at the time my activity wasn't being achieved because Denver wouldn't eat anything.

Then one day Denver couldn't swim anymore. He just floated with his head looking at the tank lid which was the only real sky he ever knew. His gills were taking slow, big gulps of chemically cleaned water. His small side fins were doing their best to keep him afloat and not falling on the rough stones below him.

I left for only a few hours, I swear. But when I came home, Denver wasn't.
His dead fish eyes were probably the worst part because they were nothing like his eyes.
The horrible thing about it all was that those eyes made him look like just another plane, dead fish. Not Denver, not my friend.

We made a blog together and through the discussions we came to many understandings about life. Denver and I went through transformations together from fish, to friend, to symbol.
I mean that in the most passionate and sincere way possible: Denver became a symbol.

Back in the past postings whenever I talked about Denver I wasn't talking about the blue Betta fish sitting on my dresser. I was talking about myself, my friends, my husband, my family, the schizophrenic lady that came into the shop.

Denver landmarked important pieces of my life and he let me express those. So what does this mean now if he is such a beacon of symbolism?
Why did the universe think that I no longer needed Denver?

What passed away into fish heaven with the little guy?

The husband and I couldn't bare to flush him down some septic bowl. We drove around for about thirty minutes trying to find a send off point. We found a river in a park that was large and beautiful and black as night. I dumped the whole tank in there with him. His plants, the water, the pebbles. It was so dark I couldn't see where any of it went and I'm okay with that.

I said a few words, turned around and went home.



It had nothing to do with if I needed Denver anymore.
And I might start up another blog.
But that still doesn't mean I'll be getting another Betta fish soon.

I loved Denver, the discussions I had with my fish.

See you,

A&D

NostalgiaiglatsoN

Yo. I got some beef. Some soy-product-meat-subsititue kinda beef with you guys.
Just kidding, I just want to make things clear.
I'm not sad, depressed, over-worked, yah-dee-yah-dee-yah.
My blogging voice just sort of has an attitude and is filled with teen angst that wasn't fully utilized in highschool. I'm subjecting you poor few souls who visit me and Denver to these things because words are like wine and need to breathe before being enjoyed.
I don't know crap about wine.
And I appreciate the "Is everything okay?" emails and I love you all for it.
Now for more angst.
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I remember when I was numb.(see, angst.)
I remember when I was motivated.
I remember when I remembered something I forgot, then feeling bad for forgetting it.
I remember Emily and I playing faeries outside in the honeysuckle field. I don't remember what we talked about; what do eight-year-old faeries talk about while eating honeysuckles?

I remember when Charlie and I went to Conscious Land by hiding under a blanket, then lookinng at our reflections through windows.
I remember when I had OCD. When I was obsessive, compulsive, and disordered.
It sucked and it lingered till I was a teenager. Then I started caring too much about what people thought about me and stopped counting the threads on my sheets.
I remember the suicides, and how I found out over a text message.
I remember how the OCD threw up and stained my favorite dress with anxiety and stale beer.

Every time I look at her I'm subconsciously analyzing her to see if she's happy enough or do I need to go buy her a sandwich or something right now.
I remember the first time I did a bad thing. I hated it.
I remember when meatballs was an attempt at a bonding experience.
I told her "no" because that's gross and I don't eat red meat.

I forget so much. I forget that I was supposed to bring a library book back to school today.
I forget what 2010 looked like and I'll never remember because I ripped out all of the pages in my journal about it.
I forget that the Pythagorean Theorem is meant for math and not life.
I forget my best friends' birthdays.
I forget that I'm actually not from Paris.
Italy I guess. Maybe Whales.
But that's just from a piece of paper and I hear he lies about stuff like that sometimes to sound more impressive.



I forget to breathe. I forget what third grade was like. Actually, I don't remember third grade at all. I think that the teacher's name was Ms. Ross.
I forget why I liked Disney Channel so much.
I forget that I'm not really that good of a singer.
I forget that I actually do care about what people think even though I swear to the world that I don't.
I forget to listen and forget to nod my head and say "mmhmm".
I forget to stretch.
I forget words.
I forget names and I forget faces.
I forget that I'm always supposed to smile no matter what.
I forget that I have the ability to be brave.
I forget I may come off stubborn but it's mostly because I just care.

I could have been clingy. I could have been nicer. I could have been more chill.
But I know that the universe is not indifferent to my happiness. And if I stomp my feet and shout loud enough I'll get their attention and then scream. Because I can because I have the right to and because I may never get another chance.

Memories are fickle things that only hang around when they want to. If they get bored they'll ditch you like that boy at the school dance in 8th grade. Other times they'll stick around just like your love handles.

"Eternity is capable of being in love"

See you,

A&D

Humilities. That Time You Got Your Period in Gym Class

Stop and hear the coins fall on the floor.
Listen to the intake of his breath.
And stop.
Feel the muse claw up your throat.
The motion, the ocean, the notion of words that cry to be free.
And stop.

I want you to tell me a lie. How about in a blog post?
An aforementioned coffee shop romance. A purely platonic embrace.
The bat of a hesitated wink.

No, don't stop. This sentence might actually relate to someone and snaps and thumbs up are my bread and wine. I've missed you guys.
I've yearned and longed and dreamed of that soft scent of tobacco and Calvin Klein cologne.

I don't break so easily, not like in elementary when you told me you saw a booger in my nose; or like in middle school when you found tissue paper in my training bra; or even in high school when you heard I hooked up with that guy with the unibrow. Denial. Denial. Denial.

Sometimes I think about skyscrapers. Sometimes of peonies. A lot of the time I think about my weight, my complexion, my stutter, and my love handles especially my love handles.
But there is an iPhone app for everything.
Here's a prescription for an Instagram filter and some Accutane.
Why did I have to get personal in this...Let's just converse about your new tattoo who is in rehab and why did she decide to get pregnant. Meat and Potatoes, Meat and Potatoes, skyscrapers, laughing, New Year's resolutions, and the lonely thermometer that refuses to let the sun come back.

All I ever wanted was to smell clean air and find out what a papaya tasted like. Dish soap and do-rags are all that are in my pantry right now because I spent all my money on compliments and hair ties.

Maybe there is more to the world than Paris.

I'm in college and I get shocked when someone doesn't point out my stuffed training bras or unibrow mistakes. Things are different which is why I have nothing to write about anymore.
So here's the conclusion: Something about love, whiskey, and the way your old scars look in the sunlight.


See you,

A&D

Remember Good Spongebob Episodes and When Selfies Didn't Exist?

Can we just talk about love for a sec?

To all the sad and lonelies out there, I hear you. I snuck into your bookbag and read those letters you wrote. I understand the shy thoughts of not feeling good enough and always wanting a snack. I could tell you there is hope out there, someone is destined for you, you're probably single for a reason; but I know you're fed up with excuses and just want to get laid. There there. I'll be your valentine, the shoulder to cry on, the mother you always wished you had.

I was never great with kids or keeping a continuous workout routine but dammit I know the hurt of having a crush on someone who is only enamored with his reflection and by God I"ll give you a squishy boob hug if it's the last thing I do.

I used to be an art major and now I'm going into political science. I know practically everything you need to know about art history and don't know crap about politics. I'm lined up for a job at a fourth coffee shop I would work at and I still don't feel like a cool kid yet and it's probably because I don't have tattoos.
Sorry, I got caught up in me again, we were talking about love.

For those of you who are in it right now, it's pretty badass isn't it?
For those of you who were in it, he was an ass wasn't he?
For those of you who never have had it, life's a jackass isn't it?

-A short sonnet by Smaug

The most annoying thing to hear is to be patient, but that is honestly the only thing that got me here to this kind of serenity and bliss and mooshy-gooshy stuff yeah yeah yeah talk more about sex.
Understand you will still stress about your weight and your grades and your job and life hasn't gotten much easier since high school has it?

Even that being said, I'm still never going to a reunion.

I love you and I was never the first person to say that in the world and it kills me every time I think about that. That doesn't change the fact of how I feel or how stopping and looking at roses never seemed so beautiful until now.

See you,

-A&D.

A short post about Jerry Hirano.

What are we talking about today little fishy?

Guts.

Maybe some brains too.
The squishy and leaky stuff.

Gray matter.

I used to be too fat. Now too skinny. Just Right doesn't seem to exist anymore.

Compassion.
We learned that at Buddha Church. It took me a couple days to figure out what Reverend Hirano was talking about. I had this idiot come into my work who was complaining about our prices and quality of coffee. He even had the audacity to say Starbucks was better.

I was filled with impatient irritation. "The customer is always right. The customer is always right. The customer is always right."
I couldn't wait till my co-worker came in so we could have our routine gossip hour. The only level of communication we have is bitching about terrible customers. Once he eventually came in I was ready to launch into my angry tale. But then I remembered Hirano. I then thought to try to be compassionate.

 

I instantly deflated. I actually felt better. My brows unfurrowed and I felt the anger breathe out of me. Why should I let some opinionated stranger get me so worked up? Why should I undermine his preferences and smite him for expressing himself? He doesn't owe me anything...


I feel like about 40% of conversation is just judging and gossiping. It's become so regular it is thought of as normative and innocent. Why does it take effort to show compassion but instinct to express disdain?

I'm exploring my hands, my breaths. The skyline, the vanishing point and veins. Especially my veins.

Now I'm looking at that freckle under your eye. The pitch of your voice, the grind of your teeth. Why would I bother looking at your veins?

Remember when I spoke of perfection like some untouchable soul mate? The love I could never make mine. Well she's not good enough for me either. My words taste like titanium and I want to enjoy chewing my insults a little longer.

Just Right actually never existed. 

See you,

A&D

Songbirds and those Sacred Sonnets.

Sleeping was never really Denver's thing.

I feel bad for the little guy. Lots of nights he wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling in his fishy scales. He reaches out in the dark waters of his tank for some sort of grasp on reality, some sort of comfort. He is greeted with his faux plants and rough pebbles--the blankets and teddy bears of his aquatic abode.
But it doesn't stop the fear, not really. He looks to me for some sort of salvation from the terror, to tell him everything is fine. And I try, I really do, but we both know he can't speak human and I'm still brushing up on my betta tongue.

So I turn on the light, but it doesn't matter now.

He hears every noise the house composes into the sticky night air.
The breathing of the air vent, the clatter of a falling object, the creeks and aches of the house's bones.

He can't stand it.

His scales flare out in a million nerve crashing spasms. He tosses his head into the bristles of the plants, he strokes the smooth cold walls of the tank. Anything to escape his wandering mind.
The insanity storms above his head like a merciless cloud of distress and apprehension.
How can he expect to move on? To fall back asleep?
It never really was his thing anyway.

"4am knows all my secrets."

And finally, he does not long to dream anymore. Reality is more potent, more forgiving, more blissful.

So maybe yeah, this is sort of about me. Surprise. And I honestly feel bad this blog has turned into my own bitter diary of my droopy sad-face tendencies. I really am a giddy little gal, just you wait and see.

The way the attitude of these posts have been I bet it sometimes is hard to believe I'm the happiest I've ever been. All that's really changed is that I am aware of my fingernails, my shackles, my spontaneous sad-face mentalities. So I preach them. I release them. Savor them even.

Just know that I'm okay and all I want is a bowl of loaded mashed potatoes right now.

Thank God Thanksgiving is coming up. 

See you,

A&D.

Simplicity.

I'm told that I'm smart. That I have potential.
That I'm the one in the family that will have the success story.

"You're going to make it big."

"You're going places."


You could imagine what it was like,
when I told those excited voices that I was going to be an art major.

But all that didn't plan out because I'm too impatient.

You could imagine what it was like,
when I told them that I was changing my major to communications.

"Thank God."

So now what? This is the mystical gooey land of opportunity. I'm going to the most prominent and  shiveringly expensive school in the state. But I just don't know what the hell to do with all these gift baskets and lucky charms.

...I really only picked communications because the only other major more generic than that is a business degree. And I just can't handle macroeconomics.

I feel like I used to be so much more profound, deep, and knowledgeable of myself. Now I feel like these words are empty shells of their potential.

"Remind you of someone?"

Don't think I'm being hard on myself. This is just how I think through things.
I'm critical, I'm cynical and I may be even just a little bit crazy. 

"I don't believe in using insanity as an excuse."

I don't let it define me. Change me. Or even really effect me.
I either allow it to make me better or suffocate it till it can't even breathe annoying shallow breaths anymore.

"That'll show you."


My darling Muse is off exploring the world.  Probably in Poland or something trying to culture herself. She still writes and stays in touch, but it's not how it used to be. Not really.

Not like how she used to latch herself onto my back and constantly whisper pretty words for me to scribble down and show the world then take all the credit.
"Because I'm selfish like that."

My Muse obviously got restless though and needed to stretch her legs. Felt inclined to see a cobblestone path or maybe an Eiffel Tower or two.

Remember how this blog was supposed to be about Denver? And how I said I would write his story next time?

"I Lied."


See you,

-A&D.