A Rant In May

Hello, hello.

Last time, I said I hope that the next time I write, it’ll be about something better.

Not too sure if that’ll be the case, but here goes nothing….

Honestly, nothing much has happened since last time. I just remembered I had a blog, and my brain went, “You should update that.” Not that there’s many reading this, but I guess it will just give me good piece of mind.

I’m still working my “nine to five” because I’m broke. Everything blurs together. The world around me makes me not want to be a part of it. I haven’t written anything consistent or passionately in probably quite a few months. And, I don’t even know if I’ll ever get back into writing long-term.

I used to be about screenplays and playscripts – putting into words what would make a great scene. Like, all of the details and little aesthetics. I love building up stories like that. But, I paused writing things like that at the beginning of the year – unintentionally and subconsciously – and I just haven’t gotten back into it. It’s a terrible writer’s block, I guess, and it won’t go away. I can write small snippets every now and again, but it never adds up and never sticks. And, after a piece is written, I forget about it almost instantly.

When it’s not memorable, it’s beginning to die.

I think I just don’t want to write something I deeply love, and let it sit and collect dust, which is my ultimate fear. So, that alone stops me from continuing, because I get stuck on the notion of “what is the point.”

I really do want to change that way of thinking. But I’m not sure when that will be; for the past week or so, I’ve been trying to bring works-in-progress with me wherever I go, in case I get a few seconds to scribble in them. That’s an alright first step. But, so far, nothing sticks.

Anyways, that about sums up my life in a sob story, at least for a while.

Most likely, I’ll forget to write for a long while, because that always seems to be the case. This used to be a short story blog, and now it’s just for rants that don’t make much sense.

I apologize.

Until the next post, whenever and whatever that may be, peace.

QM

The First Day

Time slips away from me, lately more than I’d like it to. Memories tend to fade, distort, warp, or vanish altogether. But as poor as I remember things, as scary it is for my mind not to recall, the feeling of warmth and belonging will always be within the depths of my heart.

It was a Thursday. A warm Thursday, with a soft breeze. I was in grade eleven in highschool, 2014. Sebody I’d gone to school with in earlier years of highschool, told me to meet them after school. They were going to take me to a club. Not one of booze – even if I wanted that kind of club, it just wouldn’t be possible – but a club of hope. A group of dreams and stories and love in the darkness.

That final bell rang. Books were gathered. I met my friends at my locker, and together, we made our way to the long line of mustard yellow school buses. The buses that would take us home.

At the folding doors, I stopped. I didn’t climb those steps. My friends looked at me funny, wondering what had gotten into me. I smiled, stepped back from the doors, and went to the student lot, where the one who promised a club said they’d be.

And those buses all left, leaving me. But I didn’t care. I was lost in talk of hopes and dreams.

I was let down…. A message sent: Hey, I can’t take you to the club, something came up. But if you still wanted to go, here’s the address.

My dad saw me. What are you doing, here and not at home?

I told him of the club. I knew he’d say no. I never did anything besides going to school and going back home. But I didn’t care. I needed it, like going to this club was my next breath, Abbi needed it to live.

But, I don’t know what changed, what went on in his mind…. He said: C’mon.

Not: We’re going home.

Sure, it could’ve been a ploy. A change of words to earn my trust, so he could lie and ruin what I only asked for.

I got in the truck. My dad started driving. There was silence forms long moment, before he asked: When is it?

Happiness made my heart flutter. I nearly stuttered myself stupid telling him it started at 6pm, and ended at 9pm.

Next: Where is it?

Using the message as my script, I tell him it’s at 1148 7th Avenue at YAP Friends, across from City Hall.

Looking at the time, it was just after 4pm.

To pass the time, we bought Timmie’s. But I was so excited, I couldn’t calm down enough to drink my hot chocolate, and eat my strawberry donut.

It was getting closer and closer to 6pm. As we drove, I watched the street signs, reading each one we passed, hoping the next sign inwould read would be seventh avenue.

We were at the building early. There was nobody on the street. No cars parked at the curb.

My heart sank. Maybe we need to wait. There was still fifteen minutes. There was still a chance.

Every minute was agony. Each second was so close to crushing my soul.

Then… a couple kids walked down the street, and stood in the doorway. They were laughing. Two girls and a boy. One girl had a backpack, the other a book bag, and the boy had an expensive music case.

Then a couple of cars pulled up, parked in front.

A man and a woman got out of one car. Another boy got out of another car. A different woman from a different car.

They were making their way inside – the man opened the door, letting everybody in.

The boy with the instrument case was closest to the truck. Mustering up all of my nonexistent courage, I asked the boy if this was the club I was told about.

He smiled kindly, and confirmed my hopes and dreams: Yes, this is Street Spirits.

As scared as I was, spending three hours with people I’d never met before, I was happy. I praised every moment of those three hours, burning those soon-to-be family names in my brain: Kjirsten, Isaac, Nicki, Hailey, Chelsey, Elise, Pedro, Kaiser, Andrew, Teresa, Chuck. In time came more.

As soon as I left, all I wanted was to go back.

Street Spirits taught me many things: courage, empathy, love, sorrow, that it’s okay to swear in the moment….

But best of all, they taught me family. No matter what happens next…. I feel I have finally felt like I belong somewhere. That I’m not an outcast. That, again, it’s okay to swear!

When my mind evades me, and I can’t even remember my own name, I will always and forever remember Street Spirits.

QM

Accordion

He’s the oldest of eight boys. Grew up in tough times. Had to grow up before he even knew how to, let alone know what growing up was.

He worked on the farm, did hard work. He got tough skin working all day in the sun. He did things his father couldn’t, and things so his brothers wouldn’t. He dropped out of school, because school got in the way.

He learned how to live, like his father. He woke up before the sun, spent all day outside with it, went to bed long after the sun had gone for the day. While his brothers grew up, went to school, left town to chase their dreams, he stayed. He worked the soul off his bones.

When he got the chance to have a life of his own, he did. Found a property that wasn’t claimed, and built a house on it with his own bare hands. He grew crops of his own, and tended to the like they were his own children. Grew them, tended to them, nurtured them. He harvested them when they were ready, sold them to survive. He always paid his bills on time, with exact change. Put away extra money when he got the chance.

He got the chance to put his money to use, for him. With all his savings in a rusted coffee can, he walked into the music shop – a place he’d never been before. It was so foreign to him.

The shop hand watched the man in dust, and offered him help. He asked if the shop hand had an accordion. And if he did, he’d buy the shiniest one in the shop.

It was a harmonika Guerrina. It was black, and was adorned in coloured stones – red, blue, yellow. It twinkled in the light, just like his eyes.

He bought it.

The smile on his face was bigger than the accordion.

He tended to his crops: watered, weeded, hilled. He took a bit of downtime, sitting on an upside-down water pail, teaching himself how to make the instrument sing. Day and night, he learned. Music regrew his soul, note by note.

Word got around that the man in dust could play. Some laughed, thinking it was a joke. Others questioned, thinking he couldn’t play such an instrument with Grace. He was asked to play, at his brother’s house on Christmas. It was always a big turnout. There would be more witnesses.

With all those eyes on him, he started to doubt himself. Taking a deep breath, he let the music flood his nerves, and he played. He played with every blossom in his heart. And damn, he did it damn good.

And that’s how a tradition started. Every Christmas, he would play his accordion at his brother’s house on Christmas. When his brother’s wife had kids, he’d keep playing. His brother’s wife would dance with her kids to the music, dancing around the living room long after the music stopped.

His brother’s kids grew up, and they moved. The oldest of his brother’s kids stayed, and asked if he’d play at his house on Christmas Eve. He did.

The oldest son’s wife had kids. And every year, there he would be, sitting on a kitchen chair, with little kids sitting at his feet, watching him play. The oldest son danced with his daughter in the living room, long after the music stopped.

But, things got tough. He got tired. He worked harder every day, hoping that it would get easier. When it didn’t, he tried to just get to the end of the day.

A lot of Christmas Eve’s went by without an accordion playing. Growing up became silent. It was just another year going by.

Back gone bent, wrinkles grown deeper, painkillers in plenty, he drove to the oldest son’s house for Christmas Eve. He got the oldest son’s help, and lugged a giant navy blue case into the house. He kept it to the side, and ate dinner, catching up with family about the year soon over.

After most of the guests had left, he asked the oldest son to bring put the case. The oldest son did, and lifted the accordion into his lap. Crooked hands and a bent spine made such a familiar feeling become foreign, yet not. Letting memory take control, he played the songs he used to play before times got tough.

He cursed his old hands, while his audience didn’t mind. He called his playing shit, while his audience asked him to play another tune. He apologized for the garbage that came out, when his audience asked if he could play it again.

Tears came to his eyes. He said sorry, for not being there every year, not like this. He cursed his aging years for making it tough to play. He promised he’d play more often.

Next month, we get to go to his house, and hear my great uncle play that shiny accordion. The one never touched by dust. The shiniest one in the shop.

QM

cops

Everywhere I turn, there’s always cops.

I leave my house when I wake up, my backpack slung over my shoulder. It’s noon. I slept in because I couldn’t get to sleep until morning. The sirens kept me up. My neighbor upstairs kept screaming at his wife. His baby cried. The dog kept barking.

Over my shoulder, a uniform in a black and white watches from the curb. I’m the troublesome type. His hand goes to his CB, his eyes stay on me. I turn a corner on foot. And engine starts and follows me.

I see the black and white from the corner of my eye. It pulls up to the curb as I cross the street, and duck down a back alley. Lights and sirens.

And I run.

I don’t even know why I’m running before I start. I just run. I don’t ask questions.

The black and white chases me. It’s fast, too. It catches up to me, and throws me over its hood. I land behind it on the cracked concrete. My backpack lands beside me. The black and white stops. The uniform gets out, runs to me, kneels on my back, kneecap between my shoulder blades. The uniform is screaming. Telling me to shut the fuck up. Telling me how long I’m going to rot in prison.

Cold metal clasp my wrists. They bite into my skin until it draws blood.

The uniform lifts me from the concrete, and snags my backpack. I feel pain cracked across the side of my skull, yet I don’t even know where it came from. I can feel a warm stream run down my chin. Could be from my nose, or my lip. Everything hurts too much, and I can’t honestly tell.

I’m in the locked back seat of the black and white. The uniform is in the front. He speaks into the CB with confidence and pride, like a hunter to his buddies after taking down a ten point buck with one shot. Tells them he caught a druggie punk from a local gang. Caught him running, probably to dump some coke he was trying to sell.

I’m in a cold grey room. My hands are cuffed to the table. There’s two uniforms now: one from before, and another one that’s more quiet.

The loud one boasts to me, how he’ll catch every single one of us. We’re doomed. All I gotta do is rat out my buddies. I don’t speak. The loud uniform cracks me across the face. My cuffs are the only thing holding me so I don’t hit the ground.

The quiet one lifts up my backpack, and hands it to the loud one. The loud one laughs, grabs it, unzips it. The loud one dumps my backpack out on the table. Once everything stops falling, the look on his face is one of surprise and shock. Almost regret.

On the table in front of me are my textbooks. English. Poetry. Play writing. Journalism. Abstract art. A few pencils. My current novel, Of Mice And Men by John Steinbeck. Some loose papers with scribbles and unorganized poems.

The quiet one glares at the loud one. He unlocks my cuffs. Helps pick up my books. Tells me I can go, and apologizes for the confusion. I accept my backpack and leave.

I manage to catch the last bus to school. I arrive late. My poetry professor says I’ve got blood on my shirt. He asks what happened. He says Julie should take me down to the nurse.

Julie has worry on her face. I’ve never seen her look like that before. She looks like she’s about to cry. I like it better when she smiles. She gently holds my arm, as we walk to the office wing.

Julie tells the secretary that I need to see the school nurse. The secretary looks shocked for a moment, and tells us to sit and wait while she gets the nurse. She leaves. Julie and I sit down in padded chairs along the wall.

Julie takes my hand, and holds one of mine in both of hers. Her eyes glaze over. She looks at me, just as a tear falls down her cheek. In a voice just above a whisper, she asks me what happened. And I tell her.

Everywhere I turn, there’s always cops.

QM