Reflective Statement
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars." – Kerouac, 1957
My Writing Project, Bold in Love, a somewhat dysfunctional Bonnie and Clyde adaptation, was heavily influenced by music. Growing up, I was constantly listening to a wide variety of musicians and flipping through an extensive collection of books, and I quickly learnt that similarly to stories, songs held an element of individuality to each person listening; a love song could easily be interpreted into a song about heartbreak, and a sad blues tune could make others joyful. With this knowledge and imaginative control with access to millions of songs, I began writing what would become Bold in Love. Songs such as “Sleep on the Floor” (2016) by band The Lumineers and countless John Mayer records profoundly influenced my writing. The lyrics:
“Pack yourself a toothbrush dear
Pack yourself a favourite blouse
Take a withdrawal slip, take all of your savings out
Cause if we don’t leave this town
We might never make it out
I was not born to drown, baby come on”
– (Fraites and Schultz, 2016)
drove the first section of writing, and the characters’ spur of the moment decision to hit the road created such impetus for a narrative. I realized that rational decisions and level heads are discarded once faced with an opportunity that is easily missed, and provide a catalyst similar to the rush of running out of a burning house realizing the most important items you own are the ones that you have left behind. This then became my subtext, and what was a seemingly innocent car ride became harrowing with the sudden insinuation of disturbing actions previously being taken place. I aimed to create the conflict of immature people yearning to be mature, but ultimately regretting their choice.
The following lyrics:
“Forget what Father Brennan said
We were not born in sin”
– (Fraites and Schultz, 2016)
accentuates the ‘fairy tale’ the protagonist is living in. I interpreted this lyric and applied it to Bold in Love in the sense that the protagonist believes that what she has done is for good. Her unreliable narration shows that she has assessed a situation wrongly, and henceforth justifies her actions as above the law, or above God. She is swept away by the boy, lust overpowering her and has inhaled a poison far more dangerous and addicting than drugs: the attention he gives her. Like many passages from The Bible, she ultimately sees what she has done is in fact wrong and in the end, attempts to repent.
I wanted to structure Bold in Love in quite the opposite way of structuring by definition, and this piece aims to re-create the protagonists’ brain; conveying how jumbled her thoughts and feelings must be. I wanted to accurately portray the human mind, and how it cannot stay focused on one topic without remembering others. Her flashes from the past to the present were crafted to capture the state of shock she is in, as well as contributing to her back-story to help the reader understand the context and feel suspense.
The first piece of work in my suite of poetry, Love on the Weekend, explores the feeling of dread and confusion and the anxiety of late menstruation and not ready to have a child, and then contrasts this situation to being in a relationship and ready to have a child. I wanted to portray my take on the Western World’s view on sex, which I expressed through ‘free-spirited’ imagery and a ‘yearning for instant gratification’ tone. I believe that the best words are the ones left unsaid, and I duly feel that poetry reads best when it is hinting to elements of the meaning but not quite giving it all away.
My second piece in my suite of poetry, Whatever Lola Wants, tells the story of a loved one’s death. Written in my own context of pain, this poem uncovers a wound that has not yet healed. Although based upon my own experience with loss, this piece can easily be applied to a multitude of different scenarios dealing with the realization that mundane and insignificant events will suddenly never be the same. I wanted to create the feeling of a devil; jumping upon your chest when you least expect it and reminding you of an unwelcome memory, which you would do anything to forget; I achieved this by my use of excoriating verbs. I also used enjambment to create a stream of consciousness that consequently evokes a sense of intrusive thoughts.
Both of these pieces of poetry were inspired by outspoken writer Rupi Kaur, author of bestselling book Milk and Honey (2014). Influenced not by her writing style but by the message she portrays, I intended to uncover the uncomfortable truths that society has deemed ‘unwelcome’.
My third piece, Letters to Lost Lovers, describes my own relationship history. Being tormented relentlessly by the many expectations of love and romance from a young age, my thirteen-year-old self set off on an unrealistic adventure; to be the girl that was always shown in the films, an idealised archetype of a women. In short, I aimed to be a girl with little substance, frighteningly thin and constantly attached to the hip of a boy, and I believe these desires are portrayed in Letters to Lost Lovers. This piece explores the consistency of the heartbreaks I have gone through, and the ironic understanding developed by being in love, or lust, as a young girl in the 21st century. Influenced by many poems submitted onto the online blog, The Messy Heads, I strayed from my comfort zone and was brutally honest in my writing, showcasing not the images I had once told others but those that were in fact painfully true.
In all three of these pieces, I have deliberately used sentence fragments in my work to recall stream conscious thinking. Each piece, although edited ruthlessly, was written in the spur of the moment, and this hopefully brings an element of raw honesty. By avoiding to ‘sugar coating’ the pieces, I brought forward a truthful, if conflicted voice, and revealed a more vulnerable side in my writing; one which hither to I, tried desperately to avoid.
Bold in Love
1.
It was a broiling, hot September day, the day we left the county. The sun grizzled our skins; the wind, our only relief, brushing our cheeks in soft murmurs. It was the kind of day you needed your own soundtrack to. The kind of day where languorous slow motion effects were needed to highlight my twisting hands making droopy dance waves out of the car window. I imagined close ups of the freckles on my nose and my bony fingers as they fiddled with my shoelaces.
Surrounding us like a crashing wave, was the silence we didn’t dare speak of. We needed a tune to drown out the realization of what we had just done. We needed a song that would make us feel better, feel right and feel justified about the actions we had taken. The yellow sundress that made me look so innocent, billowed around my legs as you sped around a corner, the air whipping me in punishment.
Looking back, I don’t think we knew who lost or won, or who we lost. All we knew was that we were running on a half tank of gas, and that I, although had remembered toothpaste, had forgotten my toothbrush.
2.
You were exactly the kind of person my parents liked. You knew your future like you had already lived it. My mom liked your honesty (if only she knew!), and praised you continuously for choosing AP STEM classes; my dad ate up your jokes like they were his last meal on Death Row. He was chuckling at the start of the night and by nine was producing a heavy, throttling belly laugh that rose up like vomit the more you spoke.
I hated you then. You seated yourself like the dinner table belonged to you, like everything you touched would turn to gold. I remember when you were driving me home and I told you this. You had smiled and chuckled softly, saying “If that was true, I’d be rich”. I pulled my converse clad feet up onto the leather seat of your ‘precious’ car and yelled furiously the tragic story of King Midas, feeling the distress in my chest rising with my heartbeats. How could I have been so wrong about a person? What had distracted me about you that had made me so oblivious to how much you reminded me of a white, ignorant, selfish male senator?
You clicked your indicator and flew smoothly to the side of the road. You only had to look at me once for me to lower my voice into a whisper. Then you touched the edge of my cardigan, pulling me inches closer. You blinked and your lashes were caught in my breath, and soon just a look had made drums beat in my chest. I fell silent.
I was completely and utterly hooked.
3.
You were always a year above me at school. Always the boy my friends used to melt over, blushing desperately when you spoke to them, and giggling whenever you walked into a room. It was in sixth grade on Valentine’s day, where from the front office for $2 you could purchase a thick, laminated pink heart and write the name of your ‘sweetheart’ on top, and it would be delivered to them at the end of Valentine’s day.
Every girl thought you would hand her one.
As it hit 3:00pm a group of us stood outside the parking lot. We had brushed our hair into uneven pig tails, and even used someone’s lip gloss (probably snatched from their mom’s dresser). We were freezing. The wind from SUVs was pricking our rosy noses and ice cracking beneath black tires was the only thing we could hear. My tongue tasted like cinnamon, apple and sugar as I licked my sticky lips nervously.
It suddenly felt totally unreal. So here we were, waiting for someone who could have already left, with a love token you had probably given to someone else. Yet every girl on the grey, crumbling steps stood there like you were about to show up. At the raw age of 12 years old you had half the girls in sixth grade at your beck and call, and, by god, you knew it.
But one by one, our moms and dads and grandparents and big sisters and brothers came to pick us up. One at a time, we would reluctantly, hesitantly, walk across the car park to be driven home with our school bags and our stomachs aching with despair.
You never did give anyone a Valentine. After all, it was, just a rumor.
4.
You acted so differently, the day we left. At first, I couldn’t quite put a finger on it but as you pulled to a halt at a rest stop I realised. You were scared. You; the boy who took girls on dates to the cinema to see scary movies, who’s favorite holiday was Halloween, was scared!
Shitless.
You came out of the toilet block and paced around your car. Paced. In all the time I’d known you you’d never once paced, even after everything you had done. But this had changed you. In a few hours, you had left your old life, your parents and your graduation certificate at home. You looked at me, your face debating whether it should be petrified or manic. Looking down at my bare feet I began to speak tonelessly before you shouted.
“If you fucking talk, I’ll make sure they blame it all on you”.
I saw you sneer and smirk at me as I closed my mouth quickly, eyes turning up to the sky staring into the burning sun. You knew. You saw me do it and you knew what that meant. A girl from the suburbs vs a trust fund baby. You could break me in two yourself and still convince a jury that I had done it single handedly. You saw what I started and what you finished.
And as I curled up onto the hot leather car seat, recounting the events in my head that had put us here, I found that you wouldn’t need to blame it all on me.
I was guilty by default.
5.
The first time we kissed was after we had had sex. I knew we were lying on freshly washed white cotton sheets and that we were in your bedroom, but I couldn’t see anything aside from your hands. My mom always told me that hands always tell you more than eyes or mouths ever can. Your hands were smooth, and besides writing down exams they had never seen the hardship that mine had. There were no callouses, and the skin around your palm was soft and cushiony. Mumbling along to a song playing in the background, I remember tracing words onto your skin, then giggling as you tried to figure out what I had written.
“Loser?!” You had exclaimed, quickly realizing what I had written this time. Burying my face into a pillow to stop myself from laughing, you chuckled and nudged me gently with your elbow. You pulled me up and drew me close enough to see the outline of the lines surrounding your cheeks. 18 years of memories, crying, shouting and talking etched into your face and for a sweet second we both thought we were just kids.
We weren’t talking about what we were going to do the next day. We weren’t acknowledging the overflowing duffel bag that sat underneath your bed. In that second, we were the exact opposite of who we were going to be, and instead, seemed to be grasping onto who we could have been. Two kids sitting in a bed, drunk on aged rum and hushing each-other’s voices for fear that my parents would discover us.
You kissed me for the first and last time that night. I didn’t tell you that it was my first ever kiss, because you made such a small deal out of the gesture that it could just have been as an exchange of hellos between acquaintances. After that we both felt the magic of the night had wear off, and the bag under the bed started pleading for attention.
I took one of your hoodies, closed the window and stepped outside. I had only walked a few steps before I heard the monstrous noise escaping out of your mouth and heard furniture thrown roughly, though after a moment this fury ceased and I heard nothing. You took your place back on your bed falling silent. You had remembered what was going to happen tomorrow.
And then you started to sob.
6.
We stopped driving around seven o’clock. Parked in a ‘no camping’ spot was the most vanilla thing we had done in days, and it felt almost silly to think we once would have worried about this. Because it was summer, the cicadas and mosquitoes were our only companions. Around us was a circle of pine trees scattered with the butts of discarded cigarettes.
We had only traveled four hours outside of Barnstable County, but everything around us looked different. The air felt cooler, the grass was rougher – and even the sky seemed smaller. Pine needles pricked and stabbed my toes, and I raked around this green cave we had tumbled in to. The tops of the trees struggled to reach the planets above and instead swayed slowly, nonchalantly, humming the birds and creatures inside to sleep. A bug crawled gently up my toes and snuggled between the soft skin.
I still had blood on my hands. It was clumped under ten short fingernails and made me feel full of something. I didn’t like it. A blond clump of matted hair had stuck itself to just above my collarbone; I didn’t know who’s it was because everyone in our family had the same honey colored strands. Dad’s hung low beneath his ears and reminded me of a shaggy dog. Mum’s covered her tanned forehead in a fringe and swung across her shoulders as she spoke and smiled. Her locks followed her around like a shadow whereas mine struggled to keep up behind my ever-sprinting legs, running towards whatever caught my attention the fastest.
Peeling it off the skin I flicked it onto the ground before gazing over to your shape; hunched over the tray of the car. You were smoothing a sleeping bag and blanket across the black plastic. You had tried your hardest but it didn’t look like your own bed, and hardly provided the comfort we both needed, that neither one of us could give each other. It was the comfort of a parent after a bad dream that we desired. And I had a sudden image; stomping down hardwood floors in darkness, searching for the door knob that would open to sudden safety. Mom and dad’s sheets always felt softer, warmer – way better than the ones we had just escaped from.
But standing in the middle of a place so close to what we knew, funnily enough felt so foreign. Our bodies were stained with this morning’s actions; we didn’t know what comfort was anymore, and we knew didn’t deserve it.
I wondered what it would be like if this was just another normal, ordinary day. If you had just skipped your classes by giving your teachers that notorious grin. Sauntered into the lecture hall and made up an excuse as to why I had to leave. We could have run down the school’s staircase to the student car park, holding in our laughs until strangers walked past and we let them go. They would wonder, wishing they knew what did. Maybe you would have driven us out to this spot, disregarding the phone calls made from our parents, turned the radio up on your stereo. You were a sucker for country music and I’d jump on the bonnet of your car, watching you try to coax me to dance along to a southern drawl singing about love. Maybe we’d have sex, or maybe we’d fall asleep under the milky warm sunlight. You’d drive home with me asleep in the backseat, moving through gear changes slowly as to not wake me up. I’d come home at dark, giving my parents a hug as they spoke madly about the importance of education and my safety. I’d smile at them and skip into the shower, still grinning from the day I’d just had. In my dreams of this other time, not even scrubbing soap would get rid of the glow you had given me, radiating my body like a halo.
7.
People always say that they’d like to fall asleep under the stars. In a world controlled by iPhones and skies drowning with smog, it seems like a reasonable dream. To fall asleep looking up at galaxies threading their way through the night is instantly more appealing than staring up at a ceiling fan humming away. For most of those people, staring up at the stars as they drift off to sleep is calming; a break from their plastered and painted walls. But I ached for the sight of a ceiling fan. I wanted to be in my room; lids growing heavy and body clean from a steaming hot shower. Instead, I lay on my back staring up into the unknown wilderness, scared and terribly hungry.
You had hogged the sleeping bag and left me with a musty blanket, covered in lint and long, golden dog hairs. I was cold, but I didn’t want to move closer to the warmth expelling off your body. I had thrown my wiry bra into the backseat but sleeping in a dress proved difficult; constraining my body and limiting my sleeping positions. I didn’t know the time, but for you it was time to sleep. Your snores came out in snotty gurgles and by the time I had heard your breathing deepen I slid off the tray, and stepped onto foreign land.
The road we had driven down seemed to twist and turn every few steps. My feet felt raw from the gravel below and the air was cooling quickly. I don’t remember how long it took me, but eventually my eyes suddenly started to adjust to a string of bring neon lights opposite an intersection. A 24-hour café stood surrounded by cars. Inside, a plump waitress was smiling and serving workers, turning up the speakers and drowning out my anxiety.
The call box hung off the left of a separate toilet building, and as I approached I cursed realising I had no money. Stepping into the plastic booth I peered behind me, watching older men smoke and take swigs of alcohol. Spinning around I grabbed a hold of the battered red phone. It was rank and felt tacky; I didn’t dare put it too close to my face. Swaying to the dial tone I remembered that for my call I didn’t need coins, as I slowly pressed the three consecutive numbers I hadn’t used before.
“Hi. Please wait while we connect you to your call.”
“Barnstable County Sheriff’s department how may I help you today?” A women’s voice dripped like honey into my ear through the telephone. “Hello? Is there anything I can help you with?”
I scan the phone numbers scrawled onto the walls in thick, permanent marker. If I don’t say something now she’s going to hang up.
“Have you had a call from the Wildes today?”
“No sorry, ma’am. Can I please have your name and the destination you’re calling from?
Fuck. Where even am I?
“Ma’am? Ma’am, I’ve got someone else on the line waiting is there anything else?”
There’s commotion coming in from the other line and I’m twisting my pinky through my dress.
“It’s all over my dress. Mom got this dress for my birthday. But now it’s all over it….”
“What’s all over you, Ma’am?”
“It’s still sticky”
“Ma’am I’m afraid you’ve lost me here; do you want to tell me where you are?”
“She bought it from the department store on the corner of 39th. It was wrapped in tissue paper and everything”
I hear the woman inhale sharply and clear her throat. She’s working late, sick of answering phones. And here I am blubbering. My brains wheeling and skidding like a go kart at a fair. What have I told her? What haven’t I told her?
“Okay hon, listen, you know what I’m going to call the Wilde’s house right now. The Wildes on 71 Pochet road – are you friends with them? I think they might be out at the graduation dance at the high school so they mightn’t pick up.”
Shit shit shit. Who would of thought that barley three hours north of New York city there’s a town where everyone’s on a first name basis and there’s only one high school for miles. Do I lie and confuse her even more? Or do I tell her the truth and give her the ammunition she needs?
“I’m their daughter”
“Oh! Noel, isn’t it? Are you okay? Are you safe?”
What was wrong with Isobel or Emily or Katie? A name that is so odd and recognizable in a small town is a curse.
I saw the chord jump and squirm as I dropped it and heard a tiny voice whispering out of the phone.
“Hello? Miss Wilde? Noel? Officer, I think you might need to send someone down Pochet road. Yeah that’s right, Sarah and Ed Wilde’s place”
It hung there, limply, threatening to simply break off from the tangled chord it was attached to.
What was he going to think when he woke with a flashlight in his face? Ears ringing from sirens and dogs barking at his ankles. His arms would be contorted and strained behind his back, head lowered into the car as he realised what has happened. I had betrayed everyone I loved.
But the phone hums softly, and I lean against the now hot foggy plastic room I have escaped to. I feel my back sliding down and my legs fall crookedly to one side. Head resting on the door.
Love on the Weekend
The first time I missed you I didn't even notice.
You hadn't turned up, and my thoughts were so messy I hadn't realised.
I had a million things to do and by the time I remembered, it was three days too late.
I know I should have checked; I usually mark in when we’re seeing each other.
I missed you because I was with someone else.
Unapologetically unprepared, giggling perched on a kitchen bench, biting into fat red berries and waiting for the morning coffee to boil.
Sun dripping through gauzy curtains,
crackly music slipping through a stereo.
I can make all the excuses I want, but I did miss you,
and it was my fault.
Then you came back,
At the time that you said you would.
My cheeks ached from grinning when I came home and saw you had arrived.
Throwing my head back in relief,
dancing around the living room
I was prepared this time; last time had caught up with my morals and I was ready to face you now.
You were a pain, as usual, but I was glad to have you around.
You made me feel safe and secure,
and I wasn't ready to leave that place.
It was a long time later before I missed you again,
out on drunken love and too much rum.
Swaying softly to Miles,
stepping clumsily on each other’s toes,
giggling softly, not thinking about tomorrow.
And then there I was,
waking up in someone else's sheets.
I had missed you, but this time it was alright.
This time I knew you had left but had been replaced,
and soon your absence would give me someone else.
I didn't figure I'd see you again so quickly
And so much of you at one time.
Lying in an unfamiliar gown
Eyes wide and breathing shallow
Wishing and praying that you'd stay lost
At least for a little while longer.
Whatever Lola Wants
Fat salty slobs of tears
tumble carelessly down speckled cheeks,
quivering on golden skin,
and staining my raw, bitten lips when I think of you.
Sitting in a bed that feels unfamiliar, too heavy,
and last week’s suitcase still unpacked and sprawled over the covers.
You hadn't even crossed my mind until tonight,
standing in my dimly lit kitchen,
microwaving shitty Thai takeout
in a house that you once stood in,
when your feet were on the ground.
A risqué butterfly tattoo,
clay sculptures decorating the walls,
and drawings stuck with tape onto windows.
A laugh that you felt from your toes
to the very tip of your head,
that flooded the room so that everyone listening was engulfed and pulled away by your current.
It's a hole that can't be seen,
and it’s a hole that can’t be fixed,
but a hole there nonetheless.
And one that bellows in pain when touched.
It's knowing that you won't see me,
or my sister or my cousin in white,
that kills me.
The last time I saw you I was in black,
walking down a sprawling country road alongside a long dark car.
Clutching onto the hands beside me,
and having to start to use ‘used to’ instead of ‘does’.
Who knew that the past tense,
Could be so cruel.
Letters to Lost Lovers
Dear the first.
Everything about us was quick;
quickly saying goodbye,
only ever a quick greeting before I even felt your tongue tangle down my throat,
your hands bundled awkwardly at my waist
and friends surrounding us, giggling and taunting.
I remember peeling off our clothes, and stripping down to our undies and my bra,
galloping into warm, sun-soaked salt water.
Laughing at your belly flops,
and screeching when you threw me over your shoulder.
Then suddenly, one night, I was in your old blue truck,
watching words tumble out of your mouth that I didn’t want to hear.
Public bathrooms remind me of you.
Dear the second.
You had incredibly shitty timing,
really, it couldn’t have been worse.
You also had incredibly shitty taste;
I was your best friends’ ex-girlfriend, after all.
I whispered a tiny ‘no’ on a flower printed mattress;
the crackles and singing on the stereo becoming inaudible.
You should have timed it better.
Dear the third.
You loved talking to girls;
it was the only game which you ever won.
For months, I was just another ‘babe’ or ‘sweetheart’ to kick with,
and you liked tossing me around, bouncing my emotions and throwing wild ideas into ‘our’ future.
You were my first and only rebound,
until you found someone better to play with.
Dear the fourth.
Snapped,
images
and words.
Anxiously waiting for your stamp of approval,
that would validate my self-worth instantaneously.
Glancing around at the fairy lights lacing my walls,
band posters and pictures of friends watching me as we talked when my parents thought I was sound asleep.
Our relationship can be summed up in a 10-word haiku;
Not enough boobs for you,
I was 14, not 21.
Dear the fifth.
I think our story has been left unfinished, but I can’t be too sure yet.
You’re the kind of guy I hear described in dreamy love songs,
but that although tempting, I continuously run away from.
Your roses and gestures frighten the person I pretend not to be,
so most of the time you’re left hurt, and I’m left alone.
I brought you home to a Sunday night dinner,
chuckling along to dad’s cheesy jokes
and complementing mom on her burnt creations.
Finishing the night by lying with our backs to the concrete, faces to the stars.
At the end of the day, I only fueled your ego.
Dear the sixth,
I could write a book about you,
but you’re not worth the effort.
I’ve seen you with her, holding hands on a weekend.
Remembering when you took me to the same exact spot.
I hope she makes you happy now
obviously, I didn’t.
You made me feel
like I was hard to love.