It's Like Running Away With The Wind In My Face, It's Like Flying, And You And I Are Open Wide

--"Running Away", Polyphonic Spree

Marion was stopped the other day at her church service by somebody who reads this blog and recognized her picture. She, like me, has only been used to people she willingly gave out the web address to reading her posts here. It took her rather aback because blogs are a curious thing in that you think you're writing them for yourselves and a select group of people, but anyone and their mom can read them (if it isn't locked, that is). There poor delfty was, thinking she was writing for less than a handful of people and she finds out that not only are certain classmates reading here, but that it's also spread two generations across by now in reaching people she doesn't know directly. She could have reacted differently, but she took it in stride as befitting her newfound confidence. She thanked them for their patronage and went on her way.

Me? The only people I know who read here are people I've suggested read it. I know people from both when I worked at Bally's and people I know from my current job at Eclipse read it. I know people from my boardgaming group also read it. Hell, I know people from almost school I've attended has read our blog at one time or another. Does that alter what I write? I can't say for certain, but I believe I would have to answer no. While I might have intended the audience for this site to be limited, I learned a long time ago that there won't be any controlling of who has access to my thoughts which are posted here. It'd be a losing battle if I tried to fight that fight. As of now, I just write like I write my letters, picturing as if I'm chatting with one of my friends or telling an anecdote to someone I may have just bumped into at a party or something. One strength I've always had is that I'm able to write about personal ideas and events without a sense of propriety. I attempt to write everything as I remember it or as I think of it, without editing and without hesitation.

Yes, it bothers me a little bit that there are certain groups of people who are reading this that have frankly no good reason for reading it. Certain people I know who I know I've grown out of touch with and who have made it clear they want nothing to with me still read this blog. That doesn't make any sense to me. And, yes, it makes me a bit nervous that my full name is associated with this site, meaning that my vendors from Eclipse can, if they want, find out some fully embarrassing tidbits about me. What they would do with this information is beyond me, but it is out there to color their assessment of my capability to do my job. That bothers me some. And, yes, ever since my parents upgraded to their laptop I'm sort of curious to see when they'll finally stumble across my blog. I'm anticipating a call from my mom that will be long and in-depth about what certain facts about me that I may have hid from them. That's not going to be a fun call, explaining each and every indiscretion and questionable choice I've made in the last thirty years.

That doesn't mean I'm thinking about taming anything down here and I'm encouraging the other SFoM members to do the same.

The way I see it is that, first and foremost, this is a place where I can relay what I'm thinking and what I'm remembering so that there is some kind of record of what I was going through at any given moment of my life. I'm basically telling stories to myself before I forget that they were once important to me. Also, it's a place to get certain skeletons in my closet out into the open before they stink up my psyche. I have a problem deciphering what I'm supposed to feel about certain poor choices I've made until ten or fifteen years have passed. I tend to hold reflecting on what a mess my life has sometimes become until an acceptable amount of time has transpired. That's usually when I come to write it here, so, again, there's some kind of record of the lessons I've gleaned.

To stifle that simply because I'm worried what other people might think would be disservice to this whole exercise. I'm pretty sure Breanne and Toby would say the same. What's the point of writing down your feelings and telling your secrets if you're only going to be embarrassed by them later on? If you feel that way, then you might as well keep them inside until they fester. Part of the process of unburdening yourself is the restraint to not care who later rifles through those burdens. It's like throwing away trash; you've just got to let certain things go into the world lest you hold onto too tightly.

That's why if a similar situation were to happen to me where a friend of a friend or long-distance acquaintance were to disclose to me they've been reading about me, I'll try not to take it personally as well. I've opened that Pandora's Box a long time ago. I've let my stories and Lucy's stories and Marion's stories remain up here for over five years now. During that time over 100,000 people have shuffled through them. I'm sure of those 100,000 people quite a few them could recognize the name of Patrick Taroc before they even came here. I'll just try to thank the person for reading my stuff and try not to dwell on which potentially unsympathetic story they may have glanced through.

After all, this is a place for my words to be read. I can't back down now because I may take umbridge with the quality of those selfsame readers. I either let everyone read it or let no one read it.

Right now I'd much rather have the problem of too many readers than too little.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

These Days Are All, Share Them With Me, These Days Are All, Happy And Free, These Happy Days Are Yours And Mine

--"Happy Days Theme"

Ask anyone who knew me when.

They would agree that I used to be the most carefree spirit the world has ever known. It's not by accident that I was given the nickname Little Miss Chipper at an early age. I was that gal. I was that gal who smiled at everyone walking down the street. I was that gal who danced around in class, swung from the trees, climbed roofs, played ball with the neighborhood kids, and went to Sunday service because I enjoyed it. I was that gal who wrote thank-you notes and letters to all her friends and kinfolk all the time, each one more heartfelt than the last. I was that gal who showed up early and left late to everywhere. I was that gal who played everyday, really played as if the whole world were a giant set of swings and seesaw all rolled into one. I was that gal who heard music in her heart and wanted to share it with her mouth and eyes and hands. As my mother used to say, I had the joy in my heart which was brighter than even the noonday sun.

I couldn't even tell you why. It isn't that I woke up one morning in my bed and decided I was going to be cheery all of a sudden. I never made the conscious effort to improve my mood. That's genuinely the state of mind I took up residence in. It was the simplest of tasks. Aside from my many issues with my mother, I was as happy as an afternoon softball game played at a family reunion. I had a comfortable life where I was taken care of by my adoring parents, spoiled even some might say. I was well-liked at school. People claimed I was the "prettiest sight they ever did see." I was intelligent, even clever by half, according to all my teachers. I never wanted for anything. I never threw tantrums or complained publicly. I was well-behaved. I knew my etiquette and was taught the finest of manners. Everything seemed like the picture of idyllic bliss. How I was supposed to be, that's how I was. That's all I knew to be.

Maybe that was a slight problem in the beginning. I had been told all these different routes to being a happy, normal child that I took to like a duck takes to water. I didn't fight it at all when other kids might have had to be dragged kicking and scream. Where others chose to resist, I believed. Where others chose to question, I took people's answers at their word. Perhaps all this joy I felt in my formative was all predicated on the lie that there were people older than me who knew better for me.

One would have had only to taken a look at my early pictures to glean the depths of my complete immersion into the life that was planned for me. I took dance lessons that I never thought I needed, that even my dance instructor Mrs. Harvick said were only sharpening a knife which could already cut through glass. I studied and got grades which were reflective of someone going through their senior year in high school, not third grade. I volunteered with my Church group starting at the age of four. I dressed with fancy ribbons in my hair every day of the year and tied it up with an even fancier ribbon at night. And for what? To make myself happy? Sure. But it wasn't all about me either. A lot of the bliss I experienced during those years of my life were invested in the prospect of making everyone else happy. I can see that now. I'm not going to lie. Parts of those years were a hoot-and-a-half. But those times were more associated with choices I made to make myself content. All those other times, all those other choices I made, were made with the specific intent to please someone else; be it my parents, my teachers, my friends, or, yes, even my God. If I were to compare all the times I actually made decisions to please myself with the times I was just going along to appease someone else, my share would be altogether miniscule. It would be ridiculous even making that comparison.

That isn't to say that I don't take kindly to assisting others. That's a part of my nature too. But the stronger part of my nature, I can see now, is rooted in the belief that I need to be in control of what I do. When I help someone out I want to be secure in the knowledge that it was due to my choice and not out of a sense of obligation to others. All my years seem nothing more than community service and time served for the crime of being born to high expectations. I never even had a chance to complain because, frankly, I was never taught properly how to complain.

I was happy because I didn't know I had the okay to be angry or dissatisfied.

I smiled because I was told good girls don't make that other face.

I couldn't cry because it would ruin my complexion for the whole day.

All those times I got in trouble for being "wicked" were maybe the way my subconscious was rebelling against the way I was being raised. I didn't feel it at the time, but I a collar around me that was keeping me in line. Sure, I possessed the longest of leashes, but it was a restraint nonetheless. I was happy but only because that was the only sort of happiness I had ever known. It would be awhile longer before I saw for myself what it's truly like to experience happiness on my own terms and on my own timetable.

It was the same with my friendships. Those early ones, the ones with the likes of Fawn, Hanna, and, of course, Torry--they were built upon the strictures of the way I was taught friends were supposed to act. There were the play dates carefully choreographed among my mother and the other mothers. There were the subtle ways we were influenced not to allow anyone unsavory into our small group. There were the constant reminders from my parents how a good friend was supposed to act. And I stored it away like a mother bird building its nest. I utilized these little 'ole pieces of information to intricately construct what I thought was the perfect, yet small, circle of friends. About the only time I ever improvised my way through the adventure of having friends and keeping them back then were the few minutes of recess and lunch us girls shared everyday. That was when it was real, that's when I truly felt close to them all. All those other times, when we were taken shopping, when we were paraded around in pageant after pageant, when we were told we would be attending the Church picnic--they all felt dictated to us, or at least to me. It felt like everyone else had the blueprint to this wonderful house I was expected to live in except me.

Towards the end I picked up enough to know what I wanted out of confidantes and I can honestly say I started to experience what it was like to grow true friendships in the absence of expectation. It's only towards the end that I put together a real bond with all three of those gals that genuinely endures today (just ask Fawn). Those last two years when all four of us were together, that's some of what I thought was real happiness.

However, it took my friendship with Eeyore to show me what real happiness with friends is supposed to be like. In the beginning I thought we would make a good set of friends because we had similar interests and a somewhat similar perspective of the world. We both liked writing and we both by that time had developed into truly headstrong people. You would have thought it would be calling down lightning itself to consider pairing up two of the most stubborn cusses in the world, but in the beginning it worked phenomenally. During that so-called honeymoon phase of the friendship we would talk on the phone just about everyday. There wasn't anything I wouldn't share with him. We were joking and compassionate and even a little bit infatuated with one another. It's no big secret that my mother wasn't too appreciative of the amount of time I was spending on him and I reckon that Patrick's parents were entirely thrilled either. But it was new. It was exciting. It was what I thought the whole experience of having a mature friendship would be like. We could have the intellectual discussions about the latest art films or the current nonfiction bestseller, but we could also share our passion for baseball, barbecue, and bestiality (just joshing). We seemed to have it all. We were shaping our own destiny as a couple, us against everyone else, and in the beginning it was relatively stress-free. I thought all our days together were going to be the happiest days I would ever experience.

Hell's bells, was I ever wrong on that call.

You can't have two people that stubborn in close proximity to one another and maintain a semblance of control for any lengthy of period of time. The fights, when they did come, came quickly and often like a flood that just never seems to let up. It wasn't more than a few months till it seemed like we were having a fight every week. We would fight. We would yell. Phones would be slammed down, words would be exchanged, and a lot of feelings would get trampled upon. I'm usually a tough person. I usually don't let the world drag me down for too long, but I'm not exaggerating when I say there would be days when I would be scared that he would call me that day to begin the latest fight anew. It was almost as frustrating as the days when I would be scared that he wouldn't call me at all. For a long time there, years even, we had hit the period in our relationship we like to call "the Troubles". We're not the type to keep our feelings bottled up for very long. When they came, they came hard and fast. Whatever emotion you could start a fight over we would start them repeatedly over. Jealousy, revenge, paranoia, skepticism, and even plain spite--we weren't strangers to leafing through our rolodexes to happen upon a good reason to get something off our chests.

Even when we started seeing each other, that only made it worse. Then we had a whole other set of reasons to be disappointed with one another.

I can't even tell you when exactly we left "the Troubles" behind us. Part of us still believes that we won't ever leave that state of friendship. There are some days where we'll talking and an old wound will just fester again because of some joke he just made. There are some days where I specifically tease him too long or diligently for pure amusement. That's the way it is with old friends. Old fights never really die; they just get postponed until a later date (or year).

But what I have learned in the last five years, the last five years since we had a fight which led to us not speaking for eight months, was that there isn't ever going to be a fight with him that'll be more important to me than preserving what we have here. Yes, I'm a very proud little 'ole lady. I don't suffer losing with the easiest of spirits. A lot of my being comes from the steady confidence that whatever I say and what I believe is what I stick to. I haven't gotten this far by remaining that witless puppet who let her mother dictate to her her every action. But now when Patrick and I fight, it's different. At the end of it all, I don't see me sticking to my guns on general principle. We've gotten to the point where it isn't as important to be right as it is to be together. I can't speak for him, but I reckon we've reached the point where we see that a bond like ours doesn't come around everyday. The priority is in keeping that alive rather than keeping old grudges going.

I used to think the perfect friend would be the one who said and did everything to make me happy.

Now I just think the perfect friend is the one who brings out the best in me, who makes me want to say and do everything... or at least a great deal... to make him happy. I don't mind being wrong as long as it's to him because in a lot of ways being wrong with him isn't being wrong at all.

I have nothing to prove. I don't have to show how smart I am to him or how my ideas are entirely foolproof. I don't have to defend everything I do. And I don't have to explain myself in fear of him judging me. When you lose the need to constantly try to your best self to a person it makes it easier to concede that you aren't always at your best and that you're going to be wrong a good deal of the time. When you don't have to be perfect in front of a person, it makes dealing with your own imperfection a lot easier, you know?

I used to think happiness had something to do with being right all the time. Now I see happiness has more to do with being able to be wrong sometimes without being judged at all. That's such a wonderful feeling which I can't even explain to you.

It's the same with Greg and I. In the beginning I thought I had all the answers about how love was supposed to work. I was the one in the relationship telling him how the relationship was going to proceed. I was the one guiding the ship. Greg was content to be my subordinate. According to him, he was just so relieved to have found me he decided it was easier to allow me to take charge than to give me all the input he could. That suited me just fine. In the beginning I had constructed a perfect scenario of how I wanted my relationships to go. Partly based on what I had read and seen, and partly based on the mistakes I had made with Patrick and a few other of my starter relationships, I thought I knew how my one true love would proceed. It was that simple to me. I was a twenty-year-old vain and stubborn jackass, who thought she knew all the answers. Woe betide anyone who got in my way, including Greg. I had a plan and no one was going to stop me from completing it.

It's a recurring theme, but I let my vanity get the best of me. I thought love, like most things, was done best when there was one clear voice in charge. I thought that, if anything, my rising to the forefront of accepting responsibility for the success of our relationship would relieve some of the pressure off of Greg. I thought he'd be happy not to have to work so hard. I was willing to work entirely too hard for the both of us. We used to discuss that as one of the reasons we hit it off so well. I was domineering and shrewish; he was supportive and submissive. He was everything I didn't have with my previous relationships, someone malleable, someone pliant. I thought he was wonderful for his generosity even as I was taking full advantage of it. I thought he was delightful for his lack of drive when it came to us even as I was spoiling myself upon it. It just felt great not to have to butt heads like Patrick and I. It just felt like a relief to stand tall as being the authority in everything regarding the two of us.

I didn't see the pattern for what it was. It was just another example of my believing the initial phases of our relationship would be the template upon which the rest of the relationship would be built. My father has a phrase about me that I'm sure I have written about before. He says, "Breanne doesn't think. She just goes." And that's what I do. I don't think much about the repercussions of my actions. I do what I do because I think it for the best and I don't let anyone hold me back. Very often it doesn't work out the way I think it would, but the majority of the time I'm more than happy with the results. Yet it's the times that I fall far short that I'm known for. I've erred so often on the side of rushing headlong into walls that it's become something of a joke that I don't possess even the slightest amount of patience. That's what happened with Greg. I took our initial dates as a sign of things to come. I made those crazy days and wonderful nights the basis of how the rest of our lives were going to look like. No matter how you slice it, I was jumping the gun. The next few years while we were dating, while we were engaged, and while we were married, I would compare it to those days of halcyon and sunflowers. When the plan didn't seem to be proceeding as I expected, I didn't blame my high expectations. I blamed Greg for for not believing in my ideas. I blamed him for not being supportive, the one thing he's always been.

Worse yet, I blamed him for not doing enough.

When those first years weren't as happy as I told him they would be, I became discouraged. I started to look more and more in his direction to help out, which wasn't fair to him at all. All that time I'd been telling him he didn't need to do anything. That I'd take care of it. All that time I'd been scolding him for wanting to put his input in. That I wanted to be in charge. Then all of a sudden I make it his fault for not doing or saying enough. I put him in the worst possible position of telling him that standing back and giving me wasn't wrong, and then I crucify him for doing that very thing.

I thought he wasn't making me happy when the truth was that I told him not trying so hard to make me happy would, in fact, make me happy. It was a terrible position to put him in. I was such a wicked wife when all this happened.

That's why I went to Chicago. That's why I cheated on Greg. It started to look very appealing to me to be with someone who wasn't afraid to stand on his two feet and give as good as he got. It started to look like I wasn't cut out to be with someone who was entirely passive. I was tired of being unhappy with someone who apparently didn't give a damn about making our marriage work. I was tired of doing all that work on creating the happy home scenario all on my own. I was just plumb tuckered of being the perfect wife.

It wasn't until after the trip and after Greg had finally forgiven me that I figured out where I went wrong. I'd based our relationship on me being the boss. I was so afraid of being overruled by my husband that I didn't let him have any power at all. I didn't let him contribute enough to make the marriage he wanted. When he responded to my domineering ways by retreating even further, it only set up a vicious cycle of me telling him he was worthless and him becoming a ghost in our very house. Greg's not like me. He doesn't respond by fighting back then running. He runs first and then he just keeps on running. My first option has always been to insure my ideas are heard. Only if it becomes apparent that I'm going to be given the short shrift, then I run. I only fight the fights I want to win. Everything else becomes expendable. Greg is so docile that he'll give in just to make me happy. He responds to conflict by doing everything he can to make sure there is no conflict. There we were, two people fumbling at being married to one other and neither one of us having the first clue how to expertly talk through our inconsistencies.

When we started seeing our couple's therapist she explained it to me.

She told me that my plan for the perfect marriage was faulty from the very beginning. Any plan that isn't shared by both people in the marriage is no plan at all. It's not like a film or a novel that soars from having one clear vision. It's more like that seesaw from the playground of my youth. I can't just push and push on my end, expecting it to work. I needed to give a chance for my partner, for Greg, to give a chance to push back. She said that I was too intent on blazing a path through the tall grass just to make it to the other side of them that I had neglected to make sure Greg was right behind me. And she was right. I thought happiness from a marriage was the by-product of doing it right. I thought of it as the pot of gold waiting for me at the other end of the rainbow. Now I can see that happiness isn't the goal of a good marriage. It's the definition of a good marriage. Happiness in a couple isn't the result of planning everything to perfection or executing everything flawlessly. Being happy is just what good marriages are all about. Being happy leads to a good marriage. What I should have done is made sure that we were happy as often as possible rather than where we were headed as husband and wife. I was so caught up in having a stellar marriage than I couldn't see how much of it I was allowing to fall apart. My tunnel vision almost led to me to getting divorced from the only man who truly could make me happy.

Now I finally understand what it means to be Little Miss Chipper. It doesn't mean I have to be 100% perfect. It just means I have to be 100% invested in whatever I'm working at. I can't let my perception of how things are cloud where I want them to be. That only leads to me working too hard at the process. I need to remember that it's not all up to me to make everything good. Like my daddy says, "You can either drive or be driven; you can't do both." I can try very hard to do all the work in this relationship, but eventually I'm going to find it's too much for one woman to handle--as intelligent, beautiful, and stubborn as she may be. Sure, most of the time I like being out front and taking charge. But there has to be some days where I can let him take over and just sit back in the buggy to enjoy the ride for once.

Being Little Miss Chipper doesn't mean being on all the time. Sometimes it just means being content to enjoy the stillness every so often. I can still be that little 'ole girl with the joy in her heart that my mother saw once upon a time. All it takes is showing that joy to others... and not shoving it down their throats. I can't force people to be happy. It's not my responsibility to put a smile on everyone's face whether or not they like it. It's only my responsibility to put a smile on my own.

Ask anyone who knows me now. They'll tell you I still have a smile on my face almost every day of my life. The only difference it's entirely because of me and not because I'm working all the time to make everyone else happy. I'm happy because I'm happy, and not because I think I can brighten the whole world through sheer will. I'm happy to just let my sun shine and let others seek it if they choose to do so.

After all, I can only be me--no more, no less.

Breanne

I Used To Play For All Of The Loneliness, That Nobody Notices Now, I'm Begging Slow, I'm Coming Here, Oh, I'm Waiting

--"#41", Dave Matthews Band

"No, I don't want to tell you. You're only going to sass me about it later."

"No, I'm serious. Just tell me."

"No."

"Come on, I'm not going to make fun of you. I swear."

"No. And that's that."

"What was it? Did you hear something?"

"Hell's bells. You're not going to let go of this, are you? You're like a hound dog fixed with a bone in its mouth."

"You sounded upset. I wanted to know."

"It's nothing."

"It's something. I can tell."

"I was sitting here just now and the wall started shaking. Happy now?"

"No. What'd you think it was."

"I have no idea and that's what's got me spooked right now."

"Could your parents be up?"

"No, they would have checked up on me if they saw my light on. I'm nervous that it wasn't them. Forget it. It's probably the wind telling lies again, as my daddy says."

"Wind on your wall. From the inside. Not likely."

"I'd rather not dwell on it, please, thank you."

"Well, it's got you all upset. I was just asking if you were okay, Breanne. I'm worried about you because you sound worried about yourself."

"I was. I still am, but talking about isn't making it any better. Now shush up."

"Okay."

"I'm probably exhausted is all it is, you know? I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing."

"If you say so."

"I do. It only sounded louder than it was because it's late at night and everything else is so still, you know? Silly Breanne--I'm only scaring myself. Nothing else is out there."

"The good thing is you've got other people in the house. I hate it when weird stuff happens and I'm all by myself."

"They're asleep."

"Yeah, but you can wake them. They're only down the hall. They could hear you if you were to scream bloody murder, right?"

"I suppose."

"Then feel better because of that."

"Wait."

"Wait, what?"

"Shush. Hold your horses and be quiet. Did you hear that?"

"Not over the phone."

"Hell's bells, something shook the wall again. I'm getting really nervous here, Patrick. What in gracious Providence is that?"

"Are you scared?"

"Stop it."

"You are scared."

"Don't do that, please, thank you. If you're going to be on the phone I don't want you to be making light of my situation."

"Okay."

"I need you to be a friend right now and tell me I'll be alright. I need you to strive to convince me of that."

"Okay."

"Good."

"And you're sure your parents aren't just getting a snack right now?"

"I'm certain."

"How certain?"

"They would have peeked in. I'm sure of that."

"You could check."

"Leave this room? You're crazier than a mule in a pool."

"If it really is nothing, wouldn't you want to know?"

"Yes. But if it is something, I don't want to know. I want to stay right here until I'm sure it is nothing we are talking about."

"Okay. But it's only going to drive you crazy until you're sure."

"There it is again. This time it came from down the stairs. I'm really getting scared now, Patrick."

"Go see. It's the only way."

"That's just great. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to. Hold on, I'm getting dressed and going out to check. I'm going to leave the cordless here so I ain't distracted."

"Be safe."

----

"Patrick, oh, Patrick. The light's on in the kitchen and someone's walking around downstairs. I could hear them."

"Someone's in your house right now?"

"There is. What am I going to do?!"

"Wake up your parents for one. You should do that now."

"Hell, why is there someone downstairs? What do you think they want?"

"You're not going to wake them up."

"No."

"Why not?"

"If it is nothing I don't want to be their little 'ole scaredy cat."

"And what if it is something? What then? You should dial 911 if you're convinced someone is downstairs that doesn't belong there."

"I'm sure of it."

"Then wake them up or dial someone."

"Talk to me. Tell me I'm acting crazy."

"You're crazy."

"Say, 'Breanne, you're crazy.'"

"Breannie, you're the craziest."

"I'm serious. I'm overreacting, you know?"

"I'm not there. I can't tell if you are or not. I'm just scared what if you aren't imagining things and there really is somebody downstairs. I want you to be safe."

"Thank you. I'm going to wait up here for now. If I hear it again or something else happens you have my vow that I'll wake somebody up."

"Good. That's all I want."

"Hell's bells, I can still hear them ruffling through the cabinets and such. I don' reckon if it were my folks they would be rooting around in their own house like that, you know? I'm really torn up inside right about now."

"You'll be alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think if it were really someone breaking in they would have noticed there was somebody up by now. They would have either gone upstairs to confront you or they would have been scared off. Nobody's going to continue to make noise in a house they're planning to steal from if they know someone's up. It doesn't make sense."

"What do you think it is then?"

"It's probably some homeless guy making a sandwich. He'll probably leave when he eats something."

"That ain't funny."

"I'm serious. It's probably some vagrant looking to eat something."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"It's harmless mostly."

"You're wrong."

"He'll go away."

"He hasn't so far."

"Are you sure you saw something?"

"I came halfway down the stairs and the kitchen lights were on. There was some noise in the kitchen. I tiptoed back up the stairs, checked my parents were both in their room, and high-tailed back to my room and the phone. Someone's there."

"Okay. I believe you. You need to do something, Breanne. Make some noise, call the police, do something--just to let him know you're still up and such."

"Shush up again. I hear something else. Errr! What was that? Something just tapped against my window right now. Hold on again. I'm going to assess the situation, darling."

----

"What on God's green Earth is going on here, Patrick? What on God's green Earth is happening to me?"

"What is it? What'd you see?"

"I'm truly frightened right now."

"What did you see?"

"I don't know how to process this all, at all."

"Breanne. Focus. Tell me what's out your window right now."

"Somebody put two long wooden poles onto my window."

"Wooden poles?"

"Two story thin window poles. I haven't the slightest indication what they're used for. Most of all, I have no inclination as to why somebody would want to bang them against my window."

"Could somebody trying to climb up to your window, Breanne? Is that it?"

"With poles? Two of them? What are they going to do with them, you figure? Shimmy up them hand over hand as if they were circus folk? Why not just use a ladder?"

"That's what I was about to say."

"Why are there poles against my window? Why that window? Why not just come up through my balcony? It'd be a much easier time of it. This isn't making the least bit of sense and it's really got my perplexed, Patrick. I feel like it's midnight at the oasis and all I'm seeing around me are mirages."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Can you just stay up with me until I get this sorted out? Do you have work tomorrow or anything, sugar?"

"Yeah, but this is more important. I want to at least stay up until I get an explanation. Besides, you have school tomorrow, little lady."

"I haven't even finished my homework yet."

"At least you have an excuse."

"I can't do anything right now but concentrate on this. What is going on here?"

"This is a mystery."

"Wait, I hear my mother up. I'll be back."

"I'll wait here."

----

"First thing she asked me was what I was smoking. Can you imagine?"

"You tell her how scared you are and what you saw and heard..."

"And she thinks I was on something."

"Figures."

"The worst part is she didn't even go downstairs. She just said she didn't see the kitchen light on currently. She wouldn't even wake up my daddy so he could go down to investigate. I just want to know what it was, you know? At this rate, I'll never know. I hate her."

"I'd go check it out if I was there."

"I know you would. You're a good friend like that."

"I'd make you come, of course."

"You always do. Haha."

"You know it."

"At least it's quieter now. I don't feel like a cat at the edge of the bath tub so much any more."

"Do you need me to stay up any longer?"

"If you don't mind."

"Do I ever mind?"

"You never do, sugar. This is true."

Breanne

I Used To Be So Cute To Me, Just A Little Bit Skinny, Why Do I Look To All These Things, To Keep You Happy

--"Unpretty", TLC

On Buying A Halloween Costume

even pretending
leaves me confused, like a dog

trapped on the subway.
curvy, colored masks never

suited me nor have
disguises ever hidden

me completely. I
can't quite comprehend the need

to shed, like snakeskin,
one's character to open

one's soul to the world.
forgo the cape and leave the

black spandex behind.
hiding your face just weakens

what you can offer.
don a smile the way you would

a golden halo
and the world may just believe

you are every
bit the saint you're carefully

attempting not to
be ever mistaken for.

dw

She Got The Current In Her Hand, Just Shock You Like You Won't Believe, Sun In The Amazon, With The Voltage Running Through Her Skin

--"Electric Feel", MGMT

I watched Orphan yesterday night with high expectations. It hadn't drawn my interest when it first came out in theaters, but with each passing week I started to hear more and more about how over the top scary it was. Not gory or gruesome, mind you, which I tend to dislike, but out-and-out-we'll-toss-everything-at-you scary. Not to mention I kept hearing how the "twist" for Esther, the orphan in question played by Isabelle Fuhrman, was freaking batshit nutso that it made the film all the more a guilty pleasure for having known the twist right from the start. I had to buy the film the very first day it came out and watch it.

And it did not disappoint. I can honestly say that compared to any other demon child/bad seed thriller or horror films, Orphan truly pulls out all the stops. With every other film in the genre, you still get the impression there's a sense of decency or even innocence at what the children in question are doing. You are still left with the impression that, if they knew more about the consequences of their actions, that possibly they might think twice about committing the various horrifying acts they perpetrate throughout the course of the film. You still believe, like the axiom goes, that they are good at heart buried down below their complex upbringing and whatever forces twisted them into such sadistic creatures.

I believe the point where I knew I wasn't dealing with that kind of child in question in this film was when Esther asks her deaf seven-year-old little sister to help hide the body of the nun she had just smashed twice in the head with a hammer. At that point I was completely thinking to myself that there just isn't an ounce of innocence at all in this little girl. It's bad enough to kill someone... but a nun? And then to trick your truly innocent little sister into becoming an accomplice? There's a whole other level of evil in that scenario.

And what's worse is that's one of the more subdued acts of violence that occurs during the film. As the plot just goes from mildly disturbing to outright menacing and shocking, you as the audience begin to see why, because of her perfmance, Roger Ebert said Isabelle Fuhrman "is not going to be convincing as a nice child for a very long, long time."


do what you feel now

----

While not a box office success, I think the film succeeds on its merits because it plays upon the simple premise that adults severely underestimate the capabilities of children. Even setting aside Esther for a second, Max, as the younger sister who is put in peril constantly by the arrival of the older (much older it turns out) Esther, shows herself just as capable of being deceitful in order not to draw the suspicion of her sister. If anything, it's Max and her older brother Daniel who do the most effective job at stopping Esther before their mother ever gets involved. And their poor father still remains clueless as the Esther's true nature till the very end. For most of the story Esther preys upon all the second chances her family affords her. She uses the very nature of her small stature, the way she dresses, and carries herself to get away with murder, literally. Even her voice and her very inflections she manipulates to the situation. She's a different kind of monster, using the ribbons in her hair and the lack of strength to obscure the fact she is, without a doubt, batshit crazy.

I mean--I never killed anyone (that I'd be willing to confess to, at least), but I believe the same thing happened to me and my brother growing up. I was forever coasting on the fact I got good grades and pretty much stayed out of trouble to hide the enormity of how much trouble I caused when I set my mind to it. I never hurt anyone physically except my brother, but vandalization and stealing all sorts of other peoples' possessions were a lot of the ways I dealt with my frustration. My family still doesn't know how often my "taking a walk" really meant blowing off the steam by destroying or taking stuff.

And it's the same with most of my good friends. Breanne's parents never knew how far and what she did all those times she ran away from home. They didn't even find out about sleeping underneath her friends' old home until like five years ago and certainly have never been told the story of her almost accepting rides from perfect strangers. She's only told them half of what actually happened all those times. Most of the time they were content with her explanation of staying over at a neighbor's house or having one of her relatives hide her away. Rather than think the worse, adults are always more willing to find the more excusable and innocent explanation for what their kids do or say. Nobody wants to believe that their children are capable of deceit and cruelty on par with the rest of the world. Nobody wants to be the one who finds out that their kid is just not like the rest of the kids in their class.

They have these expectations that because they turned out fine, that their kids will as well.

I used to think the same way because none of the kids in my elementary school or even high school revealed anything I'd qualify as horrifying. It wasn't until I got into college and older that the sick and twisted childhoods of some people I knew started to make their way to the surface. From Ilessa being routinely beat up by her older brother for more than five years of her life to Jennifer's brother's own stories of being tossed down their well by kids in their neighborhood claiming to be his friend--I've heard too many stories of kids just being outright evil to think that we're all born good. While it's true that most kids fall somewhere between being good and evil, that doesn't mean there aren't just some bad seeds out there.

Not every kid can be little miss sunshine (or even Little Miss Chipper).

Somebody's kids have to grow up to be the Esthers of the world.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Hold My Breath, And You Close My Eyes, As A Curtain Of Light Drops From The Skies, I Never Knew, My Love Could Get So Far, From Me

--"Sippy Cup", Gospel Gossip

I was watching Castle tonight do their big Halloween-themed episode. While it was superb as usual--full of the requisite twists and cinematic banter between all the characters involved--what struck me as quite original was the use of Nathan Fillion in the opening scene. Because it was a holiday-themed episode, we see his character Richard Castle strapping on his boots, donning his brown leather duster, and stepping out of the door as... Captain Malcolm Reynolds, otherwise known as the character he portrayed for less than a season five years ago on his other starring vehicle, Firefly. As Lucy would say, it was a hoot-and-a-half to see him unexpectedly reprise, even for a fleeting moment, one of the most beloved characters in all of the Whedonverse.

Two different characters. Two different world views. And yet they were both portrayed by the same actor. While it might have been five years since he last looked like a Browncoat, I can honestly say that even if the show had lasted five years long, I couldn't have pictured Nathan looking any different as Mal than he did tonight. In fact, it makes me wonder how much his character's appearance might have transformed had that show run its full course. Would the Mal I saw on Castle still have been the Mal on Firefly, season 6? Who's to say. It was just nice getting to visit with an old friend again, albeit briefly.


I've written me off, I've written me off

It also makes me wonder what becomes of the affection an actor holds for the character he plays, especially television actors who sometimes have to don the coats of the character for upwards of six or seven years sometimes. After their show has been cancelled, after all the sets have been torn down, I wonder just how much they really miss the invitation to walk in those shoes ever again. I know--some actors treat their roles as the jobs they are. I suppose some actors really are able to jump from character to character, like Sam Beckett, never giving a second thought to the people whose soul they pushed into their bodies, but I believe that with some performers they truly do feel like they've lost a part of themselves when they are told they will no longer be able to be that person ever again. I believe that some actors or actresses just take it that much to heart; just like I believe there are some roles that are harder to shed than others--not because they're more profound or because they are in any way "better" roles, but because there are just roles which are more illuminating, more rewarding, and just plain more fun to tackle than others.

Those are the roles that make me wonder how hard it is to give up the ghost. Those are the roles that come along only a few times in a performer's life.

It makes me think of the precepts we normal folk adopt, the characters we choose to portray. Shakespeare had it right, I'm afraid. One man in his time does play many parts. What he failed to mention, though, is that there are some parts that we seem to take to more effectively than others. Whether that's because we find the challenge in the role ourselves or because the role is thrust upon us and we get pigeonholed into playing that part over and over again; there's just some masks that we wear that over time blends into the face we wore before, and just becomes a new face. The more we put on these masks, the more we hide behind them, the harder it gets to separate us from the costume. That's what I've come to discover over the years. It isn't so much who we are as people on the inside that defines us, but what the world sees us on the outside as that defines us. It's really like the difference between a person's story and a person's backstory. The backstory may be able to explain why a person does something, what their motivations are, but the only thing that matters is what a person's remembered for, never mind the reason they did what they did.

When a person changes identities--when that awkward teen in high school tries to become that easygoing college student, when the weakling runt of the litter takes up martial arts to become more proud of himself, when the stubborn tomboy grows up to become the earthly mother of three--sometimes there's a struggle involved. Sometimes the struggle is external with the world not knowing that person as anything other than what they are known for. Sometimes it takes an extended period of time for those closest to the person involved to see them as the person they are trying to become. Sometimes the struggle is internal with the person not really sure he or she wants to change anything about himself at all. Sometimes it does take outside forces and outside pressure from people around them for that man to become the person they are meant to be.

Often, though, it's more than that. Often, despite the acceptance that their transformation is for the best, a person will still struggle with the process of letting go of their old identity. They could have been known as a boldfaced liar, a notorious violent person, or even the scourge of the seven seas, and even though they see for themselves the need to metamorphose into something grander, they still blanche at changing any more quickly than they have to. It's not that they really want to hold onto the viler aspects of their character; it's merely that they had to live with that facet of themselves for so long it's really become all they know. Even though they know it isn't working out for them, they really lack the experience to be any other way in the beginning.

That's why people hold onto their old monikers for so long. That's why the class clown often becomes the wearisome jokester long after his jokes have stopped being funny. They don't know what else to do if they don't do what they've always done. If I'm not funny, they say, then I'm nothing.

That's why I can empathize with actors who still revisit with their more well-known characters. I know what it's like to be thought of in a certain light early on... and then suddenly lose that quality that made you special. I know what it's like to lose all definition of who you are, to be a performer without a new role to play. I know what it's like to fall back into old routines, old conversations, because you know who you were when you were playing that part. It may not be who you are now, but when you're still struggling to figure out the "new" you or the "improved" you, it's all too easy to wonder if you simply weren't better off going your whole life being known for one part of your personality and that one part only.

At least you were somebody and at least people talked about you.

When you have a purpose in life you tend to hold onto it strongly, sometimes longer than you should. It beats not having a purpose and feeling like you need to grab onto whatever you can that passes near to you. When you have your role set for you, you sometimes stay rooted to that role rather than look for the part you really were supposed to play. Sometimes its easier to get stuck in the rut rather than wander off directionless.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers