Jack's Mannequin - Bruised

This boy was, no doubt, an embodiment of every gut-wrenching emotion I'd ever had. Everything was an extreme with him--loving, fighting, laughing, crying, yelling, whispering. There was never a balanced feeling, but always a struggle for the upper hand. He refused to meet me in the middle, seeing it as bending to my will. I refused to settle for anything less than I wanted, fully believing he was capable of satisfying me. We met when I was a few weeks shy of eighteen and still in high school, and I was done with him a year and half later.

I've got my things, I'm good to go
You met me at the terminal
Just one more plane ride and it's done

We stood like statues at the gate
Vacation's come and gone too late
There's so much sun where I'm from
I had to give it away, had to give you away

And we spent four days on an
Island at your family's old hotel
Sometimes perfection can be
It can be perfect hell, perfect...

We were three hours away from each other at best, several states away at worst. I traveled by bus for a long time to visit him, until I got my own car. On three seperate occassions do I remember walking away from either a bus station or an airport with a sense of finality, knowing our relationship would not and could not last. The first two times, we seemed to always pick it up again, try to make things work, try to glue everything back together. Our times together would be blissful as long as we could see each other. But as soon as distance wedged itself firmly between us, we would bicker and argue and fight. The last time I left him at an airport was the last time I talked to him.

Hours pass, and she still counts the minutes
That I am not there, I swear I didn't mean
For it to feel like this
Like every inch of me is bruised, bruised
And don't fly fast. Oh, pilot can you help me?
Can you make this last? This plane is all I got
So keep it steady, now
Cause every inch you see is bruised

I can't count the number of times he apologized, to make it seem as if this was the last thing he wanted to do to me. I always would wonder if he ached like I did when we walked away from each other. Did every bump on the bus or every landing hurt him to his core like my drives hurt me? Did he silently wish the plane ride would last longer, if only to give him time before reality would settle in? I knew he didn't. He didn't feel as much as I did. But I still hoped.

I lace my Chucks, I walk the aisle
I take my pills, the babies cry
All I hear is what's playing through
The in-flight radio
Now every word of every song
I ever heard that made me wanna stay
Is what's playing through
The in-flight radio, and I
And I am, finally waking up

Inevitibly, after a break up (all four we had), everything would remind me of him. I would go through the cycle of deleting playlists of "our" songs, toss out pictures, and absolutely refuse to watch Moulin Rouge! I scoffed at happy couples while tossing on low-cut tops to go out and flirt with South Texas boys who didn't matter past our drunken makeout sessions. I would attempt at boys that interested me, even trying a "real" relationship with a guy who lived fantastically close--but fantastically close was too suffocating. He would always reel me back in again. It wasn't until our last break-up did I finally delete his number from my phone and refuse to speak to him. It took several weeks til I stopped biting my lip from wanting to talk to him, even just to tell him some silly joke. I finally gave it up.

So read your books, but stay out late
Some nights, some nights, and don't think
That you can't stop by the bar
You haven't shown your face here since the bad news
Well I'm here till close, with fingers crossed
Each night cause your place isn't far

Did my heart still skip a beat when I saw him online? Admittedly. Did I still hope to catch a glimpse of him at holidays? Of course. Did I want him to break down and be the first to text or call or message or whatever? Yes. But I wasn't about to follow our normal cycle and be the first to offer a tearful apology and beg to be "just friends" again until we eventually wound up kissing. I told him I didn't want to talk to him anymore--and this time, for the first time, I meant it.

I was finally waking up.

Bruised, bruised.

Blondie - Maria

My mother has positively influenced me in only one part of my life: music. 

All through the the time she carried me, she sang and played music for me. I was three years old, wobbling in her high heels on the dresser drawers, pretending I was on a stage, singing a Patsy Cline song. Music was ALWAYS playing in our house, whether it was her New Wave favorites or my father's classic rock LPs. This can clearly show where my obsession with music began. Being home with my mom a lot while my dad worked, I heard New Wave more often than not. The Talking Heads, New Order, Elvis Costello, David Bowie, and Blondie.

Deborah Harrey, Blondie's lead singer, was clearly my mother's idol. Blondie rose to popularity just as my mother was hitting her teenage rebellion phase, when she ran away to work the bustling music scene that Austin, Texas had become. Debbie was blonde, sexy, and a vocal powerhouse--what every girl would die to be. She had an unapologetic style, and stood firmly on her own two feet in a kind of world that was predominantly male. Songs like"Heart Of Glass" and "Shayla" offered up a sweet, breathy mezzo-soprano; whereas "Atomic" and "Victor" gave you an earth-shattering alto/contralto range that made you wonder if this could possibly even be the same girl. 

When I was nine years old, Blondie released No Exit, which was hailed as their triumphant return to the music scene. "Maria" was the first track and the first single. My mother ripped the CD out of the case with eager hands and slipped it into the stereo system for the first time. I remember her jumping with glee as the opening electric guitar rift sounded through our house, and my eyes widened with surprise as she began dancing as soon as the drum kicked in. Somehow, she already knew all the words and sung along at the top of her lungs. I didn't know it, but I joined in when I could, and danced around with her. I was a tangle of arms and legs at nine, and was (and still am) almost a perfect carbon copy of her when she was my age. 

My mother's voice was always a little too flat, a little too out of control. She had the raw power and edge similar to singers like Janis Joplin and Alanis Morisette, and with a few voice lessons (or maybe just a better trained ear) she would've been absolutely fantastic. But there was something absolutely enchanting about the way she would toss her short blonde hair back and sing along to "Maria" with all of her might whenever it came on--the car, the house, wherever. She didn't care who listened, or who didn't, or if it sounded good or not. To this day, I envy that quality. As a musician, I'm always super conscious of how I sound or how it feels or who's listening. Even in the shower, I watch my pitch.

I recently re-discovered this song, like I do every year or so, and once I put it on, I have to fight the urge to jump around and dance like I did the first time. I have to sing along, even though the verses are sung so low it hurts. And only after listening to see if my roommates are home and checking that no one can possibly hear me and confirming with my boyfriend that he has not left his house yet so he can't walk in on me, I'll toss my unruly blonde waves back and sing along to "Maria" with all of my might.