The Dog Days Aren't Over Yet

I've been getting into the local (Twin Cities) art and music scene a lot lately. I've found myself continually wanting to go into the cities. The suburbs have been driving me crazy lately. They have no personality, they have no realism. They're just one house after another after another, and they don't have any soul to them anymore.

Seriously, does this look exciting to you?

I know that an apartment in the cities would hardly be any different from that, but the difference is that I'd be able to go out and get a taste of those intangible things I love: Music, art, people, personality.

However, first I need a job. I have applied at everywhere (literally everywhere. I honestly wish I was exaggerating.) within biking/walking distance, and to many places outside of that radius. I can't pay for all of my classes without a job, so among the other obvious reasons I should get one, it's more important now than ever. If anyone has any ideas/suggestions, maybe leave it in the comments or tweet it to me or post it on the blog's Facebook page.

I wrote this piece a while ago when I was contemplating my discomfort in the suburbs.

Sorry, Suburbs

Sorry, Suburbs, we've had a good run
But it's just not working out.
I've decided I need to pack up and leave.
You're just not the same neighborhood I fell in love with.

When I was a kid, I would go exploring in my back yard,
A field of endless towers of corn
And I would break the stalks, rip off the ears
And fashion myself a Samurai's sword
To wield in gallant, epic battles against invisible assailants.

I remember finding magazines I was much too young for
In a creek half a mile away.
I remember saying out loud to myself,
"Why would anyone publish something like this?"

I rode my bicycle to No-Name Park
Dug my feet deep into the sand
And felt the heat between my toes.

Now, for me, there's too much past here, and not enough future
And conformity is on me like a downtown moocher.

Each building lies in a perfect little row, sprouting up as though sown from the seeds of real estate
And being farmed by agents with perfect Colgate Total smiles, alabaster teeth shining
Like the houses they show off.

Each of those model homes flowers into a husband and a wife,
And two children (an older sister and a younger brother)
And a small, yipping dog, and a minivan, AND a Prius,
And an above-ground pool, and a wooden deck, and...
Slow down, Smiths.
Why are you always jonesin' to keep up?

No-Name Park has had a generic title forced upon it,
The creek has dried up with barren, dusty rocks biting at the shore,
And the field has been trampled underfoot by the "New Development".

From the roof, I see lawns freshly mowed,
Windows spritzed into a perfect sheen,
Two garage doors like blind eyes staring me down.
I see this pseudo-perfection and taste bile in the back of my throat.
This assembly line of American Dreams is putting me to sleep.

The Dog Days aren't over yet, despite what Florence says. I'm still trying to get a job, trying to keep the suburbs from getting to me too bad, and trying to keep my chin up.

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Thank you for reading.