Ingrid Bergman Poem

Ingrid’s New World

She was different, literally, in our college town; she’s a Technicolor dream now.

She was different.
A silhouette in black and white.
Two dimensional, almost
in our vibrant world
no one seemed to notice
her beauty in grayscale.
No one paid attention
lost in a haze of five cent Jacks

literally,
a siren of the screen.
A stranger in our scene.
In our world,
her beauty is
out of place
in place and time,
she didn’t belong

in our college town;
her color starts to change
their minds
turned on to this new appearance,
fill her up with alcohol
and arrogance.
She smiles,
with each sip

she’s a Technicolor dream,
in flushed fuchsia cheeks
in green glassy-eyed lonliness
we knew we couldn’t be her
although we didn’t really know her,
in this place,
in our place,
we were all the same

now,
in full color
she stands
like the rest of us,
jaded
in a crowded room
waiting for someone to
take her home.

What We Do for Him to Just Not Be That Into You

The three-quarter empty bottle of tequila still sits on my bookshelf from Tuesday night. I haven't moved it yet, I think subconsciously I'm continuing to let it sit there, although I'm not really sure of the reason. Maybe it's the reminisce of the end. After nine months of conditioning myself to believe that I was happy with the state of my relationship with the boy who's name will not be mentioned, after half a bottle of tequila and an hour long conversation about how incompatible our lives were, I finally realized what I should have (and did somewhat) know all along---- it will never work.

It falls somewhere in between "he's just not that into you," and more so, "he's just not that good for you." Instead of blaming it all on him, which would make it easy for me to think that there was no fault of my own in the situation. Although my blame is less, it is still there, and at the age I am now, if I don't come to realize my own shortcomings then I will never know how to have a successful relationship. So here, on my most prized literary possession, I am going to purge my soul and exercise my past demons, and lay out, where I have failed, not only in this relationship, but in all of them, and where I feel so many other "good girls" fail in relationships.


My Relationship Vices:

1. I want to save everyone.

My cardinal vice, hands down. This one is self explanatory, I always feel like I can bring out the best in people. But I seem to forget that doesn't mean that I can change them. The bottom line is, some people just aren't looking to be rescued.

2. I am narcissistic--sometimes.

This characteristic leads me to date assholes. Always have (for the most part) hopefully not always will. My friends have hated 90% of the few boyfriends I have had. All citing the fact that they were indeed, douchebags. My sister went as far as to tell me the most recent boy would have been an excellent candidate for MTV's The Tool Academy. That should have said something to me right there. The second night I saw him, he kept catching me looking at myself in the mirror behind the bar (which I know I do, but I feel most girls..and some guys.. definitely do the same thing) and he said, "you're the most narcissistic person I have ever met..." probably not the best way to start off a relationship. I have worked very hard in my life to be the person that I am, and I truly believe I'm one of the best people I know, but by not letting myself be respected in the way that I should turns me from being confident, into being misguided and narcissistic.

3. I drink too much aka I binge on liquid courage.

He was my bartender. Case and point, if bars aren't good places to meet people, which I whole-heartedly believe, definitely make sure the guy isn't your bartender. For him, drinking is an escape, something I knew, and for some reason decided to accept from the very beginning. It wasn't until he single-handedly polished off a bottle of Captain on Tuesday that it really hit me, that he is an alcoholic. Drinking was our common bond, and except for the next day, most of the time we were together, one or both of us was always drunk. I know little about sober him (ironically, the only times I ever saw him sober was when he was working at the bar when I was there drinking) These drunken encounters always led to bad decisions and big fights that would end up in him leaving and me crying. Healthy, right? I think not.


4. I spend too long playing the "dumb girl" game.

At the best point in our relationship, he said to me, "You're so intelligent and amazing, the first time I met you I could tell you were just trying to act dumb, and I didn't know why." I think so many girls are guilty of this. And in some respects, I blame our culture, the media, and all of that for the reason that girls feel the need to be copy-cat Paris Hilton's, but if I really think about what I'm doing, I start to realize, why would I ever want to betray the God-given gift of intelligence to have some boy think I'm cute? I was blessed enough to be attractive and intelligent, and I should never betray the latter to try to enhance the first. Ever. Being dumb is not cute.

5. I don't demand the respect that I deserve.

Like I said, I love assholes. The more obnoxious and delusional the better. The cooler you think you are, the more I like you, even though I do know that you're not as awesome as you believe. In short, asshole guys do asshole things---they make asshole comments, they make asshole decisions, they only think about themselves. Because of this, I end up being the one that always concedes. I do it on their terms all the time, at one point I called this loyalty, or not even that, just flexibility. Now, I know that it's just called stupid. I am a person, I have feelings and good ideas and qualities that should be respected, not overlooked because I am number two because in their own mind they are number one... relationships are fifty-fifty. In the future selfish boys need not apply.

6. I give away the goodies too quickly.

I am by no means a slut, but I believe that sex= intimacy, even though I know that's crazy, and essentially it's intimacy that I want. I think it's this way for a lot of girls, sex is closeness and acceptance. But from the beginning, sex was the only thing in our relationship that we didn't disagree about. As secure as I am with myself now at 22, I still in some respects have that deep-seeded insecurity of my teenage years which always leads me to believe that by using my "best" assets, I can get what I want, even though it's a vicious circle, and I'm never happy or fulfilled in the end.

7. I have a hard time letting go.

It wasn't until he said, "I don't see a future for us. No matter how I feel about you, how much I care about you, we're incompatible. It's just never going to happen." Why do girls have to get that point, to make this decision? Honestly, at least in my own situation, that is really embarrassing, I had to wait until he was sitting in my desk chair, in the middle of the night, after almost a year of dating, for me to come to the decision that I ultimately made that night. This characteristic ties in with wanting to save people, and narcissism, on some level I always seem to believe, that if I can change myself, and just keep trying, things will change. Sometimes (most times) things never will. No matter how much effort you put into them. Letting go, isn't give up, it's being strong enough to accept the things that you just can't change and to keep growing and learning from those who just weren't good enough for the real you.

And now time to get rid of the bottle.

Bittersweet Symphony

A Bittersweet Symphony

His quiet confidence and hint of dangerousness make him immediately intriguing. Tall, dark, and handsome, he has that charm New England boys all seem to possess. He is rough and rugged, confident, with a strong pride in where he came from-he is a product of Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts. He is the rebel in a family of over-achievers. The succession of two brothers graduating with honors from Princeton and Penn State, and the older brother to a sister, a seventeen-year-old lacrosse star. Trading his education for a shot at fame, he quit college at eighteen to move to New York City and play guitar, but that was just the beginning. Now, after a series of downward spirals, twenty-two-year old Brian Alexander (more commonly known by his stage name Nodd Morris) has ended up here again to give Penn State- and a sober life- one last shot. A rolling stone, it's still anyone's guess how long he will stay this time.

A rebellious character with good intentions, Nodd's nervous habits and tired eyes prove immediately that he isn't an average college student. Almost immediately after meeting Nodd, you are struck by a sense of familiarity. As you process what he says, his expressions, his look, it hits you- he is a modern day James Dean. With his disheveled, dark hair and strong bone structure, you're instantly struck by his attractiveness, especially when he is on stage. He has the ability to engage every girl in the room with one chord progression. His wardrobe is predictable- a combination of thermal shirts and worn-out jeans. He plays only in Wolverine work boots or a well-worn pair of loafers.

Aside from his good looks and charm, Nodd has other characteristics similar to Dean. He speaks openly and profoundly about death. Many times he mentions the possibility of dying from his addictions, living life in the fast lane, and burning out before his time. "I believe that music is a form of self-medication for me. Without it, all of my ideas and feelings would well up in my chest until I died of a heart attack. Music is his only salvation."

His story is the sordid tale of the addiction and struggle of State College's "guitar boy"-the boy who claims to always have symphonies of music playing in his head; "Because I always have music in my head, I came up with the stage name Nodd. I am always nodding my head to the music playing inside of it. When you search for Brian Alexander on Google, thousands of hits pop up. How many people do you know named "Nodd?" It's a good name for a performer."

Sitting in his one room apartment on East Beaver Avenue, it was immediately apparent that I had picked a bad day to talk to a Boston sports fan- it was the Celtics pre-season opener. With plenty of time to browse his surroundings, I found that Nodd fit the quintessential "starving artist" stereotype. His apartment is smaller than the average dorm room. No light shines through the small window above his bed. With cracked walls and little lighting, his apartment looks like a luxury prison cell. Amongst the piles of clothes and clutter there is only a bed and small set of kitchen appliances, a guitar in the corner. The room is unlivable, even by most college student's standards. He jokes, however, that after being in jail, his apartment is "quite spacious." As you get to know Nodd better, you wouldn't expect his apartment to look any other way.

"Fuck! That was a sick shot! Did you just see that?" Nodd yells, staring intently at the game on TV. Sitting on a chair next to his bed, it's impossible to get more than a word from him before his voice trails off and he starts rambling obscenities at the muted television screen; flecks of potato chip and turkey sandwich catapulting from his mouth. Nodd Morris has a lovely mouth. During a break in the game, he looks over intently and asks the same question that he asked a dozen times over that last half hour, "Sorry what did you say?" even when nothing has been said. Finally, half way through the game, he begins to tell his story.

In the length of the Celtics halftime, Nodd describes almost a decade of addiction and struggle. From growing up with hopes of becoming a basketball star, to selling those dreams to drugs and alcohol, Nodd spins an incredible tale. He dropped out of Penn State at eighteen, entered in rehab in Minnesota at twenty, and relapsed a few weeks after finishing the program. He fondly recalls being the group leader at the Hazleton Rehabilitation Center. When asked about his experience there he explains, "It was awesome- I ran the fucking place." The stint in rehab had little effect on Nodd's sobriety. "I wasn't going to the rehab center to get clean. I was facing up to twelve years in prison for selling drugs. All I wanted to do was stay the fuck out of jail." Proving that Nodd's power of persuasion, he once even convinced a friend to help him buy an RV decorated with Penn State paraphernalia, in which they sold marijuana to make money, and played music to pass the time.

After rehab, he spent six months in Centre County Prison, and then moved back to Martha's Vineyard to be an electrician. After a few months of working, he realized that he needed a change. Nodd decided it was time to try to graduate from college one last time. His first semester back, he made Dean's List, an impressive feat after he had been temporarily expelled after earning a 1.44 GPA in his first attempt at Penn State. Nodd is currently a sophomore studying business. He hopes that with his degree he will some day be able to produce artists like himself.

His road to recovery, however, has already had its bumps. Nodd recently suffered a minor heart attack from his drugs and alcohol addiction. He'll tell you proudly that for the first time in years he is not "on something." He has stopped smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Every time you see him, he has a water bottle in hand to fight the temptation to drink. If you smoke around him, he will crack jokes about how unhealthy it is, but when you look into his dark eyes, you can see how desperately he is trying to keep from asking to bum a cigarette.

"I'm a masochist." He takes a long sip of water. "A masochist as well as an addict- I like the pain of getting tattoos. It's an addiction just like everything else in my life." It's a commercial break during the Celtics game and Nodd pulls up his shirt sleeve to display the Alcoholics Creed tattooed on his left shoulder. In the shape of a cross it displays the Creed's motto: "serenity, courage, wisdom." He then shows the treble and bass clef that he has tattooed on his ribs. "This one hurt like a bitch," he explains as he pulls up his shirt. "When I first told my dad I was getting a tattoo he said, ‘No, absolutely not,' but when he started thinking of all the other shit I've done- well let's just say the tattoo wasn't such a big deal anymore." He pauses and reflects. "He's real conservative. He wants me to be what I'm not. I don't know, I guess that's why I get along with my mom. She's a little more liberal. She tries to understand what I do."

He is most proud of grandfather's World War II dog tags, which he wears around his neck. "These keep me sober," he says. "I'm not really sure why I drink. I have an addictive personality, I guess. My grandfather did too. He helps me stay clean." As he tucks the tags back under his thermal shirt, he explains that his thermal is unique. He is right. When you look at the tag on the back, it reads: "Property of Centre County Prison."

At a month sober, Nodd is sitting in my apartment. Some time over the last few weeks, Nodd and I have become friends. He is excited about his recovery. He looks over at me and says, "Being sober now, it's amazing. You name it I've done it, Speed, Coke, all of it. I decided to give up everything. All I wanted was to do drugs and be a rock star, but I had to stop. How many twenty-two-year olds do you know that have had a heart attack?" He gets quiet, contemplative. He relaxes again and taps his water bottle on the table, presumably to the music playing in his head. He still gets panic attacks. He still has urges to drink. He's still a long way from clean and sober.

His addiction has turned from drugs and alcohol to music. He is facing his demons. Nodd Morris is ready to stay clean, but Brian Alexander may be a different story. Nodd sits at the bar every Tuesday night with his water, looking out at everyone with a beer in their hand and a cigarette pursed between their lips, yet the temptation doesn't break him, or at least it hasn't yet. I look up at him playing, sweetly singing Neil Young's "Heart of Gold," I am reminded of something Nodd said the first time we met. "I'm not saying it's not hard. It's hard. It's fucking hard, but I'm doing it, I have to." He paused, concentrated hard on his words, and then finished his thought: "I like thinking the way that I do now- musically, I mean. It's the only thing that's going to keep me alive."

***

We sit down six months later over coffee. As he walks over to the table, water bottle still in hand, I'm surprised by how happy I am to see him. We catch up for a while; about his new girlfriend, his music projects, his academics. Having just finished recording his second album, Love Wall, Nodd says he is "worn out, but happy." He smiles and takes off his aviator sunglasses.

He explains that his life now is a house of cards. Everything is beautiful, but he is waiting for it to all come crashing down. When asked about his sobriety, he explains that he is still sober, but it's a daily struggle. "My sobriety is like doggy paddling; I feel like I could do it forever, but I'm always afraid of getting too far from shore."

Musically, however, Nodd is at his best. "I'm trying to gear Love Wall towards a more intellectual crowd. I'm getting tired of the bar scene." He explains that there has been "a lot of growth" since Burning Bridges (an album he says was inspired by jail, drugs, and his addiction.) He believes that Love Wall captures his essence as an artist. Nodd is finally discovering his identity as a musician. "I want people to listen to the new album and know that my favorite color is red. If I can figure out my sound, who I really am, well then I guess everything else will come."

My Journey of Modern Love

It all started seven years ago. Before there was Facebook and MySpace, there was Matt and I. There were no pictures, pokes, or wall posts. Becoming friends on social networking sites didn't come until much later in our relationship. We predated Match.com and eHarmony. There was no one to help us find "the one," it just happened. It happened by fate, or Divine Intervention, or the Dao, if you ask Matt, that I did something I had been forbidden by my parents to do. I had broken their cardinal internet rule by leaving my email address floating around in cyberspace.

It was the happenstance that I, for whatever reason, typed my Spice Girl pseudonym into the end of the message to a teenage punk rock band from Lafayette, Georgia when I was fifteen. It was an innocent decision that changed my life; with a few keystrokes I had opened Pandora's Box. By good fortune, the lead guitarist, Matt Logan emailed me back the next day. A sweet little message thanking me for visiting the site, confessing his love for the band Alkaline Trio, and letting me know he used to be in love with a girl named Katie. It was the first of year's worth of emails that created, what still is today, the most difficult, but intriguing relationship of my life.

 Our history is traced by a barrage of messages from trixiefirecracker15-Ginger Spice's super hero alter ego and HULK182- an homage to the comic book character and BLINK182. My emails littered with early chat lingo and hot pink letters and his in red Comic Sans font always signed *much love*, marked the beginning of a very long correspondence. As we got older, and technology changed, emails turned to text messaging, texts to Facebook, and as I left home and started college, we realized that meeting, face to face, was inevitable. My sophomore year, I took a giant leap of faith, and bought a Greyhound ticket from Penn State to Atlanta. I embarked on a twenty-six hour journey to meet the stranger on the other side of the screen.

Deciding to meet Matt opened up my eyes to a unique cast of characters that inadvertently changed my life: the boy my own age saying good bye to his mother as he left for basic training at Fort Bragg; her tearfully telling me as he walked away that she "didn't know when she would see her baby again," the sixty year old truck driver sitting next to me on the way home telling me how he was going to Cambodia to find a bride to bring back to the States, the drifter with the mohawk who said he hopped freight trains for a living . I met so many interesting people on that God-forsaken, broken down, Greyhound. People I would have never met in any other situation. People I would have looked down on if I saw them on the street. Here though, if only for that moment, we were all the same. We were leaving home, coming home, anticipating the future, forgetting the past, we were all just moving. We were all on our way somewhere, even if we weren't sure where that was yet.

It was five a.m. and I was half way home to Pennsylvania. Exhausted, I dragged my duffle bag into another Greyhound station; my intuition proving correct that all the stations were the same: dimly lit, dirty, and without enough seats for everyone. Struggling with the new found feelings I had acquired for Matt over those last few days, I sat down next to an older woman who was staring ahead blankly; preoccupied with the wall in front of her it was as if all of the world's secrets were scrawled on the its chipping paint. When I asked where she was going, the woman only replied, "I'm going home." Her gaze shifted back to the wall.  

With her dismissal, I settled deep into the hard, plastic, fluorescent orange seat, counting down the next two hours. A few minutes later the woman looked over at me and said, "I was in North Carolina visiting my father. He is in the hospital. He has been sick for a while now. This will be the last time I will be able make it to see him." She continued, and breathed words that would stay with me, even today. She explained,

"When you get older, you'll try to remember all of these little moments that didn't seem important to you at the time. The time in between the big events in your life is what you'll want to remember when you're my age." She paused, her eyes getting wide and childlike. "Remember what your shampoo smells like, how it feels to be young, how it feels to be in love. Enjoy where you are right now, right here in this moment. Remember all of these things. You still have your life ahead of you, be excited for your journey not your destination-because if you only worry about your destination, you'll come to realize it was the journey that mattered all along." She smiled and so did I. She knew my smile was enough, that there was nothing left to say.

If what that woman said to me in the station was right, that happiness is found in the journey and not the destination, I hope Matt and I wander back and forth between Georgia and Pennsylvania many more times before we finally settle down where ever life takes us. I frequently think about the first time I saw Matt, waiting there at the Kennesaw Greyhound station to finally meet me. Leaning against his rust colored Camry covered with strategically placed band decals, I couldn't believe that it was finally him, my knight in Georgia Bulldogs apparel. Tall and handsome, bearded and blue- eyed, it had taken seven years to get to that one second in time, but it was in that second I knew it had been worth the wait. "There she is," he proclaimed in sweet southern drawl, and there I've been, if only in my heart, ever since.

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