some things you might like.

Last week in St. Louis we met some new friends.  That's what you call fellow bands and venues these days to keep from seeming too anal and/or professional about the work that you're doing as a modern musician.  Also, some of them really were our friends previous to the trip, and some were after.  

I would like to recognize this band particularly, because I thought they were nice and they're music was cool.  So were their skinny jeans and hairstyles: Pet Lions.  They also had good teeth and are from Chicago.

I want to tell you about another fine lady and her band, Caitlin and the South Paws, but I don't have any web address for them right now.  They are so, so new.  So maybe it's important for you to just remember the name and occasional search for it to see if you can find it.  It'll be like a game.  And if you forget, I'm always right here for you to ask.  Or just re-read this post.

Other things happening with mallory graham and her invisible friends?  We got a new drummer.  His name is Brock and he's better looking than most of us and fits in like a worm in dirt.  He doesn't really look like a worm, though, and we also like that about him.

The only other thing you should probably know is that my dog got very, very fat while I was away and I must now leave this post to go and walk her for the millionth time so she can eventually fit in the door again.

Trading My Freedom for Cigarettes...

...to quote myself.  Yeah, I went there.  Or, in this specific case, trading my freedom for song lyrics.


Whether it's the curse of the artist or the narcissism of the person-- I'm not sure, yet.  But I've caught myself in a constant state of trade-- taking life's hand crafted moments, and prodding them right then into lyrical form.  Maybe that seems like a good, natural thing for a songwriter.  Maybe it is.  But, frankly, I feel cheap.  Like I'm sticking my finger on the top of an it-took-me-all-day-to-make-this homemade cake before anyone had the chance to finish singing happy birthday.  Like lighting the post cigarette during the orgasm.  I'm digesting the moments before I've had a chance to live the moments.  It seems unfair to life's few finest.  It seems unfair to me.  And to anyone who listens to me.


Okay, a for-instance:  I spent the better part of my 40 hour work week nannying three very charming, well behaved kids.  Not a bad gig by any stretch, but seeing as I am not accustomed to the consistent presence of children (10 hours stretches), there was an afternoon where I was feeling a little overwhelmed.  So, while we spent a couple hours swimming, I took that necessary moment, headed to the deep end, and plunged myself to the bottom for a minute of quiet.*  It's a weird place, being underwater.  Quiet.  Timeless.  Bright.  Comfortable.  And I had this thought-- what if this is what happens after death?  Except with breathing?


And in this 15 seconds of seamless serenity, I picked it apart.  Floating underwater in the deep end of a pool in Nashville, where I had for-- just a second-- touched eternity and fearlessness, I rattled my brain with, "Now if I just replace 'death' with 'in love,' this could be a real punch of a line..."


And then, in the process of trying to craft this song, I forgot that,
1.) I was enjoying a moment of thought and peace;
2.) Not everything has to be a scheme for songs, and;
3.) I was still underwater and therefore still not breathing.


And now, to throw a little meta into it, when I discovered this revelation of cashing in present moments for perpetual songwriting at 1AM last night, it took me only a matter or seconds to flip on the bedside lamp and scrawl on the back of a wedding invitation a couple of words so that I could remember to blog it today.


Maybe I'm a hopeless case.


Maybe someday it'll pay off.  Maybe someday what I write will matter to you in your moment, since I can't appreciate it in my own.  Maybe my lack of writing restraint is okay.


For me, too.






*please note that all children were secured, happy, and still supervised during this time.  


 

sometimes kids say things. sometimes i do.

Toska:  (Russian, coined by Vladimir Nabokov) No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.


It always happens at a moment I least expect it, and I can never pinpoint when it started.  Except I think I believe now that I could have been born with it, thanks to a 2-year-old.  But it's good to know there's a word out there to help dispel it-- or at least describe it.  In that completely indescribable sort of way.


Born with it?  Because of this:  sometimes very respectable and rational human beings ask me-- even pay me!-- to watch over their children.  They do so with the understanding that I now have influence over these kids' lives.  Willingly.  But that's not the only unbelievable part.  I "have" this 2-year-old two to four times a week that is precious and charming and blue-eyed and probably everything I wasn't as a 2-year-old.  She's ideal.  Except when I first started nannying her, she would occasionally have these strange bursts-- maybe every other week-- also known as "The Rage."  


"The Rage"  isn't a particularly good way to describe it either, though.  Sometimes there are fists, but mostly it's just a scream/cry-- a weird desperation that is not remedied by any amount of soothing words or lollipops.  I started asking her questions during these moments, hoping to get to the root of the problem.  And then one day, together, we finally saw each other eye-to-eye.  


We were driving to go pick up her older brother.  I had reached my darkest moments earlier that afternoon in true artist form and continued to my job in true needing-to-still-comply-with-social-norms-and-the-rules-of-getting-and-keeping-a-regular-income form.   The little one was completely fine-- as fine as bubbles and Cheerios.  But as we proceeded to our next destination, The Rage started.  It was sudden, loud, and terrifying.  So I started asking questions:


"Helen*, are you thirsty?!"


"No!"


"Helen, are you hurt?!"


"No!


"Helen, do you miss your mom?!"


"No!"


Me, exasperated, needing someone to relate: "Helen, is the sadness of the world just too great for us?"


"Yes, Miss Mallory, it is!"


Ah.  Toska.  Helen and I have seen things much clearer since then.  And The Rage hasn't occurred since.  Sometimes just a quiet murmur in the backseat while we're driving up the interstate.  


And I say, "Toska."  


And she answers quietly, "Okay."


We got this one.










*name has been changed for the usual reasons and also so I can stay employed.

what's been happening.

i've been a blogging failure last month.  but it's for good reason.  i know i usually reserve this space for all my fleeting thoughts and general insecurities, but i thought maybe an explanation was necessary.  especially for my one very dedicated follower (thanks, Lace-Face... oh, and Mom).  here you go-- you're in the loop.

as of one month ago, i went from having one baby project to two toddler projects.  mallory graham and her invisible friends is going through a transitional phase-- new members (although you can't see them) are about to be trading in, new recordings are about to be made (end of july), touring in St. Louis is scheduled for september, show dates are being arranged in Asheville for october, and of course the constant of songwriting and planning for the next record (i can't give you the name, yet.  it's kind of an invisible secret).  you can still keep updated on those show dates, etc. at www.reverbnation.com/mallorygrahamandherinvisiblefriends 

of course, i wouldn't even mind if you liked me on facebook while i'm working so hard to bring you delicious jams www.facebook.com/mallorygrahamandherinvisiblefriends.  thanks to bandmate Mike Shannon so delicately prostituting himself out to facebook, we have earned almost 200 fans in one month.  join the movement (or some other motivational phrase).

i'm growing out a teeny tiny hipster ponytail.  also, i have been cutting off jeans and wearing my woody allen-esque glasses more often to appear more aloof and therefore more appealing as a musician.  for you.

ah, yes.  and project #2.  i have teamed up with current bandmate Scott Tyler (http://scotttyler.tumblr.com/) to form a sad-song-singing, chord-organ-and-potentially-bicycle-wheel-playing duo called The Rough & Tumble (you can decide who is who).  we purchased a toy piano yesterday.  we've been writing for weeks.  we have recording dates and shows approaching. we've had photo and video shoots.  busy.  more to come.  you can go to our website if you want, but you won't find much yet.  www.reverbnation.com/theroughtumble. don't worry, i'll keep you updated.

okay, aside from various dirty laundry and walking my dog, you're filled in.  i'll do better this time.  probably.  mostly.  i think.

Nashville.

sometimes i like to sit in my living room and utilize the weird things my webcam can do in order to make a profound statement of current being.  Hence, title of blog, followed by picture.  then, explanation following so that everyone knows that i know how silly what i just posted was.  maybe it's irony?  meta-blogging?  maybe it's just that i want to believe the picture-worth-thousand-words business so that i can free my brain of it's thousand words with only a quarter the effort. 

it's not working. 

Nashville.   it's not working.  i need to find a better title.

just for fun. sort of.

***I would now like to clarify-- since I have evidently upset my mother (possibly the only person who reads this) into thinking that any of these comics are a direct representation of my feelings-- that none of the above reflect my true outlook in life.  They are only another show'n'tell of other people and their perception and feelings on invisible friends.  Geez, mom...

tell no one

i am moments away from a pot of coffee and a tiny book that has been hidden under the far left couch cushion for days.  i'm well aware of the freedom to read whatever i want in this country, but it's not the government i'm worried about.  it's you. 

three days ago a friend gave me a book with a post-it stuck in the front with this notice:

"Mallory- This is for you. 
Read it in the most quiet,
most secret, most hidden
place in your house.
Tell no one.
Be glad and confident."

the book has since been in the front of my mind without having read the first line.  we know the history of sacred literature, of banned books, of notes passed with "for stacey's eyes only" scrawled on the front.  with all of the literary liberty we can ask for, we have constructed a system of censorship. 

sometimes it's for our own protection.  the, "Ew, you like that stuff?" still rings in my head from when i was spotted still reading the Babysitter's Club in eighth grade.  what we read (and watch), and therefore what we recommend, is still a prominent definition of who we are.  i don't have enough fingers to account for how many times i've been caught with a guilty pleasure piece of media and quickly, entirely unprompted, spat out, "oh, my friend is making me read it."  or, for my own protection, the number of books i've read that i would never tell my mother to read because it would break her heart.  because, for some reason, she would connect the ideas in that book to what her daughter really thinks.  a recommedation is an endorsement.

but then there's this strange other side.  the sacred censorship.  it's the recommendation because you are the worthy recipient.  because this book has had a profound impact on the reader and, like a good secret, needed someone who could relate and relive what the reader has found.  it's the difference in telling a room of acquaintances your favorite book and telling that one worthy recipient that what you have found out was information meant for only them, and you are amazed it has taken the universe so long to find them.  my thoughts on this were confirmed yesterday when my non-recommended book spoke it back to me:

"I hid behind a mound of earth that had been dug up to make a grave for some old books, literature was the only religion her father practiced, when a book fell on the floor he kissed it, when he was done with a book he tried to give it away to someone who would love it, and if he couldn't find a worthy recipient, he buried it" 
 -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

it's a strange love of a book that we believe we would rather have dead than to belong to the wrong person.  it's a sacred text that we feel self conscious evangelizing to the masses, but that we believe that one day, one pure-of-heart may come and know the goodness and peace that the text gave to us and will also give to them. 

it's enough weight to make me more aware of the words put down on a page or in a song-- that they should perhaps contain something more than juicy fiction and a self-imposed deadline.

the coffee is done.     

a suggestion

A strange self promotion with profound interviews and a cast of characters that simultaneously make you want to quit and hope.  It may be worth it for you to check it out.  I caught it at the Nashville Film Festival and I still have thoughts about it.  A good sign, yes?

                                                                            Broke*

something nice

it's nice when other people write for me instead:


"Singing odes to cigarettes, chiding lovers who treated her badly, and sweetly--if not hesitantly--announcing next to whom she wants to wake up, Mallory Graham's commanding singing voice seems to give a megaphone to her innermost thoughts and feelings. At first glance, Graham seems to be nervous that her audience might not like her --  it's just that she's put so much of herself into her songs that she's wary of how you'll receive them. But from the moment her band strikes up a chord, it's obvious that each of Mallory's songs are slaved over meticulously. Every ounce of energy and passion she has for writing from the heart comes through in her energetic performance. It's hard not to walk away mesmerized.  

These days, Mallory Graham leads a band of guys who fill in the drums, bass riffs, guitar solos and keyboard melodies that perfectly frame her clever songwriting capabilities. She calls them her Invisible Friends, and with their support, she has struck a balance of belting out bad ass melodies and sweetly smiling at the crowd all the while. The only thing confusing is her band name: When you see her troupe of friends and musicians share the stage with her with complete gusto, you'll be certain that her friends aren't invisible. In fact, you'll probably want to befriend her yourself. I do, anyway."  
                                                                                
                                                                                       --Megan Pacella, Nashville freelance writer


and then there's this:

Mallory Graham Thinks About Her Invisible Friends or How Did We End Up In Kentucky

Halloween weekend, 2009, Mallory Graham and myself crammed 5 guitars, a couple guitar amps, enough pizza rolls to feed a family of 18, my grandma’s old Wurlitzer accordion and our bass player, Mike Shannon, into the backseat of my Toyota Corolla and we drove from Asheville, NC to Nashville, TN. Mike sat, for the entire trip, in the backseat with his feet on the accordion case and his left arm up at a 90 degree angle so the pot of soup balancing precariously on top my guitar amp wouldn’t spill on top of him as we took the winding detour through Hot Springs, NC.

We recorded 7 of Mallory’s songs that weekend in producer Chris Leonard’s living room, bedroom and select closets throughout the house. Andy Black was there too. And so was Danger. And Stephen Sebastian stopped by just in time for an awesome guitar solo. We recorded all the tracks live with additional overdubs over 4 ½ days and it was relaxed, intense, and magical. Nashville friends stopped in and out to listen and to wish us luck and Nathan Crandell even brought beer and sang some buttery and beautiful background vocals. 

Mallory’s songs usually start out as small things; minute details, sentence fragments and a couple chords, and if you listen closely you can still hear that hesitation and the fear of speaking and creating something that lives and exists outside of herself. This isn’t a fearful record and Mallory isn’t a cowardly songwriter. It’s quite the opposite, actually. Not one to hide behind metaphor and ambiguity, quite a few times I’ve seen Mallory write a song about someone, and call them over and say “Hey, I’ve written a song about you.” It’s embarrassing to watch that person squirm in the songs’ accuracy. I’ve thought a few times, that Mallory might gain too much pleasure recalling the stories we’re not so proud of, using them as two-headed snakes and bearded ladies to lure the curious behind her curtain of human eccentricities. Maybe she does. Like on the last song, “Speak Up,” she writes about a friend’s infidelity from the perspective of the man-on-the-side. This is classified information, you know, the kind of stuff you whisper, not sing about.  Not when you’re friends with Mallory. We layed down tracks on Halloween night, lit candles and turned off the lights so trick-or-treaters wouldn’t ruin our takes. We performed this to                  tally live, vocals, accordion, everything, and you can hear us standing uncomfortably in the open space, shifting our weight in our chairs, and gathering our breaths as quietly as possible. When we finished our last take and finally exhaled, I was struck by this thought; Our history exists, whether we want it to or not, and it’s best to speak of it, call it our own, put a tune to it and sing it to whoever listens, because what is left unsaid and undone is really what controls us. I think Mallory knows this and wants us to know it too.

Well, all the pieces have finally come together and this delightful EP is available for you to hear. I couldn’t be more excited.

                                                                                      --Scott Tyler, http://scotttyler.tumblr.com/

now isn't that some credibility?  

it's like she knows

last night i sang nursery rhymes to my dog.  she responded in time with barks and jumps.

some people might think that this is a first sign of my biological clock ticking.  i think it might be that she is the one invisible friend that sees everything that i see.  no, not being a crazy dog lady.  just thinking that any living creature that spends 21 hours of her day with me might have better insight than even i do as to what is going on in my head.

child, dog, or inanimate object: it's good to have someone else looking in the same direction.

last night's conversation

me:  "do you think they know?"

him:  "know what?"

me:  "that they let us move out and into a house in another city?"

him:  "and make major life decisions?"

me:  "yeah."

him:  "no."

me:  "i don't, either."

i think i'm...

it may not be paranoia.  actually, i know it's not.  i'm not worried about something coming to get me-- it's more like a heightened sense of self awareness.  when no one's around. 

it's become increasingly evident to me via this blog how much i think about how much people (or things or government or spiritual entities, real or made up) are looking.  it explains my need to speak out loud when i'm by myself in my house.  it explains why i talk to my dog when we're walking at night.  or day.  or ever. 

another is-she-really-throwing-back-to-her-childhood-and-do-we-have-the-responsibility-of-assessing-her-psychological-stability example:  it started when i was a kid.  maybe it was the self imposed guilt of a hard-working protestant upbringing that conjured the feeling.  maybe it's the hereditary chemical imbalances.  either way, i was acutely aware that everything i did-- alone or not-- was being closely monitored.  i know that the "god is always watching" idea in protestant life is meant as a comfortable fallback to the abandoned, disheartened, and/or neurotic; but i'm pretty sure it backfired.  it didn't seem to matter what i did.  god is always watching.  i started feeling weird about my chronic nose-picking,*** the way i spoke to my stuffed animals, and all those tricky things that start happening at the blossoming of a young flower to a woman (yep, i said it).  i had to ask god to stop, STOP IT-- it was weird.  it persisted.  then the pleading, "hey, i know it's your job, but could you just close your eyes for a minute?"  always watching.

well, hell.  i'll keep up a performance, then.

it only seemed to get worse from there. when i would spend the night at people's houses, i was convinced that they had cameras set up in their bathrooms (always the bathroom-- i don't know why).  at school, being in the post columbine genre, the feeling was relatively justified as the cameras were hung where we could see them.  then there's the bars, supermarkets, workplaces, and my car.  always watching.  maybe not god, but the government sometimes.  sometimes just perverse individuals who i'll never meet but know me forever as the girl who would very modestly preserve her entire identity in ladies' rooms. 

what am i getting at?  how bizarre it is that i'm here.  tonight i am willingly headed to a bar to perform on stage for a group of people.  right now, i am writing into an entity where anyone with a computer or who knows someone with a computer or accesses the public library can see.  maybe it's always worked up to this point.  maybe the someone-is-always-watching has always just been a clear step in the direction of a performer.  or maybe it's the other way around-- like i need to legitimize the feeling that someone is always watching. 

what a strange place we've found ourselves.  you watching me right now, me knowing you are.  and just like always, the self consciousness only seems to go one way. 

unless i just made you feel weird.






***i'm certain in this respect, thank god that god was always watching.  i heard that kids that do this lack sodium in their diet.  this may explain my guilty gluttony at age ten when i started hiding bags of potato chips under my bed and in the closet for after everyone went to bed.  either way, god's watching made me so uncomfortable that i had to stop.  the nose picking, that is.  i may still have a bag of lays stashed in the back of my underwear drawer.

invisible online social networking.

i don't actually think making friends is easy for me. i think that might explain my hesitancy toward online social networking. you wouldn't guess that by the mass of sites i currently have in my possession. i can actually owe that to a few people along the way that insisted that i, simply, needed to be more social. but the collection of friends like pogs to clip on your profile is scary. like the girl scout badges i never earned. proabably because i was never in girl scouts. mostly because i was too nervous to make new friends. thinking about the possibility of having to still makes me a little nauseous. and so my mom didn't (and still doesn't) make me.

every time i (am forced to) add another way for people to see my goings-ons i get sweat on the keyboard-- what if no one wants to be my friend? what if everyone finds out that i'm actually more socially awkward than dj tanner? what if no one gets to find out that i'm this socially awkward because none of them will be my friend? worse, what if they become my friend, sense my insecurity, and leave like a bad blind date before i can even post a overly grateful "thank you for being my friend" on their wall? like how you feel entering the room for a party. no, like how i feel. i assume everyone else in the world is actually capable of having a conversation without perspiring and quietly wishing they were back home under the covers.

it's probably not as bad as i'm making it out to be. but writing to you-- whoever you are-- is maybe begging for a little performance. like when you feel a little bit like big brother or some sicko installed a camera in a public bathroom, so you overreact with extreme modesty and then twirl around as you leave, giving the finger. wrong sentiment. it's like when you're a kid and your siblings don't play with you so you make up an invisible friend that looks and talks just like jesus christ, and you over enunciate and make bigger gestures because, since no one else can see and hear him, he must have a hard time seeing and hearing you as well.

i'm sure all of your siblings played with you. i now also grant that none of your imaginary friends were jesus. weirdly, i have the chance to edit right now and i'm not taking it...

online social networking as a series of invisible friends. there we have it. there's the tiny consolation that keeps me from having to wear my finest party dress every time i post or log on to facebook. invisible friends mean that i take a part in molding who they are, as well. social networks give us all the chance to be an invisible friend to someone else, but also them to us. still scary for me, but much easier than real friends. real friends team up with your siblings and leave you alone with jesus. that's enough for this session.

oh, i'm on twitter now. invisiblegraham is the name. follow me! i mean, if you want...
　
　　

you are dismissed.

i never thought i would be one of those four AM writers. the kinds that wake up in a start with a revelation that, when daylight breaks, is more like common sense that everyone in the world has thought up in normal waking hours before your mind thought it up at four AM.

but this morning, from four to six, i was released from a bad idea. three years later. but i had to hear it on the sears intercom to know it. and even when i knew it standing in the glorious wash of florescent lights and craftman tools, it didn't really occur to me until a woke up last night and put it all together. common sense is hard for some people.

three years ago in my final semester of college-- post semester of my studies in an artist colony on martha's vineyard-- i was struggling to recreate some essence of songwriting and came up with, what we now call, the Bad Idea. The melody was salvageable, but... but a song is a song and i reworked it as much as i could with my limited skills in my tiny dormroom.

i carried the Bad Idea with me to asheville, north carolina as i entered into a music collective-- the next phase of better songwriting. i wanted to use the melody, but the words were entirely inextractable. i had a dozen people to bounce Bad Idea off of, but instead, i kept it. no recycling, no trashing, no sharing. just storing it in my mental shelving and letting it steal space from More Suitable Ideas or even Good Ideas. i let Bad Idea re-emerge when we were alone and had no Good Ideas to visit.

when moving to nashville a couple months back, i completely forgot about Bad Idea. thankfully. the worst part about bad idea is it didn't mean a damn thing. there was no story, no emotional ties or deeper meaning. it was really just a series of words strung together in such a way as to create a rhyming pattern and a song structure. a really bad rhyming pattern and a mediocre song structure. and. i. couldn't. let. it. die.

but i'm standing in sears picking up a spade and a sewing machine (i wanted to slip that in there so you see how self sufficient and industrious i am), and over the warbled radio comes this, in the same rhythm-- though altered melody-- i had been batting around for years:

"..."

i can't even show it to you here.

it doesn't matter what the lyrics are or exactly how it went. it was enough-- it was the hook. and i immediately noticed that i was turning a craftsman color red and my fellow shopper was about to comment on the horredousness of the song when i had to confess. and he laughed. rightfully so. i wasn't claiming that i had the song stolen or that i had stolen the song. i was claiming that i had a very Bad Idea that, when played out, fell flat and shameful just as i predicted it would. that was last week.


it was this morning that i realized i was allowed to let it go. someone out there had already played that one out for me, and i somehow dodged that bullet. or rather, sulkily mosied my way to the other side of the room before someone had fired the gun.

and it feels good. i have been officially released from a bad idea. next time, i'll drop it sooner. or push harder against my conscience and hope for my big break over a sears intercom.　

he called today.

it's not as though we even speak anymore.

that's always how i have to start justifying writing about him.  it was my first attempt this week to put into a song the profound amount of hostility and neglect that entirely defines our relationship... or lack thereof.

it's awkward to write about invisible friends when you know you can't avoid them in the future.  but i put it into my head that we don't speak, that it's not as though he would even know about that song... it's not as though we catch up or that he reads my blog or that he even asks about me through mutual friends.  i know that to be true.  and for that i am thankful. 

except that he called today.  for the first time in a year.  and it just so happens he called for the first time in a year after the week that i have finished finally writing the song that i've been trying to form about him and us and the world we lived... he called for the first time after i finally figured it all out and formed the final word. 

it's awkward to write about you.  any of you.  because i don't know when you'll be back.  i don't know when you'll find out that those vague words and funny phrases are really pointing back at you. 

it's a heavy task to write about you.  it's heavy because the things i say don't have to be truthful.  but it's scarier when they are.  it's heavy because it means that i have to dance around accuracy for the sake of privacy.  or i have to dance around accuracy for the sake of hiding what it would mean to tell him to his face.  and that's awkward.

so, here we are, with one hope:

he's never going to see this.

he's never going to see this.

he's never going to see this.

he wouldn't know if it was about him anyway.

and so, we begin...

saying things to you is hard.  i've put this off for months.  and now, after all of this hype of invisible friends, i realized that the hardest part about having invisible friends is the fact that you can't see them even when you're speaking right to them. 

so, hi. 

you can keep up with my left brain activity on Reverbnation or Facebook.  look at me selling you on logistics.  but here is the right brain portion-- an open display where invisible friends are created, introduced, or just plain appear.  think of me as a curator of sorts, hanging works of art from one person for another's enjoyment.  and maybe selling you on them a little.  but in this case, the artwork is people's stories-- some you may know, mostly you won't.  and these stories will be hung up and you and i will admire them and think about them and maybe later decide what they might mean.  sometimes they'll be mine, sometimes yours, sometimes neither.

i'm not a novelist.  i'm not talented at writing short stories... or writing anything outside of songs in the least.  so i don't mean this in quite so literal of a way.  think stories as more snippets and invisible friends as everyone who we have and haven't met and how their lives effect our lives sometimes without ever meeting them at all.

condense, mallory.  you sound like an idiot.

we all have invisible friends-- a whole line of them trailing behind us (our mothers, our 1st grade BFF, our boyfriend, our barista), and every time we meet someone new, that new person is meeting not only you, but the trail of invisible friends you've accumulated in your lifetime. 

this is not revolutionary.  one million (invisible) people have probably thought of this before me.  but here we are.  you, me, with at least one thing in common.

if we could only see it.