Thursday, January 12, 2012


I want to give you a taste of your own medicine.

I don't know if I know the right words for this. 

I want this post to somehow say I Care A Lot About People But I Sometimes Wish I Lived Alone in a Cabin Somewhere In Canada but that's all I really have to say about it, and since that's not a very good post I guess I have to figure out how to scrape the same idea across a few paragraphs at least.

Okay, that's not it. You're getting offended. You don't understand yet. You're taking it personally, just like I knew you would, and you're thinking that maybe I was a bad investment after all. Let me speak. I don't want to leave you behind, I don't want to get away from here, I don't want to be lonely, all I want is to live somewhere where I don't have to wake up on time. I don't want to answer my cellphone, you know? I don't want to wrap myself around a school schedule or a curfew or the sun setting, you know? I don't want to obey.

I figured out what this post is really about: I want to control the universe. Nah, that's not it either. I don't want all of it, I don't want the cosmos and the thirst, the federal debt and the controversy, the history, the medical miracles, the wars, the telephone lines and the chicken coops, the evolution, the snow or the sun or the grilled cheese sandwich on a hungry boy's plate. I don't want the universe. In fact, I want nothing to do with it. But I want control of is this universe: mine. It has a small, temperamental sun and a glorious forecast for next week and it has long hair. I'd like control of this universe. I'd like to be able to say "yes" to late nights and "no" to AP math and "maybe some other time" to bravery and I'd like to say "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you don't understand, but no, just trust me, no" to dates with nice, normal boys that I don't want to go on dates with. I was never very comfortable with "nice" or "normal" anyway.

I want to control the universe. 

So when I say I Care A Lot About People But I Sometimes Wish I Lived Alone in a Cabin Somewhere In Canada, what I really mean is I Want to Take You to Canada and I Want to Live There By My Rules. I want to be alone. And you. I don't want to go to Canada without you. I don't want to live alone in the cabin, don't you get that? But somehow along the way we stopped counting as separate bodies, separate faces and fingers and hearts, we stopped existing as "me" and "you" and "you" and "you". Together, we're alone in that cabin in Canada. I want you there with me, just us, alone.

I want to control the universe and I care a lot about people. I do. But sometimes I wish I lived alone in a cabin somewhere in Canada. Sometimes I wish I controlled the universe and that this was possible: you, me, and a cabin. Somewhere in Canada. I can't even explain who you are because I probably don't know you. 

This is about controlling the universe inside of a cabin. That's really all it's about. Don't read too far into it.

Standard deviation.
-Avery Jalaine

Saturday, January 7, 2012

the air up there

I've been alive for 6,498 days and that's a little defeating because 6,498 days isn't very many days at all. I haven't made a dent in this world yet. 

I've got time. But what if I don't? I don't want to spend my life walking on my hands, and I don't want to spend my life lying over the Internet because it helps me sleep at night.

Look at me. Look at me. I've got a lot of blood on my hands for someone so young and fair-skinned.

This is about telling the truth. One hand on the Bible and one hand in the bread-box, I'm horrible at accepting change, I'm afraid of everything at least a little bit, I'm half-convinced that I made you up. It's funny to me that I'm so used to the sound of you saying my name.

I don't know about "love" but I sure do like the sound my heart makes.

Okay, maybe this isn't exactly about telling the truth. Maybe it's about skipping around the truth and pickpocketing it for its spare change because I can and maybe it's about being so obvious that I condemn myself.

This is about you. (And you. And you. And you. And you.)

Let me lay you in wet cement, let me throw you hissing hot into the water to set you in stone. I don't want to feel malleable, you know? I don't want to feel like fingerprints could change me. I'm not wet clay, I'm skin and blood and I'm dying to know your middle name. If I'm going to be glass, I at least want to be bullet-proof.

You've torn the crusts off far too many goodbyes, and I might be the one with a short attention span, but you're the one who never remembers your lines. I care about the weather forecast, you know? And I care about wiping my feet at the door. You'd better be ready for a whole lot of the silent treatment. Because if my middle name is "Let Me In" then your middle name is "Look But Don't Touch". And I obey the rules.

Don't open your hand-me-down copy of Webster's and try to define "love" for me. I'm sick of theoretical chemical patterns and soul mates and biology. This is what it is. I know about love and I'm seventeen-years-old, not going to die today but maybe tomorrow, not going to grow up now but maybe tomorrow, and I know about love. Don't expect a love letter, though.

I get a lot of crap for having long hair. I get a lot of crap for using long words. And I know for a fact that I'm hated. 

But somehow you must love me, too, because you would never have climbed the trellis if you didn't, would you, Romeo? You would never have held the boombox under my window if you didn't, would you, John Cusack? You would never have dragged yourself out of that ninth pit in, what did you call it again?, oh yeah, Hell, if you didn't, would you, Dante? You would have never said a single word if you didn't. Oh yes, you really love me.

Somehow, I forgot what I was trying to say. It might have just been: I love you. (And you. And you. And you. And you.) Take care of yourself.

-Avery Jalaine

Monday, January 2, 2012

two oh one two


And here comes another one. We didn't think we'd ever make it here, did we? We didn't think we'd ever count this high, did we?

Well, here's to proving them wrong. 

I'm a legend around these parts. People point and say: "Look! There's the girl that's going to save the world in 2012!" They say: "Look! There's the girl with two hands, two lungs, and an appetite. This is her year." They say: "Look! There's the girl we've been waiting for, for two thousand and twelve long years, to run up in holey mary-janes and take the world in one hand and the sun in other and swallow them whole, and make us... gods." Well I'm your girl. Yeah, I've been waiting around for her to show up for a while, too.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment the first person said "Look!" but, boy, I am not going back. Somewhere between one bright shiny morning and another, I started to love 2011. 

Here's to 2011.

In 2011, I grabbed a bunch of people by the elbows and said, "Hey, you should love me the way I am." And they did. I also offended a lot of people. I'm sorry. In 2011, I was opinionated and I was selfish. In 2011, I was bitter and I was crass, I was worried about everything and I was a tiny bit pretentious and I was shocked by my good fortune, I turned around and said, "Me? Are you talking to me?" because I couldn't believe that you were saying, "Hey Ave, tell me another one." In 2011, I was very, very, very young. I was hopeful but pessimistic, I was reckless but scared. In 2011, I walked around with my hands wide open, trying to catch everything in them, no matter if it was sugar or dust or cyanide or moth balls, because all I wanted was to be able to point to the world and say "What else you got?" and for the world to say, "Nothin'". In 2011, I was cranky and violent, hot-blooded and inspired, melodramatic, bored, late everywhere, sarcastic, shameless, unrealistic, unimpressed, unreliable, uncouth, unjust, unworthy, unrepentant, undamaged, unwilling. In 2011, I was all of those things. And it's 2012, and I'm still all of those things. 

I haven't changed much.

But you'd barely recognize me now.

Long live 2011.

Here's to our long hair. Here's to Rooftop Concert Series and Twilight Concert Series and underground basement concert series, brought to you by secondhand guitars and shaving cream. Here's to the soft and half-forgotten home I left in California, but trust me, what I left was a dent. Here's to windless Wednesday and sunless Sundays, here's to the blisters hardening into callouses on our bare feet. Here's to tardies and attendance school, here's to math tests and traffic tickets and the short ten-mile walk from your car to the front door. Here's to my skin next to your skin. Here's to the iPhone (yeah, one big round of applause for the iPhone). Here's to locker #1190 (I miss you) and here's to locker #74 (I guess you're alright, too). Here's to the space between us. Here's to beds. Here's to cold air so that we have to get a little bit closer, you know, to survive. Here's to shoulder blades and collar bones and ankles. Here's to an era of beautiful, beautiful teenage boys and they're growing into beautiful, beautiful men. Here's to broken hearts and new hearts and big, bloody, bright, beating hearts, all together now, you know the words: 2011.

Here's to a lot of Last's: the last first day of grade school I'll ever have, the last time Halloween costumes will decorate the halls on October 31st, the last state football game where I ever could have said: "Go Knights!" (I didn't go).

Here's to romance. But let me tell you something: I wasn't as much of a romantic as I once thought. And let me tell you something else: I'm proud of it.

Here's to 2011. No, here's to us.

2011, I'll miss you. You've been very kind.

But I outgrew you, 2011. And 2012 was a long time coming. 

I guess I'll see you around. Here's another 365, right? No wait, it's Leap Year: 366.

2012, be good to me. Don't quit on me yet.

Goodnight, 2011. And happy new year.
-Avery Jalaine