Another Pleasant Valley Sunday, Charcoal Burning Everywhere, Rows Of Houses That Are All The Same, And No One Seems To Care

--"Pleasant Valley Sunday", The Monkees

I went to Ruth's Chris with my cousin yesterday and I had myself one of the most enjoyable meals I have ever had. What follows is my actual review of Ruth's Chris for publication:

I am not a professional steak eater, feeling it imperative to maintain my amateur status for the purity of the love of the meat. When it comes to deciding on a meal, steak does not immediately leap to mind. However, when I do feel the impulse to gorge upon premium steak I do believe Ruth's Chris is one of the, if not the, foremost establishments to accomplish such a vital task. Their filet mignon is one of the most excellent examples of food done right that I have ever come across. It isn't just the pedigree inherent in the restaurant's choice of meat; it's also the resplendence by which they prepare their wares. It was not only the best steak I have ever had; it's the best steak that I could ever have. While Arnie Morton's may put up a good fight, I would have to say the victor in the battle between who has the better steak would have to go to Ruth's Chris.

I definitely plan to become a return visitor. Who knows? I may choose to give up my amateur status yet.

Nothing beats a good steakhouse. In most restaurants a good selection is critical. Yet when it comes to fine meats, specialization is a godsend. One of the best steakhouses I have ever been to, Shula's in D.C., only had eight items on its menu--seven cuts of beef and lobster. When you do steak right you don't need to waste time catering to the vegetarians and vegans of the world. When you go to a steakhouse, it's all right there in the name. You go to those places to eat steak. Nothing else.

In writing it's much the same. I think Nicholas Sparks is an evil man for penning tearjerkers like The Notebook, Message in a Bottle, and, of course, A Walk To Remember, but he seems to have found his niche. As much as I wish he'd open up with some other type of writing there's a certain comfort in knowing what to expect. Also, I think it builds up your skills when you focus on one type of writing. Sure, there's the danger of becoming predictable and of retreading the same old ideas. But there are certain timeless subjects that have universal appeal. Love and loss would certainly qualify as being one of these subjects. It's like that one philosopher once said, "it's better to be good at just one thing then be mediocre in sixty."

That's advice I try to apply to my own writing. Oft times I think I write too many of the sad sap stories about my childhood. But if you've studied my writing you'll notice I tend to write a lot about the coming-of-age experience, those Wonder Years where, not only do I lose a little of my innocence, but I also build upon something to become somewhat more mature. That's a topic that's always fascinated me. My own novel is one giant coming-of-age story presented from both ends. That's what excites me and I can only hope that it excites whomeever may be reading me.

My fear when it comes to my writing is that I'm boring. Just as I would never ask to eat steak, however delicioso it may be, every night, I worry that writing post after post here about the same growing experiences may prove redundant in the long run. I wonder if I can truly maintain a steady stream of posts while holding onto the longtime reader's interest. I worry I'm going to run of anecdotes to share, observations to pass out. But most of all I worry that people are just going to stop caring about what I'm saying.


I need a change of scenery

All I can do is make each story excellent on its own without worrying if I told the same type of story a month or even a week ago. I can only hope that, even though you just had the steak the night before, you'll remember how good it was and return wanting more of the same. I can only hope I never reach your threshhold of having too much of a good thing.

I can only hope that man can live on steak alone because I don't know how to prepare much else very well.

(Though, in real life, I make a mean orange chicken...)

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Because She's Trying, She's Trying, Trying Hard To Do What You Taught Her To, She's Trying, She's Trying, Trying Hard To Be What You Want Her To

--"She's Trying", Dance Hall Crashers

I waited.

My second cousin Katie, four years my junior, was outside her house with the boy of a friend of my family’s. It wasn’t so much a set-up as one of those happy instances of serendipity where two people hit it off. More to the point, it was the first such instance where Katie actually overcame her innate shyness and actually was holding her own in conversation with a guy. She was outside, laying on her hammock with him. She had been for the last hour or so, leaving me, my mother, and my cousin Shel to gossip like an old-fashioned sewing circle.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” I asked, drying off a platter my cousin had just handed to me.

“Never you mind that, honey. I’m sure she’ll let us know when it’s time for us to know,” my mother replied from the nearby table. She was as amused as we were. We’d all had the same thought. Katie had been too shy and, barring some divine intervention, she had been destined to lead a very lonely life. Tonight was a nice surprise.

“I bet you, Breanne, she’s charming the socks off that boy. That Katie is not without some charm,” Shelly piped in.

“Nope, she’s very pretty. I’ve always told her so,” I said. “I’m happy for her. She deserves this.”

I had grown up with Katie. While I wasn’t as close with her as I was with Shelly, Katie, I believe had been able to confide in me in a manner she wasn’t able to confide in her older brothers or her parents. I was the closest female relative in age. More than that, I had an unflappable reputation as being more rambunctious than anyone else in the family—a reputation I am sure I have no idea as to origin. I always attempted to give her sage advice because I saw in her some similarities. She had been deathly afraid of what everybody thought of her. I used to be like that. The majority of my advice over the years had come in the form of informing her that she was allowed to make mistakes. The strive for perfection was a strive for futility, and that it was much more rewarding to allow herself to breathe once in a while. I let her know that God would love her if she didn’t get the immaculate grades, didn’t always listen to her parents, or, heaven forbid, talked to a boy once in a while. Along that vein, I told her a secret. I told her that her parents would probably forgive her too for her indiscretions as long as she didn’t make it a habit. This is not to suggest, I inserted the caveat, that you follow in my footsteps, but there is certainly some trail to follow at this point. Basically, I let her know that whatever she wanted to do probably wouldn’t be any more outrageous than my behavior at her age.

“I remember when you first brought a boy home, honey. I remember the smile on your face that never left for the whole day.”

“Oooh, I want to hear this,” my cousin said.

“Mother, no,” I warned her strictly.

“Shelly, you would have been laughing to see your cousin scrambling around to entertain him. She was always asking him if he needed any more refreshments—cookies, snacks, drinks. He was so polite that he couldn’t refuse her. That poor boy must have gained five pounds that day.”

“Mother,” I said, trying to stifle my laugh.

“And then, at the end of the day, she waited for him to kiss her…”

“Like you see in the movies,” I said.

“And he leaned in and gave her this friendly peck on the cheek. Well, she wouldn’t have it. That’s not the way my little girl was led to believe these things were done,” my mother laughed. “She follows the poor lad down the walkway, spins him around, and tells him he’s mistaken if he thinks he’s going to cheat her out of a goodnight kiss.”

“You didn’t, Bree.”

“Hey, I felt cheated. Hell’s bells, I fed him, entertained him. He wasn’t going to let my first real outing with a boy end without a goodnight kiss.”

“You practically tackled him to the ground, honey. I had to help him up.”

“I got my kiss, didn’t I?” I smiled sheepishly. “Besides, there are just some people who are just too shy for their own good. That’s my belief.”

As if on cue, Katie walked in through the porch door, grin plastered across her face and a very noticeable twinkle in her eyes. She looked transcendent.
“Breanne, can I talk to you outside?” she asked, walking directly up to me by the sink.

“Go ahead. I can finish up here,” Shelly told me.

“Sure, sugar. I’ll follow you out.”

Once outside, we sat down on the porch steps, the excitement in Katie’s face very noticeable. I was very curious as to the manner in which things played out.

“I see you had a very interesting night, Miss Katie. I want to hear all about it.”

She giggled. She never looked as resplendent as when she was laughing. I was used to seeing the taciturn Katie, the reserved Katie, that I used to wonder whether or not she thought she was allowed to laugh. Even in my stilted days of my days scheduled out for me I still found the time to enjoy myself. My dance classes, hanging out with friends, reading a good book—all these were enough to look forward to when I was having a very ho-hum kind of day. I feared that Katie didn’t have a hobby outside of her classes and her family to look forward to like that. To see her smile so broadly was refreshing to me.

She proceeded to tell me about her night, how he said she had caught his eye and been nervously talking to her the whole night. Finally, he had asked her to show her the hammock. She had declined at first because she hadn’t realized that when he said to show him the hammock it didn’t literally mean to show him where the hammock where was. She thought the hammock was in plain sight and that he must be six degrees short of blind if he wasn’t able to see it from where they were standing. Once he had explained that he wished to get to know her better she was more than willing to spend some time sitting on the hammock together. He had asked her about her school, her childhood, what she liked to do. To the best of her ability she tried to answer him without giving off a hint of how bizarre she felt. Nobody had asked her about her life before save family. But they didn’t really put forth the effort to seem interested. Not only did he seem interested, she said, but he actually was interested. She tried to ask him questions about his life, but she kept asking the wrong kinds of question. She asked him stuff like what was so wrong with him that he didn’t have a gal yet and stuff like if he wanted to get back to the party. She didn’t know what to do with the attention.

“The question is, Miss Katie, did he ever once ask to leave?”

“No.”
“Then he wanted to be with you. He must have. You guys were out there for almost two hours.”

“That long?”

“I’m afraid so.”

I gave Katie a big hug, letting her know how happy I was for her. She seemed to genuinely be amazed at how the night had went.

“So are you going to see him again? I know he lives close by. Is he going to call you again?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. I think I kind of messed up, Breanne.”

I sighed. “What happened?”

“Well, it was getting towards the end of the conversation and he asked me to see my cel phone. I told him that I had lost my last one and that I was going to get a new one later this week. Then he says, ‘so you don’t have a phone right now?’ I’m afraid not, I told him. ‘That’s a shame. And you don’t have a phone in the house?’ Of course I have a phone in the house. I laughed and he kind of looked at me. I mean—who doesn’t have a phone in their house?”

I tried not to laugh. I really tried not to.

“Silly goose, he was trying to get a phone number to call you. Did you at least get his number?”

“He tried giving it to me but I didn’t have anything to write it down with.”

“You should have run screaming into your home and grabbed a pen, a highlighter, a knife to carve into the tree—anything,” I practically yelled at her.

“Yeah,” she agreed. She slumped over slightly. I’d embarrassed her a bit which is something I did not intend to do. I needed to rectify the problem.

“It’s alright. He’ll find a way to find you, Miss Katie. At least you’re trying, which is good,” I said, trying to encourage her. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll have him and you together in no time.”
She grinned because she knew her favorite cousin wouldn’t steer her wrong… much. She too would get her good night kiss someday soon and, hopefully, she wouldn’t have to chase him down the walkway like I did.

Breanne

It's All The Good That Won't Come Out Of Me, And How Eventually My Mouth Will Just Turn To Dust, If I Don't Tell You Quick

--"The Good That Won't Come Out", Rilo Kiley

When Jennifer was really sick and wasn't telling any of her friends about it I'm sure she agonized about it. The old me used to second guess her motives, growing upset at the thought of being kept out of the loop, when I could have done some small bit to comfort her. The old me wanted to be a part of her last memories, to have one of her final memories be of what a good friend I was. The old me was plain and simply selfish. A huge problem of mine, as DeAnn and B. may attest to, is that I always looked at predicaments as if they were mine to solve. It didn't matter if the problem was somebody else's. It eventually became my problem. Yes, Jen was sick. Yes, Jen was in pain. But my dilemma was less about that and more about how much she didn't realize she was hurting by not telling me? My dilemma was about how she was disrespecting.

I wasn't a total asshole. When she did tell me I didn't have these thoughts right away. I, of course, was by her side as much as I could, rotating in shifts with her other friends and with her family. It was only a couple months after the grief subsided that the festering feelings of bitterness finally surfaced. I used to believe that had she told me sooner I might have been able to solve all this like I would stumble on some miracle all the doctors, all the specialists had missed. I honestly blamed her death on her. I suppose people could attribute such thinking to survivor's guilt. In truth, some of that did creep in. I mean--she was a saint compared to me. If wickedness is any kind of barometer of who deserves to die than I would have been taken a long time ago. She didn't deserve to die as much as sometimes I think I don't deserve to be going on when so many good people like Jennifer... and Jackie... and a few others, got taken so early in their lives. I could attribute it to that, but mostly I just like laying blame on people when I don't know how to deal with stress. Who better to blame for someone dying than the dead? Ends justify the means, baby. If she died then she must have done something wrong. She must have done something to deserve it, right?

Being in this zone of moral security where the guilty get punished and the innocent remain unscathed just didn't mesh with Jennifer's case. I guess you could call it my final proof that the world is unfair. On the outside, I couldn't see why she had to die, so I justified in my own head. She didn't ask for my help, she didn't ask for her other friends' help, then she missed out on something that might have "cured" her. She brought it upon herself for being too proud. This was my rationale.

But the truth was and is inoperable means inoperable.

I'm sure in the months between her discovering and it finally coming for her Jen had a lot of time to decide for herself whether or not she wanted to tell me. I'm sure she put some thought in her decision to keep it to herself for as long as she could. It must have been one of the hardest choices she had to make. Also, I think she had more pressing concerns on her mind than how I'd feel about this whole thing. Whatever the case may be, I've slowly been developing over the last two years some understanding of what may have been going through her mind. Some of it may have been to spare us as much anguish as possible. Some of it may have been to keep the negative thoughts away from her as much as possible--if she doesn't acknowledge it then it isn't as real. And some of it may have been being prideful. She was a strong woman in life. She might have felt no one needed to see her weaknesses on display.

There was a reason for her silence. There was a method to her behavior. I may not know the exact reason why she did what she did, but I think I'm beginning to finally accept that she was only looking out for us, in the end. No one knows how to deal with one's own futility, one's own demise. I shouldn't have been critical of when she told me. I should have been just glad she told me at all. I shouldn't have judged her as being somewhat less of a friend for holding onto this big secret. I should have been casting a more critical eye on myself for daring to second guess her.

For all I know she may have been anxious to tell me. I know now, I just know, that she thought what she was doing was a good thing. I know if telling me was the right thing to do for her I would have been among the first she told.

Whatever the case, it couldn't have been easy and I definitely could have made it easier.

I suck. That's pretty much the lesson for the day.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'll Always Remember, It Was Late Afternoon, It Lasted Forever, And Ended Too Soon

--"Cry", Mandy Moore

I was out in the water on my boogie board. It wasn't like I planned it. My back will attest to that. But it wasn't like I was trying to fight it either. Out on the water on that particular day, after a few hours of the same routine of riding into shore, paddling back out, and then doing it again, I was somewhat worn out. It felt kind of refreshing just to be hanging out past where the waves were forming, stomach flat on the board, and bobbing in the water.

I felt at peace with myself. I'm one of those that believe you don't have too many moments of clarity in your life. That was what my time on the water that day was. It was one of those few times where I had nothing to worry about, nothing to plan, nothing to concern me but what I was feeling at the moment. I do not know if it would have been the same if it had happened a few years earlier when I was too young to realize how rare those moments were or if it happened a few years later where I would be fretting the dangers I was putting myself in. At that time all I knew was it felt right.

I fell asleep. For quite a bit of time. I think my brother said I was out for about thirty minutes during which time I, on my board, drifted down the shore. The next thing I knew I was waking up, my back was very sunburned, and I was very disoriented. I paddled into shore, aching but very well-rested.

I sometimes wonder why moments like that don't happen except in the strangest of circumstances for me. Why can't I be chillaxing at home and have thirty minutes of bliss where nothing bothers me? Why am I always having these great times in conditions that are far from easy to duplicate. Sometimes I wonder about the turn of phrase, "getting away from yourself," and if it's truly necessary to place yourself in an unfamiliar place doing unfamiliar things to achieve a sense of contemplation which is conducive to finding inner peace. I have come to the simple conclusion it is. It's like the mathematical equation "input=output". If one always goes through the same rut one is going to get the same results. Change begets change, and sometimes it's as simple as going thirty miles down to the beach, getting on your board, and falling asleep.

I wish I could go out there right now and forget everything. At least for awhile. Nothing seemed as simple as it did back then.

Short post, but today could have used a moment of peace. Damn Walk To Remember. That movie tears me up something fierce every time. Ye shall be the death of me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Listen To The Girl, As She Takes On Half The World, Moving Up And So Alive, In Her Honey Dripping Beehive

--"Just Like Honey", The Jesus & Mary Chain

My turn.

----

I’ve never been good at good-byes. I think that’s why I instituted a rule long ago that I should never say it to another human being if I could possibly avoid. The timidity, the frigidness, the utter finality of the phrase turns me off in a way that can only be described as phobic. I possess a fear of telling people I’m leaving. Maybe it’s just me—I’ve never been too comfortable leaving people I care about. I’ve always been willing to set aside other engagements to otherwise remain with the person I wanted to be with at that given moment. It’s just what I do. I’m the type of person who would rather finish speaking with a good friend than go to the emergency room to remove a rod protruding from my chest--“Oh this old thing? ‘Tis nothing but a flesh wound. I’ll be fine. Now what were you saying?” This fear, this phobia, could also be attributed to the fact no one ever taught me the proper manner in which to conduct a farewell. Everyone around me has always known this defect to be intrinsic to my character that no one ever felt the need to alter that fact.

“Couldn’t you stay here? I don’t even care what we do, Eeyore. We could snort Quik again if you wanted. I wouldn’t say no,” she laughed. “How about it? Do one more line with me? Huh? Huh?” she continued, nudging me in the shoulder where my carry-on rested.

“No means no,” I said sharply, trying my best to maintain the plastic smile on my face. I tried to look away from her face. Tried and failed.

Airports are unique places. Every time I step into an airport now I’m always reminded of that scene in Love Actually where you see all the people hugging each other. At no other place do you witness the spectacle of people who genuinely care for each other showing their affection unfettered of any inhibition. On a grand scale this ritual repeats itself in airport after airport, individuals re-connecting on a basic level. On the other hand, nowhere else can you witness the spectacle of people who genuinely care for each other displaying their sadness on such a grand scale. Mothers saying farewell to sons, lovers saying adieu to one other, &c… This is the other ritual of the airport; this is the yin and yang dynamic of arrival and departure.

She stared at me awhile, giving me that familiar look where she has an idea in her head of how a conversation is supposed to play out. She has this gaze that tells me I’ve misspoken or acted out of turn in the drama she’s constructed for us. It usually takes her a moment to realize where the conversation has steered itself, the lingering effects of the deviation from form still noticeable in her inflection and in her gaze. Obviously, she had foreseen this scene playing out vastly different. Obviously, she was anticipating a memorable good-bye.

“So this is really good-bye?” she asked.

“I guess.”

“Well, thanks for coming, I guess. I guess I’ll talk to you later?” It was her turn for the porcelain grin frozen in place.

“Definitely.”

She went to wrap her delicate arms around me and I reciprocated in kind. We hugged like we hugged we had never done before—cold, aloof, hesitant. We embraced as if we were strangers who were very bitter to each other, which, I suppose, we were. The whole time I was there I treated her as if we were partners. When I had arrived at the airport I greeted her as if she was the sister I hadn’t seen in five years. I had picked her up, swung her around, and hugged her like I never wanted to let her go. When I had arrived you couldn’t bribe me to shut up. I was so excited to finally be able to conduct our tête-à-tête face-to-face that it seemed I would exhaust everything I had to tell her in the first few hours. When I had arrived I honestly felt like I didn’t want to leave her side. Ever.

The departure left a lot to be desired. I attempted to add a peck on the check to show some sign of familiarity. It wasn’t much, but I hoped it showed that, inside, I was restraining myself for both our sakes. She received it like a niece receiving a kiss from her ugly Aunt Maude. I was surprised that she didn’t turn up her nose, scrunch up her face, or show some other sign of disgust. The only reason I managed to glean her distaste was the fact that she turned her head away from me slightly. Only days before we had shared a fateful kiss on her balcony and now we were back to going through the motions. I let go of her body—not that she wasn’t already pulling away.

“So this is it. I’m really going,” I said, finally attempting to cobble together a proper send-off.

“Yeah, you are. Have a safe flight.”

Then she merely stared at me for agonizing seconds. Neither of us knew if that truly would be our last words to each other. I hoped it wouldn’t be, much as I believed she hoped as well.

But it really was. That really was the last thing I said before she spun on her heels and started to walk away from me. What could I do? I turned around and started to walk towards my gate, thinking she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me ever again.

I don’t think it’s a big secret that I’ve been fairly enamored of my fair partner in crime for some time. Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, despite our personal or romantic situations, some part of me is always going to treasure her in a fashion above mere friendship. I love that girl, straight and true. I know that now. I didn’t know that then. Back then, it was a little hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that someone could come to mean that much to me in such a short period of time. I didn’t expect it and I believe a small part of me didn’t want it. I knew it was going to be difficult. I’d been through a similar experience with Jina. I felt close to her too and it hurt thinking about how far away Jina lived and how little I would actually get to see her.

I was certain Breanne would be doubly worse.

I didn’t want to miss her. I wanted to keep things simple. Our friendship should be casual, on the down low, as not to make a big deal over a partnership that was destined to fade away before too long. I didn’t want to have the type of thoughts which would lead me to miss the chestnut brown curls that always fell in such breathtaking arrays. I didn’t want to long to stare deep in those blue-green eyes that always seemed poised to dart and sail on you. I didn’t want to fantasize about the dimples, those sweet dimples that taunted you to say not to them. Nope, I didn’t want that.

Most of all, I didn’t want to miss a fourteen-year-old girl.

When I was with her I didn’t notice the age difference so much. I didn’t feel lecherous. I felt like a magician, creating something unexpected out of nothing, when I was with her. I felt sharp. I felt brave. I felt like someone that deserved happiness. She brought that out in me and she still does. It was only when I was distanced from the experience, saw what everyone else must have been seeing that I started to feel shameful. I didn’t need anyone else to tell me that what I was feeling was improper. I beat myself up all the time about it. Truth be told, I think that’s what overwhelmed my mind that day, more than any silly notion of not being schooled in the art of departing. I think what finally caught up to me was the fact that I thought of what we had as being some dirty, little secret. I think it’s hard to continue to see someone as an equal when you’re secretly embarrassed to be seen around them. It changes the dynamic somehow.

I figured letting her go the way I did might be easier. It might save me some major heartache in the long run in exchange for some minor sadness in the short run. That was a good deal by all accounts.

I sat down in the terminal, plotting out the next sequence of events. I would slowly freeze her out. I would stop talking to her as long as I had been doing. Then I would stop being home when she told me she’d be calling. Sure, it might be tough to stay away from her for so long, not to hear her lilting tones telling me everything that had happened in her day. Sure, I might regret not knowing what became of her, but at least I could assure myself that I’d be able to hold my head up high around everyone who knew me. Soon, it would end. It would be for the best. It would be good. I would be happy.

I had settled on my plan for all of two minutes when I immediately began regretting it. I don’t know what made me think that a criteria existed for who was allowed to make me happy and who wasn’t. Here, I had found someone who made me genuinely smile for no other reason than talking to her, getting to know here. Here, I had found someone who liked me, not for everything I was because I was pretty much a shit a lot of the time, but for someone she could see me becoming. I wanted to throw this away, I wanted to throw her away because the numbers didn’t add up right. Well, screw the numbers, I wanted to be happy now. I didn’t want to chance that I might be happy later on when the dust had settled. I didn’t want to risk destroying a perfectly beautiful friendship for the sake of propriety. She had been telling me all along that she never cared for what other people thought, not when it came to me, but, as usual I hadn’t been listening. More importantly, I hadn’t been learning from her. She was trying to teach me that, if I gave us a chance, she was willing to weather the rough times when the discrepancy in ages might raise a few eyebrows to a time when people wouldn’t even give it a second glance. This was the play running through her head all those times she gave me those bewildered looks. She could see the future and it involved us being as close as we ever were five, ten, even twenty years from that point. The fact I didn’t have the faith in how strong our friendship was only proved that I was a freak. I was worrying about what might happen, what people might think, instead of concentrating on what was really important.

Her.

I sprang from my seat, mumbling something to the couple sitting next to me to watch my stuff, and took off in the direction where I had last seen Breanne walking. I ran for what seemed miles and miles, almost knocking several people down in my haste. I was a man on a mission, a marathon runner speeding towards destiny. Mostly I just thought I was a man who had recently made a horrible, horrible mistake and who was hoping he wasn’t too late to rectify it. I needed to make it right before it could get any more wrong.

I found her fifty yards from the main entrance to the terminal. She was shuffling slowly away from me. Even from a distance one could tell that she was not a happy camper. She had her arms crossed in front of her and her hair tangled down in front of her face. She had taken our parting about as well as I had, I figured. I slowed my pace to a speed walk until I finally caught up to her. I grabbed her arm and slowly spun her around to face me. I didn’t hesitate in the least.

I kissed her like we had wanted to kiss before , then I placed my arms around her like I had so wanted to place my arms around her before. I held her like that for a good, long while—we had even begun to grow an audience. When I felt like I had held her long enough I placed my mouth to her hair and whispered to her.

“Forget what I said before. Forget how I was before. That’s not how we are and that’s never going to be us again. You and I belong together. I haven’t quite figured out just how yet, Breanne, but I’m sure we belong together just like this. The hardest thing in the world I’ve ever had to do was try walking away from you and the easiest thing in the world is to hold you like this. Let’s never let each other go.

“All I can think of now is how much I want to stay with you. All I can think about is how wonderful you feel to me right now. All I can concentrate on is the fact that I was able to make things right between us before it was too late. You are never going to have to worry about me trying to push you away.

“I was scared, Breanne. I was scared of you. I didn’t want to hurt you almost as much as I didn’t want to be hurt by you. I was worried about the wrong people, the wrong reasons, when the truth is the only thing I should have been worried about is what you thought, what you wanted. You and I are partners now—have been ever since the day we met. Everything we do, we do together from now. Everything that happens to me I want you to know about it first. Every time I’m happy, every time I’m sad, every time some silly thing crosses my mind, I want you to know about it first. I might not be able to control the future, but I can control that. I can control how much I allow you into my life. I can control how happy you make me. I can control how much I care about you.

“Oh yeah, I’m sorry,” I finally said.
When it was her turn to speak she just giggled and half-sung and half-spoke the next few lines to me.

“And the way I feel tonight
I could die and I wouldn’t mind
And there’s something going on inside…”

That’s when she tiptoed up and kissed me back, our audience swelling to a fairly sizable portion now. I didn’t care. I didn’t care I was in the middle of an airport locking lips with her. All that didn’t matter to me. All that mattered was I had her back.


walking back to you Is the hardest thing that I can do

We had started to walk back to my luggage and my plane when she said one final thing to me.

“Let’s never come back to this airport because it will never mean as much to me as it does now, Patrick.”

“Deal.”

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

'Cause I Gonna Make You See, There's Nobody Else Here, No One Like Me, I'm Special So Special, I Gotta Have Some Of Your Attention Give It To Me

--"Brass In Pocket", The Pretenders

Special Two-Parter Set of Posts --
The Challenge: Watch "The Film" then write your own moment from it without ever mentioning the movie.

First up, Mrs. Breanne...

----

Sometimes I lay awake at night and reflect where I've been. I don't claim to know much about everything. I don't even claim to know much about some things. But I do know some of some things and what I've learned over the years has taught me a little about myself.

That night I was awake for some reason when you had already fallen asleep. Normally I would have woken you up, but I know how much you hate that. Besides, it wasn't that important. It was just one of those nights where the weight of the world seems pressed upon my shoulders and the usual smile and giggles didn't seem enough to bluff my way through it. Usually on sleep-free nights like that one I'd walk downstairs into the den after making myself a midnight snack to watch some unnamed movie about Lord-only-knows-what. I'd try to content myself with the knowledge that whatever troubles I may have it would dissipate by morning. That night, however, laying beside you, I didn't have the strength to go downstairs.

I was scared. I was having one of the moments of crisis where I didn't know exactly what was wrong, but I knew something was wrong. Again, I didn't know much about what ailed me, but I knew it had something to do with you. I had the nightmarish feeling that I didn't belong here in bed next to you. This was not the life I had chosen for myself, I thought. This was merely the life I fell into. Everyone gets those kinds of feelings, I know, but that night it came on rather powerfully. It taunted me to ignore it. Tell me you're completely happy and I'll go away, it seemed to say. Tell me there's nothing else in the world you could wish for and I'll let you sleep. I suppose I could have lied and denied I was feeling what I was feeling, but that wouldn't be the truth. I was scared. I was scared that I didn't belong in bed with you. I was scared that I didn't belong married to you.

Here's the thing, honey--sometimes I feel like we just aren't right for each other. Sometimes in those moments when we're going to bed angry I cannot believe I married you at all. It isn't some idle imagining. It isn't some bitter resentment towards you. It's the God's honest truth. It isn't that I don't love you. I do. I merely hope that I don't wake up forty years from now and realize I made a mistake. That's always been a nightmare of mine, realizing that I've wasted my life on someone who didn't deserve it. Everyone wants to feel she knows, she just knows who she is supposed to spend the rest of her life with. Yet you can never be sure, can you? It's like planning a vacation. I could write out an itinerary, schedule it down to the last second, but I cannot really say that it was a great vacation until after its over. I don't know how it's going to turn out until it actually turns out. Marriage is the same way. I can have all the good intentions in the world, but that's no insurance against the inevitable. We could be falling apart as I write this. That's what scares me. That's what scared me that night.

I laid there, behind you, convinced that I was worrying over nothing. Worrying is like that, though. It is not rational 100% of the time and it certainly doesn't stop to consider all the mitigating circumstances. It only knows what it knows. I spooned in behind you, the feel of your back so familiar I swear I could map out every curve, every indentation, if blindfolded. I needed that reassurance. Attempting to feel that connection would help, I thought. It's like my daddy says, the real test of whether a dog takes a liking to you is not if it barks, but if it lets you pet him. I can say I love you every night of my life, honey, but some days I really don't want to touch you. I don't know why that is, I only know that it is.

No, it isn't about the baby. I don't blame you for that. But it is a part of what I was feeling. I felt hopeless. I felt that I had raced through my life, experiencing such great experiences, until I met you. Then, somehow, it had all slowed down. Slowed down to a crawl that I was hopeless to speed up again. They always tell you that marriage is supposed to be a marathon and not a sprint, but I don't see why that is. I can't see why I can't be in a hurry, to see everything as quickly as possible. Why can't I be a mother, a world traveler, a pioneer in whatever field I choose to put my talents to, and a wife all at the same time? I feel sometimes like the kid who is left behind in the house, scared to be alone so she has to go from room to room turning on the light in the current room, then having to go back to turn off the light in the room she just left. I know it's more pressure, but I don't see why I can't wear many hats. It isn't you who's forbidding me to do so, I know. It's just that in college and before I felt like the opportunities were endless. I did so much with so little time. Now I just feel like I'm yours and your mine, and that's all. I don't belong to the world any more. I don't share in that life. I'm stuck here.

You talked in your sleep. I didn't catch every word, but it was enough to know that what was on my mind was not on your mind.

Sometimes I think you're hopeless. Sometimes I think you don't get me. You don't get worried about us like I do. You've never been one to fret about the particulars. You blithely think I'm always going to be here for you. I guess you just have more faith in me than I do in you. You say I don't have to try and make you happy; I just do. It bothers me that you can't be that way for me, that I can't be happy in your presence all the time. It bothers me that I feel like asking you to try harder for me, that I feel guilty that I should even be thinking of asking you to do more. I don't feel like the dutiful wife in those circumstance. I just feel like the bitch you and your family think I am. I try so hard to be the nice person, but it never works. I'm always left unsatisfied by something.

I kissed the back of your neck in the spot where you always said you liked it. It's weird how even in the midst of indecision I still fall back on familiar habits. It's a crutch, I know. I'm nothing if not a creature of habit. It isn't that I couldn't be comfortable growing old with you. I could be completely comfortable. The question is if comfortable is what I want. Do I want the easy life or do I want the struggle?

Why can't I be happy like everyone else? Hell's bells, why can't I be as happy as I make myself out to be. I thought the rule was fake it till you make it. I thought the notion was that if you force yourself to smile everyday that one of these days you won't have to fake it. I like smiling. I do it often. More and more, though, I cannot tell if it's genuine or if it is habit. That thought scares me too. I'm too young to be questioning my own feelings and I'm too old to be this confused about my own life. I'm out of college. I'm married. I'm supposed to have most of my life sorted out by now. At least that was always the plan. I want the good days to be the norm and not the exception. That was the plan too.

I gently glided my hand over your arm. I couldn't feel a pulse. The idea flashed that you could be dead and I was reminded of the ghost story Torry had told me when we were younger.

She told me she had had an uncle who went into the doctor's one day complaining about heart trouble. The doctor started to run full physical and the doctor could not see what could be wrong. Then he checked her uncle's heartbeat once more and was shocked to hear the uncle no longer had one. Yet Torry's uncle kept talking. It must be a mistake, the doctor thought. He checked for a pulse again while listening to Torry's uncle prattle on about something. Once again, the doctor could not find a pulse. He called his nurse in. She couldn't discover a pulse either. It baffled them both. Torry's uncle kept talking to the befuddle doctors for a full ten minutes before he collapsed. He was dead before he hit the floor. They never could explain what would cause him to keep on talking like that when he seemed to be a dead man sitting.

I didn't want you to be dead. That thought hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't some great leap or epiphany. It wasn't a cure to what still ails me. I don't think there's a cure to my woes. As long as you remain imperfect and as long as I remain imperfect there are always going to be things that concern me. I suppose I'm sensitive than most, honey. I want it all. When I can't have it all, it really bothers me that I can only do so much to rectify the situation. I'm scared I'm not measuring up to my own standards. I always feel like I could be doing more like being happy for what I've got. It's just hard--not being perfectly happy. Hell's bells, it's hard not being perfect. But when you set your sights on being perfect like I do you're always set yourself up for failure.

Don't mind me too much, honey. I'm merely being the attention glutton you know I'm capable of being.

got motion, restrained emotion

I was relieved when you rolled over onto your stomach. I knew that you were alive. Everything else I could put off till my next restless night. Maybe solving my problems wasn't the point. Maybe the point is to acknowledge the potholes and not pretend you don't see them. Whatever journey I'm on I know, honey, it's going to be a bumpy one. I'm not giving up just yet, though.

"You're not hopeless," I said, finally able to get to sleep.

Breanne

I Was Just Wishing You Were Here, So We Could Walk Down To The Sea, And We Could Throw All Our Leaves, Seeing Our Dragon When We Look

--"Brightly Wound", Eisley

Brielle.

It's officially on the market, boys and girls. Enjoy. After years of hoarding that name with Tara and DeAnn I came across somebody who was fortunate enough to be born with that name. Thus, the name loses its uniqueness, its specialness. It's just like any other name one comes across so now I'll have to put in some extra time to derive a new name that sounds just as splendid. It's really a shame because Brielle was such a pretty name.

It isn't even so much losing the name, it's losing the idea of the name. That was the name that had its origins when, like in any other couple, you start imagining what you would name your kids. With Tara, we both preferred Gabrielle as a name we both could get behind. Thus, it was decided that if we were ever to ever have a daughter that she would be called Brielle. However, it wasn't until I met DeAnn and we both agreed that we couldn't stand the nickname Gabby, which anyone who has ever been name Gabrielle has come across, that we decided that we'd take the intiative and just lop off the bit we didn't much care for and keep the part that sounded lovely. Brielle is such a strong, and still sweet feminine name, I am honestly surprised that more people have not settled on this name long before now.

I don't know--when I always pictured my daughter Brielle I pictured what everyone always pictured--that portrait of bliss, those indelible experiences of teaching her all that you know, passing on all the wealth of knowledge I had to offer. I don't think I would have been a great father. I don't even think I would've made a good one. I think I would've been decent, probably made a lot of mistakes. I'll tell you one thing, though, I would have loved Brielle as much as I have loved anyone. I would have taken down her to the ocean everyday and told her stories while listening to the surf hit the sand. There's something about the sea that makes storytelling more enchanting and there is something about the idea of the idea of taking Brielle down to the sea that appealed to me. Maybe it's the whole idealistic "forlorn and wistful" shot from Avonlea that I want to recreated, but I think it more has to do with the unfettered simplicity of man taking his daughter out to play in the water. That's my idea of fatherhood. That was my plan for her. That's what Brielle had in store for her. Any day she wanted to I would have taken her to the beach.

That's over now. I mean--it really was over when DeAnn and I parted ways, but I always held onto the name with the idea that I would be able to convince my new love that we should name our daughter Brielle. I always had that hope. With the name already being spoken for, though, it really is over.

Brielle and I shall never visit the ocean together.

Good-bye, my little daydream...

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Love Of Mine Some Day You Will Die, But I'll Be Close Behind, I'll Follow You Into The Dark

--"I Will Follow You Into The Dark", Death Cab For Cutie

My good friend, the Lady Meg of Drop Your Drawers, recently introduced me to this gem of a song that I've taken a real shine to. I do not know why, but I had avoided listening to Death Cab for Cutie simply because they seemed too trendy, too liked. I am nothing if not the portrait of music elitism where I don't believe any other music but that which I listen to as being worthy of my attention. However, when someone whose opinion I trust implicitly, of which there are precious few, stakes her entire reputation behind one song I take notice. I'm happy to report, Miss Meg, that not only do I approve of this song, but I am taking my option of crafting a meaningful post around it, as promised.

I think the main reason I'd avoided them was because I was scared that the meaning others placed in their lyrics I would never myself capture. Rilo Kiley, Mary Lou Lord, and a few others, have been the exception to the rule when it came to finding those transcendant artists whose words can really touch me in a way other musicians cannot. Everyone always talked about DCFC being this band that really changes your life and really opens up new avenues to thought. I didn't want to put myself in a position where I would be expecting meaningful change and find mere music. I didn't want to put stock in a work of ordinary genius.

"I Will Follow You Into The Dark" isn't ordinary, though. It really did touch me. There is some real power behind the words.

I WILL FOLLOW YOU INTO THE DARK
by Death Cab For Cutie

Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles brusied by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me
"Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back

If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
Cause we'll hold each other soon
The blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
Then I'll follow you into the dark

It's much the same with poems. People are always saying that certain poems have the ability to go behind mere words and really move them. These are the poems that they clasp as being a source of constant illumination. Fuck, people have even said that about my own poems. Recently, my grandfather died and my extended family read a poem I had written in honor of him. My mother reported that many people were moved by it and that it was some lasting tribute to my grandfather. They even printed it in the official program for the memorial. That's a lot of pressure to put on one poem. That's a lot of responsibility to place on my shoulders. I'm sitting here reflecting on the fact that my poem, in videos and literature, is now synonomous with my grandfather's life and death. To me, it's just something I dashed off really quickly about ten years ago... for a girl... on a television show. But now, but now it's this big meditation on grief and loss. It kind of creeps me out how one poem can serve both purposes--trivial and important. To me this poem is just not that important, except now it is to a group of people that loved my grandfather.

YET I REMAIN
by EPT

Without you your lapsing leaves me—
A content dreamer awaken,
To find his milieu mistaken
And himself latched to reality.
Without you I’m obliged to be
With order and form forsaken,
Justice’s sureties shaken—
Self-sustaining instability.

That I should move on they say—
As if you mattered merely then
But not now and never again—
For the past is to put away.
Yet even though lifeless you lay
My sorrow silences these same men
For as gladness was love’s guise then
So are these tears its cloak today.

And it works the other way too. I recently had a good conversation with my ex, DeAnn, and she brought up the fact that she held onto the poems I wrote for her while we were together. To me, I'd forgotten about them soon after she and I had broken up. They had lost their beauty to me. I lost my appreciation of them. When she read one of them on the phone it was like rediscovering a long-lost daughter or something. I forgot how in love I was with DeAnn and how this translated into what I wrote about her. DeAnn told me on the phone that despite how we feel about each other currently those poems are beautiful. You can separate the art for the inspiration. You can separate the portrait from the person, the song from the subject.

One song about a love between two people persisting into the afterlife can affect me in a permanent way without carrying all the baggage of having to like everything that particular group does. People can appreciate my poem without knowing it's actually about my obsession with Avonlea and Sara Stanley. Most of all, I can think read something I wrote about DeAnn fondly even if at times I don't look back on her fondly. Just because you love something about an object doesn't mean you have to buy into everything it stands for.

I may not love DeAnn as much as I once did. Yet I'll always love that unquenchable feeling of being in love, really and truly in love, that inspired me to write words such as this...

A POEM FOR DEANN
by EPT

You pull me into you like a song
Moving fingers as if on keys,
Pushing back fears I've always clutched,
Finding the heart none have ever touched.
With you now is where I belong;
Inside your arms now am I found;
And, beckoning me to the ground,
I watch you now rise to your knees.

No closer to being my wife
Than the day when our eyes first met;
No nearer to such bliss, and yet...
Today my eyes still for you shine.
"Will you love me for the rest of my life?"
You stop to ask as if a dare.
"No," I say, feigning not to care,
"I'll love you for the rest of mine."

That's the kind of love I'll follow into the dark.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Know That In A Thousand Years, I'd Fall In Love With You Again, This Is The Only Way That We Should Fly, This Is The Only Way To Go

--"More Than A Woman", The Bee Gees

Oh, girl I’ve known you very well
I’ve seen you growing everyday
I never really looked before
But now you take my breath away.

Suddenly you’re in my life
Part of everything I do
You got me working day and night
Just trying to keep a hold on you.

Here in your arms I found my paradise
My only chance for happiness
And if I lose you now I think I would die.

Oh say you’ll always be my baby
We can make it shine, we can take forever
Just a minute at a time.

More than a woman, more than a woman to me
More than a woman, more than a woman to me
More than a woman, oh, oh, oh.

There are stories old and true
Of people so in love like you and me
And I can see myself
Let history repeat itself.

Reflecting how I feel for you
Thinking about those people then
I know that in a thousand years
I’d fall in love with you again.

This is the only way that we should fly
This is the only way to go
And if I lose your love I know I would die.

Oh say you’ll always be my baby
We can make it shine, we can take forever
Just a minute at a time.

More than a woman, more than a woman to me
More than a woman, more than a woman to me
More than a woman, oh, oh, oh

This is a post I've been putting off for a very long time. When it comes to the reasons behind why my favorite song is my favorite I'm afraid I don't have the grand philosophy behind the words that Patrick's favorite song does for him. I honestly think it's a pretty song sung very prettily. Little 'ole me doesn't need any more convincing than that.

Yet I've listened to many tunes that could qualify by this benchmark. From Buckley to Valentine, Jones to Freeney, there are many artists who have crafted memorable songs that have touched me in some sort of permanent fashion. What then makes "More Than A Woman" so special to me then? Simple. It holds very sentimental value to me. No, no, no, it's nothing so saccharine sweet as being the first song I was kissed to, or being the first song I ever danced to, or even being the first song I ever found out my crush listened to. Those songs are memorable and all, but this was the first song that ever made me feel good singing. Aside from the fact the song was a misguided gift from my folks which makes it personal for me, it's also good because I love to sing the darn thing.

----

I was walking before school started one day. I was anxious from the moment I woke up in bed that morning. Normally, I'm not one to get nervous, but that day was different.

I was to be performing for the first time at school that day, his school, the unnamed boy's school. I'd only ever performed in my rinky-dink school and, of course, I had been something of a big fish in a small pond. Hell's bells, I was soemthing of a spotlight hog when it came to talent shows, public speaking, and generally anything that fell my way having to do with showing off in front of my friends. It was nothing like the paegents. I knew everybody. Everybody liked me. It was more like goofing off at home than anything resembling a pressure situation. I thrived at my old school.

This was not my old school, though. This was the new school. This was the high school. This was his school and I wanted to get him to notice me.

I thought a talent show was the perfect opportunity. I had successes before. There was no reason to think that my lucky streak shouldn't have continued. After all, I was six ways to boisterous (or so my much-embarrassed mother kept reminding me) and I was nothing if not talented. Two weeks prior, as the school year was just getting started, I had been the picture of composure and confidence. I was sure the unnamed boy would simply fall madly in love with me. He would ask me after the show if we could spend forever together and I had it all worked out. I'd be coy. Aloof even. I'd play it off like I had a thousand suitors beckoning me from offstage. "Give me a call, darling," I'd say, "and we'll try to meet up sometime." He'd smile. I'd smile. And we would end up spending the rest of our life together.

Because that's how perfect my life works out. Obviously.

However, that day I was a wreck. I had chosen to dust off an old favorite of my daddy's, "More Than A Woman" by The Bee Gees, because I had had hours of practice of singing it for my family and friends. I was comfortable with the song. More importantly, the song was comfortable with me. Sometimes when you're choosing songs to belt out, whether by yourself or in front of a crowd, certain songs just don't suit you. They are either too mature or immature, too outside your realm of experience, or too cloying for words. It's very important when you're singing, or doing anything you relish for that matter, you chooose something that seems natural on you. "You don't see a duck tightrope walking," my daddy always says and you don't see little 'ole me try to rap my way out of a Mexican standoff. "More Than A Woman" suits me, though. I've always thought it. Even before it became my favorite among favorites, people always told me that it looks good on me. Everyone has always said that from the very moment I picked up my first mic.

It was this comfortability that was to be my downfall for the simple God's honest truth is I'm no ace singer. I'm average, above-average perhaps. But it's not my gift. Dancing, I have a talent in. Writing, folks say I've attained some skill in. Singing, however, I had only been better than those around me at my junior high and elementary classes. High school was a different pool altogether, a whole new talent pool.

I didn't stand a chance.

"Morning," the unnamed boy surprised me with as I walking. No, it wasn't a coincidence I happened to take a walk by house even though it was a smidge out of my way. It wasn't miles, mind you, but a few blocks. Nope, it wasn't the shock of him interrupting my daydreams of him that startled me; it was more due to the fact that he was saying anything to me at all. I'd passed his house a hundred times if I passed it once in all the years and months I had a crush on him, and never had he looked up enough to notice I was walking by at all. Or if he did, he gave a courteous nod of acknowledgment and then went about his business. True, he didn't know my name, but the fact I ranked any sort of greeting was a step up in my book.

"Morning," I answered back. He was already in his school uniform. I, meanwhile, had yet to change out of my jogging clothes. I giggled at the intrusion.

"Nervous?" he asked, picking up the morning paper and putting his backpack into his car.

Who? Me? Just because in the last two sentences you've spoken to me you've reaffirmed my faith in goodness and justice and fairness and loveliness? Nah.

"That obvious, huh?"

"I'd be nervous too. It's a little strange to see a freshman perform a solo at the talent show," he said stoically. It was difficult to read if he, in fact, was rooting for me to succeed or fail. "You'd never catch me on that stage."

It was like a dream... and a nightmare. He knew who I was, but he also didn't know a thing about me. Give up? Back out? Was he actually advising me to cut my losses and run? Or was this all part of the apparation? I was nervous, yes. But that didn't mean I'd ever given retreating serious validation. I would sing. I would sing for him to show him I could do it.

"I think I'll be fine. Everyone gets nervous. Sometimes you just have to stand up, you know?" I said in passing, too nervous and too late to continue for much longer with the conversation. "See you at school?"

"Yeah. Break a leg," he said, walking back inside the house. "Who knows? I may even stand up," he laughed before closing the door.

I walked home that morning even more nervous for the fact I knew he was going to be watching me now. I had up until then thought he might catch my act. Perhaps give it a cursory show of interest. I hadn't counted on him actually singling me out for inspection. I could see him penciling me in his list of things to do that day--"#4. Watch the strange neighbor girl crash and burn on stage today."

All my thoughts were leaning towards that day being remembered as the day I committed social suicide.

----

Minutes before my turn onstage I honestly thought about quitting. I thought about all that they tell you about making a good first impression. I thought, there I was ready to put my best foot forward, except it wasn't my best. Nothing had left me with the impression that I was glorious as a singer--nothing except the uncultured opinions of children and family and friends who were inclined to like my attempts, be they the real meat of the matter or merely the gristle. I wanted to panic. I wanted to flee. I want to be a nobody at my new school. I honestly thought I wanted to be someone who fades into the woodwork. The good aspect of being somebody who doesn't take up too much room is that she doesn't fret too much about knocked off her post. No one bothers her. No one comes by to try and knock her down. She's content to know her place in the scheme of things. Only the people who aspire to something more, who strive to something greater than who they are, get targeted by the naysayers. "She's not all that," they say. "I could do better than her," they continue. I didn't want to be a target from day one. I didn't want people thinking mine was a world of vanity and presumptuousness. I wanted to be little 'ole me, little 'ole Breanne, who made friends easily. I wanted to be generally liked without having prove myself. In short, I wanted to be performing in front of the same small group of friends I'd always performed in front of.

I walked up to one of the teacher moderators to announce my resignation. It wasn't worth the chance at being humiliated, I convinced myself.

Here's the part in the story where normally I'd say I looked out into the audience and saw my cherished unnamed boy. He'd give me a smile and I would gain the confidence to walk out onto that stage. Well, I did scan the crowd and could not find him for the life of me.

"Miss I-Forget-Your-Name, I don't think I can do this. I want to be removed from the list."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes... no. I don't know. I'm just too nervous."

"Well, you've got about forty seconds to give me a decision, dear."

Forty seconds to decide my fate. This was one of the moments that I looked back on as a turning point that I didn't was to become so crucial later on life. I knew it would affect my first year maybe, but I do look back on that day as something that defined who I was as a person in many ways. People up until then had always said I lived in a fantasy world where if circumstances did not turn out in my favor I would opt to run away. I didn't like the situation with my mother at home--run away. I didn't like being in paegeants--give half my effort and complain the entire time. I lost my best friend--bitch and moan without really looking for a new one. As the song goes, I was getting really good at good-byes. Instead of alleviating the situation, I just made the situation go far away.

"I think I want to go on."

"Well, go on then."

I ended up stepping out on that stage in front of the packed auditorium. As the first few notes to my accompanying music came on I knew everyone could tell I was nervous. I even managed to weed out a few naysayers heckling among the crowd. But for the most part everyone gave me my shot. I didn't hit a homerun that day. I got through it as best I could, but as the show wore on I got an earful of what truly spectacular singing sounds like. That's when I knew I'd never have a voice like that. I was talented, sure, but I wasn't talented enough. Still, as I got to the middle of the song I started to get that old feeling back. Maybe it wasn't like singing in front of a group of my friends, but neither was it like singing in front of a group of strangers or a group of people out to get me. This was my school and as much as I always thought of it as "his" school, I started to see that I wasn't going to be judged for the rest of my life by this one day. I wasn't going to be held accountable for what I did this one day. They were all going to give me a chance. While it didn't completely calm my nerves, it allowed me to get through--even enjoy it.

I know that in a thousand years
I’d fall in love with you again.

This is the only way that we should fly
This is the only way to go

That was my only way to go because, above everything else, I'm a spotlight hog. I need the attention. I need to be liked.

I just don't like having to sacrifice my own style to do it.

And I did manage to catch the unnamed boy applauding me after I was done with my song. He didn't lead it off and there was no cheesy individual clapping all alone to eventually be joined by the whole crowd. He did it like it though.

He did end up standing up.

----

"More Than A Woman"
More than just a song to me...

Breanne

Now It Seems They're Telling Me, You've Changed Your Wicked Ways, But Should I Give You A Second Chance, Baby, I'm Too Afraid

--"I Heard A Rumour", Bananarama

"So is she alright?" I heard Breanne ask.

"DeAnn's fine. Nasty bruise, but nothing broken," I answered.

It hadn't been my finest hour. In truth, it very well may go down as me at my absolute worst. I have done a lot of things that I am none too proud of, some things I'd rather forget, but never before had I really known what I was capable of as a person. They say one never knows what one will do in any given situation until one is presented with that situation. The situtation I had faced earlier that day I had definitely never faced before. That much I could be sure of. Otherwise, I would have been more equipped to deal with the fallout, with how she was going to feel about the incident and how I was going to feel about myself. I thought it was a one-time thing and in that vein I had called B. to reassure myself that I wasn't truly the monster I saw that afternoon.

"And explain to me what happened again, Patrick?"

"We were suppossed to go to her sister's college graduation and we'd gotten into a fight about how long we should stay afterwards. Of course, I wanted to go right home and she wanted to put in more than a token appearance. It escalated until finally she told me I could stay home. She would be going to the graduation without me."

"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick..."

"Well, you know my thing, Breanne. I never want to leave a fight unsettled. It fires up my temper when I'm in the middle of a heated debate with you and you just turn to walk away. I don't know--I think it's somewhat disrespectful."

"Not your day. It shouldn't have been about you. It should have been about DeAnn's sister."

"Yeah, well..."

I've always struggled with being self-centered. I don't think I'm a vain person. I don't believe that the world revolves around me. But I do tend to think that if you are involved with me somehow, if you are friends with me or going out with me, that I deserve some type of consideration. In my warped view of thinking that day it was a simple matter of her having one set of plans for the evening and me having another. Never once did it enter my head that special circumstances surrounded that day. Never once did it enter my head that what I wanted really didn't matter on that day. All I knew was that, like a spoiled brat, my wants weren't being paid the attention I thought they deserved.

"Let me guess, sugar. She tried to leave and you did something to try and stop her."

I'm not proud of what I did. I'm not the type of person to make excuses for my behavior when I can see now that my behavior was truly inexcusable. All I can say is at the time I believed I was in the right and a man can do some incredibly short-sighted and tragic things when he feels he's got right on his side.

"She was walking for the car door, calmly. She wasn't running. She was crying, though. I guess she couldn't understand how I could be ruining yet another of her family functions. I ran after her to try and stop her. As she was reaching her arm in to get in the car I was in the process of trying to shut the door before she could get in. I ended up slamming it on her arm. Hard. Hard enough to instinctively withdraw it back by her side.

"And did I ask to see if she was hurt? Did I apologize for my mistake? No, I just shut the door to make sure she couldn't get in."

What followed next with Breanne was something I have never quite grown accustomed to with my friend. She went silent. In fact, she went silent for a good two minutes. Normally, with most people I would know what this meant, but Breanne always voices her opinions, is always in the middle of telling you her mind that I honestly didn't know how much I'd really gotten to her. I was a dumbass, I was a brute, I was every cliche of abusive and violent spouse you could think of. It wasn't enough that I hadn't quite reached the maturity necessary to know when I should a let a matter drop as is, I had to push it into an entirely otherwordly realm of wrong. Perhaps if I'd just let DeAnn go to the graduation and I'd gone home the bad blood would have simmered down. I would never know because I just had to take it to that next level of immaturity and violence that insured I'd be ashamed of my behavior that day for a good, long while--maybe forever. Breanne had known me for far longer than DeAnn did. Maybe the shock of hearing about my exploits that afternoon had really struck her mute. It's not everyday you find out your friend isn't quite as grounded as you once thought he was. It's not everyday you find out someone you grew up with isn't the person you counted on him to be.

"Breannie, you still there?"

"And you're sure she's okay? You took her to the hospital and everything?"

"Yes, we went right after the graduation dinner. We got it checked out. I think she'll be fine."

"Good."

The next few words clued me in to how the rest of the conversation would flow.

"That's just great, Patrick. That's just great. Are you trying to get yourself in trouble? Never mind what her daddy would do to you if he found out. She really could go the police. Any tiny bit of physical abuse you're supposed to report. You really are six ways to stupid sometimes, Patrick."

"I know," I sighed. "Like I said, I'm not proud of it. As soon as it happened I got that familiar sense of dread I got when I used to roughhouse with Francis when we were kids. We'd be playing somewhere and I'd accidentally hurt him. He'd cry or be doubled over somewhere and all I could think of was 'fixing' it so he wouldn't be crying anymore. It wasn't even about being apolegetic for hurting him. I just didn't want to get caught. I didn't want to be blamed."

"And DeAnn?"

"I wanted her to stop crying. As for not wanting to be blamed, it was only the two of us there. It wasn't DeAnn's fault so that only left me."

I don't even remember if I started to apologize to her right away. I think for the first few minutes I had that uncomfortable sense of victory when one gets his way in one matter but loses another battle to achieve that victory. I'd stopped her from leaving, but I'd sacrificed my other goal of resolving the matter in a calm, mature manner. Sure, she hadn't been arguing about going to the graduation. Nope, she'd been too busy being hysterical over thinking her arm may have been broken.

Yea, I won.

"So have you two talked about it?"

"Well, I just got home from her house and I decided to get your opinion first before calling her back. I just don't know what to say. I've apologized so much today when we were out of earshot of her family. I don't think it's enough, though. I don't know what else to tell her."

"Promise me something, darling. Promise me this is going to be the last time you tell me you've hurt her. This can't happen again. You can't tell me you and her had another accident. I'd like to give you the benefit of the doubt, Patrick, I really would. And the way you describe things it could be you didn't have time to stop yourself before she could get her arm out of the doorway, but I know you. You never tell any story without pushing it in subtle ways to your advantage. Everyone does it, but I've noticed you seem to do it almost unconsciously. Who knows what actually happened? For all I know you did shut the door on her arm on purpose and you did mean to hurt her. I don't know. All I'm getting is your side of the story and like my daddy says, 'it's only truth if you were there, otherwise it's just a tale someone's telling you, dear.' You want me to be on your side even if you know you were wrong. You still want me to agree with you and because of that you're going to tell me what I want to hear. I don't know--you do seem capable of it."

"I do?" I said, honestly surprised. I mean--I knew she knew I had a temper, but I don't think anything in our past would have suggested I could hurt anyone physically like that.

"Definitely. Don't you remember when you were over here? Don't you remember what happened?"

"No, what?"

"We were, you know, wrestling on my bed. You had barely finished tickling me because I'd told you I was only ticklish when I felt like being ticklish. I remember how that had gotten under your goat so you'd proceeded to find that perfect spot where I couldn't resist laughing. You were so determined to prove me wrong and, God's truth, it was kind of fun to see how frustrated you were getting. Eventually, you'd found it. The look of satisfaction on your face would have made you think that we had just had a roll in the hay or somesuch. There I was, thinking 'my turn' so I attempted to turn the tables on you, sugar. I poked at your side gaily. Big mistake on my part.

"You'd told me to stop and not in a joking manner. You would have thought I'd stabbed you or something. But I thought we were still horsing around so I kept going. And going. Eventually, you'd yelled at me to stop one more time and I had kept on going."

I knew what came next. I recalled it from the description that Breanne was painting over the phone with me. It's funny. Maybe I had been fooling myself this entire time into thinking I was one of those upstanding guys that always took it easy with members of the opposite sex. Me, hit a girl? Never. Me, hurt a girl? Never. Maybe the first part was true. I still have never taken a swing at some, male or female, other than my brother. But that day in Breanne's bedroom, with her folks only a floor below, I remembered that I wasn't the gentleman I thought I was.

"Perhaps you were just instinctively trying to protect yourself. I had been tickling you rather persistently and aggresively. I just thought you were being coy, but perhaps you were trying to tell me something I didn't want to listen to. You don't like being tickled. At any rate, Eeyore, I remember reaching underneath your shirt to tickle underneath your ribs one minute and then coming off the bed the next minute. I landed rather harshly on my backside more from the surprise than from the force. I'm not going to say I was injured or in pain. My pride maybe. I just couldn't believe you'd actually kicked me hard enough to get me off the bed."

"Fuck, I apologize, Breanne. I forgot about that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you either."

"It's just that back then you told me it was instinct and that it'd been an accident. And I believed you. I totally bought your story that your brother had seen the unpleasant side of your legs when you'd been playing around when you were younger. That all you could think about was getting me off of you without realizing I was about a foot shorter and providence only knows how many pounds lighter than you. I thought things had just gotten too far. No real harm done, you know?

"The weird part was that my mother kind of warned me later on that day while you were washing up for dinner. She'd asked what that strange bump she'd heard while we were upstairs. Hell's bells, I thought, we weren't fooling around, mother. But I think she was worried about something else. I told her I'd tripped while we were dancing around in my room, thinking that would be that. The strange thing was she told me to be careful while you were staying with us. 'He's a lot bigger than you and you could get hurt really easily, honey.' I thought she was just talking about not knowing your own strength, but perhaps she saw a side to you that I couldn't.

"You don't think when you feel trapped, Eeyore. I'm only telling you this so you can be more aware of it if and when something like this happens again. When you feel backed into a corner, whether if it's in a fight or you literally are being restrained in anyway, you lash out without thought. You'll hurt everyone and anyone to get free. Today, I think DeAnn backed you into a corner where you didn't feel like you had any control over what was happening between you. And to get back that control you did what you did to make sure things weren't left on her terms."

I don't know if all of what she was telling me sunk in right away. Probably the combination of hearing it from her and then again with DeAnn over the next few years finally ingrained it into my head that I covet control way too much. The sense of powerlessness to affect things truly does scare me. Fighting with DeAnn, even if it had been just verbally, really drove the lesson home. She, I was to find out, had the annoying habit of walking away from fights when nothing had really been settled. She would just leave like that. It used to drive me crazy. I used to do anything I could to keep the argument going to a point until we'd finally come to some real results. It took me a long time to see things from her side, to see that sometimes fleeing from the stress could be a good thing. Sometimes you just have to take a moment, a minute, an hour or two to get your bearings. Sometimes the point you're trying to prove while you're in heated debate just isn't that important to you when you're out of the spotlight of having to defend your point. Sometimes you truly do have to pick your battles.

I also had to learn that just because I lost a verbal fight didn't mean I had to display I was still strong physically. Being right and being able to back up your position with displays of violence are now tantamount. I honestly don't know what I was thinking. Maybe it was like Breanne said during another conversation, I couldn't win with words so I always resorted to winning with muscle. Like I said, I never hit anyone, but I was a big fan of fuming and fussing, slamming doors, screaming, and occasionally throwing things to let the other person I meant business,

She never had to say it, but I knew Breanne had heard that quality in me even during our conversations on the phone. She could hear the frustration in my voice when I was convincing her of something I thought she should be convinced of. She could tell how confused I got when I heard her disagree with me. And I know she heard me slamming the phone on her to hang up on her. To be fair, I think she always knew I was capable of melting down during the right conditions, but having a friend you don't see all the time you really can't confirm your suspicions. It'd be like hearing your friend has started to eat out more and sit around the house more. You might suspect they've grown a tad chubby but because you don't hang out with them everyday you can never really be sure.

That is, until they tell you they are fat.

Breanne might have known I was capable of slamming a door on my girlfriend, but she never said anything. That is, until I told her I did just that.

"I'm telling you loud and clear so you hear me, Patrick. If you hurt her again we can't be friends any more. We can't. Okay?"

"Okay," I said. "I'm going to be different now that I know what to watch out for. You'll see, Breannie. You won't ever hear of me being rough like that again."

"This is your second and only chance, E. Make it a good one. Call your girlfriend and tell her what you just told me. Convince her that this... will... never... happen... again. Okay?"

"Okay."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

'Cuz You Have Given Me More Than I Could Ask For, More Than I Could Ever Imagine, And You Keep Givin' Me Love, You Keep Liftin' Me Up

--"Why Do I Do?", Jump 5

If you knew me it all you would know that I'm not very religious. Aside from my stint as Vice-President of my high school's service society and meeting Archbishop Roger Mahoney, I have had very little claim to the mantlehood of being deeply religious. I think I'm more spiritual than religious since the trappings of church, dogma, and scripture hold very little interest to me. Deism, with its focus on Reason and Individuality, is my philosophy of choice as it conveys my own sense of Man creating the World as much as the World creating Man. I think, more than anything else, I never bought into the idea that there is some higher purpose ordained for us other than the purpose we create for ourselves. I don't think there's any paradise at the end of the road. I think our paradise is here and now, as the desire to do good should be as well. If the only reason you are notching up your bedposts with your good deeds then I think you've missed the point. You should be concentrating on what you can do to help out because it makes you feel better and not because some invisible bean counter is deciding your ultimate fate.

Nope, I'm not religious at all. The fact that I haven't set foot inside a church since 1992 should clue you into that.

Yet the conundrum is I am deeply respectful of people who are. It amazes sometimes how much my ears perk up the moment I find out someone has deep-held beliefs regarding God. I eat it up like Pez. From my earliest encounters with Sniffler in the church pews of St. Rita's when is was in my early teens I always seem to fall for the so-called "good" girls. Or, in the opposite extreme, I can remember that all my male friends in elementary school had been more devout than I and I recall myself wishing I could be more like them. It used to bother me that I couldn't fall in line with what I was being taught by my teachers (from Kindergarten through 12th grade I attended Catholic Schools) and parents. I used to take it to heart when my cousins used to tell me that I was going to hell for speaking of ideas contrary to Christian teachings.

In a sense, knowing I was different from those closest around me, made me appreciate them more. For instance, yes, Sniffler had the auburn locks I appreciate to bits and pieces, but it didn't escape me that she was going to church week after week voluntarily. She never went with her parents, the godless heathens they may have been; she always went with her sister. I don't know about you, but if my brother was put in charge of my spiritual upbringing I don't think I would have ever attended church. Yet she came week after week and, despite my distracting her with my pathetic attempts of getting to know her better, she seemed to enjoy the instruction being levied against her by the clergy. She was into it and I was into her. Because of that I struggled to find the interesting points in the Mass, if only to feel closer to her. If the Catholic Church had really wanted me to remain in their fold they would have never stopped that particular adolescent from going to St. Rita's. I may still be attending today if I could be sure of seeing her week to week.

This strange fascination also extends to music. I don't like Christian music. I never have. Except I find myself listening to Jump 5 all the time when I feel like being happy. Hearing songs about blind faith in a higher makes me feel better. More than the fact that they are talking about God, I think I appreciate the idea that someone can love so completely, so honestly. I'm a romantic that way. It's rather nice to know that that type of love exists out there even if it's not for me. Plus, can those damn kids song.

Even Breanne, with her strange way of incorporating God into the formula for her success, I seem to be tickled pink by. If everyone made religious so much fun and so uplifting like she does I think I would buy into more of it. True, her faith wasn't the main reason we became friends, but it says a lot that her constant (and constant) desire for me to go to church and praise the Lord above doesn't grate on my nerves. I think everyone has something to teach us about ourselves and a lot of what Breanne says I should do does make sense to me. The idea that all these life lessons can be found in the bible is secondary to the idea themselves. I do appreciate the aesthetic beauty inherent in a person who believes so strongly in an idea that she is willing to spread to her friends. If I found something that truly uplifted me the way God uplifts Breanne I think I would want to share it with my friends as well. But preachiness has never been my favorite quality in her. Even if your point is valid I simply think there are other ways to get your point across.

But I think the biggest glaring example of a person's faith actually changing my way of thinking has to be Rachel. She did it without ever saying one word to me or knocking me over the head with dogma. In fact it's because of that fact she's the only hero I've ever had. Before her you would have never caught me leafing through an obvious piece of Christian propaganda like Rachel's Tears and its two sequels, Chain Reaction and Rachel Smiles. It's one thing to be taught we should be good and another thing entirely to see someone actually sticking to her beliefs to lead a virtuous life. I've had all about I can stand of the preachers, the pundits, and the politicians who say we are all living in sin and who profess we all need to change. People can talk and tell me I'm not good enough all they want. It's not going to make me think I'm leading a sinful life. However, when comparing my life to that of Rachel Joy Scott I realize that there are things that I can change to leave this world better than I found out. All the years and all the people screaming the need to be better, and, for me, it's one seventeen-year-old girl who died far too young who makes me want to be a more religious individual.


I have this theory that if one person can go out of their way to show compassion, then it will start a chain reaction of the same.

She was the best. She was the greatest. And I know it has everything to do with the religious life she led. That's why I can say, even though I'm not religious, religious people are some of the best people on Earth.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And In A World Of People, There's Only You And I, There Ain't Nothing Come Between Us In The End

--"Shadow Dancing", The Bee Gees

To return the favor of E.'s wonderful birthday post, here's a few reasons why I think we're still friends:

1. because he makes the simple things more complicated than they need to be.

2. because he takes my call no matter the time and no matter what else he is doing.

3. because he sends me postcards every time he goes on a trip (even though they are always pictures of Georgia).

4. because he always lies and says I smell wonderful though he can't smell.

5. because he always pays up on his friendly bets (Remember my hundred when Atlanta beats Houston, sugar.)

6. because I could probably kick his whenever I wanted to.

7. because he writes like a demon.

8. because he's a dork.

9. because God only knows what I'd be without him.

10. because I hurt him more than I should have and he still takes the blame.

11. because I can see the two of us meeting up once a year when we're old and gray, and still talk as if we were youngsters.

12. because he loves to read, even if it's just Maxim.

13. because he's never stopped believing in me.

14. because every time I've seen him has been memorable.

15. because sometimes when I'm feeling sad, he'll call me and tell me he'll be right over. Then, when I ask him how long that will be, he says it'll be about four weeks since travelling by pogo stick takes a long time.

16. because he tries so hard to make sure I am always okay.

17. because he thought I was better writer than I did.

18. because he taught me about film.

19. because at seventeen he said he'd help me whenever I needed it and he's never broken that promise.

20. because I hope to be as intelligent as him someday.

21. because I'm a sucker for a man in glasses.

22. because he is an Eeyore.

23. because everything he hates is due to the fact everyone who did that "died a hundred and fifty years ago."

24. because he watches all the same programs I do.

25. because he's almost as stubborn as I am.

26. because he is destined for greatness.

27. because he calls me up at 4 p.m. to make sure I had a good day.

28. because I've known him half my life.

29. because he's not afraid to be sad with me.

30. because having your heart broken kind of binds you to a person.

31. because I think it's funny that hearing styrofoam or plastic rubbing against each other drives him batty.

32. because he thinks I don't need him as much as he needs me.

33. because he asked me to help him on california is a recipe for a black hole.

34. because he smiles like he's up to something, which he usually is.

35. because he never left even when I told him to.

36. because he makes weird sexy.

37. because he wants to build a twenty-five square mile maze.

38. because he's the stem and I'm the bloom.

39. because if smarts were a motor vehicle, his would be an Escalade.

40. because he's going to kill me when he finds out I wrote this.

41. because he remembers everything I ever said.

42. because he's like the kissing cousin I never had.

43. because he lets me talk about God whenever I want even if he doesn't quite believe in the God I believe in.

44. because when you tell him to do something for you he merely asks when you want it done.

45. because he's a keeper.

46. because I'll never forget taking that walk.

47. because he's not afraid of me.

48. because he likes The Bee Gees.

49. because he knows the meaning of "let me do that for you."

50. because he roots for The Dawgs just because that's my school.

51. because I have better conversations him when I'm drunk, hysterical, tired, or p.o.'d than I do with most people when I'm normal.

52. because he knows I'm thinking about him even when we haven't talked in weeks.

53. because I have fun with him.

54. because he doesn't believe in delineating what a person should and should not do.

55. because he enjoys barbecue as much as I do.

56. because he's the type of person to wish you good night and mean it even after you've been up fighting for two hous with him.

57. because he says there's trouble when everything is fine.

58. because he's smart enough to know a good thing when he's found her.

59. because I still remember that first kiss.

60. because we've been friends for so long I don't know how not to be friends with him.

61. because I can tell him about something embarrassing and he won't make me feel ashamed about it. He'll just laugh at me and tell me that I should I have taken pictures.

62. because he's not afraid of sharing everything with me.

63. because he always tells me he misses me no matter how long we haven't spoken.

64. because he is an idiot.

65. because he is the benchmark that all my other friends aspire to.

66. because he is the Sebastien to my Ariel.

67. because loves listening to music almost as much as I do.

68. because he has the most serious brown eyes that a gal could easily get lost into.

69. because he'd rather hurt someone if he thinks it's necessary even if he's hurt more in the process.

70. because he's seen The Wizard sixty-two times.

71. because he'll call me after hearing a scary ghost story.

72. because he still calls me "Breannie" in a way that makes me feel loved.

73. because he finds the time.

74. because he'll dance with me even when he won't dance with anyone else easily.

75. because he's invited me to everything he's ever done even though he knows I can't attend half of the time.

76. because he likes my cooking even when I couldn't cook for nothing.

78. because he knows me in a way that is special and uplifting.

79. because he refused to believe I was unimportant and insignificant.


if I can't have you, I don't want no other baby

80. because I know I'll love him for the rest of my life. Happy Birthday, Eeyore!

Breanne

Like A Breath Of Spring She Came And Left, And I Still Don't Know Why, So, Here's To You And Whoever, Holds My Baby Blue Tonight

--"Baby Blue", George Strait

With the advent of the new television season I can always count on one show to spark the most introspective and personal of posts. I don't know why a small Colorado town and the comings and goings of its citizens can provide so much fodder for my writing, but it never fails. I'll get to the end of an episode, thinking to myself that, for once, I won't write a post based off of a quote from the show. Then, at the last minute, I'll hear a turn of phrase or see a particularly tender sequence and I know, I just know, that I'm going to be writing about it in a few hours. Such is the nature of the beast. There exists a few sources that never dry up and Everwood's font seems to spring eternal.

I was watching Miss Abbott inform young Mr. Brown how she's still not completely over him, to which he replied that they should go back to being friends. "We were never friends," she said, and it was true. There are certain relationships that there just is no coming back from. I had to learn the hard way that should you fall that deep and that hard for someone, there just is no digging the two of you out again. I think it's called falling in love because that's exactly what it is, a one way trip straight down. I mean--don't get me wrong, I think certain friendships can claw their way back to some sense of normalcy, yet I think the further any two people delve into exploring "something more," the further the two of you walk away from ever coming back from that place easily.

----

"I think what I'll always remember about you is what a sweet, sweet voice you had when you were singing. I don't think I'll ever forget how special you sound when singing," I said into the phone.

I was surprised at how civil I was being during this conversation. She, after all, was the girl who had stood me up after I had flown close to 3,000 miles mostly just to see her. She, after all, was the girl who could not speak to me for a month or two at a time after we'd broken up and still have the audacity to reach out for me when she was feeling especially lonely or sad (or drunk). I don't think I've ever had my heart toyed with as much as she did. She didn't mean to, of course, but I suppose when you let somebody in as much as I did her, that person never stops being important to you. The little things she said, the smallest of kind gestures, one always takes as a sign of reconciliation. "She told me I was funny the other day. Do you think that means she wants to get back together?" Like I said, she toyed my heart without ever knowing she still had a part of it.

"It's about the only thing I can do well. Sad to say, but I'm not good for much else."

"That's not true, buttercup. You still have the most quotable way of phrasing things."

"Only you think so."

"Well, I am the only opinion that really matters," I said. It felt weird trying to say good-bye to her without actually saying the words. At that point I was actually wondering if I could make it through this good-bye without ever uttering the words. We both got the gist of what was going on, but somehow it wouldn't feel real till one of us could say it.

That was our big thing back then--never saying good-bye. It started with me. I've never been a big fan of saying farewell to people. I believe it's all the uncomfortability of trying to decide where to pigeonhole people. Am I close enough to this person to warrant hugging them good-bye, kissing them good-bye, or could a hearty handshake suffice? And if were just to say the words, does good-bye sound too casual? Should I go with "later"? Or is that too casual? Should I try be pithy and say "fare thee well" or would that seem like I'm trying too hard? Nope, my usual tactic when it came to the end of conversations or engagements was to simply leave when it was time to leave. Sometimes it hurt people's feelings, but once I started to get the reputation as the person who NEVER said good-bye it became rather easily.

However, with her it was different. I never wanted to said good-bye to her because I never wanted to mean it. Even when we broke up I couldn't imagine my life without her in it.

"I'm glad you found somebody new, Mr. Patrick. It'll be good for you. It's not healthy to remain alone for too long a span."

"I'm glad you think so, Miss Tara. I'd hate to think you would be the type who'd want to see me end up alone for the rest of my life."

"All I ever wanted was to see you happy. I just realized that I was never going to be the girl to do that for you. It's better like this, don't you agree?"

"Not at first, but I'm getting there. We'll see how this new relationship works out. But, at present, she doesn't appear to be half as appealing as you."

"Give her time. Give it time."

I wanted to say that we should still hang out. I wanted to say that it would be easier with both of us seeing other people now. It wouldn't be so hard to be in each other's company. It wouldn't hurt me so much to know she was out there in somebody else's arms because I'd have somebody doing the same with me. I could have said that many times during the conversation. She probably would have acquiesced to the idea.

It would have never worked, of course.

We'd tried it a couple of times, the whole just being friends ploy. That turned into, well, we could just be friends with benefits. Eventually, one of us would always come up with the brilliant idea of, well, we're together this much so we might as well just start seeing each other again. Actually, that isn't entirely true. I was the only one who ever broached that last part. She had stuck with her guns. She made it clear when we broke up that we were never getting back together again.

"I hope you're right, Tara, I really do."

"Wait and see. She's going to love you a million times better than I could. She already sounds like she's falling for you."

"Yeah, she's great. I'm just worried that she's not going to measure up, you know?"

"Don't think about it. Be like a leaf on the wind."

"Leaf on the wind, eh? I'm going to write that one down in the Book of Tara."

At that point came a silence so persistent and so pervasive that we both knew what the next few minutes held in story. The big good-bye. We'd put it off and circumvented it for so long that there simply was no manner by which to smoothly transition into it. The good-bye would be clunky.

Except it wasn't.

"I think this is the part where we say good-bye, Tara."

"I think so too."

"I don't know if it means anything now, but I never hated you for doing what you did. It was right. I just had a problem with the timing, you know?"

"Yeah, timing was never our strong suit."

"But I see now that we were always going to end... somehow."

"I wish it weren't true, but we both know it is."

"I know we made this whole deal of not saying it any more because it was getting too hard, but in honor of this being the last time we, hopefully, speak to each other, I have to tell you one thing."

"Go ahead."

"I love you, Tara. Always have and always will."

"I know. I love you too."

"On three?"

"Sure."

And we said good-bye at the same time before hanging up the phone. That was the last time I talked to her. Like every other woman I've ever dated I heard she got married.

Yes, as these posts can attest to, I still wonder what he's like and if he's treating her right. I knew we could never be friends again. I knew she probably would never be in my life again after that night. It still doesn't change the fact that she was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

Also, she has the distinction of being the only girl, I think, I've been ever able to let go of completely. I don't harbor any ill feeling toward her. I don't carry this grudge against her like I do with all my other exes. We couldn't have parted on any better terms.

She's also the only girl who truly makes me smile when I remember her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers