and rarely saw me off in the morning. I was on autopilot in school, completing work and handing it in as if it was an afterthought - but it was educationally sufficient.
I found everything was perfect and applicable and swimming-smooth. I was floating. I was soaring.
The first week I bought an eight track recorder and a stack of cassettes. I recorded the guitar track with my metronome, and the rest would be easily filled in and mixed down on Saturday during the following practice.
"Do you want me to get my camera and take your picture together at rehearsal tomorrow?" Jenny asked me on my bed as we listened to Pearl Jam's Ten for the thousandth time. It was already the end of the week, and we had spent all week sleeping, waking, school, work, sleeping, waking, school, recording, and over and over, through and through to now.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I took that photography course. I have a camera and everything. I can use the darkroom at school."
"I didn't even think of that. Of course we'll need a picture!"
"...And I'll be the one to give it to you. Can I take your picture now? I have my camera in my bag."
She took out her big, boxy camera with the lens levelled at me like a gun.
"Just do your thing."
She started snapping, mostly me in profile looking at my notebook and working. The light in the room was dim, and the music continued while I scribbled my ideas. The intimacy of the moment was awkward, and I felt an embarrassing sense of vanity being so central to her attention.
She stood up and took me out of my room, down the stairs, and down the hallway. I put on my Carhartt jacket. We went outside.
The rows of houses in the neighborhood seemed depleted after the winter, and the air was still crisp in that manner that one couldn't truly be sure that the spring had arrived. I tried to make clouds in the air with my breath, even though I knew it was too warm. Or was it? I kept checking, shuffling my arms in my sleeves, shifting my hands in my pockets.
Jenny stood far away, fiddling with knobs, the film advance reel, and the lens as she snapped picture after picture.
I wanted this to be perfect, but didn't know what to do or how to stand. I acted like me, without much direction or care to act like anything.
"Let's go in – I’m freezing." Jenny walked toward the house ahead of me, cradling her instrument.
"Want me to make you a snack?"
"Yes! A snack and TV before we go back to our art!"
We travelled straight to the kitchen. I got the sticky white bread, the butter, and the Martian-yellow square cheese for making grilled cheese sandwiches.
"I don't want to bring it up, but how’s your mother?" I never wanted to press it, but at the same time there was a certain desire to show that I cared and wanted to be that thing in her life that was a possible respite, or even a lockbox for her emotional outpourings. I was the thing she needed most; just to be there.
"Still in the hospital." She stood with her hands behind her on the counter, looking at her feet. The camera was strapped around her neck, and the strap cradled her breasts as if to present them. Why was it in the most human times that the most animalistic passions arose?
I dropped the first sandwich onto the pan, sizzling lightly and filling the room with the aroma of cheap butter and flour. There’s something about the comfort of a crap grilled cheese sandwich that makes it the culinary nonpareil regardless of the ingredients. It was almost perfect because of the crap ingredients.
"I didn't want to tell you, but," she continued as I flipped the sandwich, bringing the golden crisp toast to the top to sear the opposite side, "dad was talking about separating from her and moving or something... He seems to be getting pretty sick of having to... deal... with mom."
I couldn't bear to bring my eyes up from my task. This was both an enormous revelation and an uncertainty that came with the lack of factual information in what she was saying. Her mom was still in the
I found everything was perfect and applicable and swimming-smooth. I was floating. I was soaring.
The first week I bought an eight track recorder and a stack of cassettes. I recorded the guitar track with my metronome, and the rest would be easily filled in and mixed down on Saturday during the following practice.
"Do you want me to get my camera and take your picture together at rehearsal tomorrow?" Jenny asked me on my bed as we listened to Pearl Jam's Ten for the thousandth time. It was already the end of the week, and we had spent all week sleeping, waking, school, work, sleeping, waking, school, recording, and over and over, through and through to now.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I took that photography course. I have a camera and everything. I can use the darkroom at school."
"I didn't even think of that. Of course we'll need a picture!"
"...And I'll be the one to give it to you. Can I take your picture now? I have my camera in my bag."
She took out her big, boxy camera with the lens levelled at me like a gun.
"Just do your thing."
She started snapping, mostly me in profile looking at my notebook and working. The light in the room was dim, and the music continued while I scribbled my ideas. The intimacy of the moment was awkward, and I felt an embarrassing sense of vanity being so central to her attention.
She stood up and took me out of my room, down the stairs, and down the hallway. I put on my Carhartt jacket. We went outside.
The rows of houses in the neighborhood seemed depleted after the winter, and the air was still crisp in that manner that one couldn't truly be sure that the spring had arrived. I tried to make clouds in the air with my breath, even though I knew it was too warm. Or was it? I kept checking, shuffling my arms in my sleeves, shifting my hands in my pockets.
Jenny stood far away, fiddling with knobs, the film advance reel, and the lens as she snapped picture after picture.
I wanted this to be perfect, but didn't know what to do or how to stand. I acted like me, without much direction or care to act like anything.
"Let's go in – I’m freezing." Jenny walked toward the house ahead of me, cradling her instrument.
"Want me to make you a snack?"
"Yes! A snack and TV before we go back to our art!"
We travelled straight to the kitchen. I got the sticky white bread, the butter, and the Martian-yellow square cheese for making grilled cheese sandwiches.
"I don't want to bring it up, but how’s your mother?" I never wanted to press it, but at the same time there was a certain desire to show that I cared and wanted to be that thing in her life that was a possible respite, or even a lockbox for her emotional outpourings. I was the thing she needed most; just to be there.
"Still in the hospital." She stood with her hands behind her on the counter, looking at her feet. The camera was strapped around her neck, and the strap cradled her breasts as if to present them. Why was it in the most human times that the most animalistic passions arose?
I dropped the first sandwich onto the pan, sizzling lightly and filling the room with the aroma of cheap butter and flour. There’s something about the comfort of a crap grilled cheese sandwich that makes it the culinary nonpareil regardless of the ingredients. It was almost perfect because of the crap ingredients.
"I didn't want to tell you, but," she continued as I flipped the sandwich, bringing the golden crisp toast to the top to sear the opposite side, "dad was talking about separating from her and moving or something... He seems to be getting pretty sick of having to... deal... with mom."
I couldn't bear to bring my eyes up from my task. This was both an enormous revelation and an uncertainty that came with the lack of factual information in what she was saying. Her mom was still in the
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