Everything is worth it if you make it worth it.
My new job depresses me, when I let it. Everyday I bring ridiculously particular orders to hoards of cranky former doctors/lawyers/otherwise-rich people who can no longer live their lives the way they want to. They're stuck in this retirement home, they can no longer drive themselves, travel, go on outings, in some cases even bathe themselves or breathe without a machine. Every day they get more and more depressed, they take it out on me and it's a normal part of my routine to get lectured. After all, how dare I bring them their soup and entree at the same time! Obviously it's going to get cold, what was I thinking? I must take it back immediately and wait exactly ten minutes before returning it to them. And what on earth have I done to my fingernails? Gray nail polish? It makes them look like they are rotting!
My favorite is the mousy old lady that sits at the corner table by herself. She requires breathing tubes, and her vocal chords don't work anymore. She whispers. Sometimes she uses a pen and paper. Yesterday she motioned for me to come over to her table. I came over thinking she would want coffee or for me to cut up her food again. She whispered "thank you for being kind." So I brought her extra ice cream.

I had a dream the other night that I knew I was dying. The FIRST thing I felt I needed to do in this dream to prepare for this was to go through my notebook and rip up all the pages of things I didn't want people to know. I pictured my room, empty of life. My parents were solemnly going through my belongings, struggling with the decision of whether or not to read my notebook. They felt guilty, but decided to read it anyway because they missed me and it was the closest thing to having a conversation with me that they could find. I couldn't bear the thought of some of these pages being seen by their eyes. I immediately jumped up from my bed in a panic and rifled through my bag until I held the beloved little black book in my hands, and mercilessly began to destroy entire groups of pages. I was vaguely aware of doing this, but in my dreamlike state I felt like that action was reversible and all of the pages could be recovered.
You can imagine my sadness when I woke up in the morning, tired from my sleepwalking, and my trash can was filled with piles of meticulously ruined pages. In a way I'm really sad about this. I don't write anything unless I am afraid of forgetting it. Even if it's not a good memory and it's not pleasant for me to read, I keep it there because I feel like it taught me a vital lesson that will (hopefully) save me from experiencing similar things again.
But in another odd way, I feel lighter. If I did this in my sleep, obviously I didn't want what I ripped up to be associated with me. I was terrified of those pages being what was left behind if I died.
I'm sorry you are so empty, notebook. Only half of your pages remain. But you will be filled soon with more and more pages of life. Grow with me.

Sunburnt hands, legs, body
it hugs me
and makes me shiver
goosebumps.
Floral jumper:
Helicopters are yelling descriptions
at me
in a firm voice.
Smirking boy skates by
with Kurt Cobain hair
holding his Dr. Pepper
in this heartbeat town.

currently cannot stop listening to:

stoplight.

I'm at a stoplight and it's blocked. I can't see if it's red or green, the truck in front of me is blocking the light. But it keeps going. So I keep going.
Of course, it might be different for me than for this other vehicle. When it goes, the light might be green. By the time I get there it could be yellow or red.
But I go anyway.
I am compelled to keep accelerating forward. I don't even hesitate.
What gives me the trust in this person? What makes me follow their actions? I don't really know them.
Sure, we've been close. Our vehicles have been really close. But these vehicles aren't really us.
The people we actually are, are just residing inside these vehicles that take us through life.
I think you're this person for me. Our vehicles know each other really well. But it's so hollow because maybe the real people inside these vehicles have never met. They've constantly spoken, through the windows. But they've never been able to open the doors and step out, being completely trusting of each other. That would probably be too dangerous, and there's this nagging fear against doing that. And for good reason, because
We're constantly causing each other to run red lights.

Shire. (not in the Lord of the Rings Sense)

I feel like I should explain our usage of this word.
A few months ago, a few of my best friends and I decided that the word "shire", if we're speaking in an onomatopoeic sense, sounds like a knife in the heart. To us, it sounds like a representation of something either really embarrassing, or sad, or scary. So we use it when something in one of those categories happens and we can't think of any other way to describe it.
There are different categories of a shire. You can feel it for someone else when you're embarrassed for them.
You can feel it when you're really sad or embarrassed for yourself.
You can feel it when you have to go to the doctor's office or the dentist and you're feeling uneasy about it.
You can definitely feel it when you have to write 3 papers in one weekend or when you have a general lack of sleep.
I feel like lately, everything I remember doing is a shire.
At night, before I fall asleep, ALL I can do is picture every shire I have ever felt for myself.
I constantly feel embarrassed. I constantly wish to not have said this one thing, or done this one thing.
Am I ever going to figure out how to prevent doing and saying embarrassing things BEFORE I do them?
I honestly hope so.
Hopehopehope.
(I hope your day is not a shire.)

It was 2 in the morning, it was almost 3 in the morning, it depends on which way you round it.
Up or down.
I like things that are worn out:
shoes and backpacks.
The soles are getting thinner, the fabric might have holes.
When I buy them secondhand I feel like I'm cheating because the wear is not mine.
I did not contribute.
I did nothing to thin out the rubber on the bottom, the footprints causing this to happen had nothing to do with my feet.
The tiny holes in the fabric of the backpack didn't result from anything I did.
When these characteristics were being added, when this experience was being added to these objects,
I may have been lying in bed.

Back From Coachella!

It's very odd to go back to everyday life after being at Coachella for 3 days. I constantly wonder why no one is dancing at school and work. YOU GUYZ. Have some fun.
Yes, we were followed back to our hotel room at 2:30 in the morning by a carful of boys. Yes, we did sneak onto another hotel's shuttle. Yes, Paris Hilton blocked our view. Yes, we did wake up at 4 in the morning due to an earthquake (Coachella is on major fault lines). Yes, we did get majorly sunburnt. None of this matters in the slightest, though, when you're surrounded by your favorite live music all weekend. Also, Beyonce is our show twin. She either genuinely likes good music or her publicist is like, "Beyonce. You have to look hip. Please make yourself seen at various independent musical shows. Bob your head, preferably."
Some highlights:
Sleigh Bells. (I was in euphoria.)
Girls
Local Natives (every time.)
Jonsi
Edward Sharpe
The XX
and a "Coachella 2010" song written on the spot by our beloved Bradford Cox.

Coachella Sched

After an hour of some of the most difficult decisions I have made this year, I think we have it figured out. In this order:

Friday:

Deer Tick
Sleigh Bells
Yeasayer/Hockey
Ra Ra Riot/She & Him
Passion Pit
Grizzly Bear
LCD Soundsystem
Vampire Weekend
Fever Ray/Deadmau5/Jay-Z

Saturday:

Frank Turner (lolz)
Frightened Rabbit
GIRLS
Temper Trap/Beach House
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
The XX/Dirty Projectors
Hot Chip
MGMT
Muse
The Dead Weather
Sia


Sunday:

Local Natives
Deerhunter
Matt and Kim
Julian Casablancas/Jonsi
Phoenix
Thom Yorke
Gorillaz/The Big Pink
Yann Tiersen



Happy Coachella!

Sometimes the best kinds of nights aren't planned. They're spent being too late for every movie you were thinking of seeing, accidentally stumbling into a nighttime music festival, sneaking onto the rooftop of a downtown hotel in the middle of the night. Sometime throughout the course of this night, you may make friends with some sweet couples who need advice on how to sneak onto said rooftop.



It's possible that you will find a beanie on the ground while crossing the street, and your friend will quickly shove it into your bag. You'll forget how many drunk people will be downtown during Spring Break, and possibly witness one or two unable to cross the street without toppling over.

But there's a cute, historic mansion-turned-hotel to sneak into, with infinite staircases to get lost in and a front-desk attendant that happens to be asleep. You find yourself in an empty, closed restaurant filled with antique furniture and lots of tea cups.
Soak it in.

Okay. I need suggestions on how to start a conversation with him at Coachella, without coming right out and saying "I would very much like to marry you."

And now, back to my study-prison.

[ Eff you, midterms. ]

We got in trouble.

that God-forsaken hippie music festival.

We're counting down the days.
Our hotel reservations are made and me and Sara are finally going after talking about it for literally years.
Is it bad that I am more excited about Coachella than my birthday and Christmas combined? I'm so excited to live for 3 straight days in a community of people that crave music as much as I do.
I was telling my parents about it and my Dad started talking about music festivals that he went to when he was my age. It made me feel bad to know that he had seen Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, and the Beatles, Bob Dylan for goodness sake and I had never even known because I hadn't taken enough time to sit down and listen.
Genetics are a crazy thing, and it astonishes me how many characteristics and interests of his I have inherited.
But back to the important stuff:
Who else is going?!

One more thing.
You should follow my best friend's new blog!
Thisisaburglary.blogspot.com

Dear Stranger at the stoplight,

I know you're discouraged. I know you're on your way home and the music that usually makes you feel better will not work on this horrible day you've had. I know you're sick of the track we're on, the track we've been on since we were born, the track we all try to escape but can't.
I know you have your good days, I know you have your bad.
I know you have days when the rays of sun shining through the clouds are beautiful to you. I know you have days when every sound, every coffee machine, every ticking clock becomes music.
I know this morning you woke up with a thought in your head. What was it?

And You. I walk by you on this campus all the time. I have never once seen you without your headphones. Regina Spektor would say you're using them to drown out your mind but I think it's the opposite. What you really want to drown out is everyone else. Nothing against them. You're sure they're nice enough people. But they're irrelevant.
I know you don't want to be here. Permanently. Neither do I.
You have goals and aspirations and are here by default. This institution of education.
This place we find ourselves stuck in,
Until further notice.

And finally. You, I catch a glimpse of you sometimes in the mirror, in those odd kind of seconds where I'm not exactly sure of how much time has passed, and every minute may be a day or an hour or a year, I have no way of knowing.
I stop and look at you more closely, and think of all the things that have changed since the last time I've looked at you. I see you every day, but it's not that often that I really look at you. You've morphed in so many ways until you've become, in certain times, unrecognizable. People have tried to control your actions and you've given into them. Something has changed, though.
I'm proud of you.
I'm proud of the protective wall you've built around yourself, the fortress of metal and glass and glue.
I'm proud of the fight you have, the way you deal with the things you make yourself forget and the things that it would be too dangerous to forget.

I'm proud of all of you, in reality, because I understand now that you are doing the best that you can.

definitely snuck backstage and smoked with Metro Station and Nevershoutnever yesterday.

It's crazy how far you can get by simply not caring who these people are. Act casual and you can get anywhere.

Sometimes, for my own sanity, I have to do stuff like this and inwardly laugh at the situation the entire time.

Life is unpredictable and I adore it.

shows shows shows

I got to see Local Natives again with my best friend! We were front row center, literally giggling like children on Christmas day.



Stewart from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros was there and we got to meet him! He's such a gem.

Also, Atlas Sound at the Natural History Museum was such a therapeutic experience. My mind was blown, even though there was a drunk jerk being rude to Bradford. Tune-yards obviously was beautifully insane. The perfect combination. Matt from Local Natives was there and no one recognized him except us! We got to have a lovely conversation with him and he was genuinely appreciative of us for loving his music.
I never feel like I have enough time to listen to as much music as I want to. I wish time would just pause whenever I wanted so I could lay on the floor and just absorb it. But life is beautiful and I'm thankful.

this girl.

She grew up loving Christmas. Every warm fuzzy detail. The Beach Boys Christmas album became synonymous with its cheery feeling. The summery contradiction of a Christmas album. She ate it up. Beautiful, happy Christmas. She counted down every year, when she was a child.
She felt very connected with the story of Peter Pan. She would have dreams that Peter came for her. To go to Neverland. It was routine. Nothing out of the ordinary, not a spectacular occurence. When she woke up, books were scattered off of her windowseat where she had tried to climb out.
This girl, she had a best friend whose car turned into a rave. There were lights in the speakers. They synchronized with the drum beats. They'd play with the speakers when he came home from college for winter break. She laughed out loud every time it began. When they would drive past hotels, she would scan the windows with the open curtains to look at the people within. Hurriedly try to make out the details of their faces. She just wanted to know who they were and what they were thinking when they saw the mass of cars speeding by on the freeway. Her and this best friend, they would smoke in their favorite childhood places just to feel ironic. Just to look at themselves and snicker and think about how far they'd come. How much had changed in a few short years.
This girl worked in a library. She tried to read as much as she could of the books that caught her eye. Snuck as many pages as she could in between checking out books to other students. She wanted to soak it in. She loved the collection of information that surrounded her. She wanted to visit all of the places the guidebooks talked about. Live in all of them, at least for a year. She couldn't live with the idea of being tied down to one place for too long.
This girl had a best friend that understood her. She was the same kind of insane. Sometimes they worried that they were going insane together, at the same rate. They quoted Jack Kerouac a ridiculous amount. Like Roman Candles. She thanked God for this best friend.
Christmas lost its warmth for her. She realized it would probably never come back. Her parents played the Beach Boys Christmas Album for her, as she was sitting in the corner drinking coffee and scanning through her negatives for her photography project. She couldn't feel anything. She might as well be hearing white noise, this girl.
She mourned the loss of her childhood.
This girl, this Chelsea.