Explanation of Freed (What A Year)

Hey whoever's out there! So, below, there's this massive piece of text. I'm aware.

This is about something I've been blogging about all year so it's been kinda leaking out of me slowly but I decided that it's way past time to get it all out in its entirety. So that's what my goal was here and the 3 hours that I just spent sitting hear and writing it were really healing for me.

This is my first attempt at Spoken Word poetry so note that it's meant to be read aloud.

As those long time readers already know, this blog is where I get a lot of things out. The angst needs to go somewhere so I can keep moving forward with my life, right? So this is for me, but feel free to read it if you wish.

Freed (What a Year)

Have you ever broken your own heart?

The poem starts here.

The poem starts; I was here, and so were you. But it starts then. It starts that day when the kid who talks too much wouldn't take the hint that despite the fact that I was amused by his blah-blah-blahing and never-ending stories, eventually he could be exhausting. It starts that day because when I saw you there, blue shirt, summer skin still pale, and glasses too big for your brutally honest eyes, I thought nothing. I thought, if anything, you would be yet another passerby-I felt as if I knew you for a week-single use- good intentioned acquaintance.

And you were, once.  For a moment. But God were you persistent. It was like the words, words, words, that were always spilling from your tongue somehow dribbled down your chin, down, down your skinny arms, across your open palms, to your fingertips, where they sent their light to me each time my phone light up in my pocket with a new message from you.

And it buzzed. And it shook me. And I began to anticipate that little tickle in my pocket. I looked forward to it. It was like there was a little piece of you in each message just stopping by to say, "Hey. I thought of you and wanted to make you smile today."

You grew on me.

And suddenly there were coffee meet ups, and, when that didn't give us enough time, lunches, dinners three times a week. My friends started asking where I was getting dinner this time instead of with whom because they already knew it was you. Because of course it was. Because it was there, with you, that I realized that I hadn't had a gut-wrenching, heart-draining talk filled with truth, too much truth, in far too long. To you, I poured out parts of myself that I thought had already dried up a long ways back. Parts that, somehow, each time I used them to water our growing friendship, seemed to replenish tenfold. Remember, I was still just getting to know you. Back then, I never understood why I trusted you so quickly, so easily. The simplicity of your honesty was singular, alarming then right. Talking to you felt as easy as thinking to myself, finally, out loud, to someone who cared enough to ask. Looking back, I think it was you, with your tireless tongue and 30 minute monologues over $6.25 burritos, guac on the side sitting neglected after the first bite, who started some sort of fire within me. You had nothing to hide so why should I? It came point where the week didn't feel complete if I didn't see you. It felt like I hadn't seen a piece of myself.

Because with you, things were different.

In the land of the heart where each step can mean a land mine or ecstacy, I had always been to afraid to take even a single step.

But you,  you were my best guess.

You, with your button down sleeves rolled up to your elbows. You, who refused to sit down on the couch while I took a frozen pizza out of the oven in the kitchen because f*ck the patriarchy. You, who had lived only a few doors down from me my first year in this place but who hadn't come into my life until now. You who, as much as I knew it was annoying my roommate, I couldn't stop talking about, much less thinking.

You took my hand and you asked me to try.

And that night, when I kissed you at midnight on that yellow school bus as you were there, then gone, there, then gone as we passed beneath the orange street lamps, I wasn't sure. But for you, my best guess, I was willing to try.

And I did, for a couple months. I wanted you and you wanted me and I felt warm in the deep knowing that we had each other. There were nights that felt like snapshots from someone else's life. Nights of golden dresses and liquid courage that I wanted to last forever.

You were my best guess and we were doing more than fine.

But, like all students raised to be twice as good, I wanted to check my answer.

Did it make sense? Did you? Did we?

For someone who had always stood on solid ground, I didn't know what falling felt like. I started to ask myself, how deep does this go? And, should I have brought a life jacket? I started doggy paddling, trying to keep my head above my water, saying, I need you, but I only want to get my feet wet. But with that same persistence that drew me to you, you pulled me into the deep end so fast. As the waves of you rushed over me, I wanted to be ready. I did. But I wasn't.

And that fire? The one you built to warm me? It started to choke me. I suffocated on the smoke building within me every time I asked myself, "Are you sure about this?"

Of course I wasn't. And, because this was before I realized no one ever is, that scared me. So I pushed you away with reactionary force that for you, I can only imagine, hit you like the realization that this is it. This is life and we're in it. We're not rehearsing for anything, we never were.

But as you always did, you listened to me and took a step back. We were close again but always pacing that line between friends and more. There were some nights I wanted to cross it. There were some I did.

I didn't know what to do with that.

I loved having you in my life, I still do, but was it worth all this? You see, when I invest in people, there is no going back for me. My heart struggles to open but, once it does, it's stuck there. And the more force I try to use to close it, the more it refuses me, understanding that no, this doorway will not be the one to hear slamming echoing down hallways that were once stuffed with life.

So instead, I found myself in melancholic pain. Pain of being with you but not with you. Pain of knowing it was my choice, my fault, and there was nothing left to do but get over it.

And at night I found myself laying there. I lay there, on my bed, with my body curled into a question mark, asking myself Why? Why? Why after all this time? Why again?

And the funny thing is, I knew. I knew because even if I forget the details, I never forget how things felt. I remember how obvious it felt to take a two mile detour to walk you home rather than saying goodnight. I remember the look in your eye as I lay, naked, by your side and I kissed your sweaty neck over and over while you faded in, then out, in, then out under the white glow of my bedroom's string lights and I tried to forget those haunting words This is the last time. I remember, I remember. I remember that time you called me in the middle of the night because you said I was the only person who would understand. I remember being exhausted yet not even contemplating hanging up the phone because you were on the other end.  I remember the smile on your face as you stood, shaky-kneed in that marshmallow jacket of yours as I took your hand, confident, sure, and skated in the twinkle of downtown lights.

And even outside of you, I remember the first time, instead of why, I asked why not.

But the funny thing is, every time I'm holding a map and think I know where I'm going, finally, yes finally... something gives out. I'm full speed ahead in a yellow sleek convertible until I wind up on the side of the road realizing that all this time the engine was from a 1976 Chevy Nova.

For once, I'd just like to get somewhere.

With you, I almost did.

But then it hit me: there's no need.  There's no need for that destination because, in life, we're all just here for a long, slow ride.   I realize that you, hey maybe you,  can be there too. But this is my house. And I need to learn to be at home with myself before I can invite you in.

I just want to belong to myself again.

I've been told I use the word love too much. And that instead, I should just say what I mean. You told me this was supposed to be messy. And that in the end, if you didn't hurt me,  then you didn't try.

I guess you tried pretty hard.

I am a beautiful, talented, proud feminist. And honestly, my beauty doesn't matter. It is my brilliance that becomes me. But that doesn't mean I don't get lonely sometimes. Or that I didn't want you. I am glad that we went our separate ways but not all the time.

And that's why, on that hot June afternoon, when it was all over and done and it was time to say our goodbyes, I looked at you all I could say was, "What a Year".

Tomatoes

People always ask me: “How do you memorize all of that?”

And the truth is; the first girl I ever kissed tasted like tomatoes. And I know this, because the second girl I ever kissed tasted like pepper. It wasn’t unpleasant. It’s just that I was expecting tomatoes.

When I was a kid I was fascinated by space, and I learnt that time slows near a black hole. Inside a black hole time stops altogether. Whether or not this theory will ever be proved, I’m moved to believe this would be the perfect place to love someone. 

In grade 4, my gym teacher gave me the nickname half-ton. It was a name that stuck. I remember it, because it was the first time I ever told someone: “Go fuck yourself!” and meant it. He quit calling me the name after he called my house trying to get me in trouble for what I’d said. To which my grandmother replied: “Mr. Shithead, I told him to say it.”

I remember my grandfather’s blue tool kit where he hid a secret stash of raisins. I recall thinking: “My granddad has the worst taste in candy.” But he did teach me how to tie a tie. My first opportunity to apply this knowledge was my first date; a seventh grade classmate, who showed up wearing acid washed jeans and a Def Leppard t-shirt. I wore a suit and tie. When she asked why I was all dressed up, I told her:  “My other clothes smell funny.” I am not saying it ended badly, but she wound up leaving me for a boy who could make farting noises with his arm-pit. I’m forced to admit - he was pretty cool.

My fourth grade teacher had a rule about speaking out of turn. Failure to learn and practise this lesson would result in having to sit outside. I know this, because I tried it once. When she finally came out to check on me, she asked: “What was so important, that it couldn’t wait?” Knowing that it’s rude to point, but needing to illustrate my position, I gestured to her chest and said: “Your boob is hanging out.” She quickly covered up and corrected me: “Breast.” She was a good teacher.

When I was twelve, I was given an academic diagnostics test. Later the instructor informed me I had an aptitude for history. He looked puzzled when I replied: “Yeah, but that was yesterday. Today I’m more interested in tomorrow.” I remember it, because the next day I asked a girl if I could borrow a pen. When I offered it back she said: “You should write me a letter with it first.” So I did. I wrote her a note, which the teacher then intercepted and read to the class. It was something that we’d learnt in science that day, about the way gravity affects mass and weight in relation to how quickly something will fall.

Example: A crumpled ball of paper will fall at the same speed as a boulder of granite. It doesn’t matter how much something weighs. It stays the same until you consider surface area and resistance, at which point the persistence of gravity loses force.

Example: Crumple a piece of paper into a ball. It will fall faster than a loose sheet. They are both composed of the same mass and weight, so you’d think that the rate of velocity measured with the force of gravity would cause each to fall at the same speed. But that’s when you need to consider that the greater surface area of the loose sheet adds resistance. So, the crumpled ball will fall quickly, but the loose sheet will slowly float.

I wrote a note explaining, that when two people are falling for each other, they do so at the same speed. There’s no need to factor in the physics explanations or something we can make no use of. Einstein said: “Gravity won’t be held responsible for people falling in love.” I wrote her a note, telling her: “If I fall in love with you, no one will ever be able to explain it. And I think that’s beautiful.” Despite the class laughing, she did as well, Which is how I can tell you that I then knew and now still know. She tasted like tomatoes. 

I don’t remember the way every song goes. I can’t recall every person I’ve met. I get names mixed up all the time. I’m terrible with birthdays. But I remember all the ways people have affected me. How our stories became memories. And if you were brazen enough then you’re in there somewhere. Maybe it was a truth or dare kiss, or a simple act of kindness. One that reminded me to remember this moment and mark it as a memory , so we could both have it to look back on. From this life, I’ve drawn conclusions so big they can’t fit into the tiny comic book boxes, because I don’t wanna risk losing the details just so I can make the story fit. It’s not a trick.

I remember how things felt, which in turn makes me remember how things happened. Like my first attempt at skateboarding, where I received a down to the bone skinned knee. I remember a tree that looked like a man, with huge arms trying to hold up the sky. I used to try to climb it to the very top, until one day I did and couldn’t get down. I remember the man with the brown car who tried to convince me he was sent to pick me up by my mom. Number 1, I lived with my grandparents. Number 2, he didn’t know the safety word.

I recall when it finally occurred to me; I’m pretty fantastic. It’s not magic. I remember because I make comparisons. Not in terms of better or worse, just different. And not all of these memories are great, but they’re mine. Which lends weight to the belief that none of our lives are put together on an assembly line. We’re not pre-packaged with memories or programmed with stories. We have to make our own. And they all come “batteries not included”.

Amid the endless opportunities we have daily. Seldom do we take the time necessary to record, rewind and press play. In our own way, we are all ghetto blasters at top volume. We consume silence with noise, speakers pounding out our heartbeats as we write refund receipts for the broken eardrums of people who could hear us live. We give up our self’s time. Precious, because it’s quality is limited only by your ability to live within it. Put yourself into every second of every minute, and you will have a life worth remembering.

Just because we don’t have forever, doesn’t mean we have to live our lives moving towards the end as if on a conveyer belt. I felt nothing short of astonished when people asked me: “How do you memorize all that?” The fact of the matter is, it’s not a trick. There is no thick curtain you need to pull away. No little old man making it all work from behind a locked door. You yourself probably remember before when I told you that: near a black hole, time slows.

Inside a black hole is where I wanted to grow tomatoes.

       - Shane Koyczan