www.teganhanlon.com
“Human Again” on itunes!
Oh man oh man oh man….my new record “human again” in on itunes now as a presale!! and “ghost” is available right now!!!!!! i am too excited. here is the link——> http://tinyurl.com/75quq4u
Yeeeee!!
Playmobil: My life in a dollhouse
“MOM mom mom mom MOM, you need to come here right now. My Ken doll moved. By himself. No, don’t question me. What do you mean how would he move? He put one plastic leg in front of the other and high-tailed it to the other side of the couch where I left Barbie - that dirty whore. Whatever, fine, let them take over.”
I had a giant house in my room — a play house, a dollhouse. Next to the house sat a giant tub for all of my house belongings, people, beds, table settings, automobiles, etc. I never left said tub without a lid. “Sorry ladies and gentleman, out of the pool it’s the end of the night and I need to go to bed and you need to all get cozy in this tupperware.” I was deathly afraid that the force of more than 20 would either a) throw a pool party and not invite me b) Reek havoc on the house when I was sleeping and could not keep a watchful eye on them or c) try to attack me. C = definitely biggest concern. And don’t let me get started on the Barbies, they stayed downstairs, they were trouble.
My barbies and dolls alike led a very chaste life. Mainly because there was only one Ken doll, and a lot of my ladies had to share him. He loved it I assume. I didn’t understand what polygamy was and Sister Wives had not graced the television schedule yet — so I did not know that one man and four wives was totally okay. Anyway, eventually a friend took my mom and dad doll (not okay) and explained to me the act of sex. “My parents would never do that. That can’t work. Those don’t fit together. You’re gross.” My girl dolls and boy dolls were then separated. I don’t have room for procreation!
While I tried to stop the babies and the formation of a larger doll army, I also began to attempt to wrap my brain around religion. (A feat still unconquered). In a desperate act to understand I had to relate it to something that made sense to me - dolls. “Well,” I thought. “I control my dolls. And supposedly this God figure controls us. So…I’m living in my own fucking dollhouse! This is cool and scary and I am a doll!” I would not lie to you tumblr, this was my perception of religion. I then spent a solid week trying to “trick” the person in control of doll Tegan. “I’m going to touch my nose. I’m going to do it. Watch me here I go,” I said as I moved my forefinger slowly, almost getting to the tip of my nose and… SNEAK ATTACK I touched my head. “HA I can control my movement! I have no governing power! Power to the people! PEACE LOVE AND ROCK N ROLL” Ok.. this is beginning to get fabricated.
ANYWAY, I just thought about this snapshot of my life and wanted to share my “understanding life” through a dollhouse.
Much love tumblr peeps.
Video Blog here we go. I totally did not want to do this. But I am happy I did. Enjoy. Happy Friday and have a good Halloween you guys :) xo
Obsessed.
This feels like the perfect way to end my one month tumblr hiatus. Ladies and gents and handful of followers, for your viewing pleasure my (ex)roommate (ouch my heart). This is amazing. I’ve already listened four, that’s right FOUR, times and counting. Thank god I saved your (MADELINE THIS IS DIRECTED AT YOU) autographed lyrics.
This summer I found myself in one of the most bittersweet relationships I have yet to understand. It was us against time. I had known him for quite a while, so Heaven only knows what took us so long. However, once we got swept up in each other, we found ourselves with one tiny week before my departure for Pittsburgh. Doesn’t that sound crazy? It sounded absolutely ridiculous to us but it worked. It really worked.
The beauty of this shared experience was that there was absolutely no time to hold back. We were soaking in as much of each other as we could for seven days. Just seven days. There was that constant reminder that it was almost over, but also that he was mine for the time being and I was his. There was no time to be anything but honest or, even more beautiful, no time to be anything but myself. And he loved my self and I loved his self. We weren’t in love, but we were something.
And we basked in it.
Once when we were laying around at the end of a day together he asked me if I’d ever write a song about him when I left and I still go back and read what I wrote down about him after that. I wanted to remember everything and put it in a song for him about our little window of time. Here is just a little bit of what I wrote:
“It’s hard to put into words how easy it was; it was simple to skip the games and it was simple to get right to the point where we were drinking wine and our legs were tangled and it was like everything else shut off. We didn’t have those weird fears about the far-distant future because we knew we’d already be apart by then. He would laugh when I said the things I usually only said to myself but not because he was above me, because he loved them. It was the most secure and simple spot. We had smokey eyes but they were soft eyes and I loved them. We didn’t have time to guess and check so we took it and we ran. It was simple and beautiful because we both knew how fleeting it was.”
So here’s your song, wherever you are now. Here’s our little window.
Rationality aside, they had nothing to hide.
Cause what’s the use in being coy
when you’ve got about seven days to start and end again?She always knew he could talk sweet—
miles of glittering generalities;
but, when she finally heard a genuine word,
the thought of cheated time suited her just fine.So he told her ‘Write me a song about our little window
and write so when it’s over- when it’s over I’ll still know
that in seven days we were born and broken and loved.
If you only give me one song, well, just one song is enough. It’s enough’So she wrote ‘I like that you like when I talk in my sleep;
I like that you called a cab and let me lay on the seat.
I like that we got high & we got lost in ourselves
and anything we didn’t like we weren’t afraid to tell.And I grew to love nothing more than your wine-stained breath
and how lovers get tired, so lovers we slept;
and, no, it didn’t take long for us to tangle our legs
cause we were bittersweet heroins- nothing more, nothing less.I wrote you a song about our little window
and wrote so when it was over we would still know
that in seven days we were born and broken and loved.
I only gave you one song but I hope one song is enough.’
This is the blog that never ends
I have returned to tumblr. My brother has just returned home from work. My mind is returning to the chocolate cake sitting on our kitchen table awaiting brother bear’s arrival. While he takes a painstakingly long body washin’ shower, I read my life alterin’ blogs and salivate. Okay, those words didn’t really jive as planned, and the latter is more fiction than fact, however these are mere details my love.
So, the plan was to get my fingers working on something describing why I’ve had serious pants on for the past couple of blog entries. Then I realized two writings ago I wrote about dinosaur birthing, and that idea went straight to hell. (I always struggle if I should capitalize hell, thoughts? suggestions? yay? nay?)
Instead I come to you to discuss my affinity for half-assed collections.
At a very young age, I pushed myself onto my hind legs, my only legs, grabbed a pair of child safety scissors and said, “Ma, move over there’s a new [the only] stamp collector in this house!” For a majority of my elementary career I sifted through our mail daily cutting out each and every stamp - mind you most stamps had the run-of-the-mill American flag so my collection was about 90 percent patriotic, 10 percent other. Eventually I got bored of the constant red, white and blue stamps. WHY DOESN’T ANYONE BUY COOL STAMPS, MOM?! Than I gave the collection a childhood “F U” which probably sounded a bit more like, “I hate you. You are stupid, stamps. You are dumb and if I was allowed to say the word suck, I would, but you stink!” and that was the end of stamps.
Then came Pokemon cards, sorry to you serious Pokenuts out there because I don’t know how to make the “e” fancy and quite frankly I don’t care. Anyway, my brother, who may be going for the showering world record, was collecting cards so you bet your bottom dollar I started to for the sheer satisfaction of collecting the better, more evolved creatures. I bought a leather binder and plastic card holders. Okay, let’s be real by I, I mean my parents bought, I was poor. Yeah Fergie, I took my broke ass and my Pokemon cards home. Dammit, everything sounds so much funnier in my head. Anyway, instead of tracking down the most sought after cards like previous intentions, I clung to the girly side of me and collected/traded/sold my body for all of the cutesy Pokemon - Jigglypuff, Squirtle, Horsea, Psyduck etc. I took one look at the cards like Onix and said a big “no thank you, you will not be permitted into my Pokedex.” Eventually the pretty, fluffy Pokemon were no more and my brother had dominated my collection. Again a big “You suck” ensued - this time older more mature Tegan was permitted to actually say the word and that was the end of Pokemon.
For the sake of me getting bored, me wanting cake, me cramping up crouched in my bed - and no it’s not all about me. To possibly the one soul reading this, I’m sure you, yes YOU, have something better to do. Anyway - I will bypass those godforsaken state quarters, the two dollar bills, the rocks and head to the current collection - headbands. Donations are accepted and appreciated. Let them eat cake!
“I am no bird, and no net ensnares me. I am a free human being with an independent will.”
Lucy, I’m home
I’ve been really slacking from bloggy-blog life. Recently I’ve been old school journaling on real life paper, stealing my cyber attention. But I’m feeling like an insomniac, Tina fey and Tracey Jordan are on some sort of 1 am Oprah re-run and thus I must stay awake. I would like to apologize in advance for the potentially shotty spelling/grammar/lingo of this post because it’s being done via iPhone. Quite frankly, my thumbs are just too big for these keys and cooperation between the two is extremely limited at the moment.
Let’s see life. This week marks my third/fourth last week in Allentown. While I feel like I’ve been at home forever, at the same time I can’t believe how fast summer has gone. Yeah, try to figure out the logic behind that sentence. I’m always excited to go back to Pittsburgh, but lately I’ve been feeling pretty down about leaving home life. (However, in April I was also pretty down about leaving pitt.) I’ve been incredibly lucky to nab an internship at my local newspaper for the past few months and have met some wonderful, positive people in/outside of/and through work.
The nostalgia arises when I realize this may be my last typical summer. I fear lack of ever choosing and sticking with a major will keep me in pittsburgh to play an intense game of catch-up next year. I’m sure I’ll have the time of my life out there, but the idea of drastic change is always weird.
While many Allentownians complain of lack of things to do (many of which I feel like will never be satisfied with anything) I’m totally content with the three months spent home. I had bonnaroo, I had numerous trips to the beach, I had family, I had friends, I had happy. Happy was/is mine!
Alright, alright this entire post upon re-read is me struggling to type, resulting in a giant circle of excited and scared and sad and happy. Phew my emotions are tired.
Peace, love & Oprah Winfrey
Growing Up - It’s a Girl Thing
Background: the title is taken from one of the many “adolescent” books my mother threw at me anytime an armpit hair sprouted, I mentioned a boys name, etc.
Here is what I want to say:
I come to document my much delayed favorite Father’s Day lunch quote as I lay with an Oxypad stuck to my forehead. It’s starting to burn so I’ll make this snappy. Anyway, my family of four spent the beautiful celebration of dads on the golf course greens. This my friends is the closest I’ve ever been to the perfectly cared for lawn. To me “birdie” will always represent a “cutesie” name for a winged creature flying through the sky and “tee” comes before the word shirt. Anyway, being the loving child I am I thought it a good idea to bring my father close enough to what he wanted to be doing (teeing off) but strap him to a seat and force him to share a hummus platter with his favorite daughter. “What’s that on your forehead?” Wendy’s interrogation began clearly referring to the sea of pimples that decided to grace my skin this summer. “Is that a acne.. or..” I was about to simply, politely, nicely agree with acne statement until the 5-second pause errupted into a sea of comments. “Bumps? Dots? A land mine? Braille? Can I touch it?” Has my family never seen pimples before dammit. And that was the rest of our father day conversation. To only think what they talk about when I’m at school and my skin doesn’t grace their presence.
