Daria Orlowska

Tomorrow I begin my last week of being 16. That makes it sound a bit like the end. "The last week of being 16..." It's funny how we never seem to notice that period of time. That sliver between the hour, the minute, the second, the millisecond difference between 16 and 17, 13 and 14, 23 and 24. It is as nothing has changed and yet that sliver of time represents another year of our life past, gone. It is though it may be a sign counting down the years of your life, changing from 70 to 69, 74 to 73, 64 to 63... Well, 16 was challenging. Not tough like 13, or emotional like 14, or devoid of emotion like 15. No. Just... challenging. It was sort of like watching the thread of tragedy gently interweaving with joy, expecting it to snap one day, but hoping it doesn't. The prospect of death which was a mere illusion on the far horizon now seems more tangible than ever. For the first time in my life, I not only fear I may lose my parents but actually know it is an event quite capable of occurring. Junior year has clearly laid out the idea in front of me through the three students that lost a parent in my year. And now, the prospect came to knock on my window yet again. Today. My friend experienced his father's death today... the day before his 18th birthday. The actual event of death might have not directly impacted me, but the mere idea of it happening even to me, was enough to rattle my world. It was enough to make me hug my parents and tell them I love them while whispering why over and over again. Death used to be an illusion, something I thought could never happen to me... Turns out it is quite solid, closer than I ever thought it could be. Closer than I ever wanted it to be. And the mere thoughts of it seems to make reality a bit more fuzzy, events a bit less important and the future more uncertain. Especially now. I have so much to do, so much to study for and complete, that any other day I'd be panicking. Yet here I am, writing on this blog I haven't bothered with since God-knows-when instead of preparing for the mock AP Micro test worth 20% of my grade or getting started with my Psych Phase IV due Monday. Knowing erased all need for being in tune with reality. I guess that's why they say "ignorance is bliss". Once you know, you have crossed a boundary. You cannot go back and you never will. Life is never the same and never will be so we keep moving forward cause going back is never an option and to stand still means others will push you forward.

So I guess tomorrow I start my final week of being 16. And a week after that I will pass through the sliver of time between 16 and 17, watching the billboard drop from 70 to 69 and then... I'll keep moving.

Like nothing ever happened.

Loner, come in,

And we'll stir you a dream

Made especially for you,

Topped with reverie cream

Come in past the tables,

Past the warm, cozy fires

To our class-A dream bar,

Where we pour your desires

A dash of the blue moon

A measure of red potion

Will ensure your satisfaction

And utter devotion

So come to George's Cafe

Where we serve cocktails and dreams

Because nothing, my friends,

Is just what it seems

you lied to me

replacing true love with a

plastic barbie doll/ because she had all the

"true features"/

of a beautiful woman/ that you once told me/

I was.

you lied to me,

telling me I could soar on invisible wings/if only/

I wanted to.

telling me you'd be there/

through every single step I took in my prom dress and new high heels/

through times when my ex called me and I cried myself to sleep/

through the fog and the rain/and the snow and the sleet/

you promised me,

stick-a-needle-through-my-eye/I-swear-on-the-bible —

but you lied.

cause every single time I wavered

you were gone.

gone in your car/boys night out,

you claimed.

driving past eternity/and leaving me instead of being there/every step I took out of the dust cloud you created to cover me,

to blind my eyes/and swear the sunlight/was just past the dust/

but you lied/

because when the dust finally cleared,

it was night —

not day.

and you, my illusion,

were gone.

and I was left with only the/

shoulda/woulda/coulda/

you offered/words you decided to/

spit from your mouth like a bad taste/

just to prove you did/

to me.

and nothing else.

but dad, I

soared 

on wings.

everytime,

everytime you and your boys ran away/to escape the burden of home/and family/and work/to sleep with dirty prostitutes until dawn/

I soared.

but you only stayed long enough to

    watch

                me

fall.

Give me

the strength,

The Forgotten ability

so I may understand myself

as I yell from the

window at the top of my lungs,

barely heard,

attempting to release/

forget/

accept

the demons that plague

my reality

the disappointment

that fills my ears;

give me the strength

to stand outside

and watch myself

go round in circles

just to discover

it never really mattered.

Give me the strength

to watch myself realize

that I won't make it

because I'm not good enough

and never will be.

Give me the strength

to face the

booming silence

when my parents

tell me that

my imaginary friend

isn't really there

[and neither are you]

closure — gone

as the hand continues ticking

the time off my life,

the wind continues blowing,

the earth continues turning,

and I learn

to continue to move on

from the failure

plastered on your face,

to confront reality with

an open soul/open eyes,

and watch silently,

as the minutes disappear

from under my feet,

and the hourglass of my existance

breaks —

shattering

[just like your dystopia]

around me.

Irana Shea Tzila was born on a hot July day in 1940 to a strict mother and an invisible father-businessman. She had an infant brother, who died at the age of 2 months from the flu. Her mother controlled every aspect of her life, from the shoes she wore to the friends she could talk to. At age 18, she escaped her mother's controlling household, and found herself on the streets with no place to go. She began to do housecleaning, and soon earned enough to rent a one-room apartment with a girl named Joy. Through Joy, Irana learned about the fast life. Soon she sported a bouffant hairstyle, go-go boots and skimpy dresses that made every man do a double take. At the age of 28, she had already had 2 lovers and was currently involved with Jerome, a married man of 37. But fads and beauty fade, and soon Irana found herself outdated and in her early 30's. Betrayed by her best friend, abandoned by her lover and thrown out from her tiny apartment, she began seeking a job. After a year of looking and begging on the streets, she gave up and returned to her old job as a housecleaner. Never being able to move up and barely scraping enough money for a living, Irana was stuck at her job until the age of 49. It was the year 1989 when Irana acquired her first real job as a cashier at Jewel. The pay was low, but most stable than her last job. Finally, she was able to buy an apartment at the age of 54, and a German Sheppard at the age of 60. With her growing arthritis, walking became a chore so she quit her job at age 67, bought a used car, and applied for a job in crossword puzzle writing. Currently, she is trying to (again) live life on the edge as an self-employed environmentalist patroller around the Chicago neighborhoods.

.___.___.___.

He walked with a sort of limp at the edge of the sidewalk. Coughing occasionally, he must have been in his 40's at first glance...until he checked over his shoulder guilty and threw the glass bottle behind him. It smashed into a million pieces on the sidewalk as he limped on.

"Hey you! Hey!" I shouted.

He slightly turned around, panic spreading on his boyish face.

"Pick up that bottle!"

Then with a move characteristic of Jerome, he began to walk faster. Running away from his mistake, from the mess he made...

"Hey! Don't you walk away from me! Come back here, boy!"

Breaking into a slight jog, he moved faster away, determined to escape the sound of my voice.

"Hey! Boy! I'll call the police! I'll send you're ass right where it came from!"

Oh, but I wouldn't let him get away. I wouldn't call the police either. I'll deal with it on my own. Oh, he had no idea...

I called to my dog Berian before jumping into my BMW X5. That boy won't know what hit him when I get him.

I spotted him turning a corner, and then into an ally. Backtracking. A classic move. Jerome always backtracked, thinking he could fool me. But not anymore, not anymore. Because I was no fool, am no fool, and will not be made into a fool again. Not by Jerome, not by Joy, not by that stupid landlady and definitely not by a teenage boy.

I made a U-turn and parked my car at the edge of the road. Oh, he won't know what hit him...

Sure enough, he came out of the alley, first cautiously, and then started walking confidently down the sidewalk. This you've lost me, eh? Think again.

He ambled on and I road 20 feet behind him. It took the little bastard 2 blocks to realize he was being followed. Panic again spread across his face as he turned off his course and into a one way street.

Damnit.

He walked swiftly down the sidewalk as I turned my car around, pushing the speed limit so that I could catch him down the block —

Gone.

He was gone by the time I got on that godforsaken one-way street.

And I was left a fool once again.

But I swear by god, this will be the last time.

I'll get him next time.

And then I'll drag him down with me.

And anyone else who dares to run away.

.___.___.___.

December 9, 1971

Dear Jerome,

I hate you. I fucking hate you so much, you have no idea. You left me to the dogs, in that dirty alleyway. "I'm sorry". Fuck you. I didn't deserve you, you piece of shit. "Our love is outdated", you said. Who the hell says that? If you are so high and mighty, you could at least learn to express yourself better than "our love is outdated". I came home and I find out from that bitch Joy that you had an affair with her. And then, to make things worse, the housekeep, Ms. Carlene, kicks me out of my fucking apartment because you happen to have filled charges against me for seducing you even though I had knowledge of your matrimony to your beloved Leila. You fucking came to me, asking me for favors. You goddamn knows that, so don't go telling Ms. Carlene I am the one who seduced you. My dear, you did all the fucking seducing. I may have made my share of mistakes, including being involved with you, but I never ran away from my problems. And I never fucked someone over to run away from my problems.

Never again,

Irana

.___.___.___.

Radio Interview with Irana Rzila 04-13-09 (uncensored)

Irana Rzila, self-employed and self-proclaimed environmentalist patroller, told us she hates this station, yet let us have an interview with her after her arrest Tuesday. The arrest that begun with the stalking of two teenage boys for "environmental reasons" and ended in violence when police became involved, has made front-pages for the past two days.

You've got my last name wrong, that's what happened. It's Tzila.

The reporters are idiots. It's Tzila. I think I should know how to spell my name.

And another thing. Doesn't you think that you are a bit young to call me by my first name? It's Ms. Tzila to you.

People are just so rude these days. Littering, running away from their mistakes —

Arrest, arrest, arrest. That's all anyone is interested in. One thing happens and bang, everyone wants to know. People are so nosy.

Newspaper, newspaper. If you are so interested in the arrest, why don't you just read what the newspaper wrote?

So, then why are you calling me?

Don't but me, Mr. Nosy Radioman. I know damn well what you want. You want to make a fucking spectacle out of me. Just like everyone else in this goddamned world.

Goodbye.

(tone)