By artificial glow, magic was made
Reminiscing about a summer reading like no other
Morning darklings,
There is something about live storytelling.
It’s like capturing a firefly and peeking at it through your fingers. It’s an emphemeral moment that is unique each time the story is told. Whether it’s written or not, the very act of having the words hang in the air is unreal.
I realized I was a storyteller the day I had a group of authors sitting on the floor in front of me Story-Time style at a party. I was in an armchair because I couldn’t stand up, and they wanted to hear what I had to say badly enough, they ignored their nice clothes and treated me like Mother Goose. Hard to deny I was a storyteller any longer.
Then again, I’ve had experiences like that at bars and concerts in between bands, in diners at 3am where strangers moved booths to join in. So, you’d think it would have been obvious a long time ago. Around age 7 maybe. But no. Took until my 30s to realize I’ve been a storyteller my entire life.
TellTale is one of those events I will do anytime, given the opportunity. I’ve read a few times for different themes, and each one holds its own kind of magic. Some are more somber, some are high energy. Sometimes there are songwriters or performative dance numbers. It’s always unexpected.
This particular event was called “We Are Infinite”. The theme being one of my favorite phrases of all time, I had a feeling it would be a good night. But reading about a cinematic summer outside as the sun dies, surrounded by lamps and a neon sign declaring “This is the best place” was the most magical reading.
The mic didn’t play nice, it got dark faster than expected, so the photos weren’t spectacular, I was nervous as it was my first live reading post-pandemic times, and yet none of that mattered. I wasn’t just reading, I was part of an experience.
People still talk about that night. It’s not just what we all read, though the stories were exceptional that night. It’s what we created.
*(As this recording isn’t the best and also misses the first paragraph of the essay, I went ahead and re-recorded it, but I’d watch a few seconds of the video for the full vibe of it all.)
Original essay
*It was altered a little as I spoke, when it made sense, or if I lost my place. I am not, overall, a good live reader. Also, my memory for some things is shit.
Waiting for meteors to streak across the sky capped off an endless summer. The three hour ordeal of driving to the middle of nowhere and settling in for… just stagnant stars being interrupted by police lights encapsulated the few months before perfectly.
We were the Zetas, Jo and I—a totally made up sorority, created from irritation at the average population of local sororities, jealousy, and indignation of the very existence of hazing. When we decided to make our own, it was as if our lives became spinning tops.
Jo made a list for us of everything she thought we should do—from legal to less-than. By the time she finished, every day was jam-packed.
We started our adventures in Walmart, as one does. She was obsessed with a song that said, “Make your thighs like butter, easy to spread. We can make sandwiches.” It was horrible and great and the catchiest song that wasn’t a song. Naturally, she wanted to make a photographic music video. That’s Jo for you. A young woman with many stories to tell, more energy than fifteen people combined, an adventurous spirit that I expect took her around the world, an expensive taste in jeans, and a very, very weird sense of humor.
Around the store we went, taking pictures of butter and mayo and bread. It was ridiculous and had YA movie energy, though that kind of phrase didn’t exist back then. If it had, I imagine it would have been the summer we overused it. Every moment would have had a new kind of energy connected to something grand.
I remember that summer’s heat was so suffocating we lived in the least amount of clothes possible. And, oh, I was so tan I looked edible.
When it was too hot, as it was on the first day of our epic summer, we went to the mall. We roamed, we bought earrings that we would only wear once, we ate pretzels. We bided our time until the night that kickstarted the breathlessness that were the following months.
We snuck into a pool to go skinny dipping. Turquoise lights lit up everything, despite it not being open, and we were fully exposed. I’d seen her naked; she’d seen me naked. But that was different. That was washing off sand from sweaty burnt bodies so we could rush to dinner.
Under a two am June haze, we were transformed. We were best friends being freed by cool water rushing between sun-kissed thighs, each wondering if we should ask the other how it felt or just let our hearts race quietly to ourselves on opposite sides of the pool. I don’t know who suggested it first, but we did that—swam languid laps and tried to keep soft noises to ourselves.
It was a peaceful hour, where I lost myself in sensations that made me want a pool one day, until we heard yelling. Someone was coming.
Our clothes in hand, we raced to the car. We only wore bathing suit bottoms as she drove back to her house, and I kept thinking that we were going to get pulled over because that’s just how these things happen. Instead, we just stayed high in our adrenaline rush, sneaking sideways glances at each other when the highway streetlights illuminated shapes.
There was no going back then. We knew we couldn’t just go shopping or wandering around the neighborhood. Our list had to change, because we did.
We went from going to the club to dance to dancing on the bar at that club. Men twice our age grabbed at our ankles and almost knocked us over like we were in Coyote Ugly. They wanted to sneak us drinks, see how far they could take our need for a rush. To avoid them, we hopped down, clasped hands, and walked towards the exit. When one tried to corner me, Jo pushed me against the wall and kissed me how I had wanted her to kiss me in the pool. I felt it everywhere. At some point the man left, but we were still kissing. The song changed, and we were still kissing. Finally, she stepped backwards, interlaced our fingers, and dragged me out of the honkey-tonk meets hip hop club we didn’t belong in.
Jo had wanted to show me where artists and taggers go to legally spray paint at North Carolina State University during the day. Instead, we went at night with cans of fancy spray paint she spent too much money on. It was a tunnel akin to the places in horror movies where monsters drag children to devour them, chucking only their skull and spines out. When she shined her flashlight on the walls, though, it was magnificent. There were beautifully painted geisha smoking blunts and stick figures fucking, signatures and quotes from books, peeling paint everywhere from the years of layers. I sprayed a bleeding heart and signed a name that wasn’t mine. I was, yet again, free.
We went to a party where both Jo and my sister got crazy drunk. I couldn’t handle them both, so I had to call my dad. He made them stay in the truck bed so they wouldn’t vomit on his upholstery. It was hilarious.
Jo’s friend told us to meet her at these guy’s dorm room. We would all smoke a little then go to this party. It was just the kind of thing that would keep our adrenaline going. We showed up and there were three guys. Three of them, three of us. Only her friend and I smoked before the paranoia set in. Her friend ran away, while I found a dorm room being cleaned out and (lucky for me) it was unlocked, so I could hunker down and hide from the man following me. Jo came to my rescue. I know she punched someone and then we ran, but the in-between is fuzzy. My dad was involved in that incident too. The pot was laced with angel dust, he guesses, but we’ll never know.
Jo and I kissed a few more times. We also kissed a lot of other people: strangers, friends, women, men, age appropriate, not age appropriate.
More happened—a lot more. Now most of it is just a whirlwind of moments, fragments, really. Jo crying and begging for help to get her jeans off so she doesn’t vomit on them; beach days with flirting and seafood; a toothache from too much candy; the taste of someone’s mouth as they shotgunned smoke into mine then kissed me stupid. I had a birthday in June. 4th of July would have come with sparklers and popsicles, hot dogs and grilled corn. We started school in August, maybe. Our hours at work probably picked up. Yet it still felt like summer. September came, and we were still existing in our Zeta bubble.
Each moment bled into the next until the meteor shower. We were curled up together. It was a chilly night. To the Pacific Northwest, we’d call it perfect, but our measurements were different then.
A police car drove up after we saw our fifth meteor. So yeah, they existed, but a shower, it was not. The officer was condescending and judgmental, asking why we were out alone, without our boyfriends and so far away from the city.
This time, I came to Jo’s rescue. I told the officer that she was my girlfriend, and that we were just trying to enjoy the meteors. I asked him if we were in a no-trespassing area. He said no but clearly didn’t believe we were together. And that’s how I wound up doing what Jo did for me earlier in the summer. I laid one on her to demonstrate. The police officer coughed a little. I told him I was sorry, that young love is like that sometimes.
He joked that he understood, that he’d been married for—I checked out, honestly. When he stopped talking, I tuned back in. He smiled, waved, and drove off.
Jo asked if I thought we should go. I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “Let’s just enjoy this a little longer.”
because summertime deserves some lofi too
I’m currently existing.
I am so grateful to the beautiful souls that wrote to me personally after reading last week’s article about my food struggles. I cried because you took the time. Your love is so precious to me. Thank you all so much!
Speaking of… I can’t believe it’s been less than 2 weeks since I started drinking real food. From sips to ounces. There are still days where I cramp so badly all I can do is curl up in a ball, and thoughts are like clouds I’m reaching towards, despite knowing they will slip through my fingers. But my brain works more than it has in months. I’m nowhere near back to myself, but the rain is no longer threatening to shatter the windshield of my beat up car, no longer mixed with hail and snow and rocks from the roof. It’s still blinding and loud, and there are still cracks of thunder and the occasional lightning strikes, but damnit, I can actual imagine the storm breaking. I wasn’t sure that would happen.
This is my birthday month! 13 days from now, I’ll be older. I mean, technically, I’m older now than I was five minutes ago. But, you get the idea.
I have gone through my craft supplies to get rid of things I can’t see myself using soon to make it easier to access what I want when I want. It’s been a laborious project, but it feels so good to see space and know where everything is. Makes me want to create again. I’ve missed my creative, working self. In the last few months, I’ve not felt much like an artist, a writer, a creative, a woman who is much more than a spoonie. All I can do is set everything up for success while I… well, become myself again.
I made a banging peanut butter milkshake the other day and drank almost 8 ounces of it. More importantly, I didn’t get sick! And can you believe it was on doctor’s orders?
And you? How are you existing this week?
Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.