Love of Wizards

At the tender age of eleven, Danielle Berry awoke to find an owl scratching its talons on her window.  The owl was entrusted with a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Danielle was flattered by the invitation, but not surprised to find out she was a witch;  things had been occurring in Ogden, Utah that were of a strange nature.  For example: while Danielle was staring at a sand cat in the Salt Lake City zoo, the glass mysteriously melted, releasing the rabid beast on the Pope and his "choir" boys.  Danielle was perplexed by this incident, but shrugged it off as a matter of divine intervention.  Another example: During a heated discussion at the local Denny's, Danielle accidentally turned her friend Katie into a ferret, and proceeded to drop her down the pants of the nearest elder.   


Despite these strange occurrences, Danielle was too apathetic to give a shit.  She kept living her life on the edge, hanging out with her pals Ryan, Nathan, and aforementioned random female.  But when this mysterious envelope arrived via owl, Danielle's apathy began to waver.  She was fully aware of the perks of attending Hogwarts: hot wizards with British accents, flying on a stick, and using magical sticks to make life pleasurable.  She was, also, however, aware of the drawbacks: Harry Potter was a whiny, punk-ass bitch, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to deal with that shit.


As Danielle clutched the letter, she expected to be overcome with joyous emotions; however, Danielle was no ordinary girl.  She had exceptional capacity for apathy, and found herself not giving a damn.  Danielle looked down at the letter, shrugged, and threw it under her bed, somewhere between Risk and her discarded, disheveled emotions.  She then proceeded to play Tetris.  To this day, the letter from Hogwarts collects dust, along with Danielle's denied emotions.  

Danielle: A History, In Parts

 As a tribute to my amazing roommate Danielle, I present to you Danielle: A History, an exploration of the life of my beloved roommate, gleaned from various stories and observations.  The History will be written in installments, this being the first one.  I hope you enjoy it.


The date March 14th, 1991 was a remarkable day for several reasons.  It was remarkable because a very remarkable being was born on this day, a Miss Danielle Gloria Berry, in Orange County, California.  It was also remarkable because this remarkable being was destined to be a math major, and the date of her birth numerically, that is, 3/14, made up the first three digits of pi.  What made this day not quite extraordinary was that the next four digits were quite off; some scholars see this as a sign of Miss Berry's generational misplacement.  In fact, most historians assume that Danielle's birthdate was supposed to be March 14th, 1592, placing her in the midst of Reformation, Russian anarchy, and the eventual 30 years war.  Scholars speculate about the possible connections between Danielle's historical displacement and her double major in political science.  


GLORY DAYS
Danielle grew up in Ogden, Utah, devoid of virtually any Mormon contact.  Instead, Danielle spent her days with her Catholic classmates in an intimate Catholic school.  In her younger years, Danielle met a young man who would change the course of her life forever.  His name was Ryan, and he threw amazing parties. The boy also had amazing aim: one day, he threw a penny so hard, it left an imprint of Abraham Lincoln on the back of his sister's neck.  He was bad-ass.


Ryan was remarkable for two different reasons: 1. He threw a Harry Potter themed party featuring sorting-hat shaped breads, and 2. He was the bad-ass leader of grade-school crew.  Everyone wanted to befriend Ryan; everyone wanted an invitation to his fabulous parties.  But Ryan was cool precisely because these invitations were so rare and coveted; receiving one was like achieving celebrity status.


Danielle was one of the few to receive these invitations, repeatedly.  She was a member of Ryan's selective crew, comprised of a boy named Nathan, another female, and Danielle.  Together they would partake in mischievous activities, such as stapling Nathan's hand.  Long after the group disbanded, Danielle and Nathan would meet on fishing trips and reflect on their "glory days" with Ryan.  

Bob Dylan Montage Quote Poetry

Bob Dylan is my soulmate. 


I am utterly convinced of this.  I don't care if he is sixty-nine years old, wrinkly and dying of old man disease.  I don't care.  I will always remember the Dylan of the '60s, young and skinny and adorable in his dark sunglasses.  That is the Dylan I will marry in my mind.


Anyway.


I saw Dylan in concert on the 29th of August.  I'd already seen him twice before (while I was unknowingly ill with swine flu--sorry, other concert goers), but its still an amazing, unique experience every time.  People say that Bob Dylan is awful live, particularly because his voice is croakier than ever and he changes the arrangements of his songs so they sound completely different from the recordings.  To these people I say: IT'S EFFING BOB DYLAN. QUITE COMPLAINING!  This is the same man who was accused of being "JUDAS!" for turning electric; this is also the same man who reacted to this accusation by turning to his band and yelling "Play it fucking loud!"  Bob Dylan is wonderful because he is sassy, because he is a brilliant poet, because he plays harmonica, and because the same people who felt so betrayed by his electric guitar still showed up at his concerts; even those who "loathe" him can't stay away from him, and it's because he's irresistible, and he doesn't give a shit.


While at this concert, I was struck by the brilliance of Dylan's lyrics.  I've always known he was an amazing poet, but being at a Dylan concert, in a Dylan atmosphere, allowed the essence of the words to really hit me.  This is stuff I couldn't dream of writing; and, out of Bob Dylan's mouth, it dribbles like vomit.  


In tribute to Bob Dylan and my disgusting simile, I decided to extract some lines from various Dylan songs, arrange them and patch them back together into a poem-like quilt (A quilt-like poem?)  The songs I used lines from appear at the end of this post, in order of line appearance. I hope you enjoy!


Visions of Tangled, Leopard Skin Memphis Blues


I'm going on the run,
I'm going to Acapulco
Where flowers on the hillside bloom crazy
beneath the Panamanian moon.


My love, she laughs like the flowers.
She's delicate like the mirror,
and can take the dark out of the nighttime and
paint the daytime black.


I could stay with her forever, and never realize the time.


She opened up a book of poems, and handed them to me.
and everyone of those words rang true,
and glowed like a blue river,
running slow and lazy through my soul.


She slipped out of the side door,
(she forgot to close the garage door)
looking like a queen without a crown. 
Goodbye is too good a word,
So I just said 'fare thee well.'


Now people just get uglier, 
and I have no sense of time.
It's alright, its life and life only,
and I'll feast on her eyes,
but I'll dream about the door.  


"Goin' to Acapulco"
"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go"
"Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again"
"Love Minus Zero/No Limit"
"Visions of Johanna"
"She Belongs to Me"
"Tangled Up in Blue"
"Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts"
"Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat"
"Don't Think Twice, It's Alright"
"It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)"
"I'm Not There"

Breaking Up

When I enter into relationships, I never anticipate the end.  Well, perhaps I do in the abstract sense: I never assume the person I am dating will be the one I marry in the future.  That position of holy matrimony is always reserved for Mystery Man X, who I always seem to visualize as tall, lanky, and sporting shaggy brown hair (why I never picture myself marrying a short, stout, blonde man is a shallow, subconscious mystery to me).  In the concrete, present tense, however, I am never prepared for the inevitable break-up; I can never accurately anticipate the turbulent, gnawing misery of losing human connections, rejecting/being rejected, and hurting others.  *Author's side-note* Sometimes I wonder if forgetting the pain is biologically fixed inside of us to encourage further pursuit of relationships and eventual mating, as to ensure our survival as a species.  I'm not sure if I would pursue relationships any longer if I remembered with vividness how my insides felt like they were melting into a pool of miserable sobs quickly gyrating out of my control.  But fortunately (unfortunately?) I have forgotten this weeping, whirling sensation and will likely feel it again. And again. And again.

Strangely, these feelings were not imposed on me; they were the product of my own choice.  I broke up with my boyfriend recently; refraining from doing so would have prevented the intense emotional suffering of a break-up.  Why did I do it then?

Being broken up with is certainly more strikingly, enduringly painful than breaking up with someone--I would argue that the latter, however, is more morally/philosophically distressing--at least it was for me.  The idea of breaking up with my boyfriend tormented me, even though I was sure that I wasn't getting what I wanted out of our relationship anymore.  It tormented me because I cared deeply about him, and didn't want to erase him from my life.  I sometimes felt I should stay in it just so I didn't lose him completely.

After talking with a close friend of mine, however, I realized that this was a very selfish idea.  I was essentially wasting his time and mine, locking us into a relationship that I felt was going nowhere, but was too afraid to say so.  I wouldn't want to remain in a relationship with him if he felt the same way I did.  It felt too dishonest.   

My decision ultimately boiled down to two options: hurt now, feel better later, or hurt now, hurt more later.  I knew the end was near, and I was just prolonging the suffering.  I also knew that I wasn't prolonging the suffering for anyone's benefit; it was simply out of cowardice that I avoided the inevitable end.  I didn't want to be in a relationship anymore, but I didn't want to take the necessary action to end it.  

And I didn't want to do it, up until the end.  When I dialed his number, I half-hoped he wouldn't answer.  It would be another temporary pardon from the terrible task before me; another reason to prolong the suffering and delay the misery.  

But he did answer.  And I used the dreaded line "I just want to be friends." He sounded hurt but not too surprised.  And we talked about following through with our plans to go to the zoo, plans that will probably never really transpire.  We exchanged a few more awkward lines, and quickly bid farewell.  

We agreed to be friends, but I'm not sure how long it will take.  In my ideal world, we would be friends now, going to the zoo platonically and talking on the phone about Dexter and sand cats.  But I know this is not my ideal world, and I know he's not ready.  

I miss him, and went through a period of mourning.  I even contemplated regret, and mused over the possibility of getting back together.  I couldn't change my facebook relationship status for days.  With the help of friends, sassy music and shopping, however, I have come to accept my decision.  I still care about him and hope he knows it.  I wish I could give him a hug right now, but I am aware that I am not the right person to console him in this situation.  I find solace, however, in the fact that he will, undoubtedly, be okay, for:

"We never did too much talkin' anyway / Don't think twice, it's alright." - Bob Dylan