Sarah Morrison grows up

My Heart is Full

2007-07-28T19:55:00.000-07:00

I met Chase in Boston long long ago. It may have still been the 1990s. He would show up at my house to photograph my roommates. They would drink wine and listen to Morrissey really loudly. Chase never showed up at my house before midnight. I worked at 7am. I did not like Chase. He thought I was a bitch.

I am probably the closest thing to a girl version of Chase you can get. I do not remember when we became friends or why. I can detail weeks of my life down to the second. I can remember things and instances others never noticed. I can lose weeks of life just as easily, with no recollection of what I did, who I saw, or how much time actually passed.

Chase and I sat on a park bench in New Orleans a few summers ago talking. We figured we had been there for an hour or so. Apparently it was closer to 6.

I am having an anxiety attack trying to get on a standby flight to Philly, a week and a half ago. My level of panic rises to orange as suggested flight to Memphis four hours later is mentioned. All of a sudden I just ask, “What about Baltimore?” An airline attendant furiously types at her computer. She tells me there is a flight leaving in five minutes with one seat left. She looks at me and simply says, “Run.” I get on the plane. I am trying to call Chase, but they are telling me to turn off my phone. The plane took off. I knew Chase would be there to pick me up from the airport. It didn’t matter. I planned to leave the next morning for Philly. I think we lost track of time again. I am not sure how long I was in Baltimore. I think it may have been close to a week.

Chase did shoots. I wrote blogs. He roamed around aimlessly looking for the right light in a pair of girls shorts. I lied on the floor in a bikini typing on my laptop. I would get up at 10 am, Chase at 5 pm. I never really noticed.

I do not take pictures. Chase does. I bought a shitty digital camera hoping it would inspire me to try to capture more of my life than these words do. I always forget it is in my purse. Even when I manage to use it, it doesn’t see what Chase’s camera sees.

People read what I write. They are lost at my ability to detail the smallest moments in my life. Both the people that were there and those that were not, are baffled by it. This confused me, until Chase. I have seen thousands of photos he has taken of a moment I was standing next to him. When I see the photos I realize he captured something, I missed. A moment I remember as pretty, Chase saw as beautiful.

His eyes see things we don’t. His eyes create art out of the mundane. I have been asked by people far removed from us and our circle of friends about Chase. They ask me how we became friends. I still can’t remember. But, when they ask me about Chase and his work, I shake me head and call him “brilliant.” Then I add, “And he lives in his sister’s basement.”

I don’t know why we know each other so well. But, I doubt Chase does either.

eternal sunshine of Sarah Morrison's mind.

2007-04-03T01:51:00.000-07:00

When I was little I used to watch movies and wish they were real. I wished I was a little mermaid and lived in the ocean. I wished I had a twin like in Parent Trap to trade places with. I wished I lived on a farm like Charlotte with talking animals. I wished my house was a castle, and I its princess. Then I grew up.

Films resonate, but not like they used to. You see their morals. You listen, but you don’t hear. Age turns empathy, into sympathy. Things are farther from your reality.

I go to the movies alone. It’s one of the things I prefer doing alone. I drove to some little movie theater I had discovered outside of Boston, with noteworthy popcorn and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It was not one of the best movies I have seen. But, for the first time since I wanted to live in the ocean with Ariel, I wanted it to come true. I wanted to erase people. I wanted to erase things. I wanted to give a doctor a box of notes and pictures and make “him” disappear.”

Stuart caught me today deleting someone off my AIM list. I shrugged. He asked questions. It was too late. The boy was already gone, before he had a chance to even sort of love me.

My life has been a string of attempted removals of those who have broken my heart, or those I deem worthy to do so.

There are boxes in my parents’ basement. They are full of love notes, photos, wilted corsages, and other physical memories. On each box, I have scribbled the name of the boy who belongs to the contents. When his expiration date came, I carried his box down into the basement. I scribbled his name on top and put him on a shelf. The good times, the bad times, and the ones in between, shelved forever. I’d walk up those basement stairs and shut the door, hoping it would be like it never happened.

I thought I would get tougher. I thought my heart would grow stronger and more difficult to break with age. Now I just see flowers wilt, and throw them out. My heart didn’t change. I just got more protective of it.

These days, the boys I meet don’t get a chance for flowers or notes. I do my best to remove all traces of them at the first sign of “he could break my heart.” Maybe it’s really the first sign that I could love him.. And, if I he leaves, I don’t have a basement.

Benadryl and Cocaine

2007-03-27T02:59:00.000-07:00

My dad gave me an ultimatum which involves me being forced to get California plates, insurance, and driver’s license. I admit to being lazy or as I refer to it “unable to things that are not fun.” This situation is different. I have avoided and avoided this task at all cost. I like my truck with it’s Massachusetts plates. I like my license picture. I like my Boston zip code. I seem to be getting farther and farther away from home every day. They are my only proof, I am not as far away as I seem.

I drive a pick-up truck. One of the mirrors is broken off. My dad broke its gate, so it never completely shuts. It has rust around its edges that only come from winter. There’s still an ice scraper under the seat and a pair of mittens. No matter how fancy I am dressed, where I have been that evening, or who I have been hanging out with, I always return to a 4-wheel-drive pick-up truck, with Massachusetts plates and a Mission Hill parking permit.

I bought it after my car had been stolen. I am still not sure why I bought it. But, I did. My mom brought me to West Roxbury to pick it up. My dad put rocks in its bed in the winter, for leverage in the snow. The first time I drove it I felt so proud it was mine. I’m not sure why.

My license has a Roxbury address and my favorite photo ever taken of myself. When getting carded at bars it leads to conversations with bartenders and bouncers about the Red Sox, the Kennedys, and why I do not appear to be Irish. When pumping gas or parking, my plates lead to discussions about snow and Boston accents.

My dad comes out to Orange County on business, a few months ago. I am set to meet him at one of those piers, in one of those beach towns. I get a little lost. I stop where I am and get out of my truck to call him. The phone is ringing. I am worrying about time, work, the LA traffic on the way back, my social obligations for the evening. A gentleman walking by stops. I hear him say something to me. I sort of awkwardly nod, pretending to understand. The phone is still ringing. I am looking at the time. The gentleman comes closer. He points at my truck. He repeats, “You are far from home, aren’t you?” I hang up the phone. I look at him, then all around me. I nod,, “Very far from home.”

I worry no one will be able to tell how far from home, I actually am. I worry I might start to forget.

Maybe I will sell my truck. Maybe a Volkswagen is more practical.

Today: Growing Up

2007-03-25T00:52:00.000-07:00

I had an 8 year old ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, the other day. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was grown up. She looked at me and had no idea, I had grown up already. I look at myself sometimes and forget it happened.

When I was in elementary school, I wanted to illustrate children’s’ books when I “grew up.” In high school, I wanted to be a fashion designer. After college, I wanted to be a social worker.

I left school with the knowledge it gave me and entered the field of “uneducated labor.” I found it interesting. I met people who wanted to work retail. I met those who hoped bartending would lead to a restaurant management position. I never alluded to my past I may have mentioned once or twice how I wanted to illustrate kids’ books. Some of them may have smiled.

Today, I want to be a cab driver. I told my 8 year-old friend that. I want take people the places they need to go. I want to know how to get them there. I want them to tell me their stories. I want to just sit there and listen. I think that’s where I am in life. I have entered a time where people have more to say than I do.

Today: Lunch Tables

2006-12-16T01:50:00.001-08:00

I was at some social gathering the other night. Two intoxicated individuals were on one couch. One mentioned that he was his senior class president, while the other informed us she was the captain of the cheerleading squad.

All of a sudden, I could see them in the hallway. I could see their lunch tables. I wanted to go home.

But, I did not. Instead, I proudly announced, “I ran the snowboard club.” They sort of blankly nodded and looked at me like they knew what lunch table I sat at too. They knew it was far away from them. I finally did not care.

I liked this boy named Mike, in high school. He ran our Snowboard Club. I wanted to Snowboard. He promised me that if I came on one of the trips he would teach me how.

I never really played sports. I played basketball for a few seasons, mainly because I was tall and skinny. Everyone thought I should be good at it. I was not.

I signed up for a snowboard trip. I rented a board and boots. I was ready for Mike to teach me. He took off instantly with his friends. I was left in a lesson with some sort of girl that was irritating me. I walked out of the lesson. I may have called her a bitch.

Eric Larochelle. found me at some point. He found me somewhere between the bunny slope and the lodge. He did not say much. He just sort of rode up a chairlift with me. Without conversation of why I was alone and looking sort of aimless, he showed me how to turn and stop. No one told Eric I left the lesson. No one told Eric to find me. He just did.

Eric taught me how to snowboard. I snowboarded for a long time. Most of my best friends I met snowboarding. I can still snowboard. It’s that thing I can still do. It’s that thing I can never forget how to do. I forget how to ride a bike. But, I can still snowboard.

I ran the snowboard club in high school after Mike graduated. I ate lunch with freshman boys who gave me their cookies and who wanted to sit next me on the bus at 6 am, on Saturday morning. I liked them. They liked me. When I think about it, it was sort of like being senior class president. I was pretty much captain of the cheerleading squad.

Today: Boys and Girls

2006-12-16T00:34:00.000-08:00

I met in Jason in high school. He worked at my local snowboard shop. He was older than me. He grew up a few towns over. My mom would go there at Christmas and birthdays to shop for us. He probably picked out most of our snowboards and bindings and other paraphernalia that she would not be able to purchase on her own. I did not know him that well. I knew him enough to say hi. My mom seemed to know him better.

I went to school in New Hampshire. Jason lived the floor below me in the dorms. We became friends. He made me laugh. We had drinking contests. He may have made me watch Anime porn. Jason and i quickly became friends. I started to love Jason more than my mom did.

I met Lauren when I was 19 or so, snowboarding. She was 4’9, and well she still is. She had a laugh you can hear from a mile away. She had a smile that could light up a room. We moved in together in New Hampshire.

Lauren and I always looked funny next to each other, due to our foot in height difference. But, I never seemed to notice, nor did she. Lauren’s heart is bigger than anyone I know. Her heart is so big, I forget how little she is.

Lauren sent me a text message, yesterday. She told me Jason and her are getting married. These are two people I have loved apart for what seems like for ever. These are two people that together make me love them too much.

I hate weddings. I like this one. I like this one a little too much.

Yesterday: Christmas

2006-12-03T07:47:00.000-08:00

I liked Christmas, when I was little. I was showered with gifts and attention. It was my day. Then one Christmas, I opened my stocking and revealed its contents to my audience. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to really care.

Santa brought Sam. Sam was a small creature. He had ten fingers and ten toes. He didn’t say much. Everything Sam brought with him stole my Christmas. No one seemed to notice me anymore.

As Sam got bigger, so did his fingers and toes. He never said much. He cried a lot. I took care of him. I told grown ups when he was hungry. I told them when he was thirsty. I told them when he was sad.

Sam did not speak until he was two. My parents took him to several specialists. All concluded, “Sam is fine. He will speak. He just does not need to speak. His sister speaks for him.”

Sam’s G.I. Joes always beat my Barbie’s in a fight. When I got my license, Sam got upset when he knew going to school with me meant he would be late. Sam hated late.

We never agreed on music. We never agreed on time. We never agreed on the measurable or that without measure.

As we got older, we needed each other more. As we got farther away, we got older. Sam is big now. He can not fit in a stocking anymore, but if he could. I would like him, in mine.

I miss you, Sam.

Today: Running Away

2006-11-30T21:06:00.000-08:00

I decided to run away from home when I was in elementary school. I knew I needed something to bring on my journey, so I packed a spelling book to keep me company. I was mad at my parents for something or rather, so I ran into the woods behind their house. I found a spot behind a tree and some leaves and I sat there. I sat there for hours. I liked the feeling of no one knowing where I was. I liked the feeling of being alone.

When things feel wrong, I run away. I take my spelling book, I put it on the passenger seat of my truck, and I go. It is the same feeling I had that day in elementary school. The difference is the reasons for running away, they are grown up reasons. They are bigger. They take you to places that need a car. They take you to places that need more that a spelling book to bide your time.

I heard my mom yelling my name that day in the woods, but I did not get up. I stayed put, with my spelling book. I kept reading. At some point her voice sounded sad. So I got up, and I ran home. I did not really want to leave my place in the woods. I did because someone missed me.

I turn my phone off, when I run away. People call. But, no one ever sounds like my mom did that day, I hid in the woods. No one sounds like they won’t make it if I don’t come back.

Maybe, next time I run away it will be to my parents' backyard.

Today: Listening

2006-11-27T01:03:00.000-08:00

I had a window seat on my trip to Portland. I offered it to the lady with the aisle seat, without thought. She was overly appreciative. Once she was seated, she began to tell me her story. She has been traveling for two days, coming back from India. She’s an accountant. She saves up each year to go to India. She goes into the schools and orphanages. She offers any financial help, she can. I listened, I smiled, I waited for her to pause. I wanted to tell her about my trip to Cuba. I wanted to tell her how I worked in their schools. I wanted her to know who I was. Then I stopped. I realized this was not my story. This was hers.

Conversation is a sharing of stories. We half listen and wait for the moment we can jump in. We vaguely pay attention to the person speaking, seeing where our piece will fit. While waiting, we forget to really listen. When we forget to truly listen, we miss things.

I like people stories.

I have sat in front of my apartment in cabs that have taken me home. The meter is off, and the cab driver is still telling me his story. He talks of families left somewhere else, of journeys to this country in search of this “dream” he was told about. He tells the tale of a small apartment, housing everyone that could make it here. He speaks of others waiting somewhere far away, to come to this place he has deemed home.

I have ridden in the front of trains and busses, late at night. I have heard the tale of the bus or train driver. I can tell you about the novel they are writing. I could tell you about each one of their grandkids. I could tell you the stories of each passenger that stepped on and off, that day.

I have driven so many times across this country; I could suggest truck stops with the best candy selection and the cheapest gas.

I have met people I would never meet otherwise. I have met them smoking cigarettes outside of restaurants. I have met them, as they rang up my gas. I have met them at bars in the cities they call home. I know all their stories. They don’t know mine. They don’t need to.

Sometimes we forget to just listen. When we forget to just listen we miss things.

Yesterday and Today: Your Favorite Mistake

2006-11-17T01:58:00.000-08:00

I would go away to summer camp every summer. Freshman year of high school, I had met a boy. I left for camp, a little sad about leaving. We wrote letters and letters. I returned and learned he had a new girlfriend. When I inquired about this, he said very little. We parted ways and he ignored me the entire following school year.

Then there was the one who loved me more than I would ever love him. I expected him to go to the prom with me anyways. He told me he had another date. He was sort of seeing the girl. I told him I would go with someone else. I did. He wouldn’t speak to me after. He called me a few times to tell me he still loved me, drunk at 3am. He would never say a word to me anywhere else.

Then there was this one who I loved more than he, me. I was unaware of it at the time. We decided I should move to go to school, where he did. I got up there and he broke up with me. The next day I walked by him, he put his head down and didn’t say anything.

Then I liked this one boy. No one understood why. There was something about him. I sort of got it. Others sort of did not. We had been hanging out for a few months. We had plans one night. I called him and called him. I got nothing. Then he told me he was in love with some other girl. He never said another word to me.

I moved in with this one boy. He went away to tour with some band. He told me he would send me rent money. He did not and did not and did not. After a few months, I told him I was moving his stuff out, he lost it. He was screaming and yelling that I was crazy. I told him to come get his stuff. He never sent money and never spoke to me again.

I liked another boy, who I knew little about. I realized he had a girlfriend somewhere along the way. It was too late I already liked him. Things should have stopped. Things should not have happened but they did. People knew. He was afraid someone would tell her. So he screamed and yelled at me because I had the ability to ruin “his life.”

Then there was this one boy, I lived with. He had a girl he had left somewhere else. I really did not think much about it. When she found out about it, he accused me of telling her. I didn’t tell her. Someone did. The pair worked it out, I gather. I have not heard from him since.

Some of these boys come back in and out of the above scenarios. Some do not speak to me for years, months, days, or ever again. Some move back in. Some leave for good. I am simply there. I am really not a part of any of these stories. These are not really my stories. They are theirs. I could be anyone. I could be anything. I am simply their mistake.

People will yell at the person at the flight counter because they missed their flight.

They will yell at the parking ticket attendant for issuing the ticket on his windshield.

They will insist it was their alarm clock not them that made them late to work.

They will blame you because they could not have you back.

They will blame you because they loved you too much.

They will blame you because they let you down.

They will blame you because they still love you.

They will blame you because you are easier than blaming themselves.

They will blame you for being their mistake.

Today: Boxes

2006-11-15T03:21:00.000-08:00

My name is Eloise and I am six years old. I live in the Plaza Hotel. Actually, my name is Sarah and I am 27. I live in a two bedroom house in Echo Park.

If I could live in the Plaza, I would. If I could live in a Motel 6, I would. I do not like houses or apartments or things that are mine forever. I do not unpack. I leave my belongings in boxes and bags on my floor until someone inquires about it. I leave them on the ground so long that I forget what is in them.

I do not like staying. I like going. Boxes and bags have remained unpacked in apartments as long as my duration there. I have simply thrown the unpacked bags and boxes in my truck and continued on to somewhere else.

There are paintings on the floor, and photos in frames waiting to find there spot. There are dresses to be hung, and underwear to be put away. Yet, they never find their place. They wait for a home or a place to call their own, like I do.

I have unpacked once or twice. I have a found a home that could be mine a few times. The paintings have been hung, the boxes unpacked. But, eventually someone leaves, or more than someone leaves, and its not home anymore.

So I pack it back up. I move again. I hope for home. I cross my fingers for home. I give it a day, a month, or a little more, then I pack it back up looking for home again.

I sometimes wonder what the home is that i am looking for. I can never really pinpoint it. I am unsure what i am looking for. I just know, it is not here.

Yesterday: Mike: part 3

2006-11-11T23:38:00.000-08:00

Mike sent me this the other day. It is a photo of something he found in the concrete. He wrote, "So, Who is Mat?"

I was in love with this boy named Mike in high school. You may or may not have read about him earlier. Then he went to college. Then I continued high school. We opened a skate park in our town. Mike came back for the summer to run it. I had just finished high school. I was enlisted to work there as its’ token “girl.”

This was the summer of 1998. This is a summer, I will never forget. I broke my foot trying to skateboard. I broke all my rules by falling in love with a boy. I broke every rule ever made, by falling in love with a boy that had already broken my heart.

I worked with Mike. So we spent a lot of time together. First there were meetings, than days at the park. Every night the park closed at the same time. Every night the same people closed its gates. Then they said their goodbyes, until tomorrow began.

I would walk to my car, ready to go home, every night. Then Mike came up one night and asked me where I was going. Then he asked the next night. All of a sudden, before I knew it, we left together every night. I didn’t notice when it happened, but it did. I would wait for him and we would go somewhere, together.

He used to stay at my parents’ house, when he was too tired to go home. My mom and dad still unsure of what was going on, would make us stay in separate rooms. Mike used to knock on the door of the room I was sleeping in, when I would open it there would be a stuffed animal from the room he was in. I would sleep with the stuffed animals Mike left for me.

Each day began again. And, there was Mike. I didn’t notice he was there. Or maybe, I forgot to notice he was there.

He kissed me one night, that summer. I didn’t see it coming. I kissed him back without thinking. I kissed him back because I noticed he was there.

We kissed for a while. He went back to school. We kept kissing.

One night we were at my parents’ house. It was late and they were trying to figure out if we were staying there or leaving. So, they could sleep without worry we were near one another. We opted to leave. We had no where to go. So we drove from Motel to Motel. Most were booked because it was fall. Travel ensues when the leaves came out. Tourists come to see what we New Englanders miss everyday, the leaves. So we drove far away from home. All of a sudden I was unclear as to where we were. Mike knew exactly where we were going.

We ended up at a beach, a little north of Cape Cod. It was where Mike’s parents met. It was called Wingaersheek Beach. We exited the freeway at the first sign of it. The first Motel we encountered was called the Wingaersheek Inn. Mike ran in to see if they had any rooms available.

He started to get out of the car. Something in my heart went off. I realized I loved this boy, just a little bit. As he got out, I told him, “I have something to ask you.” He paused. I got antsy and mumbled something. I then tried to get myself together. I announced, “I just want to know that you are my boyfriend.” I slammed the door and locked it behind him. He shook the door handle for a while, then eventually just smiled, and entered the motel lobby. He returned shortly after. They had a room. He then told me there is one thing about the room, “We have to be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

I smiled a little.

Then he kissed me, a little...

Yestreday and Today: Bikes

2006-11-10T00:35:00.000-08:00

I can not ride a bike. I am sure of it. Each time I am encountered with a bike based activity, I inform everyone I have never ridden one. They inquire, “You can’t ride a bike?” I shrug and tell them “No.” But, I have.

You never forget how to ride a bike. I have heard this more times than I can count. But, I have forgotten how. Or, I remembered to forget how, over the years.

The last time I remember riding a bike, it was a Huffy. It was pink. I loved that bike. There was a basket on the handlebars with flowers on it. It was mine. I rode it and rode it. One day, my sneakers had untied and the shoelaces wrapped themselves around the petals.

I fell. I fell hard. My knees were scraped and so was my heart. I was 12 or so. I am 27 or so. Today I don’t know how to ride a bike. Or, maybe I forgot how.

Today: Tears

2006-11-08T04:25:00.000-08:00

I cried today because I wanted to go home.

Going home requires you determining your destination, than buying yourself a ticket to get there. I could not think of my destination. I simply told the airline I wanted to go home. They apologized, but could not help me. They were unsure of where I wanted to go.

Nor was I. I miss something I can’t figure out. Maybe I miss Bettie. Maybe I miss my mom.

Then I cried because.

I told a story of a boy I used to know who broke my heart. I told Katrina about how I loved him. Then I told her about how it ended. Then I told her about how it broke my heart. Then I told her I still loved him.

Then I talked about my life. I talked about how things I thought would pan out have not. I told her I wanted to go home.

She asked me on where I planned on going. I told her I was not sure. What I knew was that it was far away from here.

Have you ever been, "just far away from here?"

Today: Snow Days

2006-11-05T01:04:00.000-08:00

Growing up, you were not allowed to turn on the heat until November. I learned early, that this was a stead fast rule, no matter how cold it got. It became a game. How long can you make it without heat? There are years we have made it until Thanksgiving. There are years I have slept in winter coats.

After a snowstorm, you take a shovel, dress accordingly, and go out and face the mountain of snow that has covered your car. It takes hours to dig your vehicle out. Once you and *said* vehicle drive away, you fear that someone else will park in that spot. At some point, in the hours of labor, the spot becomes yours. It happens when you begin to see the car as the snow clears. All of a sudden, you and that parking spot feel a little bit closer. You feel a connection.

People place traffic cones. People place furniture in the spots they have cleared. People place lawn chairs, where they will sit and guard the spots that are theirs. Drive around Boston after a Snow Storm. The only thing better than a snow day in Boston, is the day after one.

Both events were cancelled the other night at work and we all were able to leave at 6pm. I was in charge of calling employees informing them of the situation. I made one call after another informing them, we were having a “snow day.” Everyone on the other end of my calls seemed confused. As I approached the last phone call, I opted to enter it without the snow day reference. I informed the employee that both events had been called off and he would not need to come in. He responded, “It is like a snow day.” He grew up in New England.

When I was little I would hope for snow. I would get up in the night to gauge the snowfall that had ensued. I would watch the clock when it approached 6am, then 7am. When my dad never came to get me up, I knew my wishes had come true. I knew it was a snow day. There is nothing better in life than a snow day. Everything is cancelled. No one can go anywhere. Your mom and dad don’t have to go to work, nor you, to school. There would be pancakes for breakfast, not cereal. There was Hot Chocolate to drink, instead of Apple Juice. There was a closet full of mittens, snow pants, scarves, jackets, and hats. You would rifle through it and find the items that fit you that year. Then moms, dads, kids alike would dress themselves in odd fitting winter apparel and they would all go out and play.

Yesterday: Bedtime Stories

2006-11-04T23:37:00.000-08:00

When I was little my parents used to read us stories before bedtime, when they had time. I used to pick my books out and sit in my bed hoping they would come in to read to me. Some nights they did. Other nights I fell asleep, the book still in my arms.

I liked this time of the day. It was my time. I had my mom or dad all to myself. There was no brother or sister to shout over me or steal their attention away from me. As I got older, I had read all the books. As I got older, I could read them myself. And, I knew all the stories.

I used to sit with some book I had read a thousand times, waiting for someone to pass by my doorway. I could hear my dad finish the story in my brother or sister’s room and I would sit up, staring at the doorway, waiting for my turn. My dad would come in and he would read me the story we had both heard a thousand times, but without the words. He would hold up the pictures for me to see and he would make new words. He would tell a new story, neither of us had ever heard. Sometimes, he would tell a story with no book at all. They would be stories of princesses, princes, castles, and far away places. He would tell stories that no book could ever tell. These were my favorite stories. They were stories that my brother and sister never heard. They were our stories. They still are.

Yesterday: Waking Up

2006-10-29T02:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wake up and think it is yesterday. Sometimes I wake up and think it is a year ago, or three, five, or ten. I think I am in that one bedroom apartment in Vermont with the stove in the middle of the room. Sometimes it’s that attic apartment in Mission Hill. Sometimes I wonder if I am going to stumble out of bed and find Bettie cleaning in the kitchen in that old apartment next to the funeral home. Sometimes, when half asleep and awoken by voices in the livingroom, I hear my dad. Sometimes, I think I am on the floor of someone’s apartment in some state that does not touch the ocean.

Sometimes my alarm starts and I turn it off, sure Melissa will come in and make me get up. Sometimes, when it goes off I stop it and I wait for my dad to come jump on me to make sure I am up. Other times, I turn it off and go back to sleep just to see if I will wake up somewhere different. Perhaps, yesterday?

Today: fires

2006-10-29T02:09:00.000-08:00

When I taught and worked in social work, I did an exercise with the kids each school year called “The I Can’t Funeral.” It comes from a short story a teacher wrote that I came across years ago. The exercise goes like this. The kids are given a piece of paper and a pen and are told to make a list of everything they “can’t” do. They may write for as long as they need. They may use as many pieces of paper as they see fit. When everyone is done, the teacher collects the papers, and the class burns them. They create a gravestone for their “Can’ts.” I have done the exercise with four year olds, who simply needed you to help them record their fears and obstacles. I have done the exercise with young adults whose obstacles are much larger and their fears more real. It is a new start of sorts. It is the closest thing to a new start that we are going to get.

Sometimes I write down the stories of my heart break, of my losses, and of my pain. And, I burn them. It will never erase the moments in my life I wish I could change. But, there is something about watching the scraps of paper go up in flames that makes life seem more controllable, that makes life seem a little more hopeful.

I like to watch the fire die down and the remnants of what was in there disappear. Eventually, all that is left is ashes. As you stare down at it, you suddenly feel a little freer.

Yesterday and Today: Knots

2006-10-14T23:44:00.000-07:00

I sleep with a blanket. It is not the baby blanket the hospital gave me when I was born. No one is sure what happened to that. It is some blanket someone got me when I was little. I used to carry around with me all the time. My mom used to catch my putting it in the toilet. She would take it away, and I would cry. Then elementary school came and she would hide it from me, to encourage me to sleep without it. Then middle school and the same ensued. I got used to sleeping without it for a while some time around eighth grade.. It lived on a shelf in my closet. Then one day I realized it did not really matter that I slept with a baby blanket at night. So I found a chair.. I stood up on it and tore through a bunch of clothes that no longer fit me and some books I had already read. I pulled it down out of the memories of my childhood. I made it mine again. I have not slept a day with out, since then. Ask my ex-boyfriends. It is not a blanket anymore. It is the perimeter of the blanket tided in knots. The middle got lost in the washing machine, after a few hundred washes. The middle got lost in me loving it. If you found it, you would not know what it was. There are things we could all find of one another’s, than we could not decipher the meaning. There are things of one another’s we could all find that we could not identify. There are things we all love, that others do not understand. Mine has knots.

Today: My super sweet 16

2006-10-14T22:55:00.000-07:00

When I was 16, some girl kicked me in the hallway one day at school. They called my mom at work to inform her of the incident, and that I was going home. I returned to school the following day, where I was forced to sit through something called “peer mediation” with the girl who assaulted me. I remember them asking her why she did what she did. She just kept repeating “I don’t like her.” When they asked her why, she shrugged. I said nothing during the entire “mediation.” I did not really understand who she was or why we were there.

I thought I would be sixteen forever. I never thought adolescence would end. I thought I would have to worry about who I sat with at lunch, and the location of my locker for the rest of eternity. I thought every time I made a choice that my parents did not agree with, I would be grounded. I thought that if I chose a career my parents did not approve of, that they would take my car away. I thought that if I left them, and moved far away, no one would ever come pick me up. I would have to find someone else’s parents to drive me home.
I like 16 years olds more than 26 year olds. Maybe because I get 16, and still do not get 26. Maybe it is because I can answer their questions, or stop their tears, or because I want them to know what I know now.

I heard the girl who kicked me in the hall that day had a boob job and moved back in with her parents.

Yesterday: The minivan

2006-10-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

My grandfather lived in Florida. So every year on our spring vacation we drove from Boston to Orlando in my parents’ minivan. We would leave at 4am. My dad would pile us into the minivan half asleep, in our pajamas. The biggest kid got the backseat, which sat three comfortably. The second biggest got the front seat, which sat two. The littlest got the floor. We would sleep until New York, where we would stop for breakfast at McDonalds.

I was always the biggest. Sam was always second. My sister being the youngest got the floor.

My sister would complain as little became bigger, and our sizes actually comparable. I never really needed the big seat. I never needed the middle one either. I was always fine with the floor. I let her have my seat. I did not really need it. I liked the floor, squished between where my brother lied, and the backs of my mom and dad. I let my sister have the big seat in the back, where the voices were muffled, where the road under us seemed non existent, and where the only view was what was behind us. I liked the floor. I still do.

Yesterday: Notes regarding boys

2006-09-25T00:56:00.000-07:00

Today: New Friends

2006-09-24T23:26:00.000-07:00

I meet people. I meet more people. I know people. I know more people.

Each week: begin and repeat.

My “friends” I have known for years. My friends are people I have known before this, before that, and before yesterday began. I do not have sometimes friends. I have every day friends. I am a friend that wants you to run errands with me, to just sit with me and read magazines, and drive around with me just to get out of the house. I like people that I can hang out with in pajamas. I like people I can say anything to without them judging me. I like people that I can cry in front of, without them changing the subject. I like people that laugh at their mistakes. I like people that the world has tried to defeat, but have not let the world win. I like people who spend holidays alone, that might in turn spend them with me. I like people who have stories, people who have had lives that have not been easy. I like people that are like me, but better.

I have not made a new friend in a long time. This is partly due to the fact I trust few people, but mostly because I am me. Most people have not lived as much as I have in their years. It is hard to find people with more stories than me; stories that make you laugh, make you cry, make you think, and make you sort of want to throw up a little in your mouth. I need people to love, and I need people to love me as much as I love them, back. Then I met Katrina.

She is like me, but better.

Yesterday and Today: Cleaning

2006-09-24T15:30:00.000-07:00

I save old empty perfume bottles, of scents I no longer wear. Each with just enough perfume left in it, that when I smell the bottle I can smell the period in my life I wore it. I have bags of receipts and notes that I have emptied out of cluttered purses and wallets, than I will not throw away. I never cleaned my truck after Chase and I drove cross country last summer. It smelled of Chase’s pipe tobacco and Kiki’s cat pee, but the smell made me smile. When people’s voices I miss leave me messages, I save them and listen to them over and over again until Cingular deletes them. When the boy who used to sleep next to me leaves, I prolong washing the sheets as long as I can, so I can still smell him. I have a film canister of what used to be dandelions somewhere, that Mike gave me. I know they are dandelions. If you looked at them, I don’t think you would be able to tell. If I clean the cat fur off my clothes, Kiki will be gone. If I start throwing away Melissa’s junk mail, she won’t live here anymore. If I get California plates, I might forget where i came from. I think am afraid of forgetting. I think i am afraid of losing yesterday, forever.

Yesterday: Notes Part 2

2006-09-23T01:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday: College Graduation

2006-09-20T23:13:00.000-07:00

I did not know if I would go to college. I applied to U Mass and did not get in, since I put little to no effort into high school. Mike talked my way in to the school he attended in New Hampshire. I owe him for it, but I was miserable. I did well academically, since there was little else to do and was able to transfer to a fairly prestigious school in Boston. "College" is something I was not made for. I never went to a frat party. I never spent time in the "whatever union building." I had to work. I had to pay my bills. I had trouble staying awake in classes, after working since 5 am. I had trouble listening to a bunch of frat dudes ask questions about the reading, that they never read. I wanted to drop out. My dad told me not to. I was tired.

I found a place that I fit into. It was a women’s college, with a night program. It specialized in “continuing education programs" or those who are too tired to do it all. So I taught during the day, and went to school at night and on the weekends. My classes were full of women in their 40s or older. I was 21. I learned a lot from the women I met while in school there, but I think they learned more from me.

When you graduate from night school, there is no giant celebration. There are no banners and flags waving. I had a big graduation party at my apartment in Mission Hill. Most of Boston showed. Both my parents came. My dad wore this sign around his neck the whole time there. He was the bartender. He stood in the kitchen, pouring drinks, with his "Sarah’s Proud Dad" sign displayed across his chest. He never looked prouder. And, I never felt prouder that he was my dad.

Today and Yesterday: Photobooths

2006-09-20T20:22:00.000-07:00

the hamptons, nh long long ago.

san francisco one summer, last fall

chase, will, and sarah in austin.

ben and me at an i heart comix/franki chan rave downtown

in living color, lying on the ground.

Photobooth pictures are reserved for best friends, for people that you love so much you grab them by the hand and beg them not to leave, for people who have held your hair when you puked, who love your flaws, who have put you to bed when you have had too much to drink, who will laugh when you cry, for those that you know will never really go.

Maybe it is the curtain? Maybe its the three dollars? Maybe it is the minute or so you have to wait until the pictures develop. For some reason, no one enters a photobooth with someone that they can not live with out.

These are some of the people i can not live with out.

I have more. I just got tired of scanning.

Today: Big Girls Don't Cry

2006-09-20T03:27:00.000-07:00

Brooke, Melissa, and I apparently compiled a list of things that make us cry. 13 Going on 30 was Brooke's addition. The rest i feel, are sort of self explanatory, except for "dog."

I cry everytime someone drops me off at the airport. I cry in the car, i cry in the airport, and i cry on the plane. Maybe, there is something about going home that makes me sad. Maybe, there is something about leaving the person who is dropping me off that i find hard to take. I think I like people more than places. I think I was wrong about places. I think places are easy to part with people on the other hand, are not.

Yesterday: Bettie

2006-09-20T03:16:00.000-07:00

I met Bettie in Boston, many years ago. We put an ad on Makeoutclub.com for a roomate, and found her. We had a roomate before her that wanted to move out. She apparently told Bettie, "If you like chain smoking cigarettes, and talking about boys, then you will love living here (and rolled her eyes.)" Bettie did, actually. She used to call me from bars incoherently explaining i needed to get her. I would show up and she would be covered in beer, with her shoes in her hands. We would drive home singing so loud all of Boston could hear us. We would eat pizza, watch Sex and the City for hours on end, and write on the apartment walls. Bettie, and I lived together for years. Bettie and I have nothing in common at all, but she is one of my best friends. She lives in Philly now and works at the airport. She is miserable, and did not understand why. I had to personally inform her it because she works at the airport. She lives with her boyfriend and just bought a house. She is not sure how her life has become what it is. I am not sure either, but love her regardless. She calls sometimes telling us she is flying out to visit and to pick her up at the airport in an hour. So, I call in sick to everything, and go get Bettie.

Today: Kiki my cat died.

2006-09-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

i found this. this is from a card i wrote kiki, when she was staying at my mom's in boston.

kiki went to kitty heaven. we miss you kiki

I never wanted a pet. i never liked cats. Kiki liked me and i liked her alot. She followed me around and liked to sit on my shoulder like a parakeet when i was doing things around the house. We have been from oregon, to la, to boston, to vermont, back to boston, and back to la together. She liked road trips and she liked me. We got along well. My heart is broken and will be for a little bit. Without her and Melissa i may be lost for quite a while.

She was probably the cutest cat/animal ever. she will me missed dearly by me, chase, melissa, will, kevin, brooke, the boys of wait st in mission hill, pat, daphne the dog, leah, bettie, my mom, and melissas cat. kiki we love you and you always be our favorite non human ever.

this was kiki. chase took this picture. chase loved kiki too. i love chase. i miss kiki.

Kiki died. I had sort of lost it and had not spoken at all in 24 hours until i went to cinespace monday night, where there were customers that did not seem to want text messages from me. I loved Kiki more than i can explain. Kiki was something i cant get back. She was something i could count on. She was predictable. She loved me no matter what happened or where we were. When my world fell apart like it does every three months or so, kiki was just glad i was next to her. When things went wrong, i threw my clothes in trash bags and kiki and i got in the truck looking for sunshine, a motel room, less snow, or someone to give us a place to stay. Maybe she missed travelling. Maybe accidents happen. Regardless, I will love her forever. We found each other when we both needed each other. Maybe this is the world telling us that we don't need each other anymore. I disagree with the world. She was my teddy bear. She was my security blanket. Without her everything seems a little lonlier. Its hard to sleep without a teddy bear. I used to have an actual teddy bear, but pat's dog ate it.

i love you kiki.

Yesterday: The Dance

2006-09-18T22:10:00.000-07:00

Mike and I went to a dance. He came to my parents’ house to get me. He beeped his horn, in the driveway. My dad made him come in. They made him put on a tie. Then my mom took pictures. We left the dance after an hour. We went to Jamey’s. I remember climbing through Jamey’s window. I remember Jamey telling me how much Mike liked me. I sat with Mike in the alcove by Jamey’s window talking. I think I told him my secrets. I think I had secrets then. I don’t anymore.

Yesterday: Notes part 1

2006-09-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

Today and Yesterday: Mike

2006-09-18T19:23:00.000-07:00

Mike called today. He is in Seattle. I responded, “I doubt this will surprise you, but I am in a motel room, somewhere near San Diego.” It did not. I told him I am writing stories about the past. I said i had scanned a bunch of old pictures. When i told him which ones, he laughed.

I met Mike when I was 15. He was 16. I had seen him at school. I liked seeing him at school. He was this mysterious boy that wore bellbottoms and carried a brief case. He always looked down when he walked. He sort of shuffled his feet. He fascinated me. He fascinated a lot of girls. I was a freshman. He was a junior. The chances of Mike ever noticing me were nonexistent, according to my friends. I used to call him “beautiful blonde boy.” Mike looked up one day when he walked by me in the hall. He said hi. I think I was so excited, I forgot to say hi back.

I officially met Mike at CVS, in the candy aisle. We had been released from school because of a gas leak at 10:30 am. I knew Mike was there, I had been alerted as I walked in the store, by my friends. He was with a girl I knew. She came over to talk to me. He did not. She told me she wanted me to meet someone. She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the candy aisle. Mike was standing there, looking at the floor. She introduced us. He looked up for a second to say, “I’m Mike.” He awkwardly hit some button on his watch. I smiled for the rest of the day.

It was his alarm he hit. It then went off everyday at the same time, so he could remember the moment he met me. At any given point, he could tell you how many days, hours, minutes, and seconds we had known each other.

I wonder if he still can? I should have asked him. He probably knows.

Yesterday: The Glass Room

2006-09-18T14:55:00.000-07:00

We had this room in our house growing up, that we never used. I do not know what it would be called, since we had a family room, we were allowed to enter. It was full of framed pictures, antiques, uncomfortable furniture, and a fireplace I never saw in use. It had glass doors. We could see inside, but never really went inside.

My mother found cigarettes in my purse, when I was 16 or so. I realized this after I was sitting in the room no one entered with her and my 9 year old sister. My mother was holding the cigarettes and my little sister was crying and screaming “I don’t want you to die!” I sort of sat there waiting for more, looking around the room that was sort of the museum of our lives. But, that was sort of it. My little sister went to play outside. My mother handed me back the cigarettes, and shut the glass doors behind us.

There are still cigarettes in my purse. The room still has glass doors.

Today: My birthday party

2006-09-17T22:53:00.000-07:00

i had a party.

this is me at my party. we had princess posters, balloons, free tshirts, hats, tiaras, shots, beer, fun, and cake. it was fun. it was light out when i came home. boys are mean. i love my friends. i love cinespace. i love my dress.

this is me and cory. i like cory. cory is nice. i want to adopt her.

this is some of my cake.

this is katrina and me. katrina did all the decorating. i should have gone home with her at 230, but i am not smart.

this is what i looked like at what should have been the end of the night. i instead opted to drink rockstar and vodka all night and play black jack, then poker. then returned home with out shoes and without dora at 8 am. you can almost see my boob. actually mark and steve saw my boob this morning. sometimes you drink too much. sometimes you fall asleep in your dress.

More birthday pictures @ thecobrasnake

Yesterday: Chelsea, Vt

2006-09-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

My uncle owns a house in Vermont that used to belong to my grandfather. My mother, he, and her siblings used to spend summers up there when she was a little girl. Then when we were young, we used to go up there for weekends, or school vacations. I remember playing checkers, the tire swing, and the wood stove. I remember the general store, miles away that had ice cream. It was a time when things were simpler. I think sometimes I need simpler.

So, one Sunday on my way up to Burlington from Boston, I decided to go to up there, I had not been in at least 15 years. I decided not to call anyone for directions. I decided to try and make it there myself. I turned around a few times, I will admit, but I got there. It looked the same. I could feel the past, as I drove up the dirt driveway. My uncle takes care of it now, being that he locks it up to make sure there are no wild animals or white trash dudes living in it I guess. It was built in like the 1600s and no one has even kind of lived there for maybe like twenty years. I figured it won’t be particularly difficult to get into. I tried every window and door that I might be able to work with. I unlatched several doors that were locked from the inside, but they end up being nailed or propped shut. Then, I saw a window smashed out in the basement. The “window” is a foot tall and maybe two feet wide at ground level. I crawl into it to see if there is any possibility of me getting out, if this fails. It is a ten foot drop.. I jump down. I get up to the door and discover my uncle locked it from the inside. I climb back up and it’s raining now. I stand outside in the rain for what could have been longer than I thought. I give up. Once I get phone service maybe an hour or so later down the road, I call my uncle, in Florida. I commend his security system. He simply responds, “Sarah, it only keeps out the honest.”

Yesterday: Sam

2006-09-17T21:58:00.000-07:00

I have a little brother named Sam. I am two years older than him He was almost two and had not spoken yet. My parents understandably concerned took him to doctors and specialists seeking help, hoping for a solution or explanation. After little to no discernable study, they concluded that Sam was fine. He would speak eventually. He just had little reason to speak, since his sister talked for him.

Today: THE Sarah Morrison

2006-09-16T23:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday

You might know me and you might not. I am Sarah Morrison. I write about my life on the internet and the lives of others. I realized one day, I have more stories than I have let on. So this is where I will tell them. This is for those who wonder who I am, and how I got here. This is not for those who want me to fail, or think I am failing. This is for those who like words, who like stories, who like pictures, notes, memories, and adventure. This is my new venture. This is honesty. So check back I have a billion stories. I just have to start writing them all down.