My Heart is Full

I met Chase in Boston long long ago. It may have still been the 1990s. He would show up at my house to photograph my roommates. They would drink wine and listen to Morrissey really loudly. Chase never showed up at my house before midnight. I worked at 7am. I did not like Chase. He thought I was a bitch.

I am probably the closest thing to a girl version of Chase you can get. I do not remember when we became friends or why. I can detail weeks of my life down to the second. I can remember things and instances others never noticed. I can lose weeks of life just as easily, with no recollection of what I did, who I saw, or how much time actually passed.

Chase and I sat on a park bench in New Orleans a few summers ago talking. We figured we had been there for an hour or so. Apparently it was closer to 6.

I am having an anxiety attack trying to get on a standby flight to Philly, a week and a half ago. My level of panic rises to orange as suggested flight to Memphis four hours later is mentioned. All of a sudden I just ask, “What about Baltimore?” An airline attendant furiously types at her computer. She tells me there is a flight leaving in five minutes with one seat left. She looks at me and simply says, “Run.” I get on the plane. I am trying to call Chase, but they are telling me to turn off my phone. The plane took off. I knew Chase would be there to pick me up from the airport. It didn’t matter. I planned to leave the next morning for Philly. I think we lost track of time again. I am not sure how long I was in Baltimore. I think it may have been close to a week.

Chase did shoots. I wrote blogs. He roamed around aimlessly looking for the right light in a pair of girls shorts. I lied on the floor in a bikini typing on my laptop. I would get up at 10 am, Chase at 5 pm. I never really noticed.

I do not take pictures. Chase does. I bought a shitty digital camera hoping it would inspire me to try to capture more of my life than these words do. I always forget it is in my purse. Even when I manage to use it, it doesn’t see what Chase’s camera sees.

People read what I write. They are lost at my ability to detail the smallest moments in my life. Both the people that were there and those that were not, are baffled by it. This confused me, until Chase. I have seen thousands of photos he has taken of a moment I was standing next to him. When I see the photos I realize he captured something, I missed. A moment I remember as pretty, Chase saw as beautiful.

His eyes see things we don’t. His eyes create art out of the mundane. I have been asked by people far removed from us and our circle of friends about Chase. They ask me how we became friends. I still can’t remember. But, when they ask me about Chase and his work, I shake me head and call him “brilliant.” Then I add, “And he lives in his sister’s basement.”

I don’t know why we know each other so well. But, I doubt Chase does either.

eternal sunshine of Sarah Morrison's mind.

When I was little I used to watch movies and wish they were real. I wished I was a little mermaid and lived in the ocean. I wished I had a twin like in Parent Trap to trade places with. I wished I lived on a farm like Charlotte with talking animals. I wished my house was a castle, and I its princess. Then I grew up.

Films resonate, but not like they used to. You see their morals. You listen, but you don’t hear. Age turns empathy, into sympathy. Things are farther from your reality.

I go to the movies alone. It’s one of the things I prefer doing alone. I drove to some little movie theater I had discovered outside of Boston, with noteworthy popcorn and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It was not one of the best movies I have seen. But, for the first time since I wanted to live in the ocean with Ariel, I wanted it to come true. I wanted to erase people. I wanted to erase things. I wanted to give a doctor a box of notes and pictures and make “him” disappear.”

Stuart caught me today deleting someone off my AIM list. I shrugged. He asked questions. It was too late. The boy was already gone, before he had a chance to even sort of love me.

My life has been a string of attempted removals of those who have broken my heart, or those I deem worthy to do so.

There are boxes in my parents’ basement. They are full of love notes, photos, wilted corsages, and other physical memories. On each box, I have scribbled the name of the boy who belongs to the contents. When his expiration date came, I carried his box down into the basement. I scribbled his name on top and put him on a shelf. The good times, the bad times, and the ones in between, shelved forever. I’d walk up those basement stairs and shut the door, hoping it would be like it never happened.

I thought I would get tougher. I thought my heart would grow stronger and more difficult to break with age. Now I just see flowers wilt, and throw them out. My heart didn’t change. I just got more protective of it.

These days, the boys I meet don’t get a chance for flowers or notes. I do my best to remove all traces of them at the first sign of “he could break my heart.” Maybe it’s really the first sign that I could love him.. And, if I he leaves, I don’t have a basement.

Benadryl and Cocaine

My dad gave me an ultimatum which involves me being forced to get California plates, insurance, and driver’s license. I admit to being lazy or as I refer to it “unable to things that are not fun.” This situation is different. I have avoided and avoided this task at all cost. I like my truck with it’s Massachusetts plates. I like my license picture. I like my Boston zip code. I seem to be getting farther and farther away from home every day. They are my only proof, I am not as far away as I seem.

I drive a pick-up truck. One of the mirrors is broken off. My dad broke its gate, so it never completely shuts. It has rust around its edges that only come from winter. There’s still an ice scraper under the seat and a pair of mittens. No matter how fancy I am dressed, where I have been that evening, or who I have been hanging out with, I always return to a 4-wheel-drive pick-up truck, with Massachusetts plates and a Mission Hill parking permit.

I bought it after my car had been stolen. I am still not sure why I bought it. But, I did. My mom brought me to West Roxbury to pick it up. My dad put rocks in its bed in the winter, for leverage in the snow. The first time I drove it I felt so proud it was mine. I’m not sure why.

My license has a Roxbury address and my favorite photo ever taken of myself. When getting carded at bars it leads to conversations with bartenders and bouncers about the Red Sox, the Kennedys, and why I do not appear to be Irish. When pumping gas or parking, my plates lead to discussions about snow and Boston accents.

My dad comes out to Orange County on business, a few months ago. I am set to meet him at one of those piers, in one of those beach towns. I get a little lost. I stop where I am and get out of my truck to call him. The phone is ringing. I am worrying about time, work, the LA traffic on the way back, my social obligations for the evening. A gentleman walking by stops. I hear him say something to me. I sort of awkwardly nod, pretending to understand. The phone is still ringing. I am looking at the time. The gentleman comes closer. He points at my truck. He repeats, “You are far from home, aren’t you?” I hang up the phone. I look at him, then all around me. I nod,, “Very far from home.”

I worry no one will be able to tell how far from home, I actually am. I worry I might start to forget.

Maybe I will sell my truck. Maybe a Volkswagen is more practical.

Today: Growing Up

I had an 8 year old ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, the other day. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was grown up. She looked at me and had no idea, I had grown up already. I look at myself sometimes and forget it happened.

When I was in elementary school, I wanted to illustrate children’s’ books when I “grew up.” In high school, I wanted to be a fashion designer. After college, I wanted to be a social worker.

I left school with the knowledge it gave me and entered the field of “uneducated labor.” I found it interesting. I met people who wanted to work retail. I met those who hoped bartending would lead to a restaurant management position. I never alluded to my past I may have mentioned once or twice how I wanted to illustrate kids’ books. Some of them may have smiled.

Today, I want to be a cab driver. I told my 8 year-old friend that. I want take people the places they need to go. I want to know how to get them there. I want them to tell me their stories. I want to just sit there and listen. I think that’s where I am in life. I have entered a time where people have more to say than I do.

Today: Lunch Tables

I was at some social gathering the other night. Two intoxicated individuals were on one couch. One mentioned that he was his senior class president, while the other informed us she was the captain of the cheerleading squad.

All of a sudden, I could see them in the hallway. I could see their lunch tables. I wanted to go home.

But, I did not. Instead, I proudly announced, “I ran the snowboard club.” They sort of blankly nodded and looked at me like they knew what lunch table I sat at too. They knew it was far away from them. I finally did not care.

I liked this boy named Mike, in high school. He ran our Snowboard Club. I wanted to Snowboard. He promised me that if I came on one of the trips he would teach me how.

I never really played sports. I played basketball for a few seasons, mainly because I was tall and skinny. Everyone thought I should be good at it. I was not.

I signed up for a snowboard trip. I rented a board and boots. I was ready for Mike to teach me. He took off instantly with his friends. I was left in a lesson with some sort of girl that was irritating me. I walked out of the lesson. I may have called her a bitch.

Eric Larochelle. found me at some point. He found me somewhere between the bunny slope and the lodge. He did not say much. He just sort of rode up a chairlift with me. Without conversation of why I was alone and looking sort of aimless, he showed me how to turn and stop. No one told Eric I left the lesson. No one told Eric to find me. He just did.

Eric taught me how to snowboard. I snowboarded for a long time. Most of my best friends I met snowboarding. I can still snowboard. It’s that thing I can still do. It’s that thing I can never forget how to do. I forget how to ride a bike. But, I can still snowboard.

I ran the snowboard club in high school after Mike graduated. I ate lunch with freshman boys who gave me their cookies and who wanted to sit next me on the bus at 6 am, on Saturday morning. I liked them. They liked me. When I think about it, it was sort of like being senior class president. I was pretty much captain of the cheerleading squad.

Today: Boys and Girls

I met in Jason in high school. He worked at my local snowboard shop. He was older than me. He grew up a few towns over. My mom would go there at Christmas and birthdays to shop for us. He probably picked out most of our snowboards and bindings and other paraphernalia that she would not be able to purchase on her own. I did not know him that well. I knew him enough to say hi. My mom seemed to know him better.

I went to school in New Hampshire. Jason lived the floor below me in the dorms. We became friends. He made me laugh. We had drinking contests. He may have made me watch Anime porn. Jason and i quickly became friends. I started to love Jason more than my mom did.

I met Lauren when I was 19 or so, snowboarding. She was 4’9, and well she still is. She had a laugh you can hear from a mile away. She had a smile that could light up a room. We moved in together in New Hampshire.

Lauren and I always looked funny next to each other, due to our foot in height difference. But, I never seemed to notice, nor did she. Lauren’s heart is bigger than anyone I know. Her heart is so big, I forget how little she is.

Lauren sent me a text message, yesterday. She told me Jason and her are getting married. These are two people I have loved apart for what seems like for ever. These are two people that together make me love them too much.

I hate weddings. I like this one. I like this one a little too much.

Yesterday: Christmas

I liked Christmas, when I was little. I was showered with gifts and attention. It was my day. Then one Christmas, I opened my stocking and revealed its contents to my audience. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to really care.

Santa brought Sam. Sam was a small creature. He had ten fingers and ten toes. He didn’t say much. Everything Sam brought with him stole my Christmas. No one seemed to notice me anymore.

As Sam got bigger, so did his fingers and toes. He never said much. He cried a lot. I took care of him. I told grown ups when he was hungry. I told them when he was thirsty. I told them when he was sad.

Sam did not speak until he was two. My parents took him to several specialists. All concluded, “Sam is fine. He will speak. He just does not need to speak. His sister speaks for him.”

Sam’s G.I. Joes always beat my Barbie’s in a fight. When I got my license, Sam got upset when he knew going to school with me meant he would be late. Sam hated late.

We never agreed on music. We never agreed on time. We never agreed on the measurable or that without measure.

As we got older, we needed each other more. As we got farther away, we got older. Sam is big now. He can not fit in a stocking anymore, but if he could. I would like him, in mine.

I miss you, Sam.

Today: Running Away

I decided to run away from home when I was in elementary school. I knew I needed something to bring on my journey, so I packed a spelling book to keep me company. I was mad at my parents for something or rather, so I ran into the woods behind their house. I found a spot behind a tree and some leaves and I sat there. I sat there for hours. I liked the feeling of no one knowing where I was. I liked the feeling of being alone.

When things feel wrong, I run away. I take my spelling book, I put it on the passenger seat of my truck, and I go. It is the same feeling I had that day in elementary school. The difference is the reasons for running away, they are grown up reasons. They are bigger. They take you to places that need a car. They take you to places that need more that a spelling book to bide your time.

I heard my mom yelling my name that day in the woods, but I did not get up. I stayed put, with my spelling book. I kept reading. At some point her voice sounded sad. So I got up, and I ran home. I did not really want to leave my place in the woods. I did because someone missed me.

I turn my phone off, when I run away. People call. But, no one ever sounds like my mom did that day, I hid in the woods. No one sounds like they won’t make it if I don’t come back.

Maybe, next time I run away it will be to my parents' backyard.