49.Buddy Wakefield

Instead of writing/ editing I found myself watching slam poetry videos- my favorites by Wakefield, Kay, and Lee. I love it so much. Prior to poetry, there was nothing that spoke to me so profoundly.

About a year ago today, Abby and I were in this attic theater of this larger theater in Providence seeing Buddy Wakefield perform. I had been a fan of his since about 2010, and had been starved for live poetry since. Why I never partook is beyond me. I think I was a much different person back then.

I guess it doesn't matter when you show up to your own life, provided that you do. And I did- with a week left of my 25th year.

Prior to the show, Abby and I met Wakefield. He had the pre-performance frenzy in his eyes that I've seen in a lot of creative types, but he was friendly non the less. Abby was awkwardly grinning from me holding her hand so tightly.

I wasn't sure what to expect so it wasn't like I imagined the meeting a thousand times over, I was just happy to be there. I knew I wanted to have an in-depth conversation about inspiration and all the ways his work affected me, but all I could say was some cliche line about him changing my life, and I asked him to sign this red journal that Abby had gotten me as a maid of honor gift. He got confused which way to sign it, so in true poetic form he wrote this:






"Don't forget what side is up, Jessica." He said.










His show was flawless. I still can't talk about it without fangirling like a tween at a One Direction concert.

The odd and wonderful thing about poetry is that the right poem by the right poet always finds me when I need it too. It's a frequency I am always tuned into. If something ever happens to my memory, be it disease or an accident, or whatever- the way to bring me back is with poetry. I can promise you that.

48. Kenny

Kenny was a paratrooper in Vietnam but still has love for the jump. I met him when he was a captain for the ferry boats I used to work for. We took to each other instantly. I still say that if I didn't get my father, I would have been happy with Kenny as a close second.

I rarely saw him without sunglasses, even on cloudy days. He has a silver mustache that curls just over his top lip and while most of his speech is mumbled, the words you can make out are pure genius. (He was usually swearing at some type of injustice-from the girl at Dunks putting too much cream in his coffee, or having to drive the late boat on the evening shift, and the early boat the following morning.) Every boat captain has their favorite deckhand I was his. On quieter runs we would have long conversations in the wheelhouse about anything from skydiving to our home lives. Sometimes we would sit in silence overlooking the ocean while he drove the boat.

I have so many stories about Kenny and all our worth telling. This one time, I walked in on him rocking out to (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. (A quintessential Kenny moment in my opinion.) Another time, a rainstorm passed quickly though the harbor and he radioed me and the other deckhand to "look at this fucking rainbow on port side."

After weeks of teaching me how do drive the ferry and showing me how to dock it, he finally gave me the sticks while pulling into home port with a crosswind.

"I can't do this! I'm going to crash the boat!" I argued.

"You wouldn't be the first person to." He said while leaving me to my own devices.

Within a minute or two he's watching me from the bow. Oncoming passengers and a few deckhands are lined up on the dock. I'm moving the jet propulsion into the direction of the wind to compensate for being knocked. I try to zone out how impatient everyone must be with me taking my time.

I get the port side end of the bow completely into the notch before easing in the starboard side. It barely made a tap. I push the sticks full throttle ahead to make sure the boat doesn't go anywhere. One of the deckhands bows down in worship.

When Kenny gets back into the wheelhouse, he smiles.

"Well that was fucking flawless, Kid." he said. He pats me on the shoulder and I head back into the cabin.

It wasn't beginner's luck. I had a great teacher.

47. The New Englander

I am in line at at the Walgreens at 6 Corners when I hear it,

"Yah. It's wicked cold. Wintah for the next evah!" says a cracked voice into an iPhone. He's 3 ahead of me, middle aged, and wearing a tartan scarf, navy overcoat, and Red Sox hat. I wish I knew him outside of observation.

"Yah, the Olympics, right? Proud for Bergy but can't wait for the Broons to staht. Wednesday, right? Yah. Of course I'll watch it or at least stream Gochah if I get stuck in traffic.

I'm here for tissues but I swear I can smell the ocean. I close my eyes to not be in Chicago if only a moment. I've talked hockey with guys like him back east. They love the sass. They don't buy me drinks but flag down the bartender when my Gansett is empty. I remind them of their wives twenty years ago.

When they leave they tip their hats and tell me I hope the right man makes me happy someday.

I swear there is nothing like an New Englander.

46. Abby

"Here's the thing: The animal kingdom loves toughness.
The tough ones survive.
The tough ones become leaders.
The tough ones get the resources.
The dainty fragile ones die off.
I'm done with society telling us we need to be fragile when natural selection says be anything but."

-Abby

She has a fair face but she is all muscle. At 27, she can stomach a half marathon and is training to teach yoga, but her strength is more internal than anything else. You might judge her for the mere fact she cried over the paint colors in her house, but you didn't see the stone look in her eyes as she implored her alcoholic father to attend her wedding.

Half her "friends" will comment on how beautiful she now is, but I loved her as "Abitha T" and  the more hurtful middle school taunt the kids used to yell down the halls. When the nerds are nerds because their homes are broken, they cling like leaves to a breezy tree. We kept one another warm in the coldness fate gave us, and as adults we healed together and thus became the same at heart.

In those days, I loved her like I loved being eleven and trips to get Slurpies. I love her now as a skydive wearing a super hero shirt with me, like long car rides and iced coffee. I love her in the way she flips the mirror to say

"Look Darlin, those parts you think are ugly are quite pretty after all."

When your connection exceeds sisterhood and all the promises you kept as kids.

She is my blessed neutral, my link to sanity. In this crazy world, no one knows me as me, quite like she does.

We will swear while watching hockey. We will swoon over graying men. We will still giggle over jokes that are rounding two decades old. With her, my sensitivity is my strength, my audacity is beautiful, my resilience is golden, and I see the same in her.

45. To the Child I Won't Conceive

(This is a draft of something that I might turn into something else. Tonight, I am feeling sassy so this is what you get.)

I will never feel your feet push inside me, nor will you ever give me kankles.

The concept of changing anyone's diaper is my ninth circle of hell. I mean really, I'm not great with bodily functions that are my own, never mind someone else's. I know love is what makes you want to do such a thing but to me, love is a goodnight's sleep and glass of wine to celebrate anything from finally getting published to putting on pants and getting the mail.

I will never post pictures of your food covered face on social media. I find those to be about as gross as ferrets. Why do people even do that? To all my friends, you're welcome.

You do not tick, like other women say you should. Your lack of existence does not make me feel like less of a woman, or lead me to believe I will always fall short on love. I am not a slave to the need to have you. You are not an, "I have nothing better to do."

 It's not that I couldn't love you. I love you already. I love you as the egg I lay once a month that gets washed away in a crescendo of Hersey's Chocolate with Almonds, cotton based products, and "women's" medication that they swear is different from Advil. I love that you don't exist in the same way that I love zombie movies as movies, and not as a real life thing.

At this point, you are an arbitrary figment of my writer's brain and I hope you stay that way. Why? Because should I decide to become a parent, I want to give a chance to someone who might not have gotten it otherwise. It takes the stress of science, and relieves my hold on fate. It does not tether me to anything that I would rely on someone else to help me create. The lack of you allows me to be free in all the ways I need to be.

44. Barbie Girl

I have had very few social interactions this weekend given that I have been sleeping off a cold much of the past couple of days. With that being said, the next two entries are probably just going to be references to people I've read about, because, why not?

Anyway, so I've spent the past 10 minutes or so doing somewhat research on Blondie Bennett, who's main goal in life is to be Barbie. OK. So she's had dozens of plastic surgeries to make her look like the iconic doll, that are funded by fans through her NSFW Twitter. She is currently undergoing hypnotherapy to lower her IQ. She essentially wants to be a human sex doll.

I don't want to judge her specifically, but I kind of have some social commentary.

1. There are people in this world that are funding this. How many of these people turn blind eye to homeless people panhandling, or say no when asked in the supermarket checkout line to donate a dollar to cancer research? I'd be curious to know. I also think that if you are going to do something like that to yourself you shouldn't reach out and ask people to fund it. That would be like me having a Kickstarter fund every time I wanted to get a new tattoo.

2. The concept of plastic surgery skeeves me out. I know that's easy for me to say right now given that at 26, I consider myself to be decent looking enough. I know I'm trying not to be judgey, but this woman has double J's. 1. Ouch. 2. How do you handle that much boob on you? I think the best parts of a woman are the parts that are supposed to be a little squishy so I don't understand wanting to be all hard plastic.


3. I read in one of these articles that she thinks being a human is boring. What?! I'm not sure if it's me, but I think being human the exact opposite. Life is a beautiful, fucked up thing. I'm not going to go into the psychology of what she does because I'm not educated enough to say so confidently, and if being a human Barbie gives her life meaning than fine, but being human is only as boring as you make it. Life only has the meaning that you give it.

As a tried and true empath, I really want to see where she is coming from outside of the cliche, "She seems really sad." I want it to be more than, "Well Jess, no matter how bad your day gets at least you're not her." I want to think Blondie Bennett is Blondie Bennett and that she always was that. I don't want to think of her as Norma Jean who got sucked into being Marilyn Monroe. I think people deserve better than to change themselves from the outside in in order to be this fucked up image of idolatry. I think the word deserves more out of its idols than mass produced celebrities that are more shock value and less humanity.

I also know writing a blog post about this makes me a huge hypocrite, but I digress.

43. About an Ex, THEE Ex

In one of the breakup lines that I will never quite scratch itself from my memory, I am looking at my ex in my old Toyota Camry when I tell him,

"I don't know who I am anymore."

"You are mine," he says before kissing me, "That's who you are."

We would quasi date the next year and say that we were "working on things" when in reality it would be because we weren't quite ready to let the other one go. A week after my best friend's wedding, he would leave me for a girl he is still happily with, and I would begin the journey that would land me here-a week shy of my 27th birthday, in the city I've always dreamed of living in.

We're rounding 4 years since the initial split and that girl feels like a whole other person. Up until then he had been more of my existence than he probably should have been. We were the same crew and the same places. He was an endless summer, an acoustic song, and a six of Coors Light that I still can't stomach to this day. To me, he was the way to our favorite places and our favorite moments in time. I still love much of what we both enjoyed as a couple.

But I knew there was more to me than a relationship and a suburban domestic life. I couldn't fight the feeling of the brakes being pumped inside my head.

While I'm so happy to be removed from the slow hell that was that breakup, I still thank him for a lot of things. I thank him for the year it took for me to see him as more than just a friend, the three more or less happy years he gave me, and the year afterward where we finally realized how over it really was. I thank him for all the love, patience and sacrifice. I'm grateful he's found someone he can call home that really brings out the best in him. My only regret is that for whatever reason, we can't be friends. While it's a choice on his part that I completely respect, it still bugs me sometimes. Whenever my cat does something ridiculous or the Bruins score, I want to text him. Whenever I'm drunk and hear Warren Zevon, I fight the urge to call him for a sing-a-long.

As long as I've known him, we would always text the other one when it snows. I still feel like I should sometimes.

I'm finding out that while time can do quite a bit to a relationship, it doesn't change a connection. If it's real, whatever it is, it doesn't go away. He's someone where outside comments from friends can't touch and to some degree, he will always be one of my people.

42. Bus Lady

It's just before 7 o'clock in the morning when I hop on the 72 at Humboldt and two ladies are arguing. Considering the time, the bus is remarkably empty, so it's not like they couldn't change seats to remove themselves from the situation. I turn down my head phones just enough to hear the cause.

"Mr. Bus Driver! She's looking at me funny!" screamed one lady.

"Girl, you're out of your mind!" shouted the other one.

The bus driver flicks his hand. He's having none of it.

Neither am I. It's far too early for this. I turn up my headphones to drown out the crazy.

The shouting continues and people start staring. A lady seated across from me smirks. The woman being accused of giving shade gets off and accuser moves to the front to argue with the bus driver. As the bus fills, she stands up as if to give up her seat only to sit down again right before each person is about to sit.

When we approach the Red Line stop, we all begin to line up to exit. The woman, who is still arguing with the bus driver hip-checks another woman out of line in order to get off first.

"Some people are just starved for attention," my mother would have said.

I never understood that. I think it's better to go faceless on a commute than to be the crazy lady on the bus Thursday morning.

41. Wally

I've been going to the same liquor store since I moved in with Alex back in August and I've become enough of a regular where one of the guys that runs it knows me on a first name basis. He's Egyptian and goes by "Wally." He told me his actual name once but it was forever ago.

Over the summer he asked me out but I tried my best to dodge the question. I thought he was over it until I started showing up in the company of guys. When I come in alone or with other women he's incredibly kind, calling me "Sweetie," and asking me how I am.  If I'm with a guy, or in a group when a guy is included, he gets incredibly salty, not looking me in the eyes and barely saying hello.

The next time I show up alone he always asks me if the guy I was with is a boyfriend. While none of them have been, I try to be kind because I know what it's like having a crush on the person in front of the counter.

40. Young Couple on the Train

They're in early high school. I can tell because of the lack of hair on his face and the fact that his lady clears him by at least 5 inches, but he doesn't care. They are sitting next to each other holding hands, sharing a pair of earbuds between the two of them. She's casually glancing around the train as if to check to see people are watching.

He's smiling, glowing even.

He leans in and kisses her shoulder. She smiles slightly on the right half of her face and stares down at her feet. Her cheeks remain pale.

I fiddle around with my phone, immersing myself in my morning Facebook chat ritual with my best friend, congratulating her on her 8 year date anniversary with her husband. The temperature is supposed to break 30 in what seems like eternity. This winter has been cold. This city has more or less been cold, give or take a handful of pleasant moments. I'm willing to bet the people here keep their hearts tucked inside their overcoats, even when they hang them up for the warmer months.

But not this kid. He's exuding this soft morning comfortable like he already knows what it's like to wake up next to someone he really cares about. He reminds me of Neruda's poetry that is less sexy but more tepid. I start to think his girl is less interested until I notice how tight her hand is around his, her lavender veins stand out around her pure white knuckles. He pats her hand with his free one as if to console her. I want to tell him to hold on to that sweetness along as he can because the world is going to try it's best to take it from him. I want to tell his girl that it's OK for her to enjoy being adored.

39. UPS Guy

The UPS guy is always saying he hates Skokie, which is funny because I'd be shocked if I heard anyone say they loved the town. He's surly in the way only old men can be and throws a layer of negative onto anything that's neutral.

He loves giving me sass about all the packages I have going out, but lets me put a sign on the door if I need something picked up. I try to balance out the grey in his voice by being just overly pleasant when he come in.

He's been an acquaintance for 7 months and I don't know his name. I find that funny considering I see him everyday. Maybe I'll ask him tomorrow.

Special Post: A Story From Dad

This doesn't count as one of the 365 posts, but I found this story so endearing I couldn't help but share it.

I want to preface this by saying that my dad was such hardass when I was growing up, to the point where if his voice reaches a certain decibel, a rush of fear still flushes through my body, even if I'm not the one it's directed at. Grand fatherhood has softened him up quiet a bit though. Below is a story he shared with me today.

(For those of you who haven't been following, Emmy is my step mom,  Lisa is my stepsister, and Gia is her daughter, my niece.)

"So because Lisa works Saturday's now, Emmy and I get to spend the whole day with Gia. I'm hanging out in my chair in the living room, watching T.V with her in the crook of my arm and she's making goofy baby faces at me. You know how they do. Anyway so, I'm stretching out the joints in my hand by making a fist, getting the old man blood flowing, and I see Gia make a fist too. She's not even three months yet, so all her movements are sporadic baby movements, but this one was intentional. I make a fist again to see if she'll do it too and she does! She looks at me, and I look at her, and she just starts laughing as if to say, 'Holy crap, Papa did you see me do that?!' It was just a cool thing to watch, seeing the little one suddenly aware that she can make intentional body movements. It was the cutest thing, Jess. I wish you were around to see it."

38. Eddie

We had nearly killed the cheese and crackers by the time music came up. Alex was going on and on about how she loves Lana Del Ray. I made a face.

"Not impressed?" Eddie asked.

"I hate her," I said. "I hate how she copied everything from the 60's except not well and she plays off this forlorn manic pixie dream girl shit."

Alex rolled her eyes. Nedda laughed.

At this point most guys would ask if I'm always this forward, but Eddie is well versed in women so he proceeds with his questions in a disarming way.

"What kind of music do you like?"

"More or less everything," I replied. "But lately I've been on a huge punk rock kick. Against Me, Misfits, Bouncing Souls etc."

"I used to be into punk, but mostly when I was a teenager. I liked the aggression."

"I like the aggression now," I said. "I need it more than ever have. I have a growing fear of becoming suburban."

"No white picket fences for ya?" he asked.

"Not unless they're actually road maps and accepted manuscripts."


***
I listen to these songs over and over again and with each play I realize that the revolution wasn't a lie, it's just internal and not talked about. "Anarchy" is the old "Jesus take the wheel." Just because the ideas take a different manifestation as we age, doesn't mean that they died. 

37. Dot

Here are the things I learned in 5 minutes while on the phone with a customer named Dot:

-Her name is Dorothy, but she hates it. Everyone has always called her Dot.
-She recently lost 53 pounds.
-She lives on a farm in rural Pennsylvania.
-She's a bus driver.
-Bus drivers are part of the teacher's union in PA and as a result she gets to go to their conference every summer.
-So far, she's been to Dallas, Atlanta, and Chicago. This year she's going to Denver.
-She loves traveling. She hopes to go to more places on her own in the future

She called to ask a question about our product.

36. Emmy

To say that the relationship between my stepmother and I was a rocky one would be a grand understatement, but in the wake of my mom's passing and in light of me moving away, things have gotten much better between us. All that being said, despite the turbulence, the one thing we always bonded over was food.

When I was a kid we had this vegetable garden in the back yard that would yield enough tomatoes to sustain our family, and the families of my step mom's siblings for the entire fall season, with much to spare. From this, Emmy would make this amazing sauce. One one such year, I was milling about the kitchen while she was cooking. My dad and siblings weren't home so we were alone, a rare even for her and I. While I finished up what I was doing she pulled a block of Parmesan cheese from the fridge and a bowl from the cabinet. Holding them up as I was about to leave she asked me if I wanted any. I did, and sat down while she sliced the cheese, ladled some sauce in the bowl and passed it over to me. From there we spent the next half hour snacking and talking, mostly about food. With it rounding dinner time she promised she wouldn't tell my dad if I didn't have much of an appetite.

When dinner was ready (pasta with the fresh sauce) I took a smaller serving than normal and when my dad asked why she piped up,

"Oh Jess' stomach was acting up today," while smiling at me.


****

During WWII, Fort Andrews on the now abandoned Peddock's Island, was used to house Italian POWs. Upon their first arrival, the Italians refused to eat the food the Americans cooked.

"They feed this to the pigs in Italy!" they scoffed.

Being that the Americans didn't have anything against the Italians really, they opted to give them their own garden and have them cook for themselves. If anything, they were glad that they didn't have to worry too much about feeding these people.

With Italian and American barracks being close by, the Americans started smelling the food being cooked in the opposing kitchen. A small group of American soldiers went over, leaving their pride in their rooms but bringing their plates and utensils, and asked if there were any leftovers. (Of course they did. They're Italians after all!) From then on, the food supply was shared between the two sides, with the Italians doing most of the cooking.

After the war, may of the Italian prisoners stayed, and moved to the North End of Boston. They still say that you can get the best Italian food outside if Italy there.

Nothing unifies quite like food.

35. Jim

I'm talking with a customer about how overrated we both think Jay Cuttler is though I hardly watch football. He gets into the Bears' line of defense where I admit I'm not to well educated on the team outside of the quarterback. I'm bracing myself for a "female sports fan" comment.

"What's your game?" he asks.

"Hockey." I reply.

"How do you feel about the Blackhawks?"

"I try to avoid them. I'm from New England. It wouldn't hurt so much if I wasn't reminded every time I wear my gear."

"I'll spare you the heckling. Your boys look solid this year."

"Damn right they do, helps that half the team isn't injured anymore."

We continue the conversation. He originally called to place a complaint.

"Well, Jessica" he said, "I get the feeling that most men would be intimidated by your sports knowledge."

"I would hope that's not all it takes for me to intimidate someone. That'd be far too easy." I reply.

"Touche!"

Touche indeed, sir.

34. Alex

Alex binged last weekend in a way she promised herself she wouldn't do, but after the dust settled she awoke with a sense of unprecedented clarity.

I'm dancing around our kitchen listening to her hip hop mix and making coffee. My heel-toe movements extend up past my knees and I feel the curve of my otherwise thin body. Our home has been a portrait of womanhood- the good and the bad parts.

"I think I need to break up with Pat." she says to me looking up from her laptop and taking a sip of her water.

I stir my sugar in.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I never see him. He makes no effort to see me, and we don't have sex anymore. It's like, what's the point. I could keep him as a friend and then maybe land someone that makes me feel wanted you know?"

They haven't been together that long and while I'm all for giving a dude a shot, I've noticed a theme in my later twenties, especially with women. Gone are the days where we are willing to accept whatever is given because it's better than nothing. Why? Because it's not better than nothing. Not saying that you shouldn't give time to a situation to see how it pans out but to quote my best friend, "If it makes you miserable, it's not worth it, no matter what it is."

I take a sip of my coffee and walk back to the small couch where she's seated. I curl up and grab a the blanket that rests neatly on its top.

"Is it making you miserable?"

She looks at me. "Yeah, it's making me really miserable."

"Well then, you know what to do kid."

And that's what confidence is. It's walking away from something that makes you consistently unhappy trusting that something better is on the other side somewhere. It's also a exercise complex- not being afraid to try something just because the task seems daunting at first.

33. Cora

Cora is the niece of a now ex boyfriend. At the height of our relationship she was four and I often spent my weekends babysitting her, a task in which I actually enjoyed doing. We'd color on newsprint, and play with her dolls. She'd cook me dinner with her plastic food set. She once looked up at me with all that sweetness and innocence of a little kid and told me I was the loveliest person she's ever met. I responded by saying she was the coolest.

She still is, even four years later.

On some adventures, I would strap her in her car seat and take her on errands. She was content to hang out in the back and talk to me on everything, her stories on repeat and references slightly slurred. Every now and then, she would become suddenly aware of her limited movement and panic.

"JASS! I'M GUCK! HELP JASS I'M GUCK!" She'd scream.

("Guck" meaning "stuck" and "Jass" meaning "Jess.")

I'd look at her in the rear view mirror and say,

"Cora, you are not guck. You are buckled in, like I am!"

"But I don't want to be guck like you. I want to be free."

Upon our return to the house, it started to rain. She looked up at me asking if we would be guck inside.

"No, Sweets." I said. Putting on her rain boots and coat, she started jumping up and down with excitement as I told her that we were going outside.

We splashed in the forming puddles for about a half hour.

Cold fingers and dirty clothes- a small price for freedom, of any kind.

Update: Note From the Writer

Holy crap it's been just over a month since I started this little literary shindig and a lot has happened, not just outside of, but because of this blog.

What's changed? Well for starters, it's gotten me in the physical habit of writing everyday to the point where if I run out of steam and don't make a post one day I actually feel bad about it. (Though I can assure you that just because I don't post here doesn't mean I haven't written.)

I also figured out that this is sort of like Humans of New York. My apologies Brandon, I didn't mean to steal your idea though it has kept me inspired. For any reader who hasn't checked out his work, you should immediately. It's absolutely brilliant.

This blog has also made me more observant of the world around me. I've taken to leaving my I Pod at home some days just so I can hear the sounds of my city. A college professor once told me,

"Don't tell, show. What does the temperature feel like? What does the air smell like? How dense is it? What are you hearing or seeing? What are you physically feeling? What do the 5 senses make you emotionally feel like? This is your experience. Give your readers that!"

You can't really appeal to the senses if you're not actively experiencing them are you?

I had a conversation with a good friend of mine who recently lost a parent, something I've touched upon in this blog so far, I was coaching her through her grief maintenance and she asked me,

"I just don't understand how important my situation is where some people have it better or worse. How can I justify my feelings when other people have feelings to?"

The way we justify how we feel about navigating this crazy world is by understanding that what you feel may not be unique, it is unique to you, and the fact that people have varying degrees of anything is humanity. It's the way we connect-by trying to find a link between our ego and our empathy with another person.

Here's to 333 more stories. You ready?

32. Mum

I knew I was a Pisces before I could count. It's the 12th sign in the zodiac, represented by two fish swimming in opposite directions. People born under this sign are creative, alluring, dreamy, and spontaneous. They make great writers and artists, and due to their strong sense of empathy, make ideal lovers, parents, and best friends. I knew all this shortly after I was able to string together whole sentences. This was of course, due to my mother.

She used to have this big astrology book with gilded pages that started to fade after the years. She had three signs bookmarked- hers, (Gemini) my dad's, (Cancer-Leo cusp) and Pisces (mine and my brother's.) She would reference it regularly and laugh when anyone did something true to their sign, which was often enough I guess for her to see a pattern.

She would watch the stars with this deep seeded passion, her big brown eyes looking larger in the night. Instead of telling her children to stop and smell the roses, she'd tell us to take a deep breath and look at the sky. She studied old religions on her own accord and was into ruins. My mother was so incredibly old world sometimes I swear she was dusted off from a story passed down through generations and made into human form. She was olive green dresses, golden jewelry with turquoise centers, the smell of suntan oil, and Frank Sinatra on vinyl. She always sounded as though her voice were recorded on record, dark and raspy like bourbon but with cracks in all the right places. I am yet to meet someone like her and I doubt I ever will.

In my later years when we lived a country apart, she would call me and let me know what the planets are doing or give me tips on my social life.

"The sun's in Scorpio. Have you dated a Scorpio yet? You should, they're a lot of fun.'"

"Tell Abby to stop letting her Virgo brain make her anxious."

"Brace yourself Lulu,"her pet name for me, "Mercury is in retrograde."

When Mercury looks like it's moving backwards in the sky, but it's actually just slowing down its movement, it's called "Mercury Retrograde." According to to astrology it makes everything difficult- communication, travel, technology, you name it. Everything becomes a challenge. This planetary phenomenon happens three to four times a year, and while I'm not sure if I believe it in the astrological sense, my mom used to say that with the moon having control over the ocean, it isn't a stretch to think that the planets could do the same to our internal energies.

"You're made of stardust, "she'd say, "You are as much of the universe as it is you."

I loved how she'd talk science. In her own poetic way she could combine the physical and emotional almost effortlessly. My dad sometimes says she was one of the more illogical human beings he's ever known but I think there is some validity to the way she used the stars to guide her, in a similar way that those who are lost do. My dad is perpetually ruled by plans and maps, my mom by wish and whimsy. Her favorite words were "serendipity " and "enchantment."

"You cannot enjoy life by just rules and numbers," she'd say. "Be open to serendipity and enchantment. There is something lovely lurking in the darkest places. There is something to exciting in the unknown."

Even with Mercury in retrograde, a time where astrologers believe everything is going crazy.

"It happens so frequently because humans think they are invincible. It's there to remind us that there are greater things than us, and to take a step back and be patient."

I reckon that many people would have found her to be crazy and her celestial insights to be silly. People would have found it absurd the number of angel figurines she had in her house or that at fifty years old she still sported a belly button ring with a cross charm hanging from it.

I had a colleague say that she would have found it to be annoying hearing about every time the planets did something funny, but I don't think so at all.

I know it's cliche to say that I wouldn't have traded her for anything, but the truth is she was about as unique as the stars she used to plot. Her aura was a vibrant array of ever changing colors, as though by talking to her you were looking through a kaleidoscope. When she died, that light imploded in on itself, scattering far and wide to moments in the future that I've been finding sporadically in the wake of her absence. Her being is laced in the falling snow and the glow of my eyes. Her blessing is in every pleasant surprise, and her soothing words still console every set back, even if I have to call them up by memory. Most importantly, I'm reminded that if I need to bring myself back to present, to take a deep breath and look up at the sky.

31. Porter

Porter is the patron saint of bad choices. We met on the floor of a party playing Jenga. He was passing around his handle of Jameson,  making everyone take a sip.

He is one more shot that becomes three or four.
He tells you that you have more money than you actually do.
When you wake up from a night of his fuckery, you don't remember who you were before and sure as hell don't know who you are at that moment.

The hangover gets quelled with brunch as you try to piece together the missing parts of the evening.

He can never get enough of it, but doesn't believe you've had your fill the moment you made the choice to hang out with him.

At the same time, if you're ever too much for yourself and you need a night like the ones they make in movies, you know who to call.

You might not be the same after a tryst with his song and dance, but you always somehow make it home.

30. Chris Kelly

There are maybe 10 die hard Chris Kelly fans, if that. I'm not saying that to sound like a hipster, or maybe I am.

"I liked Chris Kelly before he scored goals!"- Something I actually said seriously.

I was a Bruins fan long before the team acquired him before the trade deadline in 2011, but there was something about him where from the moment he got signed, I couldn't help but think, "This'll be good."

And it has been, least for 10 of us.

Not every player is going to be a Patrice Bergeron, or a Sidney Crosby, or a Jonathan Toews. It'd be nice, sure, and it's easy to like those players because they play with integrity and they score goals, but hockey is not JUST about raking in points. You need players that are going to set up plays, and forwards that are comfortable acting as defense on the penalty. You need goalies that can see around the bodies and right through to the puck. A team without variety in terms of position and skill would look just like the all star teams and no one would take it seriously.

What I've always like about Chris Kelly, is that the moment he touched the ice in black and gold, you could see in his playing that he gives 100%, every single game. Sometimes that means scoring a goal, sometimes it means setting them up, other times it means killing a penalty. He's a third line center. He knows his role, and for what he is, he plays it incredibly well. Various sports news sources have called him one of the most underrated players in the NHL. Many Bruins fans will disagree. When you compare him to Malkin yeah, he's going to fall a little short, but Malkin and Kelly aren't on ice to do the same thing. That's like being mad at a lawyer for his inability to diagnose cancer.

I know that's a stretch, but seriously, when you judge him for what he's supposed to do, Chris Kelly is pretty fricken incredible.

So why a post about him? Well, I have his jersey and to me he's about as important as my favorite band, or the sushi chef at my local takeout place. I've been rooting for this guy for three years. I can't help it. I love a good underdog.

29. Mr. Smith

Mr. Smith was a hustler, and no one was really set on how he kept his money. He would call up the private jet brokerage I used to work at, trying to get a deal. For whatever reason, when he called he always got me. After a month of his fuckery, we were on a first name basis.

I'd answer the call, "Thank you for calling_____ this is Jessica. How may I assist you today?"

He'd answer in a long, slow, southern drawl, "Jessica. Like the Allman Brothers'sooong?"

Without fail. Every single time.

He was a bit skeezy, always asking me what I was wearing, telling me I should move down south, admitting he had a couple cocktails. His daughters were my age. His second wife was about 20 years younger than him. While I didn't condone his advances, he was a character and I appreciated that.

When my colleagues and I Googled him just for the hell of it, we found out some interesting stuff. He was a practicing lawyer down south in the 70's and got his licence revoked when he was caught smuggling 2 tons of cocaine into the US. He appealed and made such a mess of the case, that the federal court said he was making a mockery of the judicial system and they disbarred him for life.

It's funny. To this day when people ask me my name, sometimes, usually the older folk will say, "Oh, like the Allman Brothers' song?" It always makes me think of him.

28. Sylvia

Nedda, Alex and I attend this free yoga session on Saturdays in the gallery area of a nearby coffee shop.

Our instructor's name is Sylvia. Yoga is her passion, to the point where she works a bunch of little jobs just so she can afford to do it, and to offer the free class on Saturdays, which we attend out of convenience and less for price. Alex and Nedda attend her other classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays too to help support the cause.

A lot of the reason why I go is Sylvia. Yoga is yoga. If you stretch yourself in the right way and try to make yourself as mentally present as possible, you leave the class with this workout high and a new level of clarity. I swear it's the best way to curb anxiety. What makes Sylvia so great though is the fact that her presence is just warm. She has the demeanor of a kindergarten teacher. She's firm in her practice and expects you to push yourself just a little each class, but she's incredibly sincere and welcoming.

She also gives hugs. I have no idea why this is a big deal to me, but anyone who contributes to my peace of mind that much deserves a hug and the best karmic reward possible, tailored specifically to their own person.

Sylvia is like a big sister. During class last week she adjusted my spine placement while I was doing down dog. After class we briefly chatted and she said,

"Girl, I don't know what's causing you all that stress but you can feel it all up your spine. Just let go. Let go!"

Let go.

You got it, Sylvia.

27. Median

I went on a walk in the park across the street from my house, just to get outside. I needed to feel the crisp cold of the air bite the back of my lungs for a while. When crossing back, I saw a woman carrying a small child across the median strip in the road. The baby had on not much more than a blanket.

We all recognize those kids need coats but instead of helping we say nothing. We fear being too assertive to assist those in need.

You're on this planet aren't you? Of course it's your place to say.

26. To Bruce, About "The Rising"

I know this blog is supposed to be about people you encounter everyday, but I feel for this post specifically, it's important to recognize that the people that affect you can be the authors of your favorite books, or the singers of your favorite songs. This one is for Bruce Springsteen. (Cheesy, I know-I promise, it gets better.)

Bruce,

The first time I heard your music, I was a little kid. My dad was working on his car in the garage and he was screaming, "Born to Run" at the top of his lungs. He would later tell me that he saw you play at a bar in Kenmore Square in the seventies and has since been a fan. This story isn't about him though.

I met Bill Bryan the summer of 2007. He was a park ranger on Georges Island in Boston Harbor along with my then boyfriend, Jerry. I worked on the ferry boats, and being a surly man about 10 years my senior, he liked giving me extra sass because I was his friend's girlfriend. While I don't remember the exact moment Bill and I met, I do remember how we became friends.

That summer, I was invited to stay after hours one night. I loved that island. I still do. It reminds me of some of the best days of my life, to-date anyway. Bill had his IPod playing, when your song, "The Rising" came on. I heard the song several times since its release and I loved how exalting it was. I guess Bill did too because we both started singing it immediately when your voice kicked in. We stopped whatever we were doing to look at each other, mildly shocked at hearing the other's voice. With a mutual, "I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG," we became friends. That's all it took.

In the years that followed, Jerry and I would break up but Bill and I would remain friends. Whenever one of us had a bad day, we would send the other a link on YouTube of you singing that song, to remind us to be strong like the firefighters you were singing about. I know very few people will go though anything close to what they did, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that if a human just like myself can climb up an indefinite amount of stairs, knowing they're going to die in hopes of saving someone else, than we can handle law school applications, or the illness of a parent, or burning the third consecutive batch of cookies.

Sometimes one of would hear the song on the radio and immediately call the other one just to say,

"I heard our song. Love you."

He died last year, suddenly, exploring one of the abandoned forts on the Boston Harbor Islands that he loved so much. He was 36.

You know after he died, I couldn't hear your song. It hurt too much. I couldn't listen to anything. The white noise of Boston was hard enough to get through. I would mumble at people under my breath simply because they were smiling. While he would have loved that, being the snarky bastard that he was, I know that's no way to be.

Three months after, I played your song on my own IPod. My goal was to get through the whole thing, even if I cried, just to prove to myself that I could. The weird thing was, I got through it no problem. I didn't even cry. In fact, I laughed. I laughed because I had so many memories tied to that song. Every time Bill and I were together you bet "The Rising" was played at least twice- once for sort of sober and the other for definitely drunk. We would dress up in Civil War costumes and slur the words, drinking Naragansett beer out of tin mugs. We would scream it at the top of our lungs on those harbor islands because we knew few people could hear us, and listen to those words, your words, echo back to us from the ocean. Sometimes, when we lived in different states, Bill would call me and put the phone on speaker just so we could both listen to that song together. We closed those calls with an, "I love you," like we always did when we parted ways, even through technology.

I write this because typically there aren't open letters that say good things, and I know you probably have better things to do other than read a story of sorts from some silly twenty-something living in northwest Chicago, but I feel like you or someone, anyone, really should hear this. As someone who's passion it is to connect people through words, I understand you never really can fathom the magnitude of what happens once that song gets recorded, that painting gets finished, or that story gets edited.  It goes where it goes and you just hope it hits someone somewhere and it sticks.

I know that was far from your intention when you wrote that song, but you gave Bill and I our initial connection and in turn a whole bunch of memories. In the wake of his death, you gave me three minutes and several seconds of an unparalleled comfort that I am yet to find anywhere else.  Every time I hear, "The Rising," I am hurt by the loss of my friend and healed by the fact that he existed, sometimes to the point where it still feels like he's still around.

Whenever I hear your song, Bill's song, it's almost like something deep inside myself be it my link to the universe or a longing of a friend, gives me the strength to keep moving despite the obstacles. It keeps me smiling in the face of a challenge no matter how big or how small it may be. For that, Bruce, Mr. Springsteen, The Boss- I am incredibly grateful. Thank you.

-Jess Krista Merighi.

25.Evening Bus Driver #1

I take the same 5:35 bus to the train every day from work, and every day I get the same bus driver. I'm the only one that gets on at the stop, about a quarter mile away from my work. He pulls up with a smile, and always lowers the side for me.

I great him with a cheerful "Thank you!" before beeping my pass and heading to the back.

When we get to the train station I thank him again as I step down to the sidewalk.

Maybe I say thank you too much, but really, this commute would not be possible in the winter without this bus and it's the fact that he's always smiling makes it that much more enjoyable.

Last Friday when I got on, he lowers the side and says,

"There she is! My highlight of the day!"

There he is. The highlight of mine-transportation wise, anyway.

24. Nedda

Nedda drips with the elegance of velvet and gold. She walks with a lightness as though she's always dancing. She's Darjeeling tea.  She is a full faux mink coat because loves animals in the way that they exist, but doesn't prefer to be around any.

Champagne taste with a beer budget. We split peanut butter and jelly empinadas at this vegetarian cyclist bar on North. She talks about her ex husband and his shenanigans with a dust movement off her shoulder and a roll of her sparkling eyes.

"Boys," she says. "The world needs more men."

"I'll drink to that." I say lifting my luke cold PBR tall boy- this evening's special.

It's drizzling outside with an impending Chicago fog. We walked there without umbrellas. My face is still wet.

Her presence humbles me. Her lasais faire attitude is calming.

She will walk around her house naked while I'm at the kitchen table, speaking of her modeling while I drink rose tea. She will talk of our dire need to both get out of this town.

"You have so much heart," she says, "Good heart. You need to be in a place that needs it."

You need to live like in a way that you don't feel the road goes on forever. It's either a horizon or a cliff right off the earth and you don't know which it is-but you keep walking. If you do this long often enough you will have survived both a thousand times over. The peace from overcoming will be the greatest gift.

23. Brandon

Brandon was my first kiss. I was 13 and it was under this bridge in the north part the town I grew up in. He was somewhat higher than me on the social ladder, smoked cigarettes, weed, and had a penchant for things I considered absurd at the time but would later realize he was just a typical boy in his early teens.

I didn't want to at first, though I feel like I should have. I remember the sensation of it being like someone put a worm in my mouth and wouldn't let me spit it out. I went along with it because all the elders were saying,

"You never forget your first kiss!' with a twinkle in their eye.

I guess you could say they were right, but when I write this I feel far from sparkly. I was a right of passage if anything.

Brandon and I ended up dating, and within a couple weeks broke up because I was a "prude" for not sleeping with him. He told the kids at school and some of them started calling me a lesbian as I walked down the hallway.

I do things on my own time and I stand by my convictions. For my family members, the twinkle in their eye could have been their start of a fairy tale for me where I would come home feeling pretty and light, as if I were waking around on a cloud.

But for me, it was the day I learned to trust myself. I think I got the better end of that deal.