How many times has someone asked you what your favorite movie was? And how many times did you just tell them the first movie that came to your mind? Every time for me. I have never been all about movies. I love watching them, and I love the messages they give and the way they can make you feel a certain way, but I have never felt like I had an answer when someone has asked me that question until now. Garden State, over and over again and again Garden State. gah
I have seen this movie a handful of times, and the reason I feel so strongly towards it right now is most likely because I can relate so wildly to it in my current life situations. The recent past, the present, and whatever the fuck is in the future.
I mean, the soundtrack. MY GOSH. woah.
(Insert huge chunk right here about me being all emotional and out of control and being medicated and unmedicated and confused and crying and not crying and then breaking the record...) bleep blop bop.
So let go, let go, what are you waiting for? It's all right.
Natalie Portman, ugh.
My lease is almost up at 617. The house that we reclaimed and made our home.
617. creaky floorboards. essential oil soaked walls. poochie pitter patters. mice. 8 million legged creepy scary bugs. Amazon Women. wine. coffee. a hammock. porch. emma. zoe. parenthood. cpm fuckboys. zipps. white comforters. stained white comforters. college. tequila. wine. class. skipping class. hangovers. cries. kisses. naps. minneapolis. time warp dining room table. the fort. pregnancy. ice cream. candles. poochie turds. love lost. love found. wine. netflix netflix netflix. late nights. taco bell. temptation drawer. tinder. coffee. tea. salt. broken windows. total wine. red. white. snacks. pasta. sunday smokes. stoop. city inspections. tea. garage. filth. heartbreak. family. bessie. night. upstairs bathroom dungeon. first dates. humidity. hot. wine. basmati rice. sober fish. credit cards. ranch. chicken. sriracha. Independence. kind of. thanks mom and dad. comfort. safety. handshakes. hugs. laughter. goodbyes. . . . .
If 617 could talk.
The stories it could tell.
The emotions it could express.
Words it could create that I will never be able to.
If 617 could talk, it would tell you the story of girls, a dog, and the year that changed them. It would tell you about the hours spent worrying over guys and not that exam in the morning. It would recant the number of bottles of wine dranken in bed, the porch, or the dining room table. It would tell you about that one time Emma started a stove fire and stood there and stared at it, and the countless times Hannah left the oven on. It would tell you how hard Natalie worked while she was pregnant and that her other room mates weren’t doing half of what she did and still does. It would read you some of the poems Zo wrote while she hermitted herself in her bedroom. It would tell you about the friendship between Grace and Allie. It would paint a picture of what coming home from the bar looked like, and it would laugh when it told you how many times Hannah forgot her keys. And then it would tell you about that one time she broke a window. It would reveal secrets that otherwise would never escape its walls.
617, a building holding a home for women scared shitless of their futures, pushing them gently into the infinite abyss.
I hope that the next tenants of 617 make it their own, because it was not meant to be just a house. There is no such place as an ending, just a place where you leave the story.
So…to that weird yellow house on campus…yes the one with the cool stainless window...thanks for the mems. you rock, don’t ever change.
Come in, she said I'll give ya shelter from the storm.