He Wakes Up In The Morning, Does His Teeth, Bite To Eat, And He's Rolling, Never Changes A Thing, The Week Ends, The Week Begins

--"Ants Marching", Dave Matthews Band

Normally on a Sunday morning I'm fast asleep. I don't know what it is about the weekend. Whether it's just staying out too late or the fact that we don't have to come into work the next morning, but there's a lot of hours that I waste sleeping when I could be doing something more productive. Of course, it could be the fact that I'm a horrible insomniac and normally don't get to sleep till two or three in the morning, even when I do stay home. Normally on a Sunday morning the furthest thing from my mind is waking up early to accomplish anything. However, this morning for some inexplicable reason I bolted awake at five in the morning, even after hitting the hay only two hours prior. I'm not going to lie; there are some nights where the thought of being alone in the condo, with Amber away for the holidays, that I get to thinking that I may be re-visited by that pesky ghost I saw a few months ago. Maybe that was the thought skulking my mind that awoke me. Whatever the reason I got up and couldn't get back to sleep.

Because of this, I did what any crazy person like myself does. I started ruminating about what I could do at such an early hour. I couldn't go back to sleep. There was nothing great on television at that time. And I try not to write that early because I know there'd be no falling asleep for hours after that. Consequently, my mind turned towards possibly going out to eat.

Being a self-proclaimed foodie, breakfast has got to be my guilty pleasure. From Uncle Bill's Pancake House in Manhattan Beach, to Gaffey Street Diner in San Pedro, I have a whole list of places that I love going for breakfast. It's just that, as aforementioned, I never seem to wake up in time to actually do so. Or, even when I do wake up in time, I always convince myself that sleep is more important. I usually end up falling right back asleep.

This morning was different. This morning I started thinking about how often it is I actually get to go to breakfast and that to not go when I was already awake and kicking would be a travesty. I called Miss Nancy Drew to come meet me out for breakfast, waking her up in the process, and set about getting ready. By seven, after a brief drive and wait for her to show up, I was ready to enter King's Hawaiian Restaurant and Bakery in Torrance for some of their famous French Toast made from their unique Hawaiian bread, with a side of Portuguese sausage and eggs.

It wasn't the company that really had me jazzed about the morning, though Ilessa was surprisingly conversational for being basically dragged out of bed during her holiday break. And it wasn't that the food that had me buzzing either, though their French toast is quite simply delish--at nine bucks a plate and three bucks for apple juice, it better be. It was the simple fact that I was doing something I love which I never had a chance to do anymore. It was the idea that I had a chance to revisit a simple pleasure that I hadn't been able to engage in regularly since my high school days.


and remembers being small
playing under the table and dreaming

At the table next to us, an elderly couple was seated about five minutes after we arrived there at just after seven. Next to them were seated two officers and one cadet. And next to them was seated another gentlemen. They all looked tired, but the amazing thing was they all knew each other. They all greeted each other as if Sunday breakfast were a weekly ritual. I remarked to my friend how awesome that was, to be able to frequent a place so much that not only did you get to know the wait staff, but you got to know the other patrons as well. Short of suggesting that we make the meal a weekly ritual ourselves, I just about gushed about how I wished for a place like that.

I've always wanted a restaurant to call my own, someplace where I could go to on a regular basis and be accepted in as one of their special guests.

It's a shame that my life has become such that I don't think that will ever be possible. If I'm not rushing to work, then I'm rushing home from work to try and unwind. If I'm not stressing about how hectic the next day is going to be, then I'm stressing about the small foul-ups that plagued me the day before. Very rarely do I stop to think about the small pleasures, like taking an hour out of my week to enjoy breakfast with a friend. It's no wonder I'm stressed out so much and so often. I think the closest I come to unwinding is when I'm writing here or possibly sprawled out with a good book. Otherwise, the daily grind of merely being me prevents all superfluous activities. It's even worse now because I've added the extra task of going to the gym four times a week to my "To Do" list. It's a wonder I can even think about trying to pile another hour of random breakfasting atop that.

Yet I believe I'm going to make a mental picture of how happy and full of energy everybody was at that breakfast that morning. I'm going to try to remember how relaxed I felt, even while my eyes were dragging down across my face. I'm going to try to hold the feeling of being satisfied for once for as long as possible. With my vacation coming to an end on Wednesday, I know it's going to be a long time before I can just skip out for breakfast again.

It's like I was telling her as we were leaving to our separate cars, I really do miss when we were younger and having a slow, leisurely breakfast was the norm for the day and the having to stop by a drive-through for McMuffin or scarfing donuts and coffee when we got to work was the exception. There's something to be said about starting your day with good food and plenty of time to enjoy it.

Hell, there's something to be said about starting your day simply doing anything you enjoy and having all the time in the world to revel in it.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Wherever, Wherever, Wherever, Wherever You Go, I Always Know, Cause You Make Me Smile, Even Just For A While

--"Bubbly", Colbie Caillat

March 1st, 1995

Dear Eeyore,

I am writing this to you from the floor of my studio on an old notebook that has far too much writing in it to be of any use. As usual, excuse the penmanship if it fails to live up to your standards, I cannot be blamed for the shoddy working conditions. I dare not go downstairs because that will only lead to questions about what I’m working on. My best chance of writing this out to you lies in being left alone up here with just my thousand reflections to keep me company. You also cannot blame me, sugar, if the content of this letter slides from thought to thought as I’m writing this while laying on a wooden floor so the constant and nagging thought I should be doing this at a desk or something resembling a desk will pull at my concentration from time to time.

I don’t even know what this notebook was for. It looks like I was keeping track of various ways to express my discontent. They’re not poems because I know where I keep those. They appear to be phrases and various notes that never quite made it into cohesive form. They’re like my abandoned babies that I left in some orphanage and never remembered to remember again. I would be such a bad mother, right?

I think it’s sad that I feel more confused by the deal life has shown me. You should read some of the stuff in here. I sound like a whimpering brat. At least my poetry puts it into some context. This? This is random griping with no direction. I’m like an angry bull bursting at the fences. It’s not even angry; it’s roaring for the sake of roaring.

Well, the main excuse I have for writing this small letter is that I wanted to send you my latest poem. Normally, I would have parceled it off to you already, but you were insisting that I include somewhat of the background for anything else I send you. I’ve argued with you that most authors don’t get the chance to be right there and explain their motivations and rationales. Think about it, darling, when you buy a burger the cook doesn’t come out there to explain what was on his mind while he was frying. You take away a bit of the ‘ole magic when you harass the creator to explain everything away. I’m highly offended by your request.

However, since it does involve you, I decided to humor you.

There’s a light rainfall outside on the window. I can hear it slightly if I tilt my head in the right manner. I don’t know what it is about rain that has this calming effect on me. You’d think with someone who was deadly afraid of thunder and always has been, I’d be more concerned when the water starts a-falling, but I don’t. I have gotten adept at recognizing when we’re in for a real barn blower and when it’s going to be a tranquil rain like this is. If I get up to look out the window I can barely see it falling at all. If you can’t see the rain fall does it really fall? It sounds like the ‘ole if a tree falls in the woods question, you know? I’m guessing it’s because it reminds me of the world outside that I like hearing the rain. I’m by myself here at the house so often that I tend to forget that there are lives being lived a few yards from my front door. If it doesn’t happen within these walls then it doesn’t happen at all it seems like.

It would be different if I had brothers or sisters. I’d have more of an excuse to leave and play outside. But I learned a long time ago that if I didn’t hoof it or ride it to Torry’s house then it wasn’t conducive to play outside. It’d just be me and that’s just sad. I think that’s why more often than not, I fill my life with activities I can do indoors during the school year. I dance. I read. I write. I do everything I can to fight away the boredom that being an only child carries along with it. Yes, I love the attention my parents focus on me like a spotlight (most of the time), but I can’t help fight the feeling that I’m missing out on something more that children with brothers and sisters have.

What’s your brother like? Do you two hang out often? I don’t think I ever really ask you about him as much as I should.

I should probably go outside and splash around for a spell. That might be fun. Maybe later.

Back to the latest poem, I wrote it this morning in a flash of inspiration. It lives up admirably to the others in my canon, you know? I know it’s no Taroc original, but I’m proud of it. I’m fixing to show it around at school and see what everyone else says, but I had to “tell” you about it first. Every time I show it there, I get the sensation that people only like it because they’re my friends. I could show them mildew on a piece of tile, call it art, and they would all still applad. I don’t think they’re being false. I think there’s such a thing as being too supportive, though. I don’t want them to make up criticisms, but I get suspicious when all they ever offer is praise, and high praise at that. It’s like visiting the doctor and all he gives you is a clean bill of health after taking a second to look at you. You’d be suspicious too if they never delved too deeply into them. At least I can count on you to put your best foot forward. At least it sounds like you’ve actually taken the time to read them. Sometimes you’re cruel, but I always know it’s coming from a cruel to be kind mentality.

When I was in those pageants I thought the same thing. I lost because it would teach me later on how to be a winner. I don’t quit because a task is difficult—at least I have that. But I can’t exactly tell my friends to be rougher on me. I don’t think they have the critical eye at any rate.

No one told me growing up was like this. I never imagined a day I would be upset that people were being too nice to me. I’m actually bent out of shape because my friends aren’t cruel enough. I have heard it all. This is definitely going in the notebook for posterity.

As you can tell, I wrote this about us. I’d like to imagine, though, it’s about any “real” friendship. I don’t reckon that anybody sets their sights on someone and says aloud, “that fella there is going to be my best friend someday.” People like to convince themselves that they can fall in love at first sight. That might be true. I don’t think it’s true for friendships, though. Who can say where they come from? They just appear like thoughts. I could lie to you and say that I knew right from the start that we had something special going on here, but I didn’t. This is not to take away from it being special. I happen to think it’s more special because there wasn’t any forethought to it. It’s like baking a cake from scrath and without aid of a recipe. It’s more special that it turns out great than churning out one that you’ve already baked from a recipe a million times. It’s like that line you told me, “I do so like a road because you never know what’s at the end of it.” Well, I like what we got here, Eeyore, all the more because I didn’t expect it.

Words are useless. Words are empty. Words say nothing. Words lie. That’s the other point I was attempting to get across with the poem. Too many people say words they don’t mean. They say that other people are like a missing piece that they were lucky to find. I don’t believe that. I don’t believe any of that. If anything, we’re like gifts when we intercede into somebody’s life. We’re not necessary, but we bring a measure of joy to them. That’s the job description of a friend, you know?

----

Back from supper.

I don’t know what happened with the meal tonight, but I’m coming back from the bathroom after spewing a bite or two into the bowl. I just thought you should know in case this letter finds you incomplete. For all I know, I have mere hours to live and I’m spending my last moments composing this.

The rain’s abated for the time being. I’m hoping it will come back later tonight because it’d be wonderful to fall asleep to the sounds of little drops hitting my window pane. I wish you could be here to hear it. I know, I know—the rain probably sounds the same over there as it does here, but you really have to hear how the rain sounds from my bedroom. You’ve been lucky (or unlucky) that the last time you were here we never had any rain. When you come back I’ll be sure to call in a favor from the Guy who lives upstairs so that it rains the whole time. Forty days even.

My daddy’s taking me out to meet some family friends at this jazz club he knows in the city so I might have to cut the rest of this letter short. I hope I provided you a few chuckles with my rambling, darling. I did my best to keep this letter entertaining. Next time you might have to watch out because I’m fixing to type the next one. Won’t that be a nice change of pace from the usual slop I slap together (slop I slap?)? Good Lord, I’ve got red marks all over my body from laying flat on my stomach all day writing this. It’s all your fault. Now I’m going to show up at that club all splotchy.

Must get changed now.

Good-bye, Patrick mine, with your eyes so bright, tears so silvery, and my kisses still wet on your cheek.

Until I hear from you again,
Breanne

P.S. - One last thing about the poem, you don’t annoy me that much.

----

NOT WAITING ALL MY LIFE – Breanne Holins

No sparks were set off when we met.
No bells were ringing when first we spoke.
There wasn’t the hint of history
On that first day.
The earth kept spinning like a dizzy toddler,
Oblivious of the moment.
I can’t say you were the missing piece to my life
Or that I knew that I wanted to keep you
Right from the start.

You were simply there.
Like a tick you never noticed has hitched along.
You bothered me at first.
You did.
You really did.
I felt like the pirate Roberts,
Praising you while thinking I may as well kill you
In the morning.

Then I got used to the feeling of having you around,
That awful annoyance about you,
Till I reached this point
Where I don’t remember hearing your name
And not
Smiling.

(03/01/95) Copyright 1995 Breanne Holins

Breanne

It's Gonna Take A Lot To Drag Me Away From You, There's Nothing That A Hundred Men Or More Could Ever Do, I Bless The Rains Down In Africa

--"Africa (cover)", Straight No Chaser

I've always wanted to travel to Ireland and Australia. Those have always been two countries that have held an unexplained interested for me. I don't know if it's the wonderful accents, the scenery as shown on film or television, or this general sense that I would like it there. It's the same feeling I had before visiting Boston. I just knew I would like the city based on what little I heard or what little people told about it. It would be the same with those two countries. I have no doubt in my mind that I would feel emboldened and enriched after having visited either place.

The only reason I don't hop on a plane and take a vacation at either place now? Indeed, the only reason I don't leave the country ever?

I don't have a passport.

The entirely idiotic thing is the only reason I don't get a passport is because I know if I do my parents will force me go back to the homeland, the Philippines. I don't want to go. I know I'd be uncomfortable and I'd be itching to leave as soon as possible. The reason I know this is because everyone I know that's been there has never been 100% enthused about going. All I get back is middling reports of it being okay--boring with occasional chances of fun. Why would I want to subject myself to that? And, frankly, the main reason why they can't insist I go is because I lack a passport. It's the last roadblock to their wheedling me to visit. I know it's a stupid reason not to travel where I want to go, but I'm stubborn like that. It's kind of like not applying for a driver's license because you don't want to drive to see your grandma. That's me. I'd rather spite myself for a spell rather than own up to my parents that their wishes are not my wishes. I don't even know how long I've been doing this consciously since for a long time I really had no plans to leave the country. However, somewhere along the way I realized that my lack of a passport could be very useful.

However, lately, I've been really bit by the traveling bug. From thinking it'd be kind of neat to see Hilary play in Europe, to the aforementioned excursions to Ireland and Australia, to wanting to compete in The Amazing Race, to the simple desire to see PEI for once--I'm really getting close to caving in and beginning the process of obtaining my stupid passport. That means I'm either going to have confront my parents and letting them know that I'll never travel to the Philippines or lying to them some more and telling them that I still don't have it. I'm thinking it's going to take a team of wild horses to drag me down to that country.

Yeah, I think I'll stick with the story I don't have one yet. That'd be the safer bet in the long run.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

They Only Hit Until You Cry, And After That You Don't Ask Why, You Just Don't Argue Anymore

--"Luka", Suzanne Vega

i. amoeba

Maybe it's part of my culture, he tries to tell her, explaining that that's the way his parents were raised. There wasn't any models of positive reinforcement when they were being disciplined. When a child was misbehaving you took out the old belt and gave him a good rap across the behind. It wasn't questioned. There wasn't even an option of another form of discipline; that's what was done to bad kids.



He looks at the CD cases in his hand to avoid meeting her eyes. Whenever it comes to this issue he always feels out of place, like he doesn't have the authority to offer up an opinion. What does he know of what it's like? He would hardly call himself abused as a kid, not like her. The most he ever got spanked was three or four times a year, and even those were nothing he would have considered excessive. He hardly remembers any one specific time that a line was crossed or that the punishment did not fit the infraction. He looks at the cases and knows nothing he says will stack up against the litany of horrors she can draw upon.

Amid the cacophony of the store he leans in to hear her answer.

With my family, she says, it wasn't handed down from my father to my brother. I don't ever remember my father hitting me at all. It's like he thought of the idea all on his own one day. Or maybe he saw it on TV one day and decided to give it a whirl. Who knows?

He listens to her speak and there's an awful neutrality to her voice. He tries to pick out the bitterness in her voice, some small sign of resentment that still lingers, but that too is gone. She sounds like him, barely remembering any one time to cause the anger or frustration to well up. To hear her speak, he thinks, she might as well be talking about some character on television. There's a distance to the way she refers to her past self that's eerie and not the least bit sad.

They both stare down at the aisles of music below. They're two friends sharing an afternoon in Hollywood engaging in small talk while they wait for their film to begin. He imagines if you would look up at them from the floor below you wouldn't be able to pick out what they were saying. Oh look, one might say, those two must be discussing something lighthearted and witty by the way she breaks into small smiles and little fits of laughter. Or you might mistake his nervous glances aside as the burgeoning signs of a new romantic relationship. You would never be able to guess they were ever discussing something serious.

He offers that he hit his brother when he was little too. Perhaps, in the folly of youth, he picked up that that's the way disagreements get solved. After all, he remembers, every time he hurt his brother the argument would end. Problem solved. It never occurred to him at that age that the disagreement didn't end, just the argument. For him, he says, they were one and the same. I didn't care if he didn't mean it. As long as Francis said I was right that was good enough for me, he continues.

It was the same with him, she joins in. As soon as I gave up it was over. It wasn't the fight that interested him. It was the winning. The sooner I gave him that, the sooner he would stop.

He thinks about that for a second. He never picked fights at school. He never even raised his voice so much with his friends or other family members. It was only his brother and a couple of times his younger cousin that he ever felt confident enough to actually physically hurt. Was that more from being around them more often or more from the fact he knew he could impose his will upon them physically?

Maybe he was just as bad as her brother and never knew it. Maybe he just never got the opportunity to grow into a monster because Francis never fought back all that much and she always did. Maybe it was the lack of a true antagonist that prevented him from turning out much worse than he did.

Soon she's jumping topics to the Smog CD she has just picked up and all talk of former troubles are forgotten. The moment has passed and nothing more is discussed of it.

----

ii. hawthorne boulevard

On a different day the two of them are driving up to the Border's when he asks her if there was ever a time if she was afraid for her life. She always seems the type to not be scared of anything and whenever she talks about her brother it's always in reference to how she didn't give up right away. He likes to believe that that's the way it happened because he would hate to think she would want to lie about that. He doesn't care how strong she was. She had more than enough reason to be scared. But it makes it easier to hear when she portrays herself as being defiant and resourceful. It's that reserve of strength that makes the rest of the details bearable, he believes. Without that the stories really were shocking, to say the least.



She blurts out there was one time she was frightened. But only the once, she makes sure to repeat. I came home from school to find him in my room combing through my things. I asked him what he was doing. Quick as a cat, he shoved the drawers he had been poking through closed. Nothing, he said. I told him that I didn't believe him. That's when he came stomping across the room and got in my face. I wasn't doing anything, he said. Then what were you doing in here, I asked. Again, he said, nothing. That's when I made the mistake of threatening to tell dad that my brother had been in my room again. I told him that I was going to tell on him and get him trouble.

He never even hesitated. Didn't blink once. He just grabbed me by the arm and dragged me over to the railing. I yelled at him to let me go, but he kept dragging me closer to that stupid railing. Finally, when we were standing next to it, he picked me up, still fighting him every step of the way, and put me on the other side of it. I barely had time to get my feet down and not fall. He held me by the wrists and kept threatening to let go so I would fall down to the first floor of the house. At first, I didn't believe him. I didn't believe that he could do something like that. I think I might have dared him to do it.

I remember his voice, though. It got quieter the longer I stayed out on that ledge. He kept repeating that I wasn't going to tell dad anything, that I was going to keep my big mouth shut. Otherwise, he was going to let me fall.

Eventually, when he say that I wasn't going to promise anything, he started to try to kick my feet off that ledge. He was still holding onto my wrists, but more and more I could feel he was the only thing holding me up and not my feet beneath me.

That's when I got scared he would actually do it, when I saw he didn't care that I was having a really hard time keeping my feet secure.

He would've let go too. He didn't care that I was crying by that point. He didn't even care that the rest of my family would be getting home soon and could've walked right in on the both of us. He didn't care.

He asks her how old she was.

Like nine or ten, she says.

But I wasn't even really that scared, she continues. I thought somehow if I landed on my feet I'd still be okay. I was more worried about if he pushed me backwards and I landed on my head. I don't know what I would've done then. Even I knew by then not to take whatever was coming to me in the head.

----

iii. lax airport

He's dropping her off at the airport to go visit her brother for Christmas. He wants to ask her how she could even consider wanting to see him after all he did to her when she was young. He wants to point out the two or three scars he knows about that were given to her because of her brother and say to her why would you ever want to forgive him for those. But it's not his place to say anything.

The only person who can decide how much time has to pass before it's ancient history is her. The only person who can absolve him is her.



She launches in to how great it will be to see her brother again and that she wonders if he'll like the video camera she got him. He responds that he's sure her brother will love it.

It's strange hearing how close they've really gotten over the last few years. With such a rocky start to their relationship as brother and sister, you would think there are some bridges they wouldn't have been able to cross again. Certainly, he imagines, there would be some type of unspoken animosity lingering there. But there isn't. She considers her brother reformed and what had happened and what she had to endure as something a thousand years ago.

If it were him, he realizes, he'd probably be agonizing over it till this day. He'd probably be sitting at home somewhere, posting it up for all the world to see, seeking some type of response that could explain it all to him. He wouldn't be able to understand it all or make sense of it. He is the type of person that has to ask why me and why then.

As he helps take the last suitcase from the trunk, he gives his friend a hug and wishes her a Merry Christmas. The characteristic smile on her face clinches it. She really is glad to be seeing him again.

That's when he begins to wonder if that's what being strong really is, the ability to move past those things and those people that made your life a living hell. He always thought she was repressing her true emotions when she said that she didn't really hold a grudge against her brother. He didn't believe it when she said she was past all that, for the most part.

But seeing how happy she is as she walks into the terminal, he can't help but think that he might take a cue from her. If she can forgive the world, God, or what have you, for the major injustice that was done to her... maybe he can learn to move past all the small slights levied against him.

Sometimes, he guesses, there really is no fighting against fate. Maybe it's like they were discussing, the more you struggle, the worse it gets.

Happiness might really boil down to picking your battles or, more precisely, knowing that there are no winners or losers. There's just people who are constantly fighting the same battles that probably ended long, long ago and people who aren't.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Some Boys Take A Beautiful Girl, And Hide Her Away From The Rest Of The World, I Wanna Be The One To Walk In The Sun, Oh, Girls, They Wanna Have Fu-un

--"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (cover)", Six Figure Transatlantic

Katie and I were halfway to the party. I had finally convinced her that she would fit right in with the rest of the college students and that no one would ever notice that she didn't actually go to the school. Besides that, it was a small get-together--less than seventy people--and they would all be people I knew fairly well. I assured her, much like my daddy did when I was learning to ride a bike, that I wouldn't let her fall. Realistically, I didn't think it was even nerves that was causing her to be hesitant; realistically, I think it had more to do with the person she was now on her phone with.

"But you said I could go. It's only me and Breanne. I swear, we're not driving with anyone else there."

I had told my cousin that it would probably be a good idea to turn her phone half. Hell's bells, did I know how a good time can suddenly can go flat when an errant boyfriend decided to check in on me. But she wouldn't have it. She told me that he was just worried about her--first college party and all--but I think it had more to do with the fact I had expressly told her he couldn't come. This was a girl's night out. More than that, it was my chance to impress upon my young protege how great coming to UGA would be. If all worked according to plan, there was a good chance my last year there could be spent paling around with my favorite family member.

I worried about her. I always felt it was one of my duties to steer her in the right direction because she was so easily influenced. Sure, I took advantage of it when I was younger. She looked up to me and it was easy to convince her every hare-brained scheme I thought up was keener than kettle corn. But as I got older and I began to see that she still was impressionable as ever, I took it upon myself to make sure that everyone else she knew wasn't taking advantage of her easy-going nature. Part of me wanted her to come to college with me because it had done me wonders for establishing an identity I could be proud of. I thought that would solve a lot of her weaknesses as well.

My cousin, she was never one to shy away from anything, but she wasn't exactly quick on the uptake as to the situations she should maybe thinking about shying away from.

"I don't think she'd be very happy if we turned around now..."

It wasn't like she was new to the dating scene. As my mother often chided, "that poor girl's mom simply allows her to run absolutely buck wild. To think, letting her date barely out of diapers. What was she thinking?" But, as often with most things my mother said, that wasn't the complete truth either. She was allowed to date younger than me, this is true, but it was only by one year and it was only because her mother, my aunt, was less a disciplinarian than my mother was. If my daddy had his way, I would've been dating the same age as Katie. Yet even though she had been at the racket for a few years by then, she still regarded every relationship as if she was looking at it with newborn eyes. On one hand she hadn't grown cynical about what guys wanted, but she hadn't learned to be wary either. I didn't want to rain too harshly down on her parade; I rather enjoyed my view of Katie as this sweet, innocent creature she'd always been. Yet the time was coming where she would be met with a harsh reality that everyone in her life wouldn't exactly be after her best interests.

As we neared our exit, I heard her still arguing on the phone. I tried to catch her attention with my eyes to indicate that she best be hanging up just then, but she was too engrossed in her conversation to see. She was like a wildcat batting around a field mice; there was no deterring her from her activity. I rolled my eyes a bit and continued to drive, praying that the evening wasn't already ruined. There was no way I would be either babysitting her all night or, Heaven forbid, turning right around to drop her back at her house.

Certainly not because some possessive boyfriend couldn't learn the value of trust.

"Don't say that. I do care. It's just one night and Breanne promised we're not even going to stay out that late."

There was a plaintive quality to her voice. She was arguing her position like a little child arguing over her bedtime. There was no confidence, no surety in her tone. She was losing the battle, I just knew it.

The thing is I don't ever remember a time where I acted or sounded like that with a guy I was seeing. Sure as shit, this doesn't mean I won every squabble I ever wandered into, but it wasn't for a lack of trying. I could see reason. I've even been known to employ it a time or two if I had to, but more than anything, I always walked into discussions with my beaus or potential beaus as if we were equals (maybe even as if I always had the upper hand). If I tried to count the number of times I've said "You're not the boss of me, sugar," to everyone in my life--well, I'd plain run out of numbers.

Hearing Katie was an eye-opener.

"I am not going to ask her. I know what she's going to say."

That was it. I had heard enough.

"Give me the phone, darling. I want to have a few words with him."

Katie gave me a look like I was going to call down all manner of serpents upon him. I just smiled sweet as can be and held out my hand. Reluctantly, she handed over her phone.

Not even giving him time to consider he was dealing with someone new, I launched in.

"I don't know who you are and I don't much care right now. I'm taking my cousin to this here shindig and I shan't be taking her back till I'm good and ready. Now I'm going to turn off this phone and hide it away from her. She'll call you first thing tomorrow morning, got that, sugar?"

Not hearing a response from the other end, I finished off what I had to say--all the while taking stock of the surprised countenance on Katie's face.

"And I best not hear you stirring up any unnecessary trouble for Katie. I'm real fond of my cousin. I consider her like a younger sister. And I just think you should know we've got a large family and they all have a vested interest in making sure dear Katie's okay. Nice talking to you and good night."

I hung up the phone and flipped it back to my cousin.

I thought about giving her the whole "be strong" speech I'd been hinting at for the last year, but I think hearing me giving her friend the devil's business... and having a hoot-and-a-half doing it provided her an inkling of what my thoughts were. While she wasn't a true Holins, I thought I'd done an effective job in leading by example. I wasn't about to let any weakness be associated with my favorite cousin.

Not on my watch.

We went to the party. We both had fun. She ended up not going to UGA, but that's alright, because she, trite as it may sound, learned something else important that night which is to always have the attitude of "don't mess with the bull unless you want to get the horns."

Breanne

I'll Get Over You, I Know I Will, I'll Pretend My Ship's Not Sinking, And I'll Tell Myself I'm Over You, 'Cause I'm The King Of Wishful Thinking

--"The King of Wishful Thinking", Go West

Most people two weeks into a break-up will tell you that they're doing better, that it's nothing they can't handle. Meanwhile, inside they are a wreck. It's very hard to find somebody who has been through a recent divorce or split who says they've moved on that has actually moved on. One can start noticing their work start to suffer, whether it be their schoolwork or just plain regular. Some people stop eating. Some people stop going out. Many even lose track of time to the point that somebody has to intervene to remind them what their responsibilities are. Most people experience that level of loss in every aspect of their day-to-day existence, especially within those first two weeks.

Most people get distracted by thinking about this other person.

Most people who say they're doing better than okay in those first two weeks really aren't doing better.

Most people aren't my friend Toby.

LOCAL STUDENT HONORED WITH CONVERSATION WITH LAUREATE
--From Staff Reports

A Lorryville High School student's essay on lauded poet Cecilia Woloch landed her an interview with the Poet Laureate Emeritus Richard Taylor.

Toby Frisson, 15, penned an essay for this year's state Celebrate the Arts contest. The State Arts Council awarded Frisson and other finalists the chance to talk with the esteemed Mr. Taylor.

Frisson spoke with the man in a videoconference from the poet’s home, where he was feeling under the weather, but still well enough to spend an hour talking to the grateful award winner.

"I was one of the only people to have a videoconference," said Frisson, the youngest daughter of John and Lindsey Frisson of Lorryville. "I was talking along with my teacher and a few other schools and people who had also won the contest. We were asking questions about subject matter and influences. I learned a lot."

Frisson, a sophomore at Dupont Manual, says she always had an interest in poetry from her earliest years. She hopes to pursue a career in the writing field or publishing field.

Frisson had to select one poet that she had never read in class, and explain why she believed the chosen author best personified poetry in the 20th and/or 21st century.

"This is just the sort of thinking that I normally do on my own." said Frisson, "I was really comfortable with how I thought the essay should sound. In the end, I found Woloch to fit the criteria of the contest well and I think I provided more than a few reasons why future generations of her readers are in good hands."

Regarding her meeting the Laureate, she stated, “I feel so honored that I was given the opportunity to learn, even if only for only an hour, at the foot at one of this country’s greatest living writers.”

Nearly 400 students from around the state entered the contest.

----

I don't know how she's doing it. I mean--yes, I tend to try to focus on my work when I go through a break-up, but almost anyone can tell that my work habits suffer. I can't focus. I lose oodles of time thinking about how much better my life was prior to the fallout. I'm usually a fraction of my productive self for a good month or two until I actually am doing better. I'm not one of those people like Toby who can lose themselves in their daily routine, free from the distractions that being in a relationships carries along with it. It's like how Miss Cooper always calls me out for being terribly not pragmatic when it comes to love, or the lack thereof. I'm basically one of those people that becomes all consumed by it. Whether I'm initially falling into it or being ceremoniously dumped out of it, every other area of my life suffers until I can settle back into the routine of being me. Up until that point, the bulk of my efforts goes to either fueling that fire of passion or, in the case of being jilted, trying to restoke its embers.

I am not the type of person who can frivolously think about trying to win a statewide contest and cobble together a prizewinning essay when I very well could be trying to win back the heart of whatever fair lady I had foolishly given mine to.

I am not the type of person who can just wish the heartache to go away and it does.

I'm the type of person who literally had to have the cops come to my door the last time I was going through an especially potent break-up because I was disturbing the neighbors so much with my attempts to win her back.

I'm the type of person who can systematically screw up my last year of college because I'm just not equipped to deal with schoolwork and the busy work of trying to distract my heart from noticing it has a piece missing.

I don't know--maybe she's a better arbiter of spending her time wisely. Maybe she can compartmentalize the hours and minutes she can spend obsessing over the subtleties her moments have lost and the hours and minutes she needs to spend on getting through her day productively. Maybe that's a skill she might be able to teach me someday.

Or maybe she's the type to keep all the rage and sorrow and bitterness boiling beneath the surface, only to have it explode in a fiery torment months down the line. I can't tell right now.

Me? I know what I am. I experience things to the nth degree as soon as they happen. As soon as I get crapped on or made to feel embarrassed, I can't put up that false front of everything being alright. I can't desire myself into a better place. I need to act quickly, whether that means lashing out or retreating within myself or even doing something completely crazy to get my mind off of it. I can't go on with my day as if nothing happened, just like I can't go on with the rest of my life as if nothing happened. Things happen to me that affect me deeply. I can't just stand idly by and not take stock of that. Whether I journal it here, call one of my friends, or even shout it from the highest rooftops for all who can hear--people are going to know one way or the other all is not right in the world of mojo. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm one of those spotlight hogs who has to make sure everybody knows my suffering, but if you ask me honestly if I'm doing okay, I'm not going to say I am. If you expect me to go through my day all honky-dory, I'm not going to be able to. It's like a wise man once said, "cut me, do I not bleed?" I react appropriately for the given situation with no false fronts or false bravado.

That's the way I heal.

As much as I feel proud that Young Miss Frisson can triumph so sweetly in the midst of defeat, it only calls attention to how much more defeated I feel when every triumph seems to elude me while I'm in mourning. It only calls to mind that there are some people who don't let anything stop them from climbing over any obstacle as well as the fact that there are some walls I was never meant to climb.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Falling Slowly, Eyes That Know Me, And I Can't Go Back, Moods That Take Me And Erase Me, And I'm Painted Black, You Have Suffered Enough

--"Falling Slowly", Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova from the Once Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

Tomorrow one of my favorite movies from 2007 comes out on DVD. I don't know if it's even fair to call Once a movie. I mean--the entire thing was shot in less than two weeks on reportedly $10,000. It feels like watching a home movie about two people who meet, fall in love in an instant, and their subsequent thrusts and parries into and at love. I don't want to spoil what happens, but sufficed it to say it has a lot in common with Curly's old line in City Slickers when he was asked if he ever fell in love before. He answers simply "once." That's what this movie is like. Since it's told over the span of three or four days, it's not so much about whether these two unnamed characters have a relationship that lasts years and years; it's more about the careful study of how quickly one does fall and what one is capable of when in the midst of such heady inspiration. Yes, the movie is a musical, but unlike most musicals it never segues into people bursting into song. It's about how two musicians who meet and make that connection that so hard to find make beautiful together. When the songs play, it never feels like they're tacked onto the plot. They are the plot. The songs these two characters play are the songs that each inspires from the other. It's the music that happens in such miraculous collaborations. They're singing as they're writing them, working on them, as they're trying to put into music and lyrics what they're feeling because what they're feeling would be too embarrassing to say to one another.

I daresay it's the most romantic and true-to-life picture of what true love is supposed to feel like I've seen this year. It doesn't matter what happens after the movie ends, what happens to the characters. This was their inception into something resplendent. They'll always have that.

Or, as the movie poster asks:

How often do you find the right person?

Once

it's time that you won

----

from a conversation I had on 12/08/07...

mojo shivers: State your name and how long we've known each other.

Brandy: Dr. Brandy Peirs. And what? '91? That would make it sixteen years very off and then back on again in the last year-and-a-half.

ms: And just to give people a sense of who you are, how would you describe yourself?

B: I try to think of myself as a simple person--nothing too flashy. I try to be direct whenever possible--I believe you called me unimaginative to a credit a few months back. I am nothing if not practical.

ms: So you're not prone to bouts of impulse or spur-of-the-moment decisions?

B: Not usually.

ms: But you've fallen in love, right?

B: Once.

ms: And that wasn't a conscious decision? You knew right away, you said.

B: I did.

ms: You never questioned it? You never took a step back and tried to rationalize it?

B: No, with Joshua I knew.

ms: How could you be sure?

B: Well, for one, I was with someone for four years--through high school and into college. I thought the two of us were on a path for marriage for sure. But once I met Joshua, I knew the guy I was with wasn't the one.

ms: And after four years you just ended things? That quickly?

B: I did.

ms: But you claim you're not impulsive?

B: I'm usually not. There are just some decisions that become clear once you see them. He was one of them.

ms: Then you and Joshua started going out...

B: We did.

ms: And you eventually moved in together?

B: After four months.

ms: How could you be so sure? What was it about him that made you act so rashly and impetuously?

B: The easiest way I can describe it is that we fell into a rhythm one another. Almost immediately. I didn't have to explain to him how I did things, nor him to me.

I can remember our first dinner together at my home, before we moved in. I had started to clean up and was beginning to rinse the dishes to load into the dishwasher. He came up and began clearing the rest of the table while I stayed at the sink. It was like we had been doing it for years. There wasn't any awkward protest by me for him to sit and relax. There wasn't any chivalrous offer for him to take care of it all.

That's what it was like with him, knowing what to expect and how each other would react in a given circumstance.

It was nice.

ms: And do you think he would've said the same about you?

B: Yes. He'd probably say it more eloquently, but, yes.

ms: How long did you guys live together?

B: Six months.

ms: Happiest time of your life?

B: Without a doubt.

ms: Can you tell me why?

B: Everything was just easy. Even when we disagreed, it was always over before the next day. We didn't carry anything around with us. Everything was in the open and everything we wanted to say was said. I don't think I've ever been that honest with anyone. I don't think anyone is.

And it wasn't even like we had similar personalities. I was direct and he was more flowery about putting things.

It just worked for us. I didn't have to balance his bad qualities against his good qualities. They were just Joshua's qualities, better or worse.

ms: So marriage was in the works?

B: Yes.

ms: The whole shebang--kids, house, dog in the yard?

B: Yes.

ms: Then what happened?

B: He died. Auto accident.

ms: I'm sorry. I'm sure you were devastated.

B: It's alright. I try not to think about it now. I'm doing better.

ms: What's always struck me as courageous on your part is the fact you maintain that you consider yourself lucky. Most people would consider that a horrible blow to be dealt, especially after only knowing him for such a short time. Why do you consider yourself lucky?

B: I could have gone my entire life without meeting him. I would've missed out on all that we did have. We had something real and, while we had it, it was the best.

ms: So you don't wish you could have him for longer--another month, another year perhaps? You don't imagine how things might have happened differently?

B: No. I'm happy with the way things turned out. I miss him, but I know what I got and I wouldn't want to trade that away so easily. If it means giving a small part about how I feel, then I'd rather keep what I know was good, what I know was bad, and all the rest.

They're our memories, both of us together. I don't need any more to know what I had was worth.

ms: How about saying good-bye? Do you wish you'd been able to say good-bye?

B: I did say good-bye, my own good-bye, before he was buried. That was enough.

ms: The other thing I've always admired about you is how steadfast you remain to that ideal of love being something real and permanent.

B: Thank you, I guess. I don't know how to respond to that.

ms: What I mean is that you claim you don't want to look for anyone else?

B: No.

ms: Is that because you think you'll be dishonoring his memory or because you don't think it'd be right to move on without him?

B: No. I think he'd want me to be happy.

ms: But not a single date since he died? It's been six years, you said.

B: It has.

ms: Then why shut yourself away? You don't think you can love again?

B: I could. Being able to love again and wanting to love again are two different things, though.

ms: So you don't want to love again?

B: There's a point where you know this is the happiest you'll ever be and that you'll never be happier. That point was Joshua. I could either choose to focus on how nothing compares to that time, to him, or I can focus on what I did have once.

There'd be no point in pretending anyone else could compare.

ms: So when people ask you how you're doing?

B: I tell them the truth. I tell them that I fell in love with someone wonderful, who treated me wonderful, and who I'll love for the rest of my life.

Does it get any better than that?

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

When You're Broken, In A Million Little Pieces, And You're Trying But You Can't Hold On Anymore, Every Tear Falls Down For A Reason

--"Broken", Lindsey Haun

I was shopping a week ago for Christmas presents. Everyone knows what it's like--that harried feeling of needing to get so much done in preparation for the holidays and not nearly having enough time to do it. I admit it, I was irritable. There I was, standing in a line longer than a river, impatiently feeling like everyone in front of me was intentionally moving slow on purpose. Sure, I was still smiling, packages in hand, but I usually smile when I'm frustrated and have no way to alleviate it. That's what my mother taught me; when there's nothing else you can do, you might as well smile.

What you don't do is what I witnessed when the guy in front of me finally got up to the register. He was heavyset black gentleman, dressed fairly decently, especially for what amounted to a shopping trip. But aside from the clothes he was wearing, he also wore a tempestuous glare on his face. He was not a happy camper. On the other hand, I took a look at the teenage girl behind the counter. She too was looking harried. More precisely, she was looking overwhelmed and confused. To me she appeared to be the seasonal help some store like to pick up in preparation for the Christmas rush--probably trained only days before, but never fully warned about how jackrabbit crazy these department stores get like during December. By the look of things, the man in front of me must have outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds and towered over her by a good eight or nine inches.

"What do you mean this offer isn't good anymore?"

"Well, sir, that was a sale for last weekend and we can't honor it this weekend."

"I'm only a few days late. You can make a exception," he said, more as a command than a question.

"I can't, sir."

The whole time I was watching this exchange take place, I watched as he inched closer to her, using his size to push her back. Finally, by the end of it, it really seemed like he was overshadowing her with his large frame, bending over her head slightly to block her from looking elsewhere. He wanted her to know that he wasn't about to leave until he got what he wanted.

"You are the most incompetent clerk I've ever had. You can't do the simplest thing," he bellowed loud enough for the first few customers in line to hear.

I watched as the clerk bow her head and look to her terminal again, searching for some answer to the customer's problem that she maybe had overlooked. But I knew she wouldn't find it. He was just being unreasonable. Hell's bells, he was being an unmitigated jackass, if you wanted my opinion. I was frustrated and there were a dozen other places I would have rather been at that moment, but, from working retail at the florist, I know what it's like to be blamed for something out of my control. Granted, you don't run into many irate customers from a perishable commodity as flowers, but botched up orders and deliveries, inadequate selection, and haggling over prices have all led to confrontations that I would have rather avoided. I began to feel sorry for this girl. There was no solution she'd be able to offer that would placate the gentlemen in front of me.

"I want to speak to your manager. I want her to know what an idiot they have working behind the counter."

If she could have cried without having made a bigger scene, I'm fairly sure the poor clerk would have. Instead, she left the register for a few minutes to grab her manager.

In the meantime, I heard more than a few groans behind me and even saw a few customers leave the line in search of a new register.

I, however, remained.

Once the manager was found, the man immediately launched into a tirade. I watched the clerk, ostensibly hiding behind her manager, worry all over her face that she was about to be fired.

"Not only have I never been mistreated as much as I have today, but I have never met a ruder or inconsiderate clerk as the girl you have working here," he said, pointing her out. "I don't think I'll ever shop here again."

"That's not how it happened at all, darling," I said, pleasantly as I could feign. Catching the attention of the manager, the clerk, and the customer in front of me, I continued. "She was being as helpful as anyone could be under the circumstances. In fact, I think she was doing an excellent job. It's not her fault she can't just give you what you wanted her, sir. You, on the other hand, I find were being a complete jerk and trying to bully her into something she obviously wasn't allowed to do. Hell's bells, darling, no means no. Don't go blaming her just because you can't understand that."

With that, I watched the smile return to the clerk. The man, seeing he obviously wasn't go to cower me or win this confrontation, left the line and, presumably, the store in a huff. The manager said a few words to her employee, thanked me for speaking up, and then left.

I don't know why I did it. I think it's just because I was seeing how much this girl's confidence was being broken down with every word out of the man's mouth. They teach all these employees never to argue with the customer, that the customer is always right, but they never teach them how to stand up when you're being treated unfairly. If you can't fight back and you have nowhere to go, what do you do? What you don't do is give up or let them see they've beaten you. I didn't want to stand there and see someone else being forced to lose patience in people. I kind of wanted to show her that other people can see how horrible she was being treated and that there were going to be people willing to build her back up as much as there were going to be people willing to tear her down. Who knows--maybe next time, instead of just taking it like a sheep to the shears, she would have the courage of her convictions and dismiss his complaints to the back of her priorities like she should have in the first place.

Sometimes when somebody trips you up, that should be the signal for you to get up and just hopalong faster.


don't you stop believing in your self
when you're broken

"Thank you, ma'am. I was sure he was going to get me fired," the clerk said as she was ringing up my purchases. "Why'd you speak up?"

"I just told your manager what I saw and heard. He was being a jackass..." I laughed, "and I knew he couldn't get me fired, sugar. I don't even work here."

Breanne

Oh, Life Is Bigger, It's Bigger Than You, And You Are Not Me, The Lengths I Will Go To, The Distance In Your Eyes, Oh No, I've Said Too Much

--"Losing My Religion (cover)", Hootie and the Blowfish

My uncle died on Sunday.

Aside from all the implications about death and my own mortality, his passing has also brought to the forefront the idea that my own beliefs in Deism do not allow for an afterlife. Consequently, as I was reading through the prayer services with my family, I was remarking to myself how pointless and ineffective this was. This is not to say that it wasn't cathartic, but when one doesn't believe in the Catholic or Christian image of God, when one doesn't think there is either a heaven or hell waiting for us, when one doesn't imagine a holy hosts of angels flying you up upon your death, beseeching God, Jesus, Mary, or what have you really amounts to just mouthing the words. I wanted to say I was abstaining joining in with my family due to personal convictions, but I wanted to keep the procession as solemn and dignified as possible. Yes, I had reservations, but he was my uncle and I do believe in honoring his beliefs upon his death.

The big question for me is what is to become of me at my death? I don't want anybody mistaking me for being a believer in all things religious. I don't want anybody reading scriptures that to me seem no more truthful than a children's fairy tale. Indeed, it's this stance against any and all "holy" texts, doctrines, or sacred relics that is at the core of my spiritual beliefs.

No one should be able to define to me what kind of god I believe in for, yes, I do believe in some higher force that created the universe and the way it functions. What I don't believe in is that any one person knows more about my god than I do. What I don't believe in is that some words a bunch of people wrote down thousands of years ago has any relevance to me today. What I don't believe in is faith surpassing reason in my beliefs. In the hierarchy of spiritual influences one reigns supreme, that of my own experience, my own judgment, and my own understanding. Everything else that someone has tried to teach me or cajole me into following is just bullshit. Nobody should believe in anything they haven't seen or felt or worked out for themselves; to do otherwise is lunacy.

So then what would be my wishes for my body at my passing? I don't really know because I'm of the opinion that funerals and services are for the living to console themselves. I don't believe in any amount of prayer or entreaties for safe passage will do any amount of good for me. I'll be dead. Game over, dude. There won't be any overtime for me so the soul, the spirit, is really a non-entity for me. I'd be just as happy if my family and friends catapulted me over the neighbor's fence as much as if they decided to bury me in the ground.

I don't want a service.

I don't want special treatment.

I don't want anybody praying to a god I don't believe in.

I'm rather happy in my notion that the only paradise we have is the one we build ourselves with the time we have on Earth. I'm rather happy in my notion that the only hell we can avoid is the one we avoid by not giving into avarice and other destructive impulses while we're alive. I'm rather happy believing in a god that's happy to leave me the fuck alone.

I don't want to die, but when I do I want to know that no special favors need to be called on to make sure I do okay. I will have hoped I did okay in the meantime and lived my life balls to the wall and didn't leave too many words unsaid, too many deeds undone, and too many regrets behind me.

I want to die and know that that's really all, folks.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Pebbles Forgive Me, The Trees Forgive Me, So Why Can't You Forgive Me? I Don't See What Anyone Can See, In Anyone Else, But You

--"Anyone Else But You", Moldy Peaches

My thoughts about the film Juno in no particular order...

Yeah go see it now—today, if possible.

It’s like the perfect movie--not the best movie ever, mind you. But it’s more than funny enough to be commercially acceptable, yet quirky and artsy enough to be billed as an indie film. The audience I went with last night cheered pretty damn loud after it was over, something you normally don’t see except for the huge blockbusters. It definitely has the potential for Little Miss Sunshine word of mouth buzz this year.

later that day...

Yeah, I think that review you sent nailed it. Publicity and hype can only get you so far, but once you’re at the screening you have to ask yourself does the movie work? Even if you’d never heard about this movie three or four months before, would you want to watch it? I think this movie does. As I was watching it—getting past the slick and often witty dialogue, getting past all the quirkiness of the characters, getting past the somewhat controversial subject matter—there’s a really good story there.

I totally agree with the Jennifer Garner reviews. She’s stuck with what could have been a real drag of a character when compared to the rest of the ensemble—uptight, proper, well-mannered, and seemingly boring in comparison. Yet she manages to have two or three key scenes that make me think she’s a damn talented performer. There is one scene in particular that in lesser hands could have come across as stilted and wrecking the flow of the movie. She manages to be perfect in tone, timing, and overall understanding of who this woman is and what kind of heartache she’s had to endure. That’s a whole lot of depth to bring a character in a comedy.

Ellen Page as Juno was great too. I don’t know any other twenty-year-old actress who could have played this particular sixteen-year-old so convincingly.

Whenever you do see this movie, you’re in for a real treat. A real treat.

I’ll probably end up seeing it again this weekend when it gets its wide release.

you are always trying to keep it real
I'm in love with how you feel

I went in the shower after her. It didn't seem like she wanted to talk and I didn't know if I had anything else to offer her. It was a typically atypical move by me. There I had been, arguing with her for a full thirty minutes that we should discuss the situation in depth, yet when the time came, I went into the shower without a word. I guess I never can tell what to do in any given situation until the actual situation presents itself. In that case, I ran away like a lost lamb. I didn't want to face the big bad wolf. I didn't want to have anything to do with it. What I wanted to do was sit in the shower and think of what to do on my own.

It wasn't the first time I'd gone through a scare like this. It was the first time I'd gone through a scare like this in person. The previous time I'd just found about it on the phone. That time it'd been much like taking a survey over the phone. This is what we have to offer--how do you feel about it? This is what's happening--how do you feel about it? This is where we go from here--how do you feel about it? It had been so impersonal, sizably practical in its detachment. It hadn't been until much later, seeing her again, that the full weight of the dilemma was felt. I can live with words. Words don't mean a thing. They're not real. You can't touch words. But seeing what I had wrought, hearing the quavering of her voice, feeling that strange mixture of dread and anticipation--that's what brought it all home that time. Even in the end, I still had the sensation that the solution we had arrived at wasn't fully informed. I still think that we rushed through our actions and have been pondering the serious ramifications ever since. I still think I haven't gotten over something that happened over nine years ago.

This recent time, as I sat in the shower, letting the water hit me as a form of penance, I felt I needed to be taking more responsibility. After all, I wasn't some twenty-three-year-old. I'd put five more years under my belt. I should have been ready that time. But the funny thing is I don't think I knew any more that time than I did the first time. Drip. I still felt like I was scrambling for the right thing to say or do. Drip. I still felt like it was all happening too fast. Drip. I still had the impulse to flee the scene and never look back. Part of me in that bathroom just wanted to grab the nearby towel, wrap it around me, and just bolt straight out the front door, leaving her aghast face behind me.

Strangely, even in the midst of spitballing ideas, I kept expecting her to walk in with the results. I wanted it even. Unlike the first time where I had avoided answering the phone for as long as possible, this time I wanted her to call time and lead us both back from intermission. Yes, I had no clue about the solution, but, if anything, I was more prepared to believe that a solution existed... a solution that didn't involve completely shirking everything and everyone with the excuse I wasn't ready. I wanted to run, but knew I had to stay, whereas before I ran and seemingly just kept on running until the two of us could no longer see each other.

Maybe that's all going through an ordeal repeatedly gives you, a sense of calm in the face of adversity. It doesn't relieve the pressure. It doesn't give you more options. It doesn't prevent you from thinking of giving up.

It just gives you the strength to know you survived once and there's a good chance you'll survive again. It gives you the opportunity to forgive yourself for your prior mistakes by allowing you a second choice to more fully back your reasons. The first time caught me by surprise, but I don't think I fully felt like that again.

Then, as I was just beginning to wonder what was keeping her, she walked into the bathroom. She walked into the shower with me, relief in her hand in the form of something resembling a fat toothbrush.

"It's alright. We're fine."

And that was that.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Well, It's Alright To Be Little Bitty, Little Hometown Or A Big Old City, Might As Well Share, Might As Well Smile

--"Little Bitty", Alan Jackson

I've been listening lately to my Hilary Hahn CDs. Say what you will about talented artists, but for my money no creature is more sublime than a deft violinist. Hearing someone who has the gift within her play is one of the few joys in the world that is personal. Hearing Hilary or other like her, isn't something that is readily shared with my husband or staff; it doesn't translate well to description for family or friends. How I hear it, the emotions it evokes, and passions it steers is completely unique to me. As my daddy likes to say, there are three things people cannot move for you--your eyes, your mouth, and your ears. That's why instead of trying to convince you folks to check her out for yourself by describing how awe-inspiring she is, I'm going to let you judge for yourself.

What I want to talk about is how I've always been rather jealous of people with real musical talent. Two things I've felt awkward about was my lack of singing ability and my lack of playing ability. I was simply born without them. I've always believed my only two inherent talents were dancing and running really fast for a really long time. Everything else I do I've either had to learn or I've had to fake my way through. But I've always thought they were lesser talents. After all, I don't create anything by dancing. I'm interpreting a work of art somebody else has created with my body. The same thing with running. It makes me feel capable, but, in the end, all that work is transitive. There is nothing to show for it. Even a video or recording of my dancing doesn't have that one-for-one feel that a recording of a world-class violinist does in comparison to hearing them live. Indeed, whether from attending a concert or merely hearing a CD, listening to a good piece of classical music makes me want to do while I'm sure that seeing myself or any other dancer perform doesn't stir feelings of wanting to play music for Hilary or her ilk. I'm forever feeling that, much like my writing, I don't do good with original material. I do better when reacting to something original.

I guess that's why I've always been jealous of musical prodigies. They were let in on a secret that I was never let in on. Not only that, but it forever feels like that they had this genius presented to them a birth, that they never had to walk that long, fine line of achieving it.

But listening to her tonight and feeling how overwhelmingly happy it makes me, I'm beginning to appreciate that I should leave it alone at that. She's really good at something. I should take delight in that and the fact that she's willing to share it with the rest of the world. I should take pleasure that there was a time where I didn't know how much her type of music filled a void in my life and now that void is filled. I don't have to concentrate on how that should be me or on how I missed out because that's only going to sour me on something that should always be beautiful.


little bitty world goes around and around
little bit of silence and a little bit of sound

It's impossible to be good at everything. Simply impossible. Everyone we look out we will always be forever finding out something they do better than us or some area of knowledge they know more than us in. Hell's bells, I consider myself fairly bright, yet I'm always been shown up by somebody I underestimated. Eventually, a person would go mad in the pursuit of being absolutely perfect in absolutely everything, you know?

I think the only thing you can do is discover your real talents or hone your real skills and wait for people to recognize that's what your good at. It's much the same as roping calves. Sure, you could chase after this one or that one while they all scamper away. Yet that's the quickest way to frustration. What you have to do is pick one and pursue it with all the will the good Lord has provided you. You do that, you pick your one out, and I guarantee you'll be proud of yourselves. You may not be perfect at whatever you pick, but it'll be yours and you'll know it'll be done to the high standards you set for yourself.

After that, it becomes easier to genuinely recognize and compliment somebody else for their talent because you won't feel the need to compare yourself to them. You'll just be happy for them because you'll understand what it took for them to get where they are.

I can only be Breanne--no more, no less. That's what I always say. More often than not I can come up with dozens of reasons why I'm content with my life and the direction it's taken. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Sometimes I lose my way when I try to compare myself to somebody who obviously rode their talent a long distance, somebody who is only less than a year older than me. Sometimes I lose my way when I think I'm stuck in my small-town because I had small-town ambitions. Sometimes I lose my way when I don't think I'm being recognized for pursuits that I thought were a Godsend.

I lose hope, if but for a moment.

Then, you know what? All it takes is hearing the joy of somebody else pursuing or living their dream to make me realize I'm still living my own.

Sometimes all it takes is hearing a graceful talent like Hilary play her pretty 'ole violin.

Breanne

When The Evening Shadows And The Stars Appear, And There Is No One There To Dry Your Tears, I Could Hold You For A Million Years

--"Make You Feel My Love", Bob Dylan

in two weeks it'll be almost thirteen years ago almost to the day...

The first time I saw you crying I didn’t know what the reason was. There you were, wrapped in your holiday sweater, resting on your side, your hand delicately wiping away the tears that had already slipped down to your cheeks. I was standing in the doorway, unsure what to do. I didn’t know if I knew you long enough to be of help. I didn’t know if I knew you well enough for you to accept it. I didn’t know if you saw me standing there, but I certainly saw you. I saw you turn away from me, your petite ponytail sweeping out from beneath your head and almost touching the back of your sweater. I stood there for awhile, waiting for you to ask me to leave or to tell me you wanted to be alone. I was waiting for permission to not get involved. Eventually, I was just waiting to hear the soft sounds of you crying in earnest. That never came either.

Finally, I had a decision to make. To leave you alone, sad and distraught, or to make a move to comfort you in some small way. It had been far too long by that point to pretend that I wasn’t standing there.

When I saw your hands rise up again and move to the side of your face it was like my decision was made for me. I slowly walked over to your bed, barely registering this was the first time I had set foot inside your room without your parents in the house, and sat down. I placed my hand on your shoulder. You never flinched. Instead, you went about your business of displaying whatever melancholy or misery that had befallen you. If you wanted me there, you never told me. For the first few moments that’s all I could do, keep my almost shaking arm on your shoulder. I wanted to will you well without having to say a word. I wanted you better without making the effort to make you better. I was scared that I wouldn’t know what to do or what to say to you to accomplish this. I looked around your room, at the orange walls, at the stuffed koala collection; I looked at anything but you. For the first time I was stoic with you.

When that didn’t work, I moved my hand down your arm as a gesture of comfort. At any minute I expected you to turn around and tell me what was wrong. I’m better at helping once I know what the problem is. But you wouldn’t turn around. You kept on weeping to yourself, unashamed to show your vulnerability.

I was at a loss.

I had barely stood up to leave when I thought I heard you asking me to stay. It could have been my imagination, though. At any rate, I did the only thing I could think of. I laid down on the bed beside, ruffling my shirt and my slacks, making a mess of the clothes I had specifically picked out to meet your parents at the restaurant with. I would’ve said we should’ve been going by that point, but there was no way you were in any condition to leave the house.

I laid behind you, carefully spooning you, and placed my arm around you until my hand met yours. Then I just grasped it with the certainty that that’s where it belonged. I didn’t say anything. I just held you like that, feeling your chestnut brown hair in my face, hearing my breath resonate off the back of your neck, wishing you could understand how much I didn’t want to see you hurting like that. For awhile, I thought you were uncomfortable, that you would get up at any second to scold me or possibly pretend that everything was fine. I even felt you squirm in those first few minutes. But eventually I heard the sound of your breathing grow more regular even as the sound of your sobbing grew ever louder. Your voice never reached a timbre to be heard outside your room, but I heard it. I heard every agonizing peal of it. I pulled you in tighter and you didn’t fight it. I felt the slackness in your body match to the position I had taken until I had you completely cocooned inside of me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I was impossibly content at the moment. It was a moment of trust that existed between us that would be impossible to replicate. Before that evening, before that moment, I had doubts that the closeness we shared was as real as I thought it to be. Up until I felt you, I never felt what us would feel like. But that moment the us that I thought could be became became the us that is.

Your fingers, your hand, your tightening grip on own pliant hand, that’s what I was concentrating on. That’s where I felt most intensely your pain. Even more than the sound of your crying, even more than the sight of your tears pooling atop your pillow, I felt the full weight of how devastated you really were in your grasp of my grip. Every time I felt your hand tense, I tried to match it. Every time you grew softer, so did I. I wanted you to know how close I was and how willing I was to provide whatever comfort you needed.

Even when the warmth of your sweater began to make the skin beneath my shirt uncomfortable, even when I started to notice the last of the light leaving your windowsill, I laid with you. Even when my eyes fell weary and my breathing slowed as I grew more and more comfortable with the feeling of your body next to mine, I continued to concentrate on your delicate hand. It was my barometer. It was my guide. It was my window into your discomfort.

I always knew you were beautiful. I always knew you were smart. I always knew you were funny, charming, graceful, well-mannered, impulsive, impish, and, yes, sometimes wicked. But up until that moment I never knew you felt sadness like I’d felt sadness. I always considered you stronger than me, incapable of showing frailty in the eyes of another. You were always so ruthless in your personality. You took everything by storm. Yours was the way of conquering and not meditation. That moment my perception changed in a small, but significant way. You were strong—of that there could be no doubt—but yet you were not a pillar of indifference and casual apathy when it came to your emotions. You had depths that you had managed to keep from me for a very long time or, at the very least, managed to sublimate with reservoirs of self-deprecating humor. I thought of the two of us you’d be the one being the pillar of strength for me when I got down on myself. It was only that moment that I realized instead of me leaning against you, we’d be leaning against one another, which was an arrangement I was more than willing to enter into.


to make you feel my love

I don’t know how long we laid like that—maybe an hour, maybe ninety minutes—but it was long enough to have your parents call the house to ask where we were. Still, noticing you weren’t getting up, I didn’t get up either. We both heard the plaintative sounds of your mother asking where we were on the answering machine. We both heard her concern for us even as she said good-bye and to call her back soon at the restaurant. We both knew we would have to go or else tell her something was wrong with you. We both were in that exact moment.

Yet there wasn’t one thought to getting up.

There wasn’t one thought to stirring.

There were only your tears.

Our hands holding onto each other.

And my concern for you.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Around The World, Around The World, Around The World, Around The World

--"Around the World", Daft Punk

I had this random idea to try out for The Amazing Race this past weekend. Totally on a lark, never thinking anyone I asked would take it seriously, I started letting people know that this was a half-hearted quest of mine. Mostly people laughed and took it for the jest I originally intended it to be. However, when I asked my friend Carly, she responded in the most improbably way.

She said it would be a great idea.

What's more, the more she got excited about it, the more I started to take it seriously as something I would be interested in. It's weird how somebody's enthusiasm for a project can help decide your own mind about it too. Up until she gave her thumbs up, I thought it was just a funny idea to kick around with people, more shocking than serious. But hearing her ask where to get the application, what our shortcomings might be, and how exactly the process would fit into her schedule, the more I started to question my own motivation for wanting to participate and my own reasons for not initially taking it seriously.

The main reason I didn't want to do it was because they do a lot of height challenges and I'm deathly afraid of open spaces. The thought of falling is one of my biggest fears. Seeing people rappel down thirty story buildings or bungee jump off of bridges is something that I thought I could go my whole life without ever experimenting with. The other reason I didn't want to do it was because I was never jazzed about seeing foreign countries. I didn't think experiencing another nation's culture and artistry was a pressing need for me. I thought there were enough spectacular views in the U.S. that I would never need leave this country to be amazed.

But what is life if not overcoming fears and doing things that push you out of your comfort zone? I'm starting to think that, if anything, if we do somewhat miraculously make it on the show, that I could learn a lot from going through with it. It could have a positive effect on my life in ways I never considered needed improvement.

Yes, it'll be fun to take an excursion with Miss Carly and I wouldn't consider braving such an endeavor with anybody else since, of any of my friends, seems well-suited to travel and adventure. This could go a long way to insuring we remain lifelong friends like Breanne and I are lifelong friends. The main reason I want to do this is because it could go a long way to insuring I become the person I always though I could be, experiencing new things, seeing the world in new ways, and just seeing as much as life has to offer.

That's worth possibly plunging to my doom off a thousand foot cliff, right?

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Down Deep In His Soul, She Can Bring Him Such Misery, If She Plays Him For A Fool, He's The Last One To Know

--"When A Man Loves A Woman", Percy Sledge

We all have a rudimentary book club going. It isn't so formal as to have a monthly meeting or officers. Frankly, we're much more blue jeans and blue collar to try to formalize it. Usually one of us will find a book, tell the others, and in a few weeks we compare notes. That's the extent of our book club.

This month, Fanny told me about the Charles Schulz biography, Schulz And Peanuts: A Biography and I spread the word from there. I'm not one to read biographies most of the time. Most of the time I'm more of a pig in slop when in the midst of a torrid love story or bracing adventure. I crave momentum. That's why it surprises me that I'm enjoying this book as much as I do. However, it's been brought up that there's a sentimentality factor to the book that makes Sparky's life (as he is referred to in the book) all the more intriguing. Not to ruin anything, but, like any life, there's a lot more I didn't know about the man than did before reading this. Every chapter and every page was a revelation as to where the majority of his work was drawn from. Not only was it like paddling upstream to head of the river, but it was like discovering where water itself comes from. Every strip they used to illustrate the points the book made seemed to be like reading Sparky's mind. Let me tell you, it was a regular hoot-and-a-half, which I had no idea it would be going into it.

I think that was mainly due to wanting to get to the bottom of where my favorite character came from.

I'm sure all of you played that game where you tried to identify which character most resembled you. For me, it wasn't the perennial lovable loser, Charlie Brown. I had far too much success early on in life to identify with him. Nor was it the tomboy go-getter Peppermint Patty. Sure, I played a game or two of baseball with the neighborhood brats, but I was always brought up a proper and graceful lady. Nor was it the philosophical enigma that was Linus. I delved into deeper subject a lot, but I was never quite the questioner that he was.

Nope, for me, I was a Lucy Van Pelt through and through.


if she said that's the way it ought to be

I can't say that I was crabby as her or as cruel as she could be, but I always identified with her self-assuredness. Her, more than any other character in the comic, confidence was what always drew me to read strip after strip when I was reading Peanuts consistently. Who else but Lucy thought she was right 100% of the time? Me. In that sense I always thought Linus and Lucy were perfect counterpoints. Linus was always indecisive about everything, but took the time to ponder both sides in a vain effort to come up with conclusive answers. Lucy, though? Lucy was like a bull eying a red-painted target in the distance. Nothing came between her and what she had set her mind to. It didn't matter to her if she was ultimately proven wrong, most of the time her gumption convinced others to follow her lead.

That's how I always pictured myself. I didn't care whether I was wrong or right when it came to a lot of decisions I made. For me, it was being able to make snap decisions and exude authoritative command of myself that I likened myself to. Sure, I was nice about it and I didn't ever want my correctness to come at the expense of pointing out someone else's incorrectness like Lucy, but like her you would have had a hard time changing my mind about a great many subjects. My daddy used to say I had a mind poured in cement because, once it set, it set for life.

That's why Lucy came in handy. I had this notion that people wouldn't like me if I always had to be right. Who wants to be told their opinions are invalid more often than not? Not a lot. I had secret fears of alienating my friends whenever it came to my decisions. But the more I read Peanuts and the more I saw that Lucy managed to keep friends despite her caustic personality traits, the more I saw how far a little gumption went. That was me. I was always respectful to my parents, to my family, and to my friends, but when it came to who was the master of Breanne, that was always me. I would take your advice. I would listen to your reasons. However, most of the time, I had made up my mind what I was going to do hours before. I never took advice for the most part; I only gave it (which made Lucy "Psychiatric Help" stories hilarious to me).

Even today, I take advice from a select few and I never directly ask for help. Lucy never did that and neither will I.

Finally, thanks to this book, I understand a little more where she sprung from and, in that understanding, I understand a little more of where my personality came from. You'd be surprised how similar my background matches the background of the model Charles Schulz drew inspiration from.

As childhood heroes go, Lucy may not be the most popular one (another area we differed on), but she was definitely heard. Take it from one spotlight hog, that's a noble quest and it's a quest I always spurred Lucy silently on in. I didn't care if she was a blowhard; she was my blowhard. I didn't care if she was happiest when laughing at the expense of her brothers or Charlie; deep down I knew it was always because she had fears of being ignored like I did. I didn't care that she lived to fool or play tricks on the other kids; deep down I knew her mean-spiritedness was the only way she knew how to demonstrate confidence. I wasn't mean, but I was loud and tried to dominate every conversation I was in just like her for the same reason of not knowing any other way to show how self-assured I was.

I didn't care that Lucy was wicked; I knew from wickedness myself.

Lucy was me and I was Lucy.

Breanne

And The Stars Came Out And Filled Up The Sky, The Music You Were Playing Really Blew My Mind, It Was Love At First Sight

--"Love at First Sight", Kylie Minogue

four five

suspended beneath
a pond frozen overnight,
my heart beats no more.

dw

----

People talk about their first experiences of love as this all-encompassing grand feeling. They rave on and on how much better they feel compared to that state of being hopelessly adrift that accompanies not having love in your life. I think that's the natural tendency to overestimate and exaggerate how that feeling, that particular feeling, far exceeds any happiness that preceded it. Even I was prone to bouts of writing all sorts of melodramatic poetry and love letters and what have you. I don't know--you have all these emotions bursting out and, when you can't be with the inspiration for such emotions, you have to rid yourself of them somehow. Looking back at some of the pieces I wrote, I can only imagine the state of mind I must have been in to be that dire in my professions of love and that reckless in my vows of eternal faithfulness.

That's why I found it a little surprising and somewhat comforting that there is one individual I know that didn't fall completely. I mean--people always warn you when you enter your first serious relationship to guard yourself an inevitable letdown. Most people don't end up staying with their first love--far from it. Most couples that start out young never get the opportunity to grow old. Yet most people blindly enter these arrangements thinking it's forever, that it's for life, and come crashing when it doesn't live up to their careful planning. Frisson always has more in mind that relationships from the get-go aren't built to last, which made me kind of sad to hear how jaded she was when it came to her last relationship. I told her that she needed to enjoy it more while it lasts because you only got your one shot at first love. If anything, it should be filled with that sense of hope, even if the majority of the time it's pretty much wasting your time.

However, now that it's come to an end, I'm glad for her that she isn't devastated like after mine came to an end. Sure, she's shaken and more than a little sad, but she's still a whole person.

I was basically a black hole.

----

...I could look at it as a failing. We broke up. I failed when I've never failed at anything before. That should be more of a shock to me. But I'd rather look to this as a chance, my chance to review my life. When we were together it was always the feeling of how we were doing as a couple; it was never about me. My success and failures rode with how we were regarded at school, with our parents, and with our friends. No happiness was my own. All tears were in regards to him. It was like I no longer functioned as an individual.

I knew this was coming. Didn't I tell you? I wasn't shocked because, as many times as I'd hoped for this, there were as many times that I wished it could come later in my life. I wanted to be older. Appreciate it more. Not be so caught up in the moment. I wanted to have understanding and not just passion....

----

I didn't so much cry as drown in tears when Tara and I broke up. I didn't know how to process the hurt that I was feeling. I'd never experienced it before. I certainly didn't have the foreknowledge like Frisson did that these things ended. It was like stumbling onto fire when I met Tara and the fire going out when we broke up. Of course, I wanted the fire back. Who wouldn't? But because I didn't know how I accomplished it the first time, I didn't know how to get it back. Or even if it would be coming back? That's what broke me apart, losing something that vital from my life and the constant fear that it would never come back.

School suffered. Friendships suffered. I was the poster child for somebody who didn't take rejection well. Not only did I take it out on anyone in striking distance, but I kept up the vain hope that somehow she and I could get back together on. I kept calling her, trying to ingratiate myself in her good graces again. I kept telling people that I was going to win her back. I kept up the idea that we were only a break. It was horrible. It was probably the blackest period in my life up until that point.

I didn't know what I was doing or where to go to next.

Yes, I'll be on the lookout in the next few weeks to see if Frisson will relapse into the mess I was, but she already has more going for her than I did. I went into my relationship as if I'd gotten it right the first time, that Tara and I were forever. I handled my break-up by fighting it every step of the way. I refused to move past it for months afterwards. Toby is just treating like it's a momentary setback--like a flat tire or breaking a leg--and not the end of the world like I expect people her age to do.

I envy her resilience.

----

...Yes, I'm sad. Who wouldn't be? I've been sad before. I wouldn't say this is worse than my other sadnesses. I try to look at it like that and it helps some. This is not going to be any different for me because I refuse to let it be any different. I lost a boyfriend, not my life, because Jack was never my life. I didn't want to make him that.

You know me, I'm too cautious to invest all my faith in one person, one idea, or one dream. I never think anything is going to work out. That way, when something begins to, I can ride it for as long as possible and jump off before it crashes. Don't postpone joy, but don't expect it either. I'm all for the small joys being enough to keep me going through my day. That way, the disappointments all turn out to be small disappointments...

----

I always called myself a romantic idealist. When I fall, I fall hard. I invest so much in trying to please and make it special that I lose sight of it being a matter of two people trying to maintain a relationship. It's like I look at relationships as being a done deal as soon as it starts, instead of something to be nourished and catered after. I feel like, once we're going out, the contract is signed and everything is set in stone after that point. Thus, when it breaks apart, like they mostly do, I feel betrayed. I feel like she didn't live up to her end of the contract. It's not just the end of a relationship that saddens me, it's that sudden loss of complete trust in a person that accompanies it. After all, if she can break up with me, then how could I have trusted her in the first place. Only cowards leave. Only liars tell you they love you and then walk away. That's honestly the thoughts that pour through my head after any break-up.

That's what I did, I laid blame.

First love shouldn't be like that. You should feel sadness and loss, but you shouldn't feel anger. I think that's healthier. When you don't invest everything, you don't lose everything. You can honestly afford to be friends after it. That's what I'm learning more and more from her.

It doesn't have to be about assigning blame. It really can be about mourning the loss of something beautiful and giving the time you spent together the credit it's due. With Tara, there was a long time where I couldn't remember any of the good times. All I saw was how much I hated her for making me feel like that. That wasn't right. I never probably buried what we had. I never had that closure until much later on.

I never really got to feel sad because my anger would always well up more. Maybe if I'd felt only the sadness I could have gotten better a lot sooner. And maybe I might have been able to stay in touch with her more than I did.

Sure, I would have still felt lost, but feeling lost is a lot healthier than feeling nothing but searing hate.

----

four six

an unanchored ship
tossed around by fickle winds
must I look to most.

dw

----

She'll be alright. I know that. And I'd like to think all this time I've spent telling her about my horrible go at first love that I had something to do with preparing her for the experience.

That's something I never had and something maybe I sorely needed at that time.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers