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Snowed in.

A Course in Miracles says "There are no private thoughts..the universe & God & everyone picks it up." Maybe that is what I was trying to tell you all along, but you already knew, reading my brain from across the page, the room, the universe.

The charts kept talking about The Saturn Return but I never thought girls could be mean after you were thirteen; after blood dropped down everyone's thighs and we were women.

All the dogs growl now like wolves and maybe the only warning is that we have to go back somewhere else soon where they don't design anything.

I should have known from the get go with the dry erase board but I wanted to believe everybody; I wanted to believe everything.

It's the prettiest room but I lived alone for a long time. I think my head has hurt like this for 3 months and 7 years.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

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deputy

I. There were these times when my best friend was a girl and I was happy with it. In my adult life. I read about this in certain ways now, sometimes in magazines articles or in books with special essays or short stories. Not about the best friend part because that's how the whole thing ends horribly too. The whole thing ends and I can't even retell it the right way because I don't remember it. I remember the beginning so perfectly that it is almost comical. I can even remember the middle. The end is lost on me. The end must always be so bad that my brain just does away with it. Does it really disappear? Or does it put it somewhere else? Did I put it somewhere else myself--- like I am doing now by making it public record. Explaining that I slept for twelve hours but I don't know why. "Your body must have needed it," someone will say. My body. I don't know, I am not sure if I have known what my body has needed for years. One way I have always kept track is by being able to say "One year ago around this time..." and then "Two years ago around this time.." until I cannot remember. And then there are some months or holidays that I cannot really find parts of. Or there were some stories where my best friend was a boy, a guy but when I tell that story I should be saying he was a man, and I should be calling him my best friend but I don't do either of those things. "You were miserable when it was happening." But was I? Was I? What was it like? Did I just learn to talk a certain way? And weren't all those things supposed to fix my brain? The year I stopped writing. The year I stopped thinking. The year I stopped. There were times when my best friend was a girl and I was happy with it. This is a story of adult female friendship but it digs into your girlhood bones, it scrapes your childhood knees the same ones you sold for better scraps of fabric and bigger cities with brighter lights and names you didn't know. It couldn't have told you that you'd learn them all anyway, like the words to any song (every song) like reality television, like maps, street grids, finger tips, tricks. Magic tricks. This is because you knew the books to read and remembered the end, and filled in the details that I deleted from the computer. That I apologized for profusely but there is nothing you until those shadows come back and they holds your hands and wrap their arms around you in the bed & tell you all the secrets and text you the addresses so maybe that way men don't smother you in your sleep. So that way maybe.
- some good things

-a few terrible things
One day you are twenty-seven years old. It was never supposed to go down like this.
I mean, it was inevitable right? But were you really going to outlive Kurt Cobain? Not when you were fourteen, you couldn't have then because you were dying. And at sixteen you were dead. By eighteen you had left the state and you knew everything and by twenty-one you'd had complicated relationships and been reborn and truly alive and all of that was so ridiculous but even the concept of twenty-five

And then it happens you are twenty-seven. And you don't have any of your extremes planned out. Like how you were going to do heroin on your twenty-seventh birthday or be married with two kids. You've never done heroin; you've never had two kids. Better yet you've never shot up anything, never been properly knocked up. You're twenty-seven years five months and eleven days old-- something like that right? If you were born in January and it is May now? This seems right. This is what you are thinking after a man you just met almost drove a car off a cliff after you stayed in a luxury type resort in the San Juan Islands which sound very tropical but are actually running down along the coast of Washington, close to Canada. It's gorgeous and Goonies green. There is no color in his eyes as he accelerates on the slippery slopes and says "I"m sorry baby, I know you must be really afraid right now," and you watch a deer run inches in front of the car while calmly looking for a permanent marker so you can write on your left hand "I love my mother." This seems appropriate. It seems like it won't rub off and it well do just as well. There will be extensive dental records. They will say she was terribly afraid of cars.

She told everyone, including the man driving that day, about the car accident when she was twenty. But you, the girl in the car, who is now a woman, not twenty but twenty-seven you are in the San Juan Islands and I think you have outlived Kurt Cobain by a few months. You are sure you going to die, this is your greatest fear after that SUV flipped over a few times and the highway was splattered with blood and you heard bones breaking. And nothing you rebelled against in high school mattered and none of the pills anyone took fixed any of their maladies. And moving to New York didn't fix your spine, it only made it temporarily longer and moving to Portland didn't make the interstate stop but it sort of kind of almost stalled the car.

The man driving doesn't want to miss the ferry. And you, you're the kind of women that let's men take you on holiday. You are the kind of women that gets to die after burning mix cds when no one can find the proper plug to hook-up the iPhone to the the stereo system of the car. So if Kurt Cobain was born on February 20th and then died on April 5th that's how many months? January, February, March, April. Yep. You outlived him.But not really.

But not really and this is how you are going to measure mortality because you just went to visit your parents in Seattle where your best friend lived for one year and you were unhappy. And in high school, absently, openly equally & most importantly as a threat you'd say "I'm going to move to Seattle"
and at fourteen, which is roughly half your age you'd say
"It can't rain all the time."
And before you lost your virginity in the backyard in the new millennium (six months later, respectively)
And everything became about maybe we will live mostly in Long Beach, California because realistically couldn't I write my first novel there? And then wouldn't we get to live to be 28? or maybe it was even 29? When you are listening to Sublime in backyards and boys are blonde and your lips are chapped. And you have still never wanted to be anything other than a writer. See, I'd roughly have some time left.

Daniela Scrima riding in cars with boys. I mean Daniela Scrima riding in cars with men.

Daniela Scrima writing in cars with boys. I mean Daniela Scrima writing in cars with men.

I mean the way you measure your mortality by stopping in Olympia and letting a man by you pizza. Thinking Courtney Love was here. Still wondering "maybe she killed him." Shaking your ass in a thrift store and spitting on the ground.

He missed the ferry.
You didn't die in the car.


You are suddenly twenty-seven years old. It snuck up on you. You have done enough. You don't feel some sense of lack of accomplishment, in fact, you feel like you have been alive more maybe thousands of years. You feel like in fact maybe you have already died in The San Juan Islands three of four times. You have picked this fight before. The brain damage was your fault five lifetimes ago. The man in the bookstore who is a direct relative of John Steinbeck, the miracle of the day. Maybe this has all happened once before. Maybe that is why you can read quickly. Maybe that is why you need earplugs to sleep?

Or a different man that you lived with for so long, just never wants to see you again. Because it is your face. And he had a hybrid car. And he never tried to drive it off a cliff. And you want to call him or knock on his door and tell him that you do in fact of the walking pneumonia that this is in fact fluid in your lungs. You do in fact want to tell him about Olympia and the Capitol Theatre, and things he already knows, things that all the men in your life know because the only men the twenty-seven year old sees are a decade older than you. You cannot do this because it is your face. You cannot do this because it is your narrative. You cannot do this because you have no middle name.

When you were seventeen you already met the boy who would be with you when the car flipped over when you were twenty. You wrote a story based off of another story and you called it the same thing "The Man I Killed" but you really didn't kill anything, you can say now, ten years later that it was a good story. Your best friend who lived in Seattle for a year was there too but she has not yet outlived Kurt Cobain. She has a few more months. She would have cared immensely if you died in The San Juan Islands because days before you had texted her about where to eat lunch and you couldnt remember the name of the neighborhood she lived in
"Capitol Hill"
And then you remembered right away
And of course you missed everyone. And always took candy from strangers.

You have had stomach aches and time zones; twelve hour lovers and undercover brothers. You have said repeatedly to anyone who would listen "this song is about me". And every time it has felt so good. Because words, even when it has been so long, they can wash over you and you can be reborn with them. You can miss your cousins. You can wonder why you were an only child.

You can miss your dog.

For now, you can feel completely fulfilled with that alone as your role as a mother because when you say "Come see Momma!" the boy comes running. And that is what you wanted, the whole time from the songs and the stories and the holidays. The poems and the boys and the men and the islands and the cities. You wanted love that was unconditional. That is why we bake it bittersweet and bury our pets, the ones with unconditional love to offer, who will not outlive us or search for permanent markers in the passenger seat thinking that this day came too soon, that the view is so lovely.
I. I shouldn't listen to this album in the morning, when I am trying to pack or get ready or you know go through the day because it makes me want to make you be alive. Be alive for real. Not hyperbole or literary bullshit. Just not be dead. To time travel back to September and be able to move really quickly a thousand miles in my sleep and shove my hand down your throat so you throw up and get to be alive.

 Sometimes when I am walking down the street here I stick out my hand so you can hold it. Like I'd clear out the front seat of my car. Because I believe in angels and everything. And there will never be a bad decisions month again. I won't write it on a cake and they won't feed it to a dog. Do you see me when I like this? Even when I put my head against the wall? What do you think when I cannot sleep or is it that much different now? It has to be. I mean with everything I believe it has to not feel like that. It has to not feel like anything. It has to be better than a feeling.

That is what I want to be guaranteed. Sometimes I can feel you walk right through me. I swear that I can. Sometimes I can't feel my hands, but that's not better than anything, and it's not nothing either. I guess you know that. And I don't know about my hands down your throat.

Or what our kids would have been called.

But I can kind of see myself somewhere in Ohio, barefoot and pregnant. I can see myself watching you with cards in your hands and wanting my babies to be born blonde. I could want to place a bet on it and never fold.

With all of these songs and every album in the morning. Because no one else had ever learned all the words for me. And my mother brought me cups of tea for days. And my dog licked tears of my face.

And I don't remember October of 2011. Do you know that there are so many whole months of my life that I don't remember? I guess you do. In the car before smartphones when we'd have to argue out the lyrics because there was no way to check.

We'd argue out the lyrics. We'd place bets. I was the one telling you what it meant to be left handed. You were the one telling me I had to write some story, some book.

II.
You called me from a bar when I was a few blocks away from here. You were with my cousin, Michael. It was still so funny, like it's funny now that the world is small. I had just gotten off work and they just built the New Seasons so I was sitting outside waiting for something. Like to be happy because I couldn't be. It was longer than a year ago. Maybe February, but probably January. You said you'd come out next month. But the first thing you said is "Are you writing?"

     "Are you writing?"
     "I don't write at all anymore, Brett."
     "That's all you need to worry about doing, kid."
      "I haven't written anything in almost a year."

And your whole voice changed so I could feel it in your shoulders. And I'd talk to you in the same spot every night.
Because with pen or paper or even my own hands or a keyboard. I had no words.
Maybe then this wasn't the same city because I wasn't the same person. That's what I forgot to say last night about life. But everybody knows that, the way that Dorothy knows that. The way that no one or everyone at a funeral knows that. The way that there are whole months that I cannot remember. That time is relative. That perspective is the difference. That it doesn't have anything to do with what you are looking at but how you are looking at it.

Or how I told you I couldn't stay up to listen to one more song. Because I was old and tired. And we would listen to it tomorrow.

And I did listen to it tomorrow. I think about it all the time because the lyrics just kept going can we get much higher
And when I got home I was going to tell you about things
But when I got home it was the kind of world where you see things like RIP on Facebook.

And I wasn't supposed to hate anything anymore. But I hated everything. And I called Michael. I must have called Michael. And Bailey. And Ilana. Because I wanted my six hours back. And I was young and not tired and could stay awake. And I could make this about me. If it was about me, it could be okay.

I could tell you what it was like to be left handed.

I can walk down the street and stick out my hand for you.

I can't listen to these songs in the morning.

I can't care if this is meaningless to other people. A lot of times they'll say "I read it but I didn't know what you were talking about." Maybe even Jackson doesn't know? But I doubt it. Even if he is mad at me. I miss Ilana. I miss my best friends. I miss Sawyer. I miss my mother too, because I always miss my mother when I get to talking like this. My hands start shaking and I can't recognize my own face. I see vacancy signs and I feel bad for strangers, people that have known me for less than four years that have to keep my company because they will try so kindheartedly to remedy the situation and see how I can be tended to. Scarlett O'Hara with an eyebrow arched in bed like she never ate dirt from the ground. We're both gonna get our waists that tiny again. We're only going to think the best thoughts in our heads, and no one's going to bother to put that in the movie.

III.

When someone asks "what's wrong?" The answer is truly nothing. The answer is that everything is going great. Nothing is wrong. Maybe for a moment I was just somewhere else. Because maybe all those months that went away are there somewhere. Isn't that a horrifying thought? That they could just be stored away somewhere. And one day maybe, like time, you could just be in them.
I used to wish I could travel in time-- and isn't that how I started this whole thing-- with my hands down your throat? Isn't that where I want to be? I want to be before that even.
But where do I start and how?
And I'll never look up what really gets said in dozens of songs. I like your way better. Even if I'm right. We'll have to google it somewhere else. The kind of heaven I believe in does not have smartphones.

like fugitives & refugees

I. Fugitives

We meet in parked cars or playgrounds after dark. It's one of those things where you could make a bet with yourself in your head, say it to someone else even: "If someone told me two years from now...." and then you look at where you are and where you and you trail off and you laugh because it's so absurd or hysterical. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Oh, if someone would have told me Id'a just never believed 'em!

Anyway, I don't think I'm the bad guy in the story anymore. I guess there doesn't have to be one. He looks to torn up about it, if he can look at me, which he only does if I need him to say something to my face. And I usually do, like a kid by the swing sets. One thousand self-help books later, I'm not angry about it, I'm saying I wanna be friends buddy, I think that's fair, pal. And then I can kick some dirt with my foot because the tone is unfair and I aged you like Barack Obama and now you're gonna talk trash like that? Say it to my face, man. Say it to my face.

So he does. And it's not mean or awful. It's just kind of beautiful and sad. I don't have homefield advantage but we did used to run 'round this court to wear the dogs. When your dogs call you Momma and Daddy because it's like an independent film where you live together but have pets instead of children because two or four or six years later, someone doesn't want t be friends. No matter how amicable the break-up. No matter how many promises not to be like Sammie and Ron-Ron, or blog about it on the Internet.

II. Refugees

The biggest differences that I want to tell you about before I go to bed and finish packing for Seattle and the San Juan Islands (which are not tropical, don't they sound terribly tropical?) the biggest difference between New York and Portland that I want to tell you about before bed is the reaction of strangers to a young lady who may happen to be weeping as she walks down the street.

In New York City, I could and have made love to the anonymity. The pavement can be gray and match the sky and all the face of the strangers and your own soul and the lack of eye contact leads to all expressions of a person walking alone sans cell phone, smile or other human being the same. Fairly aloof, half present, straight ahead. I am walking quickly nothing is in front of you. You are very attractive I will look at you or your clothing but not really.

Many times I have walked down the city in New York City sobbing, and I have watched others do the same. Occasionally, in Brooklyn, in my own neighborhood this has solicited something if the ground was solid and the terms were related. I found solace in this. It meant that almost anything could be private. If I felt my life was ruined, it could be like this on the train or up Broadway. It was no one's business and they were well aware.

If you walk down the street in Portland-- and I've never been given the chance to even attempt sobbing, though I cried once and I believe I wept twice, it is not a private affair. It is a public matter. It is almost like a new petition will be written and signed. I have been given a slice of chocolate cake, which came quickly after an unsolicited hug by a child. I have been pulled aside for palm readings and told that I was fine-- more than fine wonderful. I once tried t keep walking to no avail until there was nothing to cry about and the worst time I had to keep crying because sometimes tears just stream down my face without cause or reason. Even on backstreets I had my palms licked by golden retrievers, which I am sure I must have attracted myself, because The Pacific Northwest cannot be as powerful as the universe and it's not the island of Manhattan's fault that it cannot provide itself with large front yards.

I still cannot pick a best coast.

But I can tell you I am not leaving.

III. Like

I am terribly in love with it all.

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you won't regret it no no

If I didn't take naps like this everything would be 25% different. For someone that does not grasp percentages, theories or things I find myself applying them often to my life.

  He looks at me at the farmer's market & I say "but the asparagus would only be half useful, let us get a smaller bundle."

A math teacher that is also a football coach who does not live here but somewhere else may or may not be happy about this. He actually would not be.
He'd say 'Stop acting like that's all you got, Scrima."
And I'd tilt my head to the left, like dogs do.

What do you mean, mister? I'll do anything for a treat. Does this instruction or order come with a crunchy snack?

I sleep it off. They are almost like New York City naps. When I was a waitress and the heat came, and I was twenty-one or twenty-two years old. And life was brand new again for the very first time.

It is kind of like that now, maybe that is why I need to nap in the middle of the day. Because they start so early, or I am not feeling well, or I do not trust the pacers from the halfway house next door. Around in circles always asking if they can buy a cigarette for a dollar. They always have a cigarette, so I don't see why they need one. They always look like they are freezing, which I guess means they are. it is a reminder to not do whatever drug they did. And then I think that I probably already have, unless it's meth. I reassure myself with this while I drink kombucha and have no cigarettes to sell for a dollar and need a nap, crankier than a four year old. Up and down the block
 
You got a smoke?


I don't think I will be good on going on dates because I had thought I was awful at making small talk, but apparently I am terrific at this. It's because I've forgotten whole years of my life.

measuring cups/three days

I'm afraid to drive the smart car because it has no back. It's half a car, and I don't know how to turn it on really. Sometimes I forget things like parking, or I just want the bus to be the train. Usually, cabs are still my favorite. I like the drivers that get on their cell phones while speeding and switching lanes recklessly. For whatever reason, I trust them the most. I text on my cell phone & shout out my stop "WHAT" until they furiously have to get off their phone call and then repeatedly tell me they know we were going even though I haven't really finished saying it. Sometimes they'll say this is their first day on the job on this city, but they have always been veterans somewhere for at least my whole life span.

I never did end up going to collect the remnants of the red bicycle, though maybe I should still do that. You know the one with the streamers. I wonder if it's still there now like it was a few weeks ago. Things change so quickly when you are dealing with someone who used to hold your face in their hands. What I mean by that is, they can look at something that reminds them of you, and want it very far away, because instead of a sunny day it will remind them of wanting to snap a neck.

Spotify has been confusing me all morning. I don't even know why I am trying with it instead of Pandora or regular iTunes. I couldn't add variety to a station so I had to pick one of their stations. They told me i like folk music, which is interesting, and not untrue. But the bands that they qualify as folk music are never artists names that I grasp for when strangers ask "What kind of music do you listen to?" "Oh I listen to folk music! Let me list off these guys!"
Sorry, spotify. I also liked when we all used last.fm and I still do. It's humiliating and shows how many self-help books I've listened to since 2006, and I like that.

Today is full of some mundane errands like: the bank, the grocery store, sending out mail, looking at a home that your dog will like too, going to a pole dancing class & kundalini class with your friend, finding tights that are transparent but have black lines up the sides, not eating a croissant, maybe having a dinner date and then going to sit at a bar & remember to drink water and rye not whiskey because Tuesdays are important and you write about yoga for really long periods of time.

Mondays should focus more about what counts on not losing sense of voice or person or tense.

all they got inside is vacancy

It's like the story about how I didn't know who to call & would count friends on my fingers, and then realized I could call AAA. It's like that but in a different city where I look at faces & watch them change, and figure I can write the book myself-- wasn't that what I was going to do to begin with? Anyway, I knew who the narrator was. How unreliable she could be. They told me in the workshop that they didn't hate her-- the opposite-- and I wanted to cry, I wanted to cry and not hate her either, because I tell myself I love myself a million times a day, so there should be no gap between "her" and "me". In the car I've crawled into some kind of ball and I am explaining that this is my face. "Don't you see it's my face?" My face out of all others. Do you ever think that about your own face? That it is your own face out of all others? It is the only one that is just yours. And when everyone has looked into it and said anything, it was just on you. Our faces that we walk around with. Lately people have been liking to talk like we don't have physical bodies. Not just like our physical bodies are some secondary thing, but like they don't exist at all. These are the kind of people that were never slapped across the face as children or dropped way too much acid in the sixties. Or maybe they have just never had their physical body invaded. if they had, I am sure they'd agree at least until they couldn't anymore that it did exist. And then they'd look at a door knob or the wall, the ceiling or the floor & they wouldn't know what a body was at all. But I can write whatever alone. It is a solitary act even when you take on others. How old are you, like, twenty-five? Yeah, sure. No, really. How old are you? Like, twenty-five. I knew it. But you have an old soul. Yeah man, like ten thousand years old something like that.. No way, that's bullshit. You shouldn't lie about stuff like that. My buddy Jeff said. But uh, Can you buy me beer? I wonder if I am getting sick or if I have lost my voice. I ask the woman at American Apparel to teach me how to fold a t-shirt Oh, I'll do that for you. Thank you, but I'd like to know how-- I never do it right. She does it too quickly, I can't see anything. I've never worked retail like this. Ilana refolds my shirts. Stacy & I worked at K-Mart when we were fifteen, sixteen. I don't remember anything being folded. We sat behind registers. Our minds were blown that we'd receive paychecks every two weeks with sums like $327 it was insane. We'd buy our boyfriends cuban sandwiches and drink cheap beer on the beach. And we'd live forever. And I can't fold t-shirts. I am doing my own laundry right now. Another skill I do not possess. Someone said "Bodega" to me yesterday as a pick-up line and it was efficient. Yeah, baby, hit me with Brooklyn. You want to talk about the BQE? Tell me everything you know. The man that runs, or works with computers or does something else leaves for two weeks and says it casually and kind of looks at me like I'm nuts when he walks down the stairs. Maybe I am looking at him like i am nuts. The latter is probably fair to say. But the events leading up to this second warrant my behavior. The look that can glaze over my eyes in second. That makes my footsteps soft so I talk to angels in my head, or even out loud & just start directly asking for answers. The other day there was a bartender, a bucket of donuts. A kundalini yoga class. All in one night. Ordering Manhattans. Wanting my rye dry. "Are you really going to the side of the river?" Sometimes I can't remember if I answer people aloud. In the front seat of twisted my bones until I get answers to questions I cannot think of. The only thing I want to say to anyone is that I should not be expected to sleep on sheets that aren't white, that maybe it would be bad for me. That the weather right now in Portland is beautiful. The chiropractor cracks my back in the street "put your hands over my hands." I'm an expert too. My bones just crunch and crack. See, I should tell the boy that wants the beer, I really am one thousand years old. Age is measured by the flexibility of the spine.

ABOUT THIS BLOG

Hysteria is not possible without an audience, that's why I need you baby. I've always needed you.







I have kept this blog since my first day of high school. It has been an outlet, a blessing, a curse. I talk extensively about anything, music, dudes, internet addiction &how text messaging ruined my life. Some entries are "friends only" but most everything else is public.

Danielascrima@gmail.com




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