July Mixtape: Summer in Suburbia

I wish suburbs had names that actually represented their character. Like, Applebeewood. And Suvland.

We moved the summer after first grade, only within town limits, and our means, from a bigger box into a bungalow out in suburbia; but crossing school districts, it felt like being on another far out planet, only just hanging onto the tail of the galaxy.

Our suburb in the 60’s. Orbiting cul-de-sacs on banana bikes.

Our suburb in the 60’s. Orbiting cul-de-sacs on banana bikes.

“Driving home from Thanksgiving, 5 months after turning a family of four into a group of three.
Sitting shotgun, I was talking about my first girl scout camp out.
One of the many firsts you’d miss.
When I asked dad about sleeping bags, he responded ‘I don’t know… you’d have to ask your mother.’
It was quiet.
At that moment, although I have your lips, father and daughter shocked expressions were Identical. I didn’t talk the rest of the way home. I hate the holidays.
Fast forward six years;
I want to sleep all day.
I don’t want to deal with phone calls from friends moms saying they are here for me, I am not a pity case.
Go to brunch and fawn over your flowers that smell more of funeral home then love.
People say I look like you still. Same smile, same hair.
I don’t remember it before chemo so i’m not so sure.
Next July you’ll be out of my life longer then in, and even though I know it ruined you I still bring that cigarette to my lips, because of the constant reminder they look so much like yours”
— Mothers day ghost-years
July came quick mom.

I’m all, no goals while I’m peeing!

Retrovision

Retrovision

Futurevision

Even more so than the Moon and the million eyeballs constantly drawn to it, soccer matches are our collective campfire. Almost everyone that has been – and will be – in my life collecting around their televisions, and in that moment, the same picture swimming in front of all our eyes.

That, however, is not entirely accurate. For the past couple years, while all around me television sets have widened, flattened, and robbed a generation off fat cardboard box forts, my old tube with its grainy ghostly pictures, bunny ears sticking out almost, has been living a second in the future.

The second or two it takes for the digital signal to bounce off satellites, get decoded and beam in; just long enough for a few fellow analogue apartments to louden up and a car to honk, before getting drowned out by all the other flats.

But for that second, it’s like knowing the future: hit or miss.

Four years ago, while Germany was playing England in the World Cup, I kept on sneaking out on my balcony and it looked like Aliens would’ve snatched everyone off the face of the Earth: no people and cars for miles – even the birds were chirping softer. And then, just when I headed back inside, an old lady, all carefree and with a flower pot in her handlebar basket, pedaled by on her bicycle. We won that game 4:1, and while I remember each goal, it’s her who stuck with me.

GOL!

GOL!

Du bist mein Edelstoff.

You Are Beautiful #yabsticker 10: Holding her hair while she vomits her drunk little heart out.

You Are Beautiful #yabsticker 10: Holding her hair while she vomits her drunk little heart out.

Do you have a girlfriend?
Anonymous

No, and no boyfriend either. At this point, all I want is a cat. I’m such a sucker for the warm spots people and small animals leave in your bed; rolling over and soaking it all up. I got the hardest time to feel my own warmth, and my laptop my electric cat. Sometimes when I park my ass in one spot for a good long while I get as much as a hint, but most times I feel like a ghost.

und du?
Photo: Petra Collins