Amelia Kanan

Writer + Photographer + Producer

Month: January, 2015

All I have to write are construction paper and Crayola markers.

I have eggs in my pocket.

I like to be prepared.

Yesterday, I wasn’t.

Prepared.

Wednesdays are always like that.

But it wasn’t Wednesday.

It was Thursday.

I had to be patient.

I actually like being patient.

No, I don’t.

That’s a lie.

I lie sometimes.

Usually about stupid things.

Like….

“I like being patient”

Or

“I like rainbows”

I hate rainbows.

Well, I don’t hate them.

I just don’t love them.

Like everyone else does.

Why does everyone get so excited?

For a rainbow?

Other things that I don’t love:

Unicorns.

Parades.

Balloons.

Fireworks.

Giant lollipops.

Giant anything.

There.

I said it.

Sometimes I feel supposed.

Like I’m “supposed” to do something.

Like I’m supposed to like rainbows or giants things.

Why?

I’m still nice.

And funny.

And fun.

I don’t like to feel supposed.

It makes me feel unfair.

To everyone.

And to me.

Devious.

I don’t like that.

Just like I don’t like rainbows.

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Bullet Death

Bullet DeathI can still feel the sting from the bullet. There isn’t any blood. No wound. Not even a scar. But, I can feel it. It happens when I’m scared. Or when I walk alone in the dark.

That bullet killed me two life times ago. I wasn’t walking in the dark. I wasn’t alone. And it wasn’t the first shot.

The men who had killed me hovered over my naked little body. Laughing as I squirmed on the precipice of death.

I was seven.

The bang rattled me more than the pain itself. Dreaming of my mother’s arms, I was comforted by sadness instead of fear. My head on her chest, listening to her voice rattle through her rib cage. Her breath from her nose felt warm on my forehead. Her buttery skin smelled sweet and safe. As I trembled, I closed my eyes and tried my hardest to keep her with me. Petting my hair, brushing my cheek and kissing the top of my head. All the things I used to hate until that moment.

The pain grew like a weed. Wrapping its stinging vines around my stomach, up into my chest and then around pelvis. My lungs were hasty in their requests for the winter air as my body rattled on the cement slab. I had always liked the winter.

A warmth spread beneath me and blanketed my right thigh. The urine was a brief comfort and went it abandoned me I was a fiend for heat. I buried my hands into the depths of my stomach where the fire was still alive, groaning with pain. Arousing the men to mock me. Shame rippled through me, nearly numbing the bullet pain. The humiliation reckoned me to welcome death. That feeling of vulnerability proved to be more powerful than even the fatal shot that ended that life. More painful than the holes in my abdomen. That emotional pang escorted me into my next two lifetimes.

It’s somewhat true that you get to choose aspects of your life. There are lessons we all have to learn. Some take a few lifetimes to learn others move on to new ones quickly. After exiting that soul crushing life and before I began to work on the aftermath, I needed to be frivolous. I needed to drive in a convertible. Get drunk. Have a lot of sex. I needed a life where I could be free.

My next life was exactly that. I was pretty, blonde and entitled. I got to sleep with a certain U.S. president president before driving over a bridge in my 20’s. Although I lived that life, I feel very detached from it. I feel like she was someone I once played on stage. Maybe that’s why I can’t feel the pain from that death. Though I do still feel the fear every time I drive over a bridge, “It’s over, this is it,” plays like a broken record. I can feel the wind push my car towards the edge, as it had happened a lifetime before. I also still have an obsessive fondness for a certain president.

My life has never flashed in front of me, like they say it’s supposed to. Instead, a jolt of Déjà vu strikes all six of my senses. Freezing my body, surrendering it so my higher self can be present for those final few moments. The fear serves as a comforting reminder of familiarity; knowing the end is right there in sight. It’s oddly beautiful.

The other night I had a dream. I was swimming in the ocean, like a dolphin. Happily. I dove deep towards a white glow on the sea floor. I couldn’t breathe but like a dolphin, I could hold my breath for a long time. The glow was coming from a cozy little house and once I entered, I found every person I had ever loved. But even though I was bursting with joy, I still couldn’t breathe. I had to leave my most favorite place. Swimming to the surface, I knew I’d be back. When I took my first breath, I found a neighboring island. I crawled onto the sand, lied in the sun and began to think about reality, fear reality. Shelter, food and danger. I knew it was too soon to go back to the cozy little sea house but I also didn’t want to live somewhere unsafe and all alone. I went back into the sea and floated on my back, in the middle of nowhere. Then, I woke up.

I think my afterlife was that little cozy home on the sea floor. I keep asking to come back to Earth because I have to breathe but I get here and feel as though I just don’t belong.

My Sandbox Partner in Crime

AlfredI remember being at a dinner party, surrounded by people you would’ve hated, in a city on the other side of the country, when I heard someone say your name.

My stomach dropped. Hearing those syllables. I felt like a baby bunny. Sensing danger but unsure of the direction in which it was coming.

I realized that the guy, speaking so cruelly about you, had never met you.

I sat up straight, no longer threatened and crinkled my brows, perching myself for an attack. I glared for awhile with that look you always hated, buying time to think of something cunning to say.

“Do you realize how mediocre you seem, saying something like that?” I asked, with a smirk and a chest puffed out with rage.

There I was, defending you with the same behavior that drove you away. My beady-eyed coldness and one-liners that were carefully crafted to dig, deep inside where the flesh was most tender and weak. Mindfully wanting to damage the most precious piece of you that was

I had left you, so long ago and never looked back. Who was I to defend you, I didn’t even know you anymore?

Crickets chirped while everyone stared at me.

Who was the women with so much evil? Her outwardly-facing softness and smile that had greeted everyone so warmly was gone. Ready for a defense. Eager for some kind of socio-economic debate. That wasn’t what I was trying to defend though. You were broke. You were injured. You were struggling. What I wanted to prove was that you were wiser because of your humblings. Your struggle, your perseverance actually put you in front of them. Making all those wide-eyed, mouth gaping people who were staring at me, losers. Not to mention, you had more heart than the sum of all the hearts around me. I missed that big, stupid and throbbing heart.

My stupid anger. My stupid follow-that-heart logic.

Looking back, I wish I wouldn’t have used that anger to propel me back to you. We know that aftermath: a moving truck and a two-year domestic challenge to assimilate and compromise that too quickly evolved into authentic-self sacrifices.

There’s no doubt that we loved each other. Not only did the passion prove that but so did the desire to forfeit so much just to make each other happy.

I’m not sure if I will ever fight for anyone as hard as I did for you. I don’t believe in forever anymore, which for I’m grateful. It’s liberated a huge load off my shoulders.

I’ve loved since you. The first one, was a rekindle ex love. Before I added any more notches, I wanted to feel loved by someone who knew me well – flaws and all. We all know how loveable I am at first glance…the challenge comes later. At least, for you it did. I needed to be re-assured that someone can love me long after that shine dulls.

I missed you today. I’m glad I can miss you. I don’t get angry when I hear your name. I don’t even get sad. You taught me too many good things. Not to mention, you made me feel like I wasn’t the puzzle everyone makes me feel like I am. You made me feel easy.

To this day, It’s still your voice I hear when I need to push past my fear. “Don’t run from fear, run into it” or the simpler version “Don’t be a baby!” Sometimes I laugh and sometimes I argue back “I’m not being baby, I’m being smart. Something you don’t know anything about…”

Detroit, thank you for being my sandbox partner in crime.

I will always defend you sweetly.

A