etivoli

The Top 25 Things I Am *Not* Willing to Out-Grow ::

01. 96-count Box of Crayola Crayons
02. Puppies
03. Miniature Golf
04. Animated Films
05. Stickers
06. Coloring Books
07. Stuffed Animals
08. Swingsets
09. Hermit Crabs
10. Aquariums
11. Ponies
12. Finger Painting
13. Bumper Cars
14. Polaroid Cameras
15. Lemonade
16. Ocean Tide Pools
17. Dancing
18. Flying Kites
19. Decorating Christmas Cookies
20. Dressing Up for Halloween
21. Truth or Dare
22. Ice Cream Cones
23. Skee Ball
24. Camping & S’Mores
25. My Dreams

Volume II of my Life Soundtrack, as composed entirely of Stephen Kellogg songs. And why, do you ask? Because I can. That’s why.

Opening credits: Way She Is
Waking up: Sun
Average day: Take Me Into Town
Life’s okay: Days
Partying: Guitar and Tambourine
Happy dance: Be
Driving: Southern State of Mind
Action Scene: America Song
Secret Love: Start The Day Early
First date: My Sweet Charade
Falling in love: Such A Way
Love scene: Keep Me In Your Thoughts
Fight scene: In My Season
Breaking up: You’ve Changed
Getting back together: I Almost Missed You
Forbidden love: I Know Why
Learning a lesson: Uninspired Gambling
Deep thought: Flower In Rain
Flashback: If You Have To Go
Regreting: Pre-Disposition
Long night alone: See You Later, See You Soon
Death scene: Anthem of Our Discovery
Closing Credits: As Good As It Has Been

I remember
forming sticky popcorn balls with my hands
(even though I hate touching food with my fingers)
and the way my aunt’s auburn hair
framed her face.

I remember
Barton folding oily pizza slices in half
(I had on a red and white ringer tee that day)
and painting portraits with watercolors
i had made from lake mud.

I remember
a chubby brown pony who would dump me in the sheep fields
(and who also won me many blue ribbons)
and denying my grandmother the chance
to take my photograph.

I remember
slipping my feet into my dad’s old leather boat shoes
(a pair that has as many holes as I do years)
and the sweater I was wearing the first time
I held my baby sister.

I remember
recreating my handwriting style every few months
(just to keep my teacher’s on their toes)
and the feel of the sheepskin covered seats
in my mother’s Peugot.

I remember
not ever being the cool kid in school
(which I think I am grateful for now)
and the day that my best friend
moved away.

I remember
the moment my parents first saw my tattoo
(“You know that you are stuck with that for life”)
and the way your fingers tangled in mine
as we walked to our favorite restaurant, or anywhere.

I remember
the music that played through my car stereo
(for all 800 miles)
and confirming that I really can only rely
on myself.

And after I type this last word
I will remember
sitting on the front porch
(as I now often do, and)
writing this about those times in my life
that I may, or may not, want to remember.

A fire burns, Water comes
You cool me down, When I’m cold inside
You are warm and bright, You know you are so good for me
With your child’s eyes, You are more than you seem
You see into space, I see in your face
The places you’ve been, The things you have learned
They sit with you so beautifully.

I have been having the strangest dreams lately. They are all rendered as Illustrator drawings, miniature cartoons, animated short films. (Which really just tells you that I have been working too hard.) Each dream is short, a vignette of my life, or what could be my life. They are tangible, and the people in them are people I know. They are saturated with colors and movement, almost as though someone took my past, my present, my future and composed flip books of moments in time. They are family, friends, colleagues, loves. They translate into emotions, yet they are not extreme, so as to leave me with any feelings from sadness to exalted euphoria. They just *are* what they are. Polaroids. Snapshots. Mini-movies. Records. Memories.

I should be better at recording my dreams so that I can remember them better later on, but I am horrible in that respect. I think part of me fears that if I am able to translate that which happens in my dreams, I might start expecting them to materialize into reality. Or that I might make decisions based on them. And while I am sure my subconscious has more clout than say, an internet horoscope reading or a cookie fortune, I think it best not to commit to them. Not just yet anyway.

You know there’s no need to hide away, You know I tell the truth
We are just the same, I can feel everything you do
Hear everything you say, Even when you’re miles away
Coz I am me, the universe and you.

I am certain that this erratic dream pattern is compliments of the little life that I am currently sustaining. Remnants of my dreams are left somewhere in my mind between hungry whimpers and bottles of puppy formula. However, aside from the blatant lack of REM, I remain grateful to that silly pup as I think he is keeping my mind distracted from other things. My outward personal strength that was necessary to readjust to a move away from that which I’ve known my whole life, is starting to dissipate. And while a visit from family next week will certainly help, I have found myself rather unstable and definitely without confidence. Which is something I have very little of to begin with.

I spoke to my parents on the phone last night. And after pulling my mother from the depths of her landscaping, she proceeded to tell me how the neighbors were coming over for a BBQ by the lake and that the party at the Scheers the night before was “one to be remembered.” The water garden was flourishing, and they had taken the dogs to Hammonasset earlier that day. My father had plans to go sailing, and throughout our conversation, he was housing cookies my sister had made for her boyfriend who was going away for the rest of the summer. Bry was in the background, announcing that she was “going for a jog” up to Nick’s house, and I could hear Don and Cindy stopping by the house, greeting my parents with a usual “hello” though the other end of the phone.

I think the fact that I’m missing home so much as of late, is the reason behind some of my strange – albeit artistic – dreaming. If I couple capture all the individual dream vignettes that seem to be infiltrating my half-sleeping mind, I could decorate the white walls of my apartment with them.

Just like stars burning night
Making holes in the night
We are building bridges

You know, When you’re on your own
I’ll send you a sign, Just so you know

I am me, the universe and you.

I love to write. I use it as therapy, and it allows me the freedom to say whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. I can yell. I can daydream. I can analyze. I can sing. And I can do it all within the world of black and white type. I can delete it, or publish it. Share it or trash it. And no matter what I do, I own it. It is liberating, and challenging.

Recently, I was asked to submit a piece of my writing to a local literary magazine. Without dropping the name of the publication (because then I *know* the work will not make its way to print), I was contacted by the editor who, as it turns out in this small world, knows a college professor of mine. She was looking for a creative writing piece that is on the theme of “home” – almost as though she knew that I would give my left leg to spend an afternoon with my family right now. I sent her the following piece of prose. I wrote it just before I moved from Connecticut this past February. It is not fiction. But it’s also not an article either, per se. More of a journaled observation. And yes, run-on sentences are all part of my style. Anyway, I’ll shut up now and just post the piece.

•••

Anywhere, U.S.A.

There is a guy in New Haven who sells flags out of a truck. If you have ever traveled I-95 in Connecticut, you know who I am talking about. He is there every day, no matter the weather, holiday or state of the nation. At least forty large flags, of all countries considered, flap madly from the side of his crusty vehicle – forced by the winds off the Sound, and faded from the days’ sun. Just next to him sits an old faded van with “ROSES” painted boldly on the side. And occasionally, there is a weathered pick-up filled to the gills with fresh seafood.

I see this collection of characters every morning on my way to work, and every evening on my way home. I wonder how much business they really get. How many homes are adorned by American, Irish, Italian flags that were purchased from that very Flag Man, or how many prickly roses are destined for the hearts of every Land Rover or BMW that drives by.

I do know that if they were not there, the New Haven coastline would seem bare, and surely I would think to myself “I wonder what happened to the Flag Man?” Small-town Connecticut, U.S.A., as I know it, would not be the same. But then again, I am certain I could travel less than 100 miles to find another Flag Man. Or Old-Faded-Van-Rose-Guy. Or Fresh-From-The-Sound-Fisherman.

I grew up in a town full of Flag Men. Home-grown businessmen and women who ultimately shape the character of what everyone claims is the pride and joy of this country. The natural grocer, who would let me grab handfuls of sweetened pineapple rings from the depths of huge beer barrels. The baker, who’s dense confections would make you feel as though you’ve been wrapped in a sugar blanket the minute you step through his door. The old guy at the seafood market, who carries fish so fresh they didn’t even have time to remove the seaweed tendrils stuck in the gills. The artist, who’s studio always smelled of pastels and left kiln dust on your shoes. The florist, who crowded her windows, walls and floors with flowers so beautiful they looked as though they were made of porcelain, yet smelled of the most amazing perfume. The wine seller, who always had my father’s favourite wine in stock, even though he was the only customer who bought it. The bookseller, who knew my mother would be waiting for the next Ann McCaffrey, and always had the Rainbow Goblins on a shelf where I could reach it, even though I already owned a copy. Skip, the gentleman who owned the hardware store on the green, who’s floors creaked when you walked across them, and always offered me as many paint samples as i could carry.

And my father, the builder, who hand-planes every piece of mahogany, and sculpts every piece of tile, so it comes together to form a house that will soon be someone’s home.

As it is, my Small Town is just one Mother Hubbard short of a nursery rhyme.

My town remains special to me because my family is here. It is home. I grew up here. The most defined moments of my life to this point have been here. My childhood was colored by trips to the hardware store, or Christmas Tree lightings on the town green. My father’s business was built on the people who also call this town home, and the families who define their own lives through the experiences they have with the same people, places and moments that I do. And I am lucky that I will always be able to return to this town and think to myself, “I grew up here” or “I went to school there” or “That is the place I took my first riding lesson.”

The bigger picture, though, is that every town across this country has their bakers, builders, fish markets, cafes, book sellers and florists. Every town has its modest homes, its McMansions and everything in between; its in crowd; the downtown gathering place where everyone meets after work; its own field where you can find coordinating SUVs lined up every Saturday watching their humans play soccer, or baseball or some other uber-American sport.

Over time, I feel as though I’ve “used up” a lot of my Small Town. I have boxes packed away of first loves, lost loves and things that I love. I have pictures of myself by the lake when I was 2, 6, 10, 16, and even 24. I have dried corsages from prom that came from the woman with the porcelain flowers, and oil paintings of what our house “looked like once.” I have hooded sweatshirts adorned with embroidered letters that proudly state “GUILFORD” in green and white, and newspaper clippings from when honor roll would temporarily make me a town celebrity. But most of all, I have memories of that Flag Man, the bakery downtown and trips to the hardware stores with my dad.

I have experiences that I would never trade, but that I am eager to archive to make way for new ones, in whatever Small Town I decide to call home, whether it be for a month, a year, or an otherwise indefinite amount of time.