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When did my parents' house cease to feel like home?

Is it like silver on a 25th anniversary?

"When you turn 23 you can expect to no longer feel at home in the house you grew up in."

When does your parents' advice become an opinion and not weighty on your conscience like God's Ten Commandments?

When did my mother's affection no longer alleviate my loneliness?
Maybe if my memories hung in the rooms like unchangeable decorations they would stay there longer.

***

Okay, so I felt the need to edit this post, or at least add a disclaimer. At first I had on here that I no longer listened to my parents' advice about big things like health and finances. The other day I got SUPER sick and ran into some financial problems ALL IN THE SAME DAY. It was quite overwhelming and all I could think about was this post and I was like aaah crap, that's what I get for being a bratty nose-up-in-the-air mid twenty something kid. So naturally I called my Mom and my Pops and was like like "ahh, help me." But mostly I needed just somebody. 

Then I watched "The Namesake" (WATCH IT!! - so good) and main themes in that movie are respect for parents and familial love.

Ani DiFranco once said at a concert at Carnegie Hall in 2002:
"So, everyone who grew up in a f***ed up family, which I assume is most of us. Do you find yourself being deeply suspicious of happy families? Does that just creep you out? Happy families with nicely manicured bushes? I got such an attitude about well-adjusted families who choose to come together and experience each other cause its nice."

Well I'm not well adjusted and yeah my family's got issues (please inform me if your family does not with directions of how the heck that happened) but damn I love them. So even though there's a whole lot of hurt involved, heck yeah I choose to come together with them and experience them. That's love. And even though I don't feel at home anymore in my parents' house there's a new relationship unfolding with them that I never would have expected. And different isn't always worse and it's not always better, sometimes it's just different. 

Hey.

I watched the movie Once about a week ago. Those songs are stuck inside of me now. When a song is stuck inside my head it tends to move into my feelings and animate me in a way.

Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard:

I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now
Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing along
I paid the cost too late
Now you're gone.

A good song is poetry and music intertwined. There's something scathing to the senses about a song with bad lyrics. The songs in Once are not only good, they're real, which perhaps is what makes them so good. They don't act as a magic carpet ride outside of reality but as a subway through it. You hurt with the love story of two broken people and have joy with them for their moment of consolation.

Sentimental

Thank God for good friends. I like it when I don't expect it and good things happen.

Here are some home-cooked photos by yours truly. Most of the photos on the blog are mine (all of them right now except for Sylvia Plath and the bath-tub).

Hanging out on the porch when I lived in a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

Driving on a road by the Tuckasegee river on a sunshiney morning. 

Bloomed flowers at the tail end of summer turning into fall.

Name Game

We played this game in my fiction writing class today. The first part was writing about your name factually. The second part was writing about how you felt about your name.

May is a month and it's also my last name. It's spelled M-a-y, no tricks, just simple. May is also the month of Mary, the mother of God. The May Crowning is when you put flowers on her head. Add an s to May and it sounds like the corn, but there is no s, just May like the month.
Kasey is my first name like Casey Jones or whatever but mine's with a K. K like in kangaroo, that mammal with the pouch that can kick the hell out of you while it stands on it's tail.

Kasey May, I like my name, it's simple. It sounds like a first name and people often think it is. I can't pretend to be annoyed. I like it when people get mixed up and say it together like I'm some sweet southern girl who never left the farm.

 

I liked the game.

Sylvia Plath

This is an excerpt from Sylvia Plath's book "The Bell Jar"

I was reading it last night and couldn't help but relate to this homely experience.

"There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.'

I meditate in the bath. The water needs to be very hot, so hot you can barely stand putting your foot in it. Then you lower yourself, inch by inch, till the water's up to your neck.


 I remember the ceiling over every bathtub I've stretched out in. I remember the texture of the ceilings and the cracks and the colors and the damp spots and the light fixtures. I remember the tubs, too: the antique griffin-legged tubs, and the modern coffin-shaped tubs, and the fancy pink marble tubs overlooking indoor lily ponds, and I remember the shapes and sizes of the water taps and the different sorts of soap holders.

I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.

I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near onto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.

I said to myself: 'Doreen is dissolving, Lenny Shepherd is dissolving, Frankie is dissolving, New York is dissolving, they are all dissolving away and none of them matter any more. I don't know them, I have never known them and I am very pure. All that liquor and those sticky kisses I saw and the dirt that settled on my skin on the way back is turning into something pure.'

The longer I lay there in the clear hot water the purer I felt, and when I stepped out at last and wrapped myself in one of the big, soft white hotel bath towels I felt pure and sweet as a new baby."


(pg. 16-17)

Inception and a picture of my brother's dog

I have nothing too creative or interesting to blog about today but I desired to blog. I drove to Connecticut and then I drove back 5 days later. I watched Inception and was thoroughly disappointed with the end. Please, dear screen writers, make endings to your pieces. Ambiguity is not attractive, especially with such a well thought out movie such as that. The entire movie was so psychologically demanding that leaving the end that way weakens your piece instead of strengthening it. This is my opinion. Feel free to not use it. Creating closure does not mean it isn't art or that it isn't interesting or even that it isn't mysterious. It's a damn good movie otherwise, thank you for making it, just create an end to your long-ass story next time. Perhaps I need to watch it again.

I recommend this film though, if anyone's interested. It has Juno in it (Juno!), even though that's not her real name. I really like her (Juno!). Maybe if Michael Cera was in Inception it would have been better (not really though). I think I'm gona watch Juno.

And to make this a little more visually appealing here's picture of my brother's dog on a mountain. 

Kramer!

Peace out ya'll.