You Want To Be Where You Can See, Our Troubles Are All The Same; You Want To Be Where Everybody Knows Your Name

--"Where Everybody Knows Your Name", Cheers Theme

Well, I've finally reached it. Tomorrow is my last day at my current position as a collector for Bally's. After tomorrow I can kiss my free gym membership good-bye. After tomorrow I'll never have to worry about starting another shift at 6 a.m. hopefully. After tomorrow I'll never have to hold in any urges to tell people, "well, go ahead and be fat. See if I give a crap." And, sadly, tomorrow is probably the last day I'll see many of the people I've worked with in the last year-and-a-half.

I know I'm supposed to feel more... more something... about leaving, but right now I don't think it's completely hit me what a big change this new job is going to bring. It not only means a change in pay, a change in scenery, but it also means a change in the way my days are socially structured. There's not going to be as much hanging out after work with co-workers as I have no clue how sociable my new co-workers are going to be. Certainly, it'll be a rough road to establish the same tight bonds that I made in the last few months working in the current department where I work at. There's not going to be as much familiarity, at first, with the way everyone around me reacts to what I say and do. It's frankly a little scary to think of having to work at making new relationships. It's kind of like I'm going to be the new kid in school and worried about not making any friends at all. I know I'm better than that. As my cousin said, I think I've opened up in the last couple of years and I shouldn't sweat such a small thing as being liked. It was just kind of nice coming into work and not having to worry about all the drama and bureaucracy that accompanies most days at work. It was nice being generally liked just as it's kind of nice to be missed by people.

I know I should feel more emotional about this, but the truth is that it doesn't quite yet feel like I'm leaving. I still have a lot of pins in the air that I'm juggling in terms of plans with the people at Bally's. I still have an Angels game next week with some of my co-workers. I possibly have a date at Ruth's Chris next week with some other of them. And I still have my trip to Boston with a friend of mine from work. Not to mention, I have certain plans set up in the future that insure that I never have to lose touch with the goings-on at Bally's if I never want to. To tell the truth, it doesn't even feel much like I'm saying good-bye at all.

It's like what they say about your job. It'd be great if you didn't have to work so much.

I'm not going to miss my responsibilities at Bally's. My replacement can have those. The only thing that I was in danger of missing were the people there and, if I plan things right, I'll never have to really miss them at all.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

These Things Take Forever, I Especially Am Slow, But I Realized That I Need You, And I Wondered If I Could Come Home

--"First Day of My Life", Bright Eyes



There's a collection of letters I probably should have burned a long time ago in my closet. I'd estimate gathered there are about forty or fifty letters written to me from various people. Most are typed, some are hand-written, but all share one common trait. They are all letters from people I've loved at one time and mostly still love to this day. The reason I say that I should have burned the whole lot of them is that I too often forget they are there and, reading them again, I've come to the conclusion that I too often have been negligent in maintaining my end of the relationships and friendships that these letters were born of. I've been remiss in keeping the feelings that these letters stirred fresh in my mind and probably have taken for granted that they would always remain the same.

The truth is, like everyone else, I probably no longer feel the same way about most of these people as I once did and that's my fault. Any connection, if left unattended, most often withers and dies. Special care must be given every once in a while for it to remain vibrant and alive. It's this special care that I'm afraid I have failed to give.

Of course, this wouldn't be the case if these various people were people I saw everyday. I'm keen on hobnobbing with my circle of friends as often as possible. But if the various people did happen to live close to me then I suppose there would be no point in writing letters, now would there? I'm not a quitter, but something inside me tells me because these weren't the people that I saw face-to-face everyday it became a matter of out-of-sight, out-of-mind.

Now I'm believing it's high time I rectified the situation. It's time I start calling these people again and re-establish those bonds that I used to think would never die. I realized, as I've gotten older and slightly more mature, that you can never have too many good people in your life and these were some of the best people a person could ever have. I maybe never told them that to their faces, but they were.

Like many people, sometimes little 'ole Breanne is a tad slow on the uptake. Sometimes little 'ole me likes to talk a mile-a-minute, forgetting to tell the people that I love that I do love them. I take it as a surety that they know the main reason why I can be so frank and so forthcoming about everything that crosses my scattered brain is that I've already taken them into my heart. I blaze ahead with making plans with them, forging a future with them, always neglecting to establish step one with them, which is to let them know how much they mean to me and how much it makes me feel safe to know I mean something to them. It's not because I'm afraid to say it to them--people know I have no trouble saying the words. It's more due to the fact that I get into the mentality that people can read my mind and that I believe it's fairly obvious by my actions how I feel about you. I think because we are so close or were so close that you're always going to be right there with me in my thought process when the truth is that sometimes it just feels nice to have someone spell it out for you. Sometimes it's nice to read the words "I love you" every once in a while. Sometimes it makes your day to have someone say to you, "I love you."

I know I'm not special. I've been lucky so far in finding people who complement my idiosyncracies and who value me for the person I am. But I'm no junebug. I do have the ability to let people know that I admire them as well and it's about time that I get to fixing some of the relationships I've let slide for a couple of years. High school friends should still be friends even almost ten years later and people who've thought enough to write me shouldn't be left hanging because I'm simply too lazy to set finger to keyboard. It's always going to be true that there are individuals like my parents, like Greg, like Patrick, like Stephanie, and like Torry who I just find it easier to remember to speak more affectionately to. These are the people that mean so much more to me that I've made a conscious effort to never let a day go by without telling them they mean everything to me. But, Hell's bell's, that doesn't mean letting everyone else fall to the wayside. In their own small ways they've brought joy to my life and every small piece of joy should be returned in kind. I should be as diligent with everyone else as I am with my inner circle. Perhaps I should be more pro-active because I do find myself letting them slip from my everyday thinking. It only takes five minutes to tell someone that you were thinking about them and that you miss them. Needing people in your life isn't a weakness. It's perhaps God's greatest gift to us, that we are made capable of receiving so much love from so many people. Yes, I've been lucky to have been blessed with people who shower me with their affection day and night. Now it's time for me to start doing the same.

I have a lot of love to give and the only thing I need to know is who's ready for it again.

Breanne

I Long For You Night And Day, Your Pain Was My Pleasure, Your Sorrow My Joy, I Feel Now I've Lost You To Health And Good Cheer

--"The Dirty Glass", The Dropkick Murphys

One would imagine that seeing four Red Sox games at Fenway in a month's time would be what is making me excited now. But, in truth, nothing matches the expectation of finally having Amy back in my life.

After what seemed an interminable wait, my current favorite show is back on the air. Once again I'm able to visit Colorado without having to ever leave the comfort of home. During the wait I've had time to ponder why exactly I consider this the finest show on the air and it's taking me a bit to come up with a concise the answer. The most succinct manner in which I can describe it is that all my favorite shows, whether one is talking about Avonlea, Buffy, or Everwood, have shared the undeniable trait of mixing the humor with the sadness. It's a delicate balance to maintain, but when it works it works like gangbusters. I don't know--perhaps I'm one of those rare individuals that revels in other's misery, but I've been kind of jonesing for this show if only because I can count on the drama to put me in a happy place. Yes, I do get my share of drama on the other "can't miss" shows I have during the week like 24 or Veronica Mars, but those kind of shows always seem to draw their drama from hyper-realistic situations. It's all well and good to be excited by the situations, but they lack the conviction of being situation that very well may happen to me.

Everwood is different in that respect. This show always either reminds me of something I too went through or puts me in a frame of mind where, but for the grace, I very well could have been. The sadness, the feelings, that this fine show stirs in me always originates from a point of familiarity. The sad fact is I always seem to do my best thinking and have my best reflections when prompted by a tale of woe. Be it the star-crossed path of love taken by Amy and Ephram, the struggle by Andy of rectifying past mistakes, or even the simple missteps of first love undertaken by Hannah and Bright--there's enough fodder for the angst and melancholy of everyday life that seems to be a motif in my writing.

I really am only happy when it rains. I cannot abide simple stories and there is nothing simple about the plotlines that run through any episode. Subtlety, depth, and nuance take on whole new levels when it comes to the show and I cannot think of a better example of fine programming than Everwood.


I fell for you my darling dear

Maybe there's something twisted about me to get this giddy over someone else's misfortune. I've often contemplated the notion that I'm drawn to these shows because they bring forth a vindictive and often masochistic instinct in me. I really do think a part of me doesn't feel real unless I'm blue or mildly worried in some way. Somehow when I'm totally fulfilled and happy, I feel less connected to the world at large. When things are going well I have almost a sense of disconnection, that all the events that are currently happening aren't real. It's much like when one goes to see a movie and one gets caught up in the action on screen. Sometimes one feels like all the joys the characters are experience are happening to oneself. That's how I feel. All these accomplishments and milestones don't feel like they're happening to me. They feel attached to someone else whose identity I'm just borrowing.

But the pain and the tears, those are all mine.

People always say that misery loves company, but to me feeling blue is a personal thing. I get the sense that nobody experiences my sorrow quite like me. I plow my way through suffering in a fashion wholly conceived and executed by me. Like somebody else said, nobody knows the trouble I've seen... nobody knows my sorrow.

I think that's more precisely why I like the show. It isn't just the fact that it presents the beauty of inbetween days, those days when the world isn't exactly crashing around you, but also when the world isn't exactly filled with rainbows. What I like about the show is the fact that it kind of understands my pain and reflects it back to me. Maybe I don't like seeing other people in pain as much as I like knowing that there are other people hurting just as much and for similar reasons as me.

So, yeah, being made sad, in a strange way, makes me happy.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And We'll Linger On, Time Can't Erase A Feeling This Strong, No Way You're Ever Gonna Shake Me, Oh Darling, 'Cause You'll Always Be My Baby

--Always Be My Baby", Mariah Carey

One of the longest standing traditions in our friendship is that there's always some type of wager whenever one of her teams plays one of my teams. When we were younger (or when she was younger I should say) the standing bet was $20, but, as we've both gotten older, the ante has gone up. Right now the standing bet is $100, no stipulations, on any major sporting event. It doesn't happen often as our teams are destined to play in either opposite leagues or opposite conferences, but it does happen. For instance, were the Bulldogs of the fine institution of the University of Georgia ever to meet the Trojans of the also fine institution of the University of Southern California, well, we'd kill her team. But also there would be a check being sent in the mail (or Paypalled as it has come to pass) the minute the game is over. Come hell or high water, you can be sure that if Breanne's team and my team are ever playing each other I shall have a vested interest in the outcome of that game.

I don't just watch the game, I rub her face in it. I may not be the world's best trash talker, but I do know a thing or two about getting underneath my Southern friend's skin. It's not just the "You might be a redneck/Southerners are dumb" variety, but I also like to tease her about how "she's just a girl and girls don't know the first thing about sports". That really crumbles her cookies as she in many ways is more up on the latest goings-on of her belove Dawgs and Falcons. But she also goads me as well whenever she happens on a bit of sports news that she figures to mock me with endlessly. Four words for you--Damon signs with Yankees.

I guess that's the reason I'm writing this is because, of all the series in all the sports we follow, nothing is more precious nor more sacred an annual (or semi-annual event as the case may be) event as whenever the Red Sox play the Braves. We both set aside whole afternoons or evenings, waste tons of hours on the telephone to each other, and may as well breath baseball for those few days of games. Last year when I went to Boston for the first time it was to see the Sawx play Braves at Fenway. Believe you me I made sure to taunt the fact that we came back from being down 3-1 to win the game I watched 5-3. It not only meant that I wouldn't be compelled to sign over a hundred dollars of money I had worked semi-hard for, it also meant seeing the absolutely hilarious notes Breanne likes to leave in the margins of her check whenever she has to pay me my winnings. Last year's entry was a classic.

Well, they do say opposites attact...so I sincerely hope you meet somebody who is attractive, honest, intelligent, and cultured.

I can only cringe at the thought of actually sitting next to her at a stadium with her when the Red Sox and Braves play. I believe the zingers would come quicker and with more ferocity than in His Girl Friday. I could not imagine having to put up with that coy smirk of hers were her team to be winning throughout the whole game. I would have to leave. I would. Not only is she one of the cruelest bullies when it comes to her teams being victorious, she's also one of the smuggest. I mean--she's the most polite and well-mannered person (at times) I've ever met, except when it comes to Chipper Jones and the boys. Then she really does turn into a maniac.


oh baby believe me it’s only a matter of time

But here's the darndest thing about our friendly rivalry. I root for Georgia when they're not playing USC. I root for them so much that I get teased at work for having two favorite teams. I also check on the Braves almost as often as I check on the Red Sox when baseball's in season. I like it when they're winning because it makes her happy. Just as she'll call me up and tell me what a great move one of my organizations made or just to tell me that so-and-so played perfectly today. We both have each other's colleges keychains. I can tell you that the first and best pep talk I received when USC lost to Texas was from her. She wanted them to win just as much as I did. That's how it is with us and that's why we've stayed friends for so long. We support each other. Knowing she's a fan of Georgia is enough for me to root for them, and vice-versa. It makes me, at least, feel connected to her in another tangible way.

Sure, we may putdown and insult each other's sports teams, but that's just the nature of good friends. Whatever they like and whatever they're into you've always got to knock it down a peg or two. You can't ever let them know that you actually think one of their interests is actually worthwhile because it'll go straight to their heads. She's like my little sister in some ways. I can't ever let her know how completely I support her or her teams because that would be overly sentimental. I kid and I joke because I know she can take it. But, secretly, we both get excited whenever that next home run is hit or that next touchdown is scored because, yeah, it does make the other person happy.

The bet is our way of showing each other that we're still a big part of each other's lives. Besides, it's an institution by now. I couldn't imagine not having the bet in my life even with all the hurt feelings and brutal insults that sometimes result because of it.

It'd be like trying to imagine not having Breanne in my life.

So come June 17th at Turner Field Breanne better be ready to pay me my money because that bitch is going down!

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Won't Be Your Obligation, I Won't Be Your Barbie Doll, I Won't Be The Portrait Of Perfection, To Adorn Your Wall

--"I Will... But", SHeDAISY

TO BE ME
by Breanne Holins

My mother tightens my bows
The pretty blue ones that match my eyes
So effectively, and I cannot help but smile
I am cute
But like the scorpion who stings the crocodile
While it is being shuttled across
It is my nature and not my choice
(Actually it's a bit of both)
I'm sure if I really hated how I look
Or rather how others looked at me
I could take my father's razor and ruin
What has taken all of my twelve years to
To construct
That way I could see if people liked me for me
And not for the fact I have dimples
Oh how would they shudder and cringe
And whisper how once I was beautiful
But I chased it all away from some mad dream
To be respected
But then again, I'm only cute
A girl of 12 can't, by definition, be pretty
She's flat, has baby fat, and sounds so young
Besides, I can always buy a razor
But once cuteness fades it's gone forever
(June 13th, 1992)

The time when I was eleven and tried to burn my bathroom down has been highly exaggerated in its retelling. First of all, don't blame me, it was all Torry's suggestion. She's the one who told me that cutting one's hair with scissors was ultimately pointless since it always grows back. However, she told me all those many years ago, if you burn it off with a candle you seal the ends, honey, and it can't grow back for at least a year. What did I know? I was eleven and her scientific explanation of the proven tenets of cosmetology sounded squarely in the realm of possible. Besides, she was my best friend and everyone knows that best friends are incapable of lying about anything important. Second of all, I didn't exactly burn down the walls of the bathroom, leaving it "akin to the ruins of Atlanta when Sherman marched through" as my mother is prone to compare it to whenever she recounts the story for those unfortunate fools who by some miracle have yet to hear the story. I mostly singed one towel and a small portion of the curtains. Third of all, I never cackled with glee as my daddy often moans eerily whenever he chimes in with my mother. The closest sound coming out of my mouth could only be described as maniacal shrieking as I realized that I had, indeed, lit myself on fire. Last of all, I didn't do it because I was feeling depressed and wanted to dabble in pyromania as my class thought when they spread the rumor of my penchant for wickedness.

I did it because I was, believe it or not, trying to be normal.

My mother had made a comment a couple days prior that my hair was perfection in its neat, little curls and in its warm, richly hued density that she "could only hope that it never lose its luster because, without it, Breanne would be rather plain-looking." She said this to my aunt and my cousin Katie. She had meant it as a compliment, even going further to say that I definitely had the fairest hair in our whole extended family, but all I heard was that she thought I was nothing without my beautiful hair. Well, Hell's bells, I didn't want my whole self-worth to be tied into something that I truly had no control over. I wanted to know that, were my hair to fall out in huge clumps, that I'd still be the same little 'ole me. That's when I had told Torry of my experiment. She had the same curiousity as me. Would I, in fact, be the same individual, with all my inherent superpowers and weaknesses, were I to lose the one thing that, it seemed, branded me as me the most?

That's when she told me what she had read in some women's magazine.

I had turned on the shower in my bathroom as a precaution. I figured that I would initiate my experiment by burning off a quarter inch of my bangs and then, depending on how that went, I would utitilize the same technique for the rest of my head. Everything had began rather smoothly. I ran the water to both mask my intentions from my parents and, again, as the system by which I would douse the flames were they to get out of control. I quickly slipped out of my clothes, lit the candle, and stepped into the tub. I can't recall if I said anything along the lines of "here we go" as I placed the candle to the first strands of my hair, but I remember the mixture of excitement and nervousness that accompanied my movements. I remember smelling and hearing the first strands of hair being cinged off. I quickly pinched my free hand around the strands on my head to put out any lingering hotspots in my hair. So far, so good, I thought. I then proceeded to do this along the length of the left side of my head--quickly burning and then wetting my hair alternately.

It wasn't until I had to switch hands to get the right side of my head that I ran into problems. I simply wasn't as coordinated with my left hand as my right hand. I knew I'd messed up when my fingers pinched my hair and I still felt the flames racing up my head. I believe that's when I screamed rather harshly and attempted to dunk my head beneath the shower. Before I could do that, though, my father, who was wondering why I had been showering clear in the middle of the afternoon, heard my shrieks and burst in. Within a split second, seeing a portion of my hair still smoking, he threw a nearby towel on my head to snuff out the flames. This had the effect of cancelling my attempt to get my head underneath the showerhead as well as catching the corner of the towel on fire as well. Luckily, the water quickly soaked through the towel to put it and my hair out. I was so shaken that I forgot I was standing in all my lily-white glory before my father, but as the effects of the adrenaline wore off my modesty came washing back over me. I put the candle which I was still clutching on the windowsill as I made a faint attempt to grab the other towel.

That's when I caught the curtains on fire and my father had to put that out as well.

Again, I maintain my innocence. I was doing it for a good cause and, truthfully, I found out a few things after that incident. For instance, I found out that my parents still thought I was pretty (if not slightly off my rocker) despite the sight of my misshapen head greeting them for the next couple of weeks. It turns out my mother had some pretty nifty ideas for shortened hair that she'd been dying to try out but never had the heart to suggest I cut my tresses for. I also found out that, after the initial ridicule and jeers had subsided, that my classmates, friends, and family still thought I was cute and charming without all of my trademarked chestnut brown hair. As Torry told me later on that month, "it ain't so much that the hairstyle makes the girl as the girl makes the hairstyle, I think." Most importantly, I found out that hair does grow back even if you burn it off with a candle as it grew back to the length I liked it at rather quickly.

I had proven my point by then, though. A person can be beautiful... no matter what she looks like.

Breanne

So, I'm Never Gonna Be Just Like I Was, I'm Not Gonna Be The Same, Now I Know That I'm Here, Now I Know

--"But Now I Know", Smoosh

There's a scene at the end of Don't Come Knocking where Skye, as portrayed by the indomitable Sarah Polley, absolutely comes close to breaking your heart without actually doing it. She gives this stirring monologue about how when she was a kid she used to search for similarities between her appearance and that of her estranged father--a wrinkle to a brow, the same bridge to the nose, same tilt to the eyes. She used to search in vain for that connection to him that would give some validity to the fact that he is her father. But as she stands there in front of him, slowly letting go of her hand, she states aloud that there really isn't any connection to be found. She doesn't say it with anger or sadness or even disappointment in her voice. She says it as a statement of fact. The whole movie her purpose was to find a bit of the family she lost when her mother died. She thought she could find that with him, yet by movie's end she realizes he is never going to be her salvation. He is only her dad, after all. She still loves him, but he's never going to be the family that she's searching for.

She stands there, watching him leave, and that's when I realized this is destined to be one of my favorite movies. It isn't so much that it features Sarah Polley, both my favorite actress and who I consider the finest actress of my generation, but that it's full of scenes like this that tweak the usual "man's search for reconnection with loved ones" theme. While I don't think it'll ever be as popular as other movies I've seen, it works for me. It succeeded in tugging at me emotionally when I was merely looking for entertainment. I highly recommend it to anyone who's searching for a movie that doesn't follow along with Hollywood's norms.

And what can I say? Sarah Polley definitely still has it because she gives a very nuanced performance that I'll probably have to see again to make sure I'm not exaggerating its impact. The scene I spoke of above is worth the price of admission alone.


never knew that I was sitting here
waiting for you

I think I've had the same struggles with identifying myself by my family. It's always been a struggle for me to remain independent of the preconceptions that come with being a part of my life. Everything I'm supposed to be according to them I've fought against falling into. That's why I identify with the movie so much, because I'm still at that stage where I'm trying to parse out exactly what kind of person I'm trying to mold myself into. I'm still at that stage where I tend to neglect or even push away the people that are supposed to be closest to me. However, just like the movie, one of my biggest fears is that I'm going to come to a point in my life where I'm going to want them back in my life and discover that I've already burned all my bridges. Everybody thinks they don't need someone until he discovers it's them who don't him any longer.

The film puts the notion of what a family is and how unconditional a family's love truly is to the test. I definitely think it's put into perspective of just how far I can push certain people away before they get the hint and stop pushing back.

I've got to stop thinking about what it is about them I don't like and start looking for the qualities I do admire. I know now I can't be the same because being the same will eventually lead me to a place too far away to return back home when I need to.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Supposed To Be Real Life, So Let's Pretend That We're Not Bored, That We Exist And That We're Resolved, To Real Things Happening To Me

--"Small Figures in a Vast Expanse", Rilo Kiley

She was working at the local Taco Bell--she of the pink hair, pretty face, and unsolicited cheery disposition. People had told her that she didn't have the right to be so happy, that only happy, fulfilled people could ever smile as broadly as she always seemed to. She didn't care. She did what she wanted and what she wanted was to be one of thos happy, fulfilled people. She didn't exactly covet the life she had, but, so far, she didn't see much to be disappointed with either. It wasn't a bad life and it wasn't a great life, but it was hers and she was determined to be someone who didn't look back upon it with regret. She of the pink hair, pretty face, and cheery disposition had always gotten along fine in this manner.

He had met her on a Sunday when he had passed through her drive through, ordering a nach bell grande for what he thought was going to be another night alone in his sparsely decorated and even lonelier studio--he of the green eyes, disheveled clothes, and scarred soul. He didn't say much to her besides, "hold the sour cream on everything," but she had made quite an impression upon him. No one working at a Taco Bell at midnight should be that chipper, he thought to himself. Even when he made it home and tore into his meal the thought of her weighed upon his mind heavily. Why should she be so happy and I, so miserable, he reflected. What makes her tick? He of the green eyes, disheveled clothes, and scarred soul had to know and so he drove back to her drive-through window.

It wasn't until later on at around two a.m., when he had convinced her he wasn't some insane stalker and she had agreed to talk to him outside, that he discovered her secret. She wasn't just happy today, she was happy all her life. More than that, she had made it a point to try and be happy for the rest of her life. She didn't want to be one of those people that could only be happy when something or someone made her happy. She had made it an obsession to spend the majority of her time here as grateful and as joyous as possible. She couldn't see how you could live life any other way. He responded to that by complimenting her on her positive demeanor and the firm desire to emulate her philosophy in some way.

"It's easy if you want me to show you how," she said. "Come back tomorrow night, same time, and we'll talk some more."

He did come back the next night and the night after that until it became a regular occurrence. He became a regular fixture at the Taco Bell. So much so that, when it came time for her to get off at 3 a.m., the two of them would hop in his Accord and drive over to the local Carrow's and continue their conversation. Both of them worked later on in the day so it was easy for them to talk all the way up until the sun rose. She told him how she saw life as something you had complete control over, like a television. If you didn't like the program that you were watching, then by all means change the channel. You're only stuck if you let yourself be. He, on the other hand, talked mostly about how unhappy he was and how she was starting to change that for him. Sadness, he said, was like a disease for him. It was like a disease he'd lived with all his life and that, for a time there, he thought it was going to be a terminal one. She helped him with that, though. She said she was glad she could help him out.

When she invited him over to her apartment a month later he almost begged off. He didn't want to believe what was happening to him. Things like being invited back to a pretty girl's apartment was something that had only happened to the younger version of himself. She assured him that this was a real invitation meant for him. Like it or not, this was really happening to him. He resolved to accept that this was his life and that she had somehow had become a part of it. He accepted her invitation and they spent the better part of the next few hours joking around with one another as having sex. They had both spent far too long dreaming of ways to attract the right guy or girl that it was kind of a relief to not have to look so hard any more.

"And you don't mind that I never made it through college?" she asked him in bed that night. "Like it doesn't bother to be with someone with barely a high school education?"

"No. It's not like you're interviewing for a job. I'm fine with it as long as you're fine with it."

He already knew the answer, though. He had learned enough about her to realize that she as a person thought life was education enough. She had done alright without school and she felt she didn't need any more. For him, though, he worried that that was going to be a point of contention later on for the both of them. It wasn't that he looked down upon her, but eventually, he thought, there was going to come a time when they would run out of thing to say. He wanted to believe that they were suited for one another and that everything would turn out perfectly, but everything breaks down in the end in his experience. He wanted to have some assurances that the two of them wouldn't be one of those casualties.

He began to take her to and from work. Eventually, two months later, they planned a short trip to Vegas for later on that month. He'd never been there before and she was determined to show him how much fun it could be. When they arrived she noticed he had this bored look on his face. She asked him what was wrong. He could only say that perhaps Vegas wasn't his speed. She had noticed that he was happiest when it was only the two of them and had had been hoping this trip would have the effect of pushing him a bit out of his shell. But, in the end, she was pragmatic about the situation. He was who he was and she was nothing if not flexible. Instead of hitting the clubs and the bars, instead of doing a bit of the gambling, they mostly stayed in their hotel room and ordered in room service. She still had fun and had seen to it that he did as well.

"You think I'm boring, right?" he asked her on the way back home.

"No, I don't think you're boring. I was just worried that you weren't going to have a good time."

"I had fun. Well, I had fun with you."

"That's good."

Eventually the decision had been made that they should find a place together. They had been together for a sufficient length of time that the only logic step was to share a place. It wasn't really discussed much beforehand. She had kind of nudged him in that direction and by that time he was starting to really worry about what he was going to do if the two of them ever broke up. For her part, she liked him well enough and they had been seeing a lot of each other lately. She thought the decision was inevitable so she took steps to insure that it happened sooner than later. Besides, she thought, it'd be good for him.

Fairly soon, they had settled on a place just outside the city. It had taken some reconditioning, but through hard work and determination over the course of the next few months, they made it into a cozy home for themselves. They christened it "The Golden Milestone" in honor of one of their favorite series of books and soon fell into the routine of being a couple who lived together. They took walks everyday with each other, ate dinner together, and slept together. They went out to movies together. They left each other cute voice mails while the other was at work, saying endearing phrases like "come home soon," "I miss you," and "I'll be waiting for you." Every so often they would sneak off to some exotic locale like San Diego or Seattle. And, once in a blue moon, she got him out to come to a party with her at her other friends' houses. All in all, they built what was turning out to be a good relationship.

It wasn't until he began thinking about changing the jobs that the cracks began to show. He began talking about how, since he was planning a career change for their future, that maybe she should start thinking about the same. He asked her if it wouldn't be nice if she maybe could go back to school they could afford bigger and brighter things. She took what he said into consideration. She was hurt slightly that maybe he thought she wasn't good enough for him as she was, but decided he was only thinking about their future. She told him that he would think about it. That's all he asked, he said. In reality, though, he had been thinking long and hard about the state of things between them and he was beginning to be really bothered how ignorant she seemed at times. It wasn't so much how she talked because she carried herself very smartly and concisely; it was more of the range of subjects she felt comfortable talking about. He like talking to her still, but didn't want to feel like he was tiptoeing around certain subject. He wanted her to be his everything.

At first she took in schedules for classes at the local JC's, but her heart just wasn't in it. She liked who she was and felt no desire to change it. She felt her growth as a person was something that should be left up to her. At that point in her life she felt fairly stable, fairly confident, and fairly happy. She was mostly going through the motions to make him happy.

"Have you decided which classes you want to take yet?" he asked her.

"Not yet."

"Do you need some help because I've got some suggestions if you want to hear them?"

"That's alright."

Soon she began to despise him for his insistence. She told him flat out one day that she wasn't prepared to go back to school just yet. She just wanted to be happy with him right now and that later on she could see herself going back to get her degree. That's when he told her that later on wasn't good enough for him. He made the mistake of telling her that he was ashamed for her, ashamed for the fact that she had no desire to better herself. He asked her why she couldn't see that he was only trying to make her a better person. She answered that she already thought she was a better person because of him and how that should be good enough for him. That's when she told him that she despised him--not for the fact he kept harping on her going back to school, but for the fact that for the last couple of weeks that he had been slowly eking away at her bliss. She told him that the main reason she was with him was because he had made a positive contribution to her life, but if he stopped being that beneficial influence then she really couldn't see remaining together.

"Is that the way you really feel?"

"That's the way things really are with me," she answered him.

She packed up her things two days later.

They spent the next couple of months acclimating themselves to life on their own again. She began going out more and more with her old friends, the ones she had sort of neglected while she was with him. He, on the other hand, went back to the isolation he experienced before she had met her. He forced himself to believe that he was better off without her. He didn't need someone that didn't need him. He tried to believe that things were for the best. She, however, never gave up on him or them. She thought it wouldn't be long before he would call her to apologize and tell her that there was nothing in the world that he needed more than her. She loved him. She could see herself saying that, but she needed to be sure that he felt the same way. After all, there were a lot of things she wanted to change about him, but only if he thought they needed changing. She knew that everything that she wanted to change were minor, insignificant details. There was nothing drastically worrisome about him that raised any red flags with her. He was just this careful, methodical guy who carefully and methodically cared about her very much. Nope, she never gave up for him.

He never knew this, though. He took her leaving as a sign things weren't meant to be. In fact, he had steeled himself for the blow by telling himself she was beneath him and that she couldn't see what a great guy she was missing out on. He avoided going out altogether and shut himself away in the place they had shared together for a time. He tried not to see how large and empty the house was without her. He tried to forget what it was like to sleep next to her. He tried to escape the reality that they were better off together than apart. To him his life was something he had come to expect as being always disappointing and she was just the latest in a long list of disappointments. There was nothing he could do now about that.

A year passed and then another, and soon it was four years since they had seen each other. In the interim she had come to her own decision to go back to school. In the beginning she had deluded herself into thinking that he would magically show up at her door the instant she got her A.A., but he never did. Soon, though, she saw it was more important for her to get it so she could be proud of finally getting around to it. She moved on from Taco Bell onto a better job that took her four hundred miles away. However, it was until she had actually moved away that she finally gave up hope on seeing him again.

Meanwhile, he had hit bottom. It wasn't all her fault, though. The new job had only served to exacerbate the problems he had been having all his life. He wasn't a happy guy to begin with and all the time spent away from the company of his friends and loved ones only exaggerated his loneliness. He had just ceased caring about anything and everything. He had finally let the misery consume him until it was all he was. He sold the house, their house, and moved back into a tiny, shut-in apartment where he was sure no one was ever going to bother him again. There he lived and died a little each day until he was only an imprint of his former self.

When she of the now brown hair, pretty face, and unsolicited cheery disposition bumped into him of the still green eyes, disheveled clothes, and scarred soul at the airport that Sunday, she almost didn't recognize him. She had spent what seemed a lifetime remembering how he had looked in her arms that the person before her had seemed downright a stranger. He knew who she was at first sight, though. He had spent that same lifetime trying to forget her. Now, he realized, he had never really forgotten her or what she meant to him.

They stopped in at the Starbuck's at the airport to catch up with each other. He felt the sting each time she mentioned how happy how she was with her new life. He had hoped there was still a place with her. He knew he didn't deserve it, but he wanted her back and was trying to work up the nerve to ask her back. But with every one of her successes he was only reminded of his every setback, with every one of her accomplishments he could only see his failures. He was no longer the person of her he decided and he left the table after their talk thinking that she was better off without him.

"Aren't you going to come with me? I mean--that's what you've been wanting to ask me all this time, isn't it?" she asked him after he had turned and walked away from her.

"Why should I ask when I already know the answer?"

"I told you when I first met you that I wanted to teach you how to be a happier person. And the first lesson you need to learn is that when you find someone who makes you happy," she continued as she put her arm around his, "is that you don't walk away from them completely."

"You don't."

"No, you don't. Don't you know that all you ever had to do was ask me back? Don't you know that the happiest I've ever been is with you?"

He tried to protest with claims that they still had problems between them and that she should be worried about how things between them were always going to be slightly off. Mostly though, he was insistent that they could never get back to where they were before, that that point in their lives had possibly left them behind. He didn't think he deserved a second chance. He didn't deserve her back.

"Well I'm coming back either way. Like it or not, this is really happening to you."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Everyone Stumbles, Gets Tired, And Feels Like Crying Sometimes, But Don't Feel Bad, Don't Sigh, Puff Up Your Chest, And Let Us Hear You Say, I'm Home

--"Tadaima (english translation)", Do As Infinity

I was going to write my usual post about what happened fifteen or twenty years ago in my life. Instead, I got the brilliant idea for a post in the fact that I couldn't for the life of me find a song to translate as a topic. What follows is the scatter-brained and idiotic manner in which my supposedly intelligent mind operates.

Frustrated at not being able to find anything that sparked my interest in terms of post ideas, I turned to a ready and reliable source of musical inspiration, Myspace. Normally when I cannot think of a song to serve as a title I'll just take a whirl around people's profiles and find something that brings back a memory. Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, I'll find a new song that really catches my ear. Either way, I can normally find a tune to work with within ten minutes of searching. Tonight, however, I found myself more fiddling with the songs on my profile than actually searching for the right song to get my creative juices flowing.

The trouble stemmed from the fact that, as a rule, I am usually floating a half dozen ideas in my head at a time. Tonight a couple of those ideas were a) I wanted to write a post before I went to bed, b) I wanted to get to bed before midnight, c) I didn't like the last video on my profile, and d) I was waxing nostalgic for Do As Infinity. So what started out as me screwing around on Myspace for songs turned into me clicking onto the Do As Infinity profile and "ooohing" and "aaahing" at songs I haven't heard for a couple of months. Soon, as per my custom, all thoughts of writing a post tonight were forgotten as I delved deeper and deeper into DAI lore on the internet. I began visiting old stomping grounds for DAI information until finally I visited another one of my favorite sites, YouTube, where I discovered they had a plethora of DAI swag. As I began to listen to all the old familiar songs, another piece to my posting impotence began to take form. I began to look for my favorite song by them, which, unfortunately, I had forgotten the name of. As I poured over page after page of DAI videos I could only cringe as each song wasn't the one I was looking for. It was twenty minutes into this endeavor that I suddenly remembered that I was on the clock for writing a post.

That's how I am, though. I have this idiotic "first in, first out" logic in my mind which states that I cannot move onto my next task until the first task is done to completion, even if that first task really could wait till tomorrow. I think I'm kind of O.C. that way. I refuse to give up on problems or dilemmas that I think should be easy. It bothers me when I get stumped. For instance, if a person asks me a riddle that I cannot figure out I'll get huffy rather hastily if they refuse to give me the answer when I inquire after one. Double that if they dare to tell me, "figure it out." I can't handle incompletes on my slate. Everything has to be done until I'm satisfied with the results. This meant that I was going to ascertain the song's title before even attempting to formulate the post you are reading now.

I finally chanced upon the title of the song, "Tadaima," after sifting through the fourteenth (!) page of Do As Infinity videos equalling about one hundred songs of theirs. I quickly watched it, smiled like a boy caught with his hands down his pants, and then posted it into the third slot of my profile. This solved two of my dilemmas--namely, satisfying my craving for DAI any time I want and replacing the third video, which I had gotten sick and tired of. Tragically, this brought up yet another task that delayed my writing.

It dawned on me that I wanted a translation of the song for anyone curious enough to watch the video and felt the compulsion to see what it would sound like in English. Again, I was on the verge of tears as the forty minutes of searching for a good English translation of the song began to appear for naught. No matter what I tried, I couldn't find the one place that would just tell me what I was hearing about. That's when the depressing thought that I wouldn't be able to formulate a post tonight crept in. I truly began to believe that I would be up all night searching high and low for this elusive translation.

I think this is absolutely the number one reason why I have a reputation for being strange or weird. I get fixated on tasks rather easily. Whereas most people would give up after about twenty or thirty minutes of looking, I went forty to fifty minutes looking for a translation that probably no one will ever bother clicking on. I just had to do it. I mean--it's good for writing. Being thorough lends itself to being detailed which, in itself, lends itself to fooling the audience into thinking what you're writing about is actually real. In "real life", though, it gets rather tiresome. I almost would rather be less stubborn if it meant I could go to bed earlier. I cannot even count how many times I've caught a case of the insomnia because I was up dallying on the net for a project that only I would see.

As it turned out, I finally found my translation, posted it up, and smiled in relief. I had found everything I'd wanted to find tonight. And, as serendipity would have it, I was struck with an idea for a post after all. I wanted you all to see what a tiring framework my mind operates in and give you a taste of the frantic pace with which any and all idea come to be in my head. I never seem to do something from A to B. It always seems to be a matter of A, sidestepping to C, which brings up D,E, and F, which finally works itself out in the end and gets me to B.

Remember, all I wanted to do at 9 p.m. was find something to write a post about before 10. And here it is 12:30 a.m. and I'm only now finishing up this piece. Yet, somehow, this is what works for me. It's how I can appear to be doing a million things at once when in actuality I feel like I've been stalled on the same thing for a century. It's also how I learn a cavalcade of bits of information. Perhaps if I didn't fail so many times trying to look up one idea, one name, one translation, I wouldn't actually be as well-versed in the variety of topics I feel I'm competent to converse about.

So there's my post about my (sort of) frantic night. It was touch and go for a minute. I didn't think I'd be able to come up with anything but, somehow, I brought this baby home.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Who Knows How Long I've Loved You? You Know I Love You Still, Will I Wait A Lonely Lifetime? If You Want Me To, I Will

--"I Will", Alison Krauss



As long as I've lived, one dream has nagged at me like a splinter in soft flesh. I've had one deficiency that, even though no one else really seems to mind it, has bothered me to no end.

Plain and simple, I wish I could sing.


Growing up and listening to fabulous singers like Miss Krauss I've always harbored a secret desire to have my voice heard over the airwaves, to be known as someone who brings smiles to people's faces without ever being seen. I wonder what it'd be like to have a voice people admired and requested to hear at parties. I want to have my voice compared to birds and angels. The only comparison my voice seems to get is that to a hurricaine which isn't exactly something I can be proud of. I guess you could say that I'm self-conscious about the way that my voice represents me. I feel people often get the wrong picture about me when they hear me sing. The thing is, even though I can barely carry a tune, I love to sing so strangers are often garnering their first impression of me by the way I carry myself down the street. Usually, if I'm quietly minding my own beeswax, the first thing they see is a slightly attractive woman with a decent smile and a definite "chipperness" about her. However, I have nightmares that the first impression people get when I'm singing down the street is what sort of critter up and died in my throat.

It isn't that I'm bitter about it. No, that's not why I dwell so much on this topic. I think the Lord has blessed me with enough gifts and blessings that to ask Him for anymore would border on greed. I think why I dwell on it so is that singing is an area that I feel you cannot fake. It's not like my beauty or charm, where people can mistake unintentional touches as being a sense of style. You can't cover up an inability to sing with make-up or a cute blouse. You can't bullshit your way through a bad rendition of a tune. Sad to say, but two areas I've always coasted on were the fact that my mother got me to believe early on that I was pretty and my father convinced me early on that I could talk my way out of anything. Singing isn't like that. You either have it or you don't.

And how I wish I had it. That takes some real talent, real artistry. I think the appreciation I would receive if I could sing would mean more to me than any compliment I get about how marvelous I look or how polite I can be. To me those feel like parlor tricks accented by smoke and mirrors compared to the genuine beauty of a natural singer. I could kill to melt someone's heart the way my heart melted the first time I heard Alison Krauss sing "I Will" when I was sixteen. If I could affect someone's soul like that I don't think I would care how I may look or what an ogre of a personality I had. Those may be important, but to me it'd be worth the sacrifice to be so close to touching God with my voice. That's what I want people to think, that I've been graced with God the way people think singers like Charlotte Church are.

But little 'ole me knows that such is a wish that will never come true. No matter how long I wait, I'll never have that sway over people. The most I can do is admire from afar and profess my love for the brilliant tapesty that these great singers create for me.

Secretly, though, I'll keep wishing like a child outside that gigantic toy shop that someday, if I wait long enough, I'll finally be allowed in.

Breanne

Jane, Divided, But I Can't Decide What Side I'm On, Jane Decided Only Cowards Stay, While Traitors Run, Jane, Jane

--"Jane", Barenaked Ladies

The girl works at the store sweet jane st. clair
Was dazzled by her smile while I shopped there
It wasn’t long before I lived with her
I sang her songs while she dyed her hair

Chorus:
Jane, divided, but I can’t decide what side I’m on
Jane decided only cowards stay, while traitors run
Jane, jane

I’d bring her gold and frankincense and myrrh
She thought that I was making fun of her
She made me feel I was fourteen again
That’s why she thinks it’s cooler if we’d just stay friends
Jane doesn’t think a man could ever be faithful
Jane isn’t giving me a chance to be shameful
Jane, jane
I wrote a letter, she should have got it yesterday
That life could be better by being together
Is what I cannot explain to jane
The girl works at the store, sweet jane st. clair
Was dazzled by her smile while I shoplift there
No promises as vague as heaven
No juliana next to my evan
Jane, desired by the people at the school and work
Jane is tired, ’cause every man becomes a lovesick jerk
Jane, jane

When I first started going out with Tara it was our custom to send each other small trinkets in the mail. It wasn't much, but after a half-liftime of writing people missives of enormous size, I used to get very gleeful when she would surprise me with something mailed out to me. Nothing, however, could match the immense pleasure that overcame me when she sent me a small hand-mixed tape of The Barenaked Ladies, one of her more favorite bands. Mind you this was way before they hit it huge by first going on Beverly Hills 90210 and then later on releasing "One Week." No, back when she gave me this tape it was a few years before the world at large knew who they were. Yet when I first started listening to them I knew they were going to quickly become one of my more favorite bands.

It wasn't so much that they mixed humor into a lot of their work--though that was a part of it. I still think "If I Had a $1,000,000" is one of the funniest songs I've ever listened to. It was more that in their more serious songs they adopted an attitude that for some reason always seems to draw me in. A variety of their songs seem to adopt the notion that it is possible for one person to be in love with somebody else and for the other person just not to be. That's a notion I always thought was true, but everyone else seems to adopt the attitude that it isn't possible to have true love with somebody that doesn't love you back. Most people in general seem to think that if it were true and real then it needs to be reciprocal in nature. Songs like "Straw Hat and Dirty Hank," "Break Your Heart," and "This Old Apartment" all meditate in different ways on this theme and those were always the songs, even though they weren't my absolute favorites by the group, that made me think about what my expectations of love were.

One song, though, was a favorite of mine and managed to push this philosophy to the forefront on my ruminating on the subject. "Jane" as a song and as a thinking piece works for me. To me, it's a classic song about someone who knows what he wants out of life and out of love in general who has the misfortune to fall in love with someone who's grown jaded and cynical, and basically is ambivalent about her chances of ever finding real love. As much as it is a song about a boy trying to convince a girl to fall in love with him, it's always a song about a boy trying to convince a girl that there is such a thing as true love. Ultimately, he fails at both, but the attempt is what always surprised me because of how hopeless a task it is. Every time I hear the song I get emotional. It isn't like the tracks by The Cure which can make me cry on cue, but every time I hear the song I get choked up because it always reminds me of Tara and how it subtly reminds me of how our situation slightly mirrored that of the song.

For us, though, it wasn't a matter of one person believing in love and the other didn't. For us it was always a matter of one person believing that one's first love could turn out to be the one and the other one believing that you needed to experience lots of firsts before you could decide which one is real. It became a constant squabble over whether we should stay friends or be a couple, and then whether or not to remain a couple or go back to being friends. Every time I hear "Jane" I remember what it was like to try and fight for a relationship that apparently only one of us wanted and how, like the song, it amounted to nothing.


that life could be better by being together
Is what I cannot explain to Jane

But this isn't a post to celebrate sadness. I think I do enough of that on here. This is a post to say that for as much hurt and as much sorrow our relationship drew out of me, I shall ever be thankful that a girl named Tara shared a small part of her with me in sharing her favorite music. That shall ever be a reminder, to me at least, that something substantial did exist between us once and that, for a time, we experienced an approximation of love.

It's just like Blake says. If it wasn't love, then it was the closest I'd come at that point.

So, thank you, Tara wherever you are now.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'll Be Alone But Maybe More Carefree, Like A Kite That Floats So Effortlessly, I Was Afraid To Be Alone, Now I'm Scared That's How I'd Like To Be

--"November", Azure Ray

I have recently began looking for another place to live. The tides of change have decided to flow in and I think it's about time I ride them as far as I can before they ebb away again. As a creature of habit, I fear I am like the narrator of Rilo Kiley's "Pictures of Success" who longs to make a drastic change in my life, but can't quite escape the comfort of her familiar surroundings. Well, the circumstances of my life have forced my metaphorical shoes on and prompted me to get ready to go. In this vein of exploring my own life, I have decided that the most radical change I could make is to actually change my surroundings.

At the news of my impending relocation various friends have been all shades of helpful in offering advice on where I should go. Some have even suggested that maybe I could room with them. The only problem with this idea is that I'm far too cantankerous and set in my ways to ever live with someone again. The last time I tried that ended in disaster. That's when I discovered that I possibly have too many eccentric habits and inexplicable patterns of doing things that I'm a very huge pain in the arse to live with. What's worse, Ever since that arrangement sunk to the bottom of the ocean, I think I've only grown ever stranger. People always say that you can never know how you're going to live together with someone until you've actually attempted it. My only quibble with that is that I am fairly confident that I already am going to deplore every second of living with someone else. I am as confident of that as I am confident that something is seriously wrong with me.

It's true that I've made many strides with my current job to open up to more people and not take it so personally when whatever I'm doing at the current moment isn't exactly what I'd like to be doing at the current moment. I've seen what fate awaits the mojo that remains inflexible as there is a guy at work who is as unyielding as steel. Everyday we try to invite him in all the fun reindeer games--dinners, drinking, partying, and all the usual bouts of merriment--but every time he produces a new excuse why he can't join us. He's a good guy and all, but there is a secret sense of pity for the guy because he'll never know what it's like to open up to anyone.

I don't want to be that guy.

However, with the living situation I think I'm already am that guy. He lives alone in this huge house that his parents left him and sometimes I envy him. I don't envy him for the fact that he doesn't have to pay rent. I envy him because he has such a huge place to himself. It's almost like I'd rather live alone for the rest of my life. Even when picturing my future with that special someone, I still more see her having her place and my having my place. Maybe it's just being scared at producing a re-run of my last live-in relationship or maybe it's just that I really am better at living by myself than living with someone. Maybe I'm just that guy.

I can tell you one thing. It sure would take a hell of a woman to want to live with me because I'm a walking disaster.

While I won't give up hope just yet that such a perfect companion exists, I don't think I shall hold out much hope either. I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Oh, Even When The Sky Is Crashing Down, You, You Locked Your Knees And Stood Up Straight, You, Are The Strength Inside My Veins

--"Sundays", Daphne Loves Derby

If you've been reading here for a long time you know the one thing, the best thing, for me to start my day with is a good 'ole fashioned steak and egg breakfast. I love it. I know it's wholly wicked of me to have and I know my arteries are probably clogging up as we speak, but we like what we like. There's nothing like getting up early with your daddy, climbing into the car, and driving to the nearby all-night diner for a wholesome t-bone and two fluffies replete with country potatoes and whole wheat toast. Especially when you're not even supposed to be up in the first place, there's nothing, for me, at least, that quite hits the spot as this simple arrangement of food. It isn't just the memories associated with this meal, though, that's a part of it. It's the fact that I grew up on this meal and it really was the first meal I could really recall as being wholly and fully my own. It transcends the mere mention of being my favorite breakfast; it's the only breakfast I consider breakfast. Yeah, other meals occupy a place on the rotation of my daily routine in the morning, but I only have one meal that I truly consider a meal worth having for breakfast.

Hell's bells, you could say that I consider it to be "my" meal. I know I didn't invent it, but I've had enough of them over the course of my life to take ownership of it. I'm as proud and vain about it as Eeyore is over his desserts.

As I said, there were plenty of times I can recall with lightness in my heart that my dad would wake me up from a dead sleep to scooter me off to breakfast with him. "Anything on the menu, girl" he would say, even though he knew exactly what I was going to order. We would re-enact this ritual time and time again, especially after I had had it with my mother or if she and I had just gotten into it again. Even to this day, the idea of going to breakfast remains something I still associate with doing with my daddy rather than my mother. However, the my most vivid memory of steak and eggs comes from a rare time that my mother took me to breakfast.

We had arrived at Paul's Diner, where we'd been going ever since I was a youngster, just after service had let out. My mother was not happy with me. Some of it was due to the fact that she was never completely happy with me in those days, but most of it was due to the fact that I was being a very wicked child. I forget what I had done or why she was so mad at me and me at her, but I remember fighting tooth and nail with her not to eat breakfast. I wanted to go home and sulk. I wanted to forget this day had ever happened. It was bad enough having to go to early services, but the nail on the coffin was the fact that I was going to be forced to spend even more time with the woman I was truly despising at that precise instance in time. As it was, I sulked in my mother's car until she finally threw up her arms in exasperation and went in without me. I recall waiting a full five minutes before I followed in after her.

I had just found her when she started in at me. She began with the ever-popular how much she was disappointed in me and how I was never going to amount to anything if I didn't get over being so willful. Don't you ever want to be good? Once, to give it a try? Those are the kinds of questions she peppered me with like she was more my guidance counselor than my mother. I tried arguing with her at first, but there came a point in time when she inevitably wore me down. I did the usual dance of agreeing to be better, but in my heart of hearts I could never measure up to the standard she was trying to hold me to. Saying I would be one thing and being that thing seemed an impossibility for me at that point. I was sure I was destined to be forever wicked because that's what my mother had always told me I was headed towards. Why fight the inevitable, I thought. I admit, I didn't attempt to become better back then because I felt trapped by the description that my mother had fitted me with.

I wore my wickedness like a hairshirt of old. I thought my innate desire to sin was a punishment for having everything I wanted and still not being happy.

She then went on to described in detail how, when she was my age, she always tried to do right. Then she went into the usual how maybe it was her fault I had turned out as horrid as I did. She laid out for me that maybe she hadn't set quite the example she had meant to set. I groaned as she made mention of how she was going to try harder to make herself omni-present in life so I could never say she never showed me how to be a good person and how she was never there for me. The last thing I needed was being forced to spend even more time with my mother. Even when the waitress came over to take our orders, she made it a point to ask her if what I had done in church--however bad what I had done on that particular day--was really bad or if she was overreacting. When the waitress came back with her assessment that I had been a bad kid, I shot the stranger a look that would've carved through stone. Traitor. I had been sold up the river. I ordered my steak and eggs from the woman, but I ordered with an extra dash of impunity and malevolence that one would expect from a brat like me. I made sure to inquire about accomadating my every request. Could I please have my eggs sunny-side up, but easy, like runny only not? And could I get my steak slightly in-between medium and medium-rare? Oh, and I wanted one slice of whole wheat toast and one slice of white toast. Lastly, is there any way you could make sure the orange juice was squeezed fresh in the last hour and hasn't been sitting around, sugar? Like I said, I was feeling devilish and I didn't care who knew it.

As a dusty father and young boy came walking in through the doors of the diner, I saw my mother flinch a bit. This was just the opening I needed. I looked at my mother staring at the obviously not-so-well-off family at the end of the counter and I convinced myself she had no right to be chastising me. What was that she was telling me about not casting the first stone? And there she was being just as Un-Christianlike as one could be. I watched her blue-green eyes, my blue-green eyes, and convinced myself I didn't have to listen to this woman at all. I was nothing like her. More to the point, I would never allow myself to be like her. She disgusted me.

That's when I heard the father being turned away at the counter.

"Look, mister, I told you can't come in here looking and smelling like you do. You put off all my other customers. I can't let you order anything in here."

"Can't I just get something to go if me and my son wait outside?"

"Do you even have any money?.... I didn't think so. Look, you need to get out of here right now."

I couldn't see them, but I knew, I just knew, that the father was then being shown the door. As much as I chastised my mother silently for looking upon the two of them in disdain, I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't turn around for fear that my heart would break at seeing the pitiful sight. Everyone around me had gone silent for a moment after hearing the exchange, but as soon as the father and son were out the door it was business as usual. Thus, how quickly is such unpleasantness forgotten. My mother continued to stare at them outside even when I tried to continue the business of hating her. I attempted to start a conversation describing in detail how I was going to be just like her in which I would make mention of the more imperfect points of her personality, but she continued to stare like she hadn't heard me.

Then she did what makes that particular breakfast all the more memorable. She got up and out of the booth, told me to stay put, and proceeded to ask the host who had ushered them out what the father had wanted.

"Oh, him? He comes in here every week and tries to get free food for him and his son."

"And you've never seen the boy's mom with him."

"I never have. I figured it's just the two of him. I mean--I wish I could help, but every time I give them scraps they just come around more. My manager said I had to draw the line somewhere."

"Just the two of them, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I'd like to help. Can I borrow a menu from you, honey?"

There were times when I wondered what kind of life had made my mother so hard and unfeeling. There were times when I wondered why she always seemed so resolute in not showing an ounce of feeling for me. I thought she liked being the way she was and that she enjoyed torturing me by expecting me to grow up to be just like her. There were times when the furthest thing from my mind was to be a mother like her to my own children.

That day was not one of those days. That day I discovered a slightly softer side to my mother that I had never known before. Actually, that isn't true. I'm sure I'd seen it before, I just hadn't acknowledged it before. I began to see that day that she really did consider herself a good person and that, maybe, what she said was right. Her actions were possibly motivated by the intent to be a good person and, yes, a good mother. Perhaps she had chosen the wrong tack, but there was a purity of purpose there that I couldn't just blind myself to. I didn't want to admit it to myself, especially at that exact moment in time, but there were worse things to be than being like my mother. It couldn't have been easy for her on that day. There I was, raining down my worst upon her, probably putting her in a mood where she didn't want to be gracious to anyone, and she still has the resolve to do a kind deed for someone else. If it had been me, I know, I would have given little thought to assisting anyone else. If anything, I probably would have been even more upset with having my day interrupted by such an obstrusive distraction. Yet she was like that everyday. She could go from being ten thousand times angry with me to being really loving to my father. She could go from being in a knock-down, drag-out, sparring match with me and being really thoughtful with me just an hour later. She had that kind of strength to not let how I was to her affect how she felt for me.

She had the kind of love for me that could only be called unconditional because I sure as Providence gave her a cavalcade of conditions to love me through.


I finally know, how you stand
against the worst there is

My mother ordered that man a breakfast and, while it was being prepared, she went outside and talked to him. Inside, I was conflicted. I wanted to keep up the rage that had been building in me, but I couldn't. I couldn't stay mad at her for being who she was and who she was allowed her to be that generous with complete strangers. It would make me look even more wicked than I already was if when she came back I was still acting like how I was. I couldn't do it to her. I wouldn't do it to her.

That's why when my breakfast came, my steak and eggs, "my" meal, I did the right thing for once. I went outside with my mother and gave it to the son so him and his father wouldn't have to share the meal my mother had bought.

When my mother looked at me, broadening smile on her face, I answered the question she never even asked me.

"I wasn't hungry any way."

Nope, there were worse things to grow up to be than to be like my mom--even if it meant being the kind of person who willfully gives up a perfectly good order of steak and eggs.

Breanne

I Called You Because I Wanted To, From The Balcony, I Heard In Your Voice How You Knew But Wouldn't Believe

--"Goodbye Baby", Whispertown 2000

The last time I saw her was at dinner today.

However, the first time I saw her was in 2001 and I was confident she never even saw me. In fact, I was so confident of this fact that I never even bothered to introduce myself for almost a week even though she sat barely twenty feet from me. I couldn't talk her--not to her face, at least. A barrier of being more than I was separated me from her. She was, as they say, out of my league. I suppose one could say, more precisely, I wouldn't talk to her. While it was true that I probably was far beneath her in many aspects (still true), it is not true that she harbored any particular desire not to speak to me. It's just hard to talk to someone when he's doing his darndest never to speak to her. Sure, we exchanged the everyday pleasantries that any co-worker exchanges with another co-worker, but I never had what I would call a decent meaningful conversation with her that whole week.

My loss.

Because when she finally did catch me off-guard and attempt to speak on subject aside from how boring work was or the latest water cooler gossip, I found she was even more replete with charismatic qualities than I had originally imagined. She was a joy to speak with--funny, intelligent, and witty. She actually made work all that much more bearable. I told her all the usual anecdotes, repeated all the usual jokes, and spewed my guts out about all the young ladies about who I seemed to fall in and out of fancy with. Yet all I really wanted to tell her was "I'm fond of you." That's how I thought back in those days. I didn't like her; I certainly didn't love her. But I was fairly sure I had a growing fondness for her. Conversation after conversation, talk after talk, though, I never mentioned word one of this.

Such was my unbearable fate for the better part of two years. I was uncommitted to anyone else during this time. We had even discussed my lackluster performance in the dating market, in fact. I think I did well in disguising the fact that there was only really one individual I would have considered seeing in the office and that was her. In her voice, I convinced myself, was no desire to verbalize my fanciful notion of the two of us getting together. There I had to sit as she discussed this current boyfriend or that cute guy while the whole time I wanted to scream at her that I thought she was great and that, possibly, we might be great together.

When it came time for me to leave for greener pastures, I considered finally announcing to her that I'd always liked her and that the two of us should keep in touch. But I didn't. I never let that hot potato hit the ground. I couldn't believe that my leaving would change anything about my chances with her. I left my number and e-mail with her like I did with all the other co-workers I wanted to stay in touch with. No special message was inscribed on it. No future plans to do anything were left. If memory serves me, I don't think I really singled her out to say good-bye to either. I just left my old job with a general good-bye to my old department. I wanted to be gone from that place. I wanted to move onto the next stage in my life. But, yeah, there was a small part of me that was sure that I would never see her or speak to her again.

I didn't even bother to ask for her number when I left--that's how confident she would have never given it to me.

She never called me nor wrote me while I was at my new job. She had no reason to. We were just acquaintances and acquaintances never last longer than the circumstances that make the two people acquaintances last. Usually.

The connection between us should have been severed. There was no reason our paths should have ever crossed again. I've come to realize that most people are not like me. They don't get as sentimental as I do. They don't have the forlorn and wistful sensibility that I've somehow cultivated. They stop caring, stop thinking about their past as soon as an appropriate amount of time has subsided. That's the way the world usually functions. There are no second chances and you have simply must live with the regret of a choice not taken.

Sometimes, however, a bit of serendipity creeps in and a guy gets to reminiscing about people and things that were truly unique and special in his life. Sometimes he gets to writing about crushes and how more often than not he could just get off his ass and make something happen. He had been referring to a young lady at his current job, but that had inevitably led to the comparison to the aforementioned woman because she was always the greatest discovery this guy ever made among co-workers.

Meanwhile, this girl has led an entire life without thinking about her former job. She too has moved onto greener pastures. She's done so much with her life and met so many other interesting people that it would be too much of her to ask that she even has the mental capacity to remember some guy who never even had the balls to ask her out. Why should she reserve a place in her memory for something that didn't end anywhere substantial. We were always tethered by a piece of string and, I thought, the string had been broken long ago. But sometimes a piece of string is enough to keep the connection. And sometimes the person you ended up talking with day after day, even if it was only for five minutes here and there, really ends up sticking in your mind. And sometimes two years separation is enough for a lot of certainties to transform. Maybe he isn't as scared of her as he once was. And maybe she had a skulking suspicion all along and finally decided to put the issue to rest.

And sometimes the girl in question chances upon this innocuous piece of writing and decides to ask him, in e-mail no less, if all he said about her was true.

And that's when he writes back with the simple message:

"I'm kind of still fond of you."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

'Cause I've Seen Love Die Way Too Many Times, When It Deserved To Be Alive, I've Seen You Cry Way Too Many Times, When You Deserved To Be Alive

--"Emergency", Paramore

I had the opportunity to see Walk The Line the other day. I found the task of deciding which has the better love story, that movie or Brokeback Mountain, daunting. The whole time I was watching it I found myself feeling compassion for the guy because, but for the grace of God, that could have been me. While I appreciated the fact that Mr. Cash set his heart on something that most people would have thought too difficult and too heartbreaking to attain and never stopped attempting to attain it, it made me sad to realize that I probably would have given up long before he ever did. I just don't have the stuff for a protracted courtship. If a young lady were to rebuke my ever advance like June Carter did Johnny, I would have moved on to greener pastures. It's just my nature. But, then again, I'm a quitter when it comes to certain things.

About the only thing I think is sadder than a person not getting what he or she wants and being repeatedly told to give up is when a person finds something substantial and then it somehow goes sour entirely because of circumstances out of his or her control. "Letter to Elise" is a perfect example of this. There's nothing wrong with those crazy kids. Time, familiarity, and circumstance are the only bad guys in that situation. It's not because they have a failure to love each other, it's because there are certain relationships that have no room to grow into anything more. It doesn't make what they had any less meaningful. It just means that that relationship can only remain meaningful for so long before it has to stop. It's the realization that relationships like this are an integral part of life that, yeah, kind of makes me sad. I, like everyone else, would like to believe that anybody I get involved with is going to change my life for the better, is going to have a lasting impact that somehow guides my life in the direction it's supposed to go. I don't want to think that the person I start seeing next is only going to last a brief time and possibly end up being worse for me in terms of growth. I don't want to think about how everything that is good and lovely and sweet about this new relationship may eventually sour because that's its fate. As hard as I try I'm sad to think that there will be people in my life whose destiny it is to leave me sad and alone.

I'm writing this because I see a couple everyday whose best years are behind them. It's obvious to everyone who knows them. Everyday I pass by them and, for the most part, all I hear is how irritated they are with each other. Sure, there'll be good days, but the motif of their life as a duo seems to be suffering the other person's verbal and emotional punches between brief periods of forgiving each other. Personally, I don't know how anyone can live like that day after day. I should know because I've been through that. The simple truth is, yeah, it sucks. It sucks to know that it's never going to get back to where it once was. It sucks to know that it's never going to get any better. It sucks to know that the person you used to care about is the person who's now causing you so much anguish.

The rub of it is is that you can't predict these things. You can't tell by how a couple starts out how it's going to end just like you can't tell a road's destination by its origin. It's impossible. Often times the couples I see who have the most solid foundations upon which to build were the couples that started off rather shakily. On the other hand, the couples I swore I thought were meant for each other are the ones that surprised me at how quickly they flamed out.

On second thought, being turned down by someone you absolutely adore is not the worst feeling in the world. I think there's definitely nothing sadder than seeing love die. It's like what they say about it being better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. It may be true, but I would have to agree that the pain and suffering of a person who is in love with someone who doesn't love him back pales in comparison to the pain, suffering, and torture that is having loved someone once and to know you can never love like that ever again. There is no sadder fate than to know you're never going to make that person happy again.

I've seen plenty of women I've claimed to have loved cry. Sometimes it was my fault. Sometimes it wasn't. It hurt more when it wasn't, especially when I couldn't do a damn thing to fix it. I just had to walk away while they suffered. There are always going to be problems I cannot fix. I know that. There are always going to be twists of fate that I'm not going to be able to untwist or correct. I know that too. But I don't think love, if it's real, should be an unsalvageable derelict. I cannot believe any two people, if they truly do love each other, should have any cause to drift apart. It just shouldn't happen. When you love somebody that should be where the movie ends. The end. There shouldn't be an afterthough about what happens to you after that. There is no after that. You're in love, you win. Love should be the goal in and of itself. It should be like losing your virginity. There shouldn't be a way to lose love. You shouldn't have to maintain it. It should be like riding a bicycle; once you have it, it's yours forever.

You should never have to say, "I love you, but I can't be with you." That phrase shouldn't exist. "I love you," should only be followed by, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

You shouldn't have to preface saying "I'll always love you" with the phrase "no matter what happens." That should be tacit in the stating of it. In fact, you shouldn't have to put "always" in that phrase there either. If anything eternity should be implied in the announcing of your love for that person.

Why can't I just be in love with her like that again?


and you do your best to show me love,
but you don't know what love is

It's just like Sara said long ago...

"I'd almost rather not be in love if it means ending up in tears."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers