Play & Book Excerpts
The Music Was Just Getting Good
(Andrews McMeel Publishing)
© Alicia Cook
Track Four
I am not short and sweet.
I am a long mess of rambling knots; enough of
an enigma to entice a closer look, pretty enough
to convince you I am worth unraveling. You’ll try
to undo my tangles until your hands are
scraped raw. Then you’ll give up because you
have nothing left. You will realize I’m actually
made of bramble and barbed wire and not
worth the scratches.
Listen to me.
I am not the clearing in the forest. I am the
havoc and brush that keeps you lost. I am not
clear water.
I am zero visibility, and you will drown.
Currently listening to:
“You Know I’m No Good” by Amy Winehouse
I am a long mess of rambling knots; enough of
an enigma to entice a closer look, pretty enough
to convince you I am worth unraveling. You’ll try
to undo my tangles until your hands are
scraped raw. Then you’ll give up because you
have nothing left. You will realize I’m actually
made of bramble and barbed wire and not
worth the scratches.
Listen to me.
I am not the clearing in the forest. I am the
havoc and brush that keeps you lost. I am not
clear water.
I am zero visibility, and you will drown.
Currently listening to:
“You Know I’m No Good” by Amy Winehouse
Track Five
In the blinks between
what was and what is
there is a room.
Those who have died
take a ticket, a seat, and wait.
They flip through photo albums filled with the
grins of everyone they ever loved.
They sip their favorite beverage and snack their
favorite snack.
(All complimentary, of course.)
Parting messages from the living blare over the
intercom and their most beloved memories play
on a loop across the screens suspended above their head.
(Projected on 35mm film, no matter the decade.)
When they glimpse out the window,
it’s their preferred time of year.
Then, their name is called—pronounced
correctly.
In the waiting room to the afterlife
deserving souls are given peace.
The last thing they see isn’t unfamiliar or
jarring—not the face of hate or a shattered
windshield.
The last thing they feel isn’t fright or pain—not
the grip of disease or strange and unusual
hands.
You see
in the waiting room to the afterlife,
deserving souls never die confused.
No matter how brutal, sudden, lonely, or boring.
To them, it’s always just like falling asleep.
Currently listening to:
"Wildflowers” by Tom Petty
what was and what is
there is a room.
Those who have died
take a ticket, a seat, and wait.
They flip through photo albums filled with the
grins of everyone they ever loved.
They sip their favorite beverage and snack their
favorite snack.
(All complimentary, of course.)
Parting messages from the living blare over the
intercom and their most beloved memories play
on a loop across the screens suspended above their head.
(Projected on 35mm film, no matter the decade.)
When they glimpse out the window,
it’s their preferred time of year.
Then, their name is called—pronounced
correctly.
In the waiting room to the afterlife
deserving souls are given peace.
The last thing they see isn’t unfamiliar or
jarring—not the face of hate or a shattered
windshield.
The last thing they feel isn’t fright or pain—not
the grip of disease or strange and unusual
hands.
You see
in the waiting room to the afterlife,
deserving souls never die confused.
No matter how brutal, sudden, lonely, or boring.
To them, it’s always just like falling asleep.
Currently listening to:
"Wildflowers” by Tom Petty
Track Thirty-Eight
The basement door isn’t the only thing in this
house that has become unhinged.
I’m fine, until the next time. I spill water, and I
cry. I watch a commercial, and I cry. An
unexpected meeting gets added to my calendar,
and I cry. I remember you’re going to die one
day, and I cry. My inner turmoil is starting to
leak all over the place, and I am just too tired to
clean it up. Does turmoil leave behind an inky
stain? I hope not, I like our floors. Did I step into
the chaos or am I chaotic? I’ve always been too
close to myself to tell.
I reach compromises between myself and my
brain, daily. To avoid throwing dishes against
the wall, I decided I was just going to throw
away all the mason jar lids. To avoid packing
my bags, I just donated most of the clothes
hanging in my closet.
You find these concessions peculiar because
you have no way to know what almost
happened instead. You don’t know how bad it
could have gotten.
Just the other day you laughed and
nonchalantly said, “Hey, remember when you
threw out all the mason jar lids?”
How can I forget? It was never about the mason
jar lids.
Currently listening to:
“Gasoline” by HAIM
house that has become unhinged.
I’m fine, until the next time. I spill water, and I
cry. I watch a commercial, and I cry. An
unexpected meeting gets added to my calendar,
and I cry. I remember you’re going to die one
day, and I cry. My inner turmoil is starting to
leak all over the place, and I am just too tired to
clean it up. Does turmoil leave behind an inky
stain? I hope not, I like our floors. Did I step into
the chaos or am I chaotic? I’ve always been too
close to myself to tell.
I reach compromises between myself and my
brain, daily. To avoid throwing dishes against
the wall, I decided I was just going to throw
away all the mason jar lids. To avoid packing
my bags, I just donated most of the clothes
hanging in my closet.
You find these concessions peculiar because
you have no way to know what almost
happened instead. You don’t know how bad it
could have gotten.
Just the other day you laughed and
nonchalantly said, “Hey, remember when you
threw out all the mason jar lids?”
How can I forget? It was never about the mason
jar lids.
Currently listening to:
“Gasoline” by HAIM
Track Fifty-Two
My fight or flight responses have always been
the same: just stay busy. Busy was my safety
net. My go-to answer to all the questions I
wanted to dodge. (How are you? I’m busy!) I’ve
always been a master of outrunning the things I
didn’t want to face. I am the Queen of
Postponement. My manic pace was often
misinterpreted and praised as exceptional drive,
but it was nothing but a false remedy—a coping
mechanism that kept the memories and muck
from resurfacing.
Then. The world stopped spinning for a
collection of time. No one was around to kill the
dandelions. Suddenly, they were sprouting
everywhere. Suddenly, we were admiring their
colors. Suddenly, they weren’t weeds, they were
flowers.
Turns out that I’m okay with being with myself
even when I’m not busy, and now the only thing
that haunts me is wondering how long this has
been the case.
How long have I been running from nothing?
How long ago could I have slowed down?
Currently listening to:
“rest in peace” by BLÜ EYES
the same: just stay busy. Busy was my safety
net. My go-to answer to all the questions I
wanted to dodge. (How are you? I’m busy!) I’ve
always been a master of outrunning the things I
didn’t want to face. I am the Queen of
Postponement. My manic pace was often
misinterpreted and praised as exceptional drive,
but it was nothing but a false remedy—a coping
mechanism that kept the memories and muck
from resurfacing.
Then. The world stopped spinning for a
collection of time. No one was around to kill the
dandelions. Suddenly, they were sprouting
everywhere. Suddenly, we were admiring their
colors. Suddenly, they weren’t weeds, they were
flowers.
Turns out that I’m okay with being with myself
even when I’m not busy, and now the only thing
that haunts me is wondering how long this has
been the case.
How long have I been running from nothing?
How long ago could I have slowed down?
Currently listening to:
“rest in peace” by BLÜ EYES
Track Eighty
It’s October all over again
and somewhere in this town
a young heart is being let down
for the first time in a parking lot.
I’m not sure a picture of us exists anymore,
and the older I get
the more that becomes my biggest regret.
Through all the prose and rabbit holes
I used to pray we’d catch red lights when you’d
take me home.
Now I dodge pigeons on my run
and I haven’t drank in almost sixty months
but I remember when we warmed
wine on the stove
and the candle glow.
Our old radio station is just static now.
It’s just so tragic how
I no longer know how
you spend your days
but I still think of you when a
Jack White song plays.
I didn’t know who I was back then.
Back when I used to lean on NyQuil
because I couldn’t lean on you.
Back when I spent my birthday wishes
wishing you’d grow up too.
Back when I pretended to not know about
the other women.
Back when Peter Pan told me he’d never
grow up, but I didn’t listen.
Back when I knew you were leaving for the last
time, I paid close attention to your exit--
like I do the final colors of autumn
when I don’t want it to go, but must let it.
Currently listening to:
“The Same Boy You’ve Always Known” by The White Stripes
and somewhere in this town
a young heart is being let down
for the first time in a parking lot.
I’m not sure a picture of us exists anymore,
and the older I get
the more that becomes my biggest regret.
Through all the prose and rabbit holes
I used to pray we’d catch red lights when you’d
take me home.
Now I dodge pigeons on my run
and I haven’t drank in almost sixty months
but I remember when we warmed
wine on the stove
and the candle glow.
Our old radio station is just static now.
It’s just so tragic how
I no longer know how
you spend your days
but I still think of you when a
Jack White song plays.
I didn’t know who I was back then.
Back when I used to lean on NyQuil
because I couldn’t lean on you.
Back when I spent my birthday wishes
wishing you’d grow up too.
Back when I pretended to not know about
the other women.
Back when Peter Pan told me he’d never
grow up, but I didn’t listen.
Back when I knew you were leaving for the last
time, I paid close attention to your exit--
like I do the final colors of autumn
when I don’t want it to go, but must let it.
Currently listening to:
“The Same Boy You’ve Always Known” by The White Stripes
Track Ninety-Two
How dare you, Time,
for running out
when we weren’t looking.
In the middle of a smile--
in the midst of a sigh.
How dare you, Time,
for continuing on forever
but not letting us do the same.
We were so happy here, all together--
the music was just getting good.
No matter our grief,
we must thank you, Time,
for gifting us what you were able.
We know--
there will never be enough
of you to go around.
Currently listening to:
“Carousel” by Miranda Lambert
for running out
when we weren’t looking.
In the middle of a smile--
in the midst of a sigh.
How dare you, Time,
for continuing on forever
but not letting us do the same.
We were so happy here, all together--
the music was just getting good.
No matter our grief,
we must thank you, Time,
for gifting us what you were able.
We know--
there will never be enough
of you to go around.
Currently listening to:
“Carousel” by Miranda Lambert
|
Alicia Cook is a New Jersey-based, multi-award-winning writer and mental health and addiction awareness advocate based in Newark, New Jersey. Her writing often focuses on addiction, mental health, and grief – sometimes all at once. She is the poet behind Stuff I've Been Feeling Lately, I Hope My Voice Doesn't Skip, Sorry I Haven't Texted You Back, and The Music Was Just Getting Good. Her work has been published in a number of anthologies as well as in The New York Times.
Cook's advocacy began years ago following the fatal overdose of her 19-year-old cousin. Through her writing, she started shedding light on how drug addiction impacts the mental health of families. An essayist and speaker, her activism to fight the opioid epidemic is far-reaching and has garnered a worldwide readership. She has her own episode on the Emmy-nominated American PBS series Here’s the Story. She has since broadened the scope of her work to include other sensitive topics impacting our lives today. |
Photo Credit: John Romano
Alicia was a guest on:
Sanctuary's Coffee & Conversation Show |
