Tag: reflection

Goodbye, 2014

New Year's Review // © Meghan Tutolo

2015. Are you serious? Ah, I can’t believe it. I can recall my 12-year-old self awake with the seemingly difficult math (of an oncoming Y2K)—how old will I be when the world ends? I was mad then, because if the world ended in 2000, I wouldn’t be able to drive yet. I’m glad those were my issues with the apocalypse. Driving and all.

I’ll be frank: I’ve put off this New Year’s entry for 3+ days. I had planned on something a little more froofy—a little more hippy dippy—but in the span of a few days, I’ve had my parked car plowed into (subsequently hitting A’s car and a telephone pole) and so I’m feeling a little skeptical. Do years really reflect their first few days? I hope not. But I did find 20 bucks in a used book the day before. Ahem. This is denial, isn’t it?

The worst year of my life thus far (2012) began with my good friend blowing chunks all over herself mere inches from me, while the ball dropped and the party hooted around us. It was movie epic. This was followed soon by my cleaning off said chunks from her and my other good friend’s floor. It was all too funny and embarrassing to be disheartening. And honestly, I learned something valuable— if pushed suddenly into desperation mode, I could clean chunky alcoholic puke off of people and things without puking. Even whilst drunk.

So there’s that.

Well, 2014, this is my ode to you: all gummy bears and cat photos and getting a chapbook published. And let me not forget, full of love. Love and letting go, that is. Maybe it wasn’t just 2014, maybe it’s been a few years in the making, but I’ve slowly come to realize that the company I keep is important as ever. You and your friends are sort of a team, you know? And keeping people around out of comfort or commonality isn’t enough. Or perhaps this is all just bullshit and I’ve just become lazy. I don’t know.

“Growing up means preferring silence over bullshit.”

I don’t know who the hell said this, but that sums up where I am.

 

Carrie Furnaces, Pittsburgh PA / © Meghan Tutolo

A few things I discovered in 2014
and that you need to check out ASAP

+ so much more…
Anyhow, I’m going to leave you with a poem. It’s gorgeous and so perfect for right now.

 

JANUARY / W. S. Merwin

So after weeks of rain
at night the winter stars
that much farther in heaven
without our having seen them
in far light are still forming
the heavy elements
that when the stars are gone
fly up as dust finer
by many times than a hair
and recognize each other
in the dark travelling
at great speed and becoming
our bodies in our time
looking up after rain
in the cold night together

Thanks for reading, being a part of my victories and my stumbles. <3
mt

Next, your nightstand

I wish there was something more poignant about the way I’m feeling right now.

These days it seems that every experience I have (and the feelings that accompany it) are new and strange. Have you ever gotten to that point in your timeline where you realize that you are just… different? The changes certainly weren’t overnight—maybe they came from extreme loss or a job change or marriage, partnered, perhaps, with purposeful self-growth. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you come to this point where you fully realize it. It’s like if you were slowly to replace everything in your bedroom. First, you swap carpeting. The next day, your hamper goes. The next, your sheets. And so on, until eventually everything is different. You feel like a foreigner in your own room, your own shell.

I don’t even know if it’s ok, you know. I just know this is how it is. And I can either accept it or start swapping again.

mt

Summa-summa-time & a visit to the supposed city of my dreams

Hey y’all…

Yep. Being in the south for a week definitely does something to one’s dialect. I mean, it’s not like I’m really toting some raspy drawl or anything, but there have been some slipups. Don’t worry: I came home and said “hey yinz guys” in front of the mirror like 147 times to make sure.

The week-long jaunt to and from Asheville was a much needed vacation. I still did work and fretted over such things as emails and edits, but I think the fresh air and the new surroundings did me good. It’s amazing how gorgeous those mountains are, and how they followed your every move: pumping gas, standing outside for a smoke, walking around town, everywhere. It was kind of like having a sky in your pockets. Or something like that. (I realized upon coming home that we have all those gorgeous mountains, just smaller.)

We ate BBQ, wrote postcards and walked around town (we stayed in Black Mountain), enjoying most of all, the people. What is it that makes us so frustrated, uptight and intolerant? We are so rushed and quick to move onto the next thing. What about right now? Time crept more slowly there and my eyes weren’t fixed to my phone’s clock.

What can I say? Asheville was everything I thought it would be.

The house across the street

I look.

I can’t help it. It’s right across the street. It’s a worn white house with ugly brown trim. Looking at it, I can’t quite point out exactly what it is… why it looks as if it’s caving in on itself. But it does.

When I moved in, my roommate told me the story.

A man lived there, a big man, with no family. Nobody really knew him. Middle-aged. He shot himself a year or so ago. Pretty sad. Could it be any sadder, really? And since then, it’s quirks have haunted me.

It’s been only about five or six times, but sometimes a car will be there. On a Sunday. Once I saw a small gathering, a few men and a woman, purveying it from the sidewalk. Solemn.

Sometimes, a light will be on outside. I’ll run a few errands, come back, and it’ll be out. I don’t think it’s motion-activated. I’ve tested that theory. Sometimes, and this is the worst, the screen door will fly open. It will stay that way for days, flapping. I don’t dare close it. I’ve never come that close.

A small driveway, severely sloped and stout, falls into it like an open mouth, a garage tucked neatly below. And, on a morning not too long ago (aptly during the deep freeze of this winter), I heard a gushing sound emanating from it’s eerie cavern. Water line, I’m sure. And I had to call the cops.

“Who owns it? Does anyone live there?”

And somehow I was explaining my haunt to a policeman, leaving out all of my paranoia.

I don’t know what it means or if it will ever be sold or demolished. But it’s part of my (nearly) everyday. And I just wanted to say it somewhere. I’m sure we all have these things. I’ve even dreamed about the place, the man inside who I’ve never met.

Do you have something like that? Something that scares you, a constant reminder of your mortality?

That’s just one of mine.

mt