2011.07.11 Text 12 notes

  1. Choruses and Conversations: An essay from along the East Coast.

    Hello, Delaware, I’m sorry I fell asleep. The walls of trees that surround this minivan on either side have got me doing what I can to stay aware and awake. I swat at a mosquito on my arm that isn’t actually there.

    Now I’m awake, and Pat Benatar is giving me a wake-up call, reminding me how strong she and her crew of hookers are against the evil, evil pimp. Well, of course it’s only the song on the radio, but I can’t separate the video and song anymore—it’s signifier/signified, one doesn’t really exist without the other.

    No offense to Ms. Benatar who I truly enjoy in my way, but I am gripped with the desire to instead listen to The Promise Ring, as they ask you over and over again, “Delaware, are you aware of air supply and television?” and “Are you there? Is this thing on?” We don’t know each other too well, Delaware, so I feel like this could potentially be a bonding experience for us.

    A foot and a half to my right sits my cousin Tyler, who’s at the age where nothing is quite as exciting as a new Pokémon game or new episodes of Yu-Gi-Oh!, as in, just like I was when I was his age. He’s lecturing about Exodia The Forbidden One. I know exacty what he’s saying, but in the state that I am in (and I don’t mean you, Delaware, if you’re still there) I don’t function in this conversation. It quickly becomes one-sided. Later I will teach him about Missing No. and blow his mind.

    I cross my legs and, my left ankle on my right knee, I scratch furiously at a mosquito bite on my leg. Then I look upon the propped-up foot—or more accurately, the tattered Chuck Taylor housing a similarly tattered sock on a foot that’s exhausted from the day’s trip to Washington DC from Philadelphia to experience the Smithsonian and take a look at the White House—all really lovely, interesting ventures, and also tiring.

    Just in front of the White House was a man sitting in something of an improvised tent-like fixture, the boards that held up larger signs reading things like “CHERNOBYL IS EVERYWHERE.” The man’s aim is to pressure the president to ban all nuclear weapons. I notice that another sign claims that this protest has been going strong since 1981. For a moment, I forget about his message and ponder the potential futility in our actions, something I seem to do pretty regularly. Despite the efforts of this protest, we haven’t banned nuclear weapons, what the man’s sign calls “DOOMSDAY” still a possibility.

    But then I look at him again, in the hot sun, underneath a bright yellow umbrella. A group of people have gathered around him. They’re listening to the man calmly explain his ideas, in contrast from his bold-faced and capitalized signs. The people seem interested, and I’m suddenly sure that I’ll be writing about this scene later. There’s nothing futile about what he’s doing, I now assure myself. He had a great beard, too.

    So now we’re at a food court-like place at the edge, Delaware. I’ll say my goodbye to you here. I am eating leftover guacamole from a paper plate with a plastic spoon. My quesadilla was fine, but I was given a ton of guacamole and sour cream. The guac was too good to let go to waste, but the sour cream was forgettable—too sour, somehow. I finish and am gripped by a desire for a dessert.

    In the building’s convenience store I meander and look about for something to sate myself. I ogle rows and rows of over-priced candy and shrug. I decide on an apple. I walk up to the counter and purchase it from the very nice woman working the register, a twenty-something who didn’t seem to be too displeased with her work and we have a pleasant exchange after she asks me how I am and I then ask her the same. I didn’t directly interact with a single stranger while in DC, so this was nice. I feel like a social animal again and I don’t feel so glum in my fatigue and sleepiness.

    I enjoy my Red Delicious apple.

    The sign says there’s forty-two miles left to Philadelphia, and I moved to a different spot in the van. I ponder the day whilst playing games of solitaire (or “Klondike”) on my iPod. My step dad and I trade a few stories, he tells me how I need to see Clerks 2, and I unleash all the rage I can muster when I remember that Miley Cyrus tried to cover “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” How dare she. Dave and Krist should have her whacked so Kurt will stop rolling.

    Now I lie on the couch as my cousins dream of glitched Pokémon games on the floor in cartoon-covered comforters. I recite TV On the Radio lyrics in my head as I think about people back home in Colorado who I miss, and I find myself grinning.

    It was a lie when I told that woman at the counter that I was “surviving.” I’m doing great, Delaware. I’m sorry I lied.