My mother named me Autumn.
“Oh, I have been wondering,” Laura says, “where I have been pondering.”

It does not begin with the changing of the leaves, but with a breeze: a cool breeze that lifts the soul to higher places and brightens the eye to see the light surrounded by an array of blue. In that breeze is the smell of reds, yellows, and the fading of green. The trees sway and whistle along to the simple harmony—autumn. ‘Tis the season of death and all of its glory. Not a time of solemnity, but serenity. Everything glows in a sweet mutiny. The leaves fight their fate of green and morph into red.

I was not born in autumn.

“Oh, I have not been wondering,” Laura says, “where I have not been pondering.”


Let us not forget the leaves as they turn green to gold and red rubies, or as they fall off the tallest of trees. Watch as they dance across the pavement at every autumn breeze. They leave a trail of paint drops leading to home. And when autumn is ready to go, leaves upon leaves are picked and grouped, creating a soft mountain to lie upon—to be cradled. Everyone feasts upon the harvest preparing for their rest until spring again. The breeze will take them to far off places where they will dream and dream until it is time to waken and see.

This is autumn and all of her pieces.

Today, I was walking on Main Street, rushing to my friend’s car meter to add a quarter and gain another hour of time with her. As I was walking, a man with a sign stopped me.
“What do you think about the war?” he asked.
“Which one?”
“The drones.”

“Which one?” I asked again because I was looking for where I put that quarter.
I looked at him with his white sign that in rainbow colors asked, “What happened to peace?” The dozen or so people with him carried similar signs. Some said, “Fight the government” and others “End the Drones.” They were all lined up in front of the library; a trail of misfits they were. Some old, some young, they wore their baggy clothes containing many holes and protested. They cared. I felt pressure to care.
To say something like, “F*** the government. Let’s end wars.” But, one—I am not from the seventies. And, two—I didn’t care. Instead I said, “People always die,” and sped out of there so I wouldn’t have to face their disapproving stares.
I do care.
Yet, I do not think that carrying matters much. One war always replaces another. If we cannot create an idealistic version of ourselves first, how do we expect to form a utopian society? The world works just fine by itself: it’s humans who ruin it for everyone else. Birds and dogs do not start wars. Humans feel jealousy, greed, and anger. These feelings cause us to cheat on our partner, create scams, and create weapons. Most of us seem so unable to fight our appetite that I have to wonder:
Are we evil in nature?
“Tonight I choose the beast,” Laura says, “tonight he lies with me.”
Look at our history. With the Crusades, the Trail of Tears, and the Holocaust--evil is our natural tendency. Are we capable of being good? I mean naturally good. Cultural Diffusion. Inventions. United Nations. Am I real when I am kind or when I am vile? I feel anger, jealousy, and greed; I choose to not act upon these feelings. I choose to. Not everyone is the same. Pope Urban II. Andrew Jackson. Adolf Hitler. We are all beasts of our own creation. Some of us fight it, and some of us give in to the beast.
Nothing: a state of tranquility that cannot be expressed, but felt.
Words sliding down the ear to the throat where it boils and aches, the mind leaves behind a creature unknown. This is what it is like to listen to Laura Marling. I try not to be a freak about it, but I am a freak about it. It is not that her songs fill me with joy or sorrow; rather, they numb me into a cool-calm when I pretend.
I pretend to be.
When all of my real emotions are hidden and my rage can never be seen, which is not concealed on purpose, but something that gradually hides itself to seem happy and polite and socially acceptable, Laura’s music lets the emotions pour. Everything that I felt, but never spoke can be heard in “Alas, I Cannot Swim.”
My rage and frustration with never living the life that I want: “There is a life that was meant for me; instead, I live my life and constant misery.” My insecurities: “And it's hard to accept yourself as someone, you don't desire, as someone you don't want to be.” My fear of letting people know me: “I am a master hunter. I cured my skin; nothing gets in, nothing not as hard as it tries.” My content with my friendships: “My friends, my dear friends and lovers, oh my lover, I’d leave you for them.” My strength: “I speak because I can to anyone I trust enough to listen.”
I am me when I listen to her—a creature unknown to the public eye.
Rage taints Love. Love and hate are two counterparts that feed off of each other.
Taylor Swift is idealistic. She sings about love and all of its good intentions: men riding on white horses to come capture their lady. Romeo saves Juliet. It’s all just a fairytale. These things do not happen. Relationships are more complicated than that. Love is not pure. I can hate someone just as much as I love them. Taylor Swift fails to acknowledge this in her music.
“Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone…Marry me, Juliet; you'll never have to be alone.”
When she does acknowledge the trouble of love, she describes it immaturely: “Cause I'm not your princess, this ain't a fairytale…And it's too late for you and your white horse.” It is obvious that love is not a fairytale. What about everything else? What about the lust, jealousy, happiness, and fear?
“Dear lover forgiven,” Laura says, “my love is driven by rage.”
Granted even though she knows that love is not always perfect, she still wishes it was. And that wish makes her too idealistic to be true in her music.
I pretend not to be.
Anxiety and nausea captured me whenever I thought about going off to college. Not about living on my own, but about making friends. I can make friends just fine, but the pressure to find your best friend within the first week of school was just ridiculous.
At SUNY New Paltz, we have Orientation I and II that are jammed with activities like lip syncs, barbeques, and ice cream socials that force you to connect to people so you can feel comfortable when instead they have an opposite effect. Instead of comfort, you feel anxiety; instead of social, quiet. And groups start to form among everyone and you wonder how it is that you are the loner of the group. It is not that you’re quiet or ugly or weird, it is because making friends is really awkward.

From our parents to Full House, we are all encouraged to be ourselves, but what they do not realize is that being you is frightening. Not for you, but for the other person. People do not want to meet someone who curses at everyone or cannot stop talking about dogs or makes jokes about crap.
It is not possible.
It is too intense for them. They need a slow transition into your odd mind.
You have to ask them where they are from, what music they like, how many siblings they have until everyone is comfortable. Everyone needs some sort of understanding of you before accepting the jokes and odd behavior that makes you, you.
New Jersey, Rock, Two.

But once that happens, you can joke. Hopefully, they will laugh and you’ll become friends, but if they don’t, who cares?

It is OK.
This has happened to me before.
For the person who laughs, you will feel more comfortable around them and will eventually unlock the truck containing your personality. For the other person, you will mutually dislike each other. That is alright because they did not understand you to begin with.
Quirky. Loud. Quiet. Obnoxious. Thoughtful. Gross. Raw. They missed the contradictions of me. What I like about myself. What I dislike about myself.
So, yes, making friends is hard, but eventually some spark will occur.
“Let it always be known,” Laura says, “that I was who I am.”
This is Autumn and all of her pieces.