Since You've Gone I've Been Lost Without A Trace, I Dream At Night I Can Only See Your Face, I Look Around But It's You I Can't Replace

--"Every Breath You Take (cover)", UB40 from the 50 First Dates Original Soundtrack

I was watching 50 First Dates tonight on my own. In fact, today was pretty much spent all by my lonesome. After being surrounded by friends and family all yesterday, it was nice to get a chance to recover without feeling hampered by having to be anywhere specific to meet any specific people. Plus, I've always liked 50 First Dates, but it's never been very high on anyone else's list of must-see movies. Say what you will, but there's something insanely sweet about the entire concept behind that movie. I always appreciate the opportunity to watch it in its entirety.

The aspect of the movie I identify with is the concept of romance. The entire movie is basically centered around the question of whether or not one person can romance the same person if the circumstances change. It's basically a long experiment regarding whether circumstances and environment play more of a part in whether two people fall in love than actual chemistry. From the first time I saw it I absolutely adore the notion that, despite everything, if you get the same two people together sparks are going to fly. Maybe it's the romantic in me. Maybe it's the idea that I can belay the concept of destiny in all things save love that speaks to me. All I know is that when I see Henry continually chase after Lucy day after day, having to romance her all over again when she wakes up with no memory of him, I empathize. That's the part of chasing after someone that's always puzzled me the most, the one that I've spent the most time trying to work out for myself. I know what attracts me to someone else and what keeps me interested in them. For the most part, I know what other people find best about me. But the facet that's always stumped is what keeps me and someone else together, what is that mystical connection that cements us together. I've always thought it has to go beyond attraction. That only lasts so long. I've always believed in the concept of soul mates.

I'm telling you right now--I don't know if I could do what Henry does. I don't know if I'd have the strength to continually make someone fall in love with me. I've always found the chase exhausting. The part I cherish the most is just after the chase, when the bond starts to become more solid. To me to know that somebody could reject me depending on the day or depending my approach would dishearten me to no end. I'm very easily discouraged. Like most, when I put out the effort and when I put myself on the line to acknowledge my feelings to a young woman, I want to know that it yielded favorable results. I don't want my efforts to have been in vain. Hearing someone I liked and I know liked me only the day before reject me would have the effect of crushing me. It would point to the signs that we aren't soul mates. In a perfect world, under those circumstances, soul mates would still be batting a hundred percent. It would destroy any faith I had that true love exists.

That's why I like 50 First Dates; it allows me to believe that someone I might end up with could love me no matter what occurs or how we meet or what I happen to say to her. There's a reassurance in movies like this, where the guy ends up with the girl in the end despite all obstacles.

I also like the fact that it explores the concept of the totality of one's emotions. Lucy speaks in the film of not wanting to hold Henry back from his life when she breaks up with him. To this, Henry responds in the film's climax something to the effect that his life can only continue with her in it. He doesn't say that she is his life. He doesn't say that he'll die without her. He says that he can't imagine the rest of his life without her. I like that distinction. I like that idea that he feels sorely compelled to include her in with the plans he's already made for himself rather than building his plans around what she wants to do. Yes, love takes compromise to a certain extent, but to another extent it also means building a life for yourself while at the same time making provisions should the right person come along.

It's just like the video game this movie reminds me of, Final Fantasy X. In that film the main couple, Yuna and Tidus, also endure an almost passionate relationship that is derailed by an almost impossible situation. After seeing and listening to the moving gradual courtship between the couple for almost forty hours of game time, the player is almost devastated to find out near the game's end that what he or she is witnessing is not a happy ending fairy tale. What the player comes to find out is that he or she is watching one of the saddest and most tragic love stories every imagined. What the player finds out is that Tidus isn't even real. Taking a page from stories like Cinderella and A Little Mermaid, Tidus' time as the person who Yuna thinks he is is limited. However, it's even more tragic because Tidus is the preserved memory of a town that was on the brink of destruction of almost fifty years before Yuna was even born. To save the town from an evil, a wizard preserved the town and all of its inhabitants in an almost suspended animation. Tidus walked and lived for those intervening fifty years without realizing he wasn't getting older or changing or even that he could never his town. Then one day he did and met Yuna. Ultimately, when that evil is defeated after many months of questing (and falling in love with Yuna), Tidus discovers that without the evil the reason for the spell is broken. He and Yuna come to find out that his destiny is to fade away into the nothing since he's only a memory of the real Tidus that would've died long ago.

Their farewell is probably one of the saddest good-byes in cinema history, live action or animated:



I admit it--I'm a sucker for a good unrequited love story. I enjoy hearing about two people who are meant for one another that are kept apart, who finally make it through in the end. But what really gets to me are stories like 50 First Dates and Final Fantasy X, where two people find each other and ultimately lose each other through no fault of their own. It's why I like Eponine's story too. I enjoy tragic love stories because it reinforces that when two people find each other that that's the most beautiful thing in the world. Whether or not they stay together is secondary. Whether or not they eventually reconnect is secondary. Whether or not they can never be together again is secondary.

It's the finding of one another that is beautiful. It's the proof that there's one person out there that you're meant to be with that is beautiful. That's where the real romance is, in the connecting.

That's what love is to me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Someone Told Me Long Ago, There's A Calm Before The Storm, I Know, It's Been Coming For Some Time

--"Have You Ever Seen The Rain?", Creedance Clearwater Revival

"I'll be right back. Why don't you look around for awhile?" he said as he stepped into the department store bathroom.

You knew he wouldn't be coming out for a long spell. You were going to be on your own for at least the next thirty minutes. The question was how you were going to fill the time. As you walked along the rows of women's clothes, jewelry, and fragrances, you put aside any thoughts of getting any shopping done. Everything seemed tempting, but your aim here wasn't to burden yourself with any more wares. It was a long walk back to the hotel and the two of you were already carrying a knapsack each. You already got in trouble once on the trip. He'd be awfully sore if he came out only to find you on yet another shopping binge. At any rate, you knew you had a few more days in Chicago to get some shopping done. It could wait.

Deciding discretion to be the better part of valor, you let your steps take you down the elevator to the tiny cafe on the bottom floor. It was sparse. This wasn't like the grand 'ole eateries you had back in the Macon malls; this was almost utilitarian in its decor. However, the smells that started wafting its way to your nostrils told you that their food was anything but lacking. Hints of fresh oregano, garlic, and peppers insinuated themselves into your consciousness, begging you to beckon closer. You took a cursory glance at what the cafe was offering on the posted menu by the front register. You were sorely tempted to stop here for a fleeting snack. Everything sounded good over the sourpuss stomach, still registering its displeasure, that you possessed. But, no, you couldn't stop here. He had already made plans for both of you at some steakhouse he wanted to check out. If there was anything he hated worse than a meal being a letdown, it was discovering that the meal was excellent but you didn't possess an appetite for that meal. Hell's bells, you didn't see what all the fuss was about. Your daddy had taught you that there's time enough to eat heartily more than once in a day. You didn't see the huge concession in moving back your dinner reservations to later on in the evening, or, Heaven forbid, pushing it back to the next day or the day after that.

Not having the option to eat, you took a seat at one of the small wooden tables in the cafe and ordered an iced tea. You remembered to ask the waitress to pre-sweeten it for you. It still surprised you that any place could serve tea unsweetened. Your mother had raised you to believe that unsweetened tea was a crime against nature--almost a crime against God Himself. It took exploring more of the world, getting into the thicket and coming out the other side to realize that many of the truths you held universal were far more localized than you thought. An even bigger surprise was realizing you really were a little 'ole gal in a great, big world. Trips like the one you were currently on were what began the process of opening your eyes to the lack of understanding all of life's complexities you had.

When your tea came, you took a long swig, decidedly un-ladylike but very much in keeping with that of a woman who had spent the greater part of the morning walking up and down the avenues of The Windy City. You hadn't realized how thirsty you truly were. Then you allowed yourself to sit in silence. You sat and watched all the different shapes and sizes of people as they entered and exited the cafe. There were the couples--the men holding the bags, the women talking their ears off. There were the mothers, exasperated and exhausted, walking with their children, rambunctious as dogs on a cattle drive. Then there were the lonely souls who had decided to stop in the cafe alone. You said a quiet prayer thanking God that one of those people wasn't you. The hard truth was you always felt a tinge of sadness when you saw someone doing something that was normally done with company by themselves. You didn't know how you would handle that. You didn't know how you would handle the embarrassment. You'd always had someone to go places with in your life. You didn't know how it was to be alone, to be comfortable without anyone around. Even while you were sitting there, drinking your tea, you were trying to reassure yourself that it wouldn't be too much longer before you could be walking again with him.

By the time you got halfway down the glass, you'd already struck up a conversation with the couple next to you. You couldn't help yourself. As your daddy says, "if God wanted you to shush up he wouldn't have made your mouth open." Your mother used to say that she ain't never seen anyone talk as much as you do, and that was before you really got going. It's different now. You see your parents less and less every year. Now you get the feeling that they don't mind the talking all that much. At least, that's how you see it. Talking to people is a good thing, as is entertaining them for however long they are in your company. It's the basis of your whole philosophy, you know? You wouldn't know how to keep your thoughts to yourself for very long at any rate.

The only place you've ever been able to do that is an abandoned church.

Or after sex.

In either situation, there's a certain sanctity to the circumstances that you find overwhelming. You've always been a deeply religious and spiritual person; you know when you're in the presence of your Lord. In any other case you try to celebrate life and the best way for you to celebrate is to enliven those lives around you.

The couple started to tell you their life story, or, at the very least, the piglet's version of it. You listened graciously, losing yourself in the joy of their words. Within the first five minutes of listening to them, you realized they were in the first throes of love. You found yourself aching for that kind of passion again. They couldn't stop speaking to you except with the broadest of smiles on their face. You missed that. You missed that feeling. It hadn't been that way with you with anyone for some time now. When they left, it left you disheartened. You again found yourself alone. Your thoughts started to center around where you were in your life. This wasn't quite the life you pictured. This wasn't quite the way you thought you'd end up. The situation you had placed yourself in, on this trip, in your relationships, wasn't quite what the little gal you once used to be envisioned her life becoming. You had had plans. You had had dreams. You had had aspirations. A lot of them had came true--right on the fence post--but not all. And some had snuck up on you like a cat on its haunches.

In some respects, you thought some time on your own for yourself might have been good for you. You started to believe a lot of the mistakes you made wouldn't have happened had you been less driven to be with someone all the time.

It would have been difficult, at first. Bitter. But, like the tea, sometimes getting used to everything being sweet all the time leaves you ill prepared for those bitter times. You had never had it anything but good, you've never been not surrounded by people who support and love you all the time. Hell's bells, you couldn't even enjoy this time all to yourself in the cafe properly, you chastised yourself. All you could see was the time left before you can talk to him again, before you could go to dinner. You couldn't fight the fear of being alone for the rest of your life.

You wondered if there's ever been a point in your life that you've truly been on your own.


I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
coming down on a sunny day?

You spent the rest of the forty minutes you waited for him in quiet contemplation. It didn't show on your face to the people who came and went from the cafe, but you had locked yourself away in a moment of solitude. You slipped into an almost philosophical state where you stopped measuring your life in terms of accomplishments and started to examine it from an existential point-of-view. Aside from what you did, could you even name what you were or who you were? Yes, you were happy. The question was was happy enough? Was there even such a thing as being satisfied too? You were naturally happy. Little Miss Chipper had been and still was one of your most cherished nicknames. But lost in all the talk of being happy was any discussion about fulfilling who you were meant to be as a person. If the goal was to be happy all the rest of your days, you could have accomplished that easily. If the goal was to be complete as an individual, well, that, sugar, you weren't so confident about.

You sauntered back to where you had left him in the restroom with a bit of heaviness in your heart. Forty minutes really wasn't all that much time to dissect your fate. It wasn't enough time to decide on a new direction to take your life. That, unfortunately, would come much later.

You did what you could at the time. You decided to not let him know those disquiet thoughts you had just been having. You decided to keep up the mood of the trip you had been having so far.

You peeked your head into the men's room before he had even exited the stall, oblivious to whomever else might be still using the facility aside from him. You yelled something to him at the top of your lungs.

"You decent, Eeyore!?"

"I used to be!" he yelled back to you.

You laughed, starting to feel yourself cheer up even if you weren't exactly better. That would come in time--maybe not on this trip and maybe not in the next few months, but someday. Someday you were going to rebuild Breanne in all its glory, like Scarlett vows to rebuild Tara.

Happy and have peace of mind, you asked yourself as you heard him washing his hands before he came out of the restroom doors.

You used to be.

You vowed, as God as your witness, to be again.

Breanne

It's Like A Jigsaw, Maybe, You Found The Corner Piece First, We Never Asked For Nothing, You're Always Bearing Gifts, Oh, You Could See Us Through

--"Jigsaw", Mates of State

two zero zero

the breaking glacier,
a delft chain shattering loose
from its icy hold.

breaking in pieces,
falling to pieces, tiny
and vulnerable.

the breaking glacier,
a specter exorcised from
the frail life it held.

breaking in pieces,
finally freed of its strength,
now allowed to breathe.

the breaking glacier,
the walls of Jericho pierced
by deliverance.

~dw

When You Were Young, And On Your Own, How Did It Feel, To Be Alone? I Was Always Thinking, Of Games That I Was Playing

--"Only Love Can Break Your Heart (cover)", St. Etienne

I dyed my hair for the umpteenth time today. It really struck me that I've been doing this particular act off and on for quite a while now. I mean--I started noticing I was getting gray hairs as far back as the sixth grade. Back then, I never did anything about it because one really had to search through my tangled tresses to find even one or two specimens. But as the years started to add up I started to notice that I would get them more frequently. Maybe it's just the fact my natural hair color is coal black that they show up so easily in contrast, but it often felt like to me that I got more than my fair share of them far younger than I should have.

I began to experiment with dying it to cover up the fact I was getting them at all. It wasn't a vanity project (or maybe it was); I didn't care particularly that it made me look older or out of place with my peers. The reason I ostensibly dyed it was because I've always had an aversion to growing up too fast. The Breannes of the world might have quested for being recognized as an adult in their youth, but I was always of the mindset that my youth was slipping far too quickly. Getting gray hairs was only one sign of it. Luckily, it was the one sign that I could do something about. I never dyed it religiously. However, as soon as I thought it was getting too out of control for its own good, I would come along and blend it black or brown, whatever the case may be. It was my way of slowing the signs of aging in a misguided attempt to pretend I wasn't as mature as I really was. I couldn't do anything about the fact my friends were moving away or going on with their own lives; I couldn't do anything about having to get a job or finding my own place; and I couldn't do anything about people my age dying, either in the news or in my actual life. But, goddamn it all, I could do something about my own hair.

The thing is that no matter how often I dyed my hair, it would always go gray in parts again. Just like as often as I try to avoid the subject of my life changing all the time, there's nothing I can do to fix it in place, to secure it exactly as I want to remain. Like they said on Avonlea, "Nothing endures but change," and it seems like my life changes quicker than most. Well, actually, that's not true. It seems the life around me changes than most. DeAnn and Breanne (ha, that rhymes) get married; all of my friends that I had in high school move to other parts of the country; and my love life seems to fluctuate between tumultuous at best to being non-existent. Yet I seem stuck in the same persistent state of lackadaisical living that I've always adhered to. I try to change as little as possible about my day-to-day routine as I possibly can. Even my profiles state that all I do is "eat, watch, read, write, and travel." Aside from the traveling, those activities don't lend itself to much experimentation. I could literally eat, watch, read, and write all the same things for the rest of my life and not be any more happy or less happy than I am now. That isn't to say I don't try new things; it just means the discovery is the least enticing aspect of finding something new under the sun. For me, the best facet of finding something new is the working of it into my daily routine, the covering up of the fact that it was ever outside of my routine.

The more I try, though, the more I realize that I'm playing a game with time that I can't possibly win. There are parts to my routine that simply can't go on as they are. I'm losing touch with what makes living a life and leading a life different from each other. I'm letting the world outside myself dictate how I live; I'm reacting to stimuli instead of acting apart from it. There's going to come a point where everything will fall apart and my routine, my comfort zone, is just not going to hold up under scrutiny.

There's going to come a point where covering up that my life is changing everyday with a bit of color and polish is not going to do the trick anymore. There's going to come a point where my age and the years of neglecting the years that have gotten me this far are going to catch up to me once and for all.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Hard To Be The Last To Show, Anticipation Is So Hard To See, If You Know, Don't Let It Show, Think It Over And Come Back To Me

--"Final Say", Sambassadeur

We stopped in that park where we had painted the bobbing horse tan just the year before. Then, I had told you to leave it alone as if it was a crime to touch up a few spots where the paint had chipped off. You then went on to inform that it wasn't like we were vandalizing the horse; that, if we were stopped by the police or some other concerned citizen, we were doing our civic duty to restore the old girl to as good as new. Our duty, you said, as if the park was in our backyard. I told you they had people for that kind of task. It wasn't our responsibility. Parks are for playing in--not for worrying, I reminded you. All you did was go back to smoothly applying the coat to the equine-shaped piece of equipment. I took a step away, but no more than a step. Reluctantly I came back to help you. You took out an old red brush from where you had been keeping it hidden in your knapsack, smiling devilishly, knowing full well that I would cave.

Then, it had been a matter of being stubborn why I never said I wanted to help, why I just pitched in.

"Not so well," you replied with the tone of somebody who had much less serious news to impart.

Your words floated out lightly with all the urgency of telling someone that you were cold. Then, as if to complete the image, you wrapped the blue-and-white scarf around your neck once more. You didn't even wait for me to let the news sink in. You didn't stand there expecting me to say something back. What could I say? You merely took your hands in your pockets and started to walk to the old wooden monkey bar and bridge set. After allowing myself some time to process your words, I followed you. I was careful to keep a few steps behind you. I didn't want to walk beside you if you needed some time to compose yourself. But somehow I knew that wasn't it. You never even paused in your actions. You walked to the wooden stairs, grabbed the metal arches they used as rails, and sat down. Your head never hung down. You didn't start to cry. You just sat there, waiting for me to catch up with you.

I walked up to you, but instead of sitting next to you, I just stood in front of you. There wasn't any room anyhow. I couldn't count how many times I've sat beside on those some steps. I just couldn't bring myself to do it this time. Those other times when I sat there, they were in happier times. I sat next to you during those times when we had just walked home from school and didn't feel like jumping straight into dealing with our extended families. I sat next to you during those times when you had beamed about how well you had finished in your last track meet. I sat next to you during those times when you had just gotten back from Vancouver and simply had to tell me all about it. Those weren't just some steps Those were happy steps. This wasn't a happy occasion. I couldn't sit on them because if what you were telling me were true, then those steps would forever be the opposite of happy steps. That's why I stood.

When I looked at you, you weren't exactly smiling. You seemed lost in your own thoughts and I didn't feel very much like getting lost right along with you. I wanted to stay objective. I wanted to stay composed because that's what I thought you needed from me at the time. Your blue sweater blurred into your blue jeans. It was rather difficult making out in the nighttime light where one ended and the other began. Or maybe my senses were failing. In either case, seeing your body blend in upon itself had the effect of making your face stand out--well, your face and that scarf of yours. You looked like a floating head with two long tendrils extending from it. I can't even imagine what I must have looked like. I'm assuming a grey shirt blended just as neatly into the horizon as dark blue did. I remembered thinking, you know what, I'm betting that everything else would have faded no matter what you had been wearing. It's funny how your perception plays tricks on you like that when you're truly focusing upon a singular object or a singular thought. It's like staring at the black area of a flame. I read somewhere that if you stare long enough at that empty space, everything else fades around it until all you can see is the flame. That's what your face was, the flame of a candle that I could have stared at all night.

It wasn't like us not to talk. The silence was a wall between us. I didn't know if you were fielding questions just yet or if the silence was an invitation to change the subject. I didn't know which way I was supposed to go. The funny thing about walls, though, is that if you climb high enough they can also act as bridges. That's exactly what you did after you had had enough of me staring at the nothingness beside and around you. You climbed up those few steps to start crossing the wooden bridge. At the pace you traversed them, you were practically telling me to chase you. Again, it took a few moments, but I gave into my basic instincts and scampered after you. There we were, kids acting like kids. The girl who ran track with her scarf flailing wildly behind her and the boy who emphatically didn't run track doing his best just to keep up with her.

It was a short run. We basically did a circuit of the structure. When we came back to the steps, you sat right back down. Your breathing wasn't in the least bit labored. If I hadn't just chased you I wouldn't have thought you had gotten up from those stairs at all. I had played this game before with you, the one where you pretend like you had been there the entire time. Then, when I tried to scrutinize the look on your face, you would just sit there. "Oh, did you just get here? I've been here for ages," your non-smile seemed to say. Running without running, gloating without gloating, that's the exact thought you want to convey. I shook my head. I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of voicing my annoyance. The fact you had suckered me into running at all was enough to let you know I was annoyed. There wouldn't be any point in actually saying the thought aloud. Complaining without complaining, that was me that night.

A few days later you asked me if ever had any intention of talking to you that night about what you had told me. I told you that I wasn't sure. I was waiting for you to say something more about it first, I explained. You said you had thought the same thing regarding me. It wasn't my place to talk about it if you didn't want to talk about it, I continued. Well, it wasn't my place to force you to talk about it if you were uncomfortable. I suppose one of those times you sat down I should have taken the opportunity to comment, or to console, whatever you needed. Sometimes, though, I need that visual clue that allows me to take a step in the right direction. You seriously couldn't have expected me to take a stand on something without seeing where you stood first. That wasn't my m.o. I was the only guy you could count on to back you up. But how could I back you up if I didn't know which direction you wanted to go in the first place? That was a little unfair of you. You know me. You need to tell me where to go before I'll go. You need to tell me what to say before I could say it. You needed to tell me how I was supposed to feel about all of that before I could feel it. It would never seem real to me, no matter what you said, until I could see for myself how real it was to you. The way you carried yourself--even the way you sat--it didn't seem at all real to you. You had said the words, but the words hadn't taken effect yet. For all I knew, that was just some more of your game-playing. You had been reciting a story to me. That's all you had been doing up until we got to the park. I wouldn't take you at your word until you started acting it out.

I couldn't.

You couldn't be what you say you were because you didn't look it. That would be like you telling me you were a bat and you still looking like yourself. You couldn't be those words because those words didn't look right on you. The truth was something you could see, you could touch, you could paint, you could run after. It wasn't something that just lingered in the wind, making you sad and torn up all inside. It wasn't something that just left pain behind it without a means to fight it. The truth wasn't some jargon you repeated to me because you wanted me to know. The truth was your face, and your face still moved and changed as if it were something very much full of life.

When you saw I wasn't going to sit next to you yet again, you stood up. You took the long end of your scarf and tossed it to me like Indiana Jones tossing the end of his whip. I grabbed on. You were going to pull me to safety, I thought, or at least lead me to that area of the park where we could finally talk about what it was you wanted to come there to talk about. You took a step towards the horse, then another. I let the scarf become taut before I reluctantly was dragged in behind you. It didn't take you long to reach your target. You came up beside the tan horse as if you were mounting a real horse. You brushed the mane playfully. You stroked beneath the chin, effectively trying to calm it down. Finally, I watched you get on the horse slowly. As you started to bounce slightly on the horse, I came up behind you so as to wrap the dragging end of your scarf around you again.


when it's over, when it's done
we'll be together, we'll be as one

I sat down on the steps just to watch you gallop away on the horse. The happy steps could at last be put to good use by me because that was a sight I'd be happy to hold onto. The way your lips drew up into the biggest grin I'd seen all day from you, the way your scarf kept threatening to become entangled in the springs of the bobbing horse, the way you hunched your back over to pretend you were speeding away from some invisible pursuers--they all coalesced into the image of the girl I still knew. There would be plenty of time to get to know the person you were going to become, once the truth hit. That night was still a night to memorialize the girl you used to be and the one you'd always remain to me at least.

Maybe that had been your plan all along. Maybe that was your next "painting the horse" scam. You knew I wouldn't want to talk about it and that's why you had opted to tell me last. You knew your whole family would want to do nothing but talk about it so you anticipated keeping my blissfully unaware for as long as possible. Then, when you finally did work out the right time to tell me, you told me in a way as to elicit no response. You posted the news as a bulletin written on water, impossible to write back upon. You wanted me to be the last to know because you wanted me to be the last to show how much it was going to affect me.

I think that's why you insisted telling me in the park. I think that's why you insisted on telling me late at night. There would be no time to really discuss it over and there would be ample space to let the dampened mood to float away. I can only imagine if you had chosen to tell me in your room or if you had chosen to tell me in the afternoon. We probably would have delved and dived as deeply as possible into every facet of what was going to happen to you. I probably would have struck a nerve or pushed you too far. You were smart in choosing the right battlefield as you did. You handled yourself capably and showed why it was I always tagged in along behind you and not the other way around.

That's how the evening ended. You rode the horse. I watched from the steps for another hour. Neither one of us mentioned to the other anything about the big reveal. I just watched you smiling, playing the way you had millions of other times we had come to this park. Tomorrow was a time we had decided to leave for another day. As far as we were concerned we weren't anticipating anything, we weren't expecting anything. We refused to let ourselves become worried about something that was still only words spoken aloud, first to her, then to me. Words couldn't hurt you. And if they couldn't hurt you, then they sure as hell couldn't hurt me.

After all, parks were for playing in. Not for worrying. Besides, I was hoping if you could ride that horse fast enough, you might just get away somehow.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Her Hair Reminds Me Of A Warm, Safe Place, Where As A Child I'd Hide, And Pray For The Thunder, And The Rain, To Quietly Pass Me By

--"Sweet Child O' Mine", Guns N' Roses

My daddy has a saying that I've always reckoned was appropriate to describe the way he and my mother raised me. He says, "you can either drive or be driven; you can't do both." I always assumed that he meant it in a sarcastic way, telling me when I was younger that I couldn't make my own decisions since him and my mother were already doing that for me. Little 'ole me always thought it was a gentler way to reassert the fact I wasn't old enough to know better. Truth be told, I always resented the sentiment.

As I've gotten older and gotten closer to reaching that point where I might be adopting a child of my own, I've realized that it mayhaps point to another fact of life. I've never been a parent (yet). I've never known what it's like to both worry and love someone so unconditionally. I can only hope that when it comes to be my turn I impart the same lessons my parents did on me. And the lesson I think that phrase may have been pointing to is something more basic and more human in nature than I ever gave my daddy credit for. He wasn't saying that I could never be the driver of my own life; what he was saying was that he, as a parent, couldn't both make my decisions for me all the time, and then turn plumb around and expect me to know how to think for myself. What he was saying was that he wanted me to learn how to think for myself AND learn how to allow someone to take over if the need arose. Admittedly, when it comes to relinquishing the reins I'm about as ornery as a bear in full-on chase mode, but the former lesson I think I've learned quite handily.

It's a lesson that I think over the years I've been able to pass along to the closest thing I've had to a child in my life.

----

"No, I can't do it for you, Katie," I said to her when she came to me one day after school. "Hell's bells, darling, I ain't your mother. I ain't even your sister. It would be improper of me to do that for you."

"Please, Breanne. I don't know what else to do."

Katie's latest dilemma had been what to do in response to the other kids teasing her about her violin playing. As she had repeated to me, "the violin was a nerdy instrument," and she wanted my help to get the other kids to stop teasing her. I don't know what she expected me to do even if I had shown up to pick her up one day the following week. I don't know if she wanted me to go and start wailing on some third-grade asses or if she merely wanted me for moral support. At any rate, I didn't feel like parking my nose in my cousin's business, even if I'd been invited.

I felt awful for her. I really did. Being almost six years younger than me and my being the next nearest female relative to her in age, it naturally fell to me to watch over her, guide her almost. When it comes to kinfolk and my friends, I've always played kind of the mother hen role. But Katie has always been special to me. She's always been my pet project in much the same way I was once special to Shelly. I wanted nothing more than to mold her to be as courageous, proud, and intelligent as me. It didn't always pan out like that, but for many years I succeeded in molding her definitively in my image. For the most part, she had been happy to be paid attention to in such a fashion, especially from her favorite cousin.

"No, Katie, you're just going to have to do this for yourself. That's that, sugar. Now shush up."

I knew if I allowed her to keep talking, she'd eventually wear me down. She'd placate me with those violet-blue eyes of hers, hang her head low and bury it in the hay-yellow mass of hair, and I'd be as helpless as a fly in the windscreen. I'd relent and she'd have me in school the next week, fighting her battles for her once again.

As much as I wanted to do that very deed for her, she was getting to that age where it simply wouldn't do to have an older relative come along with her as some bodyguard. She might as well as have asked her college-bound brother or, heaven forbid, my aunt or uncle to accompany her. The effect would have been the same. She would have succeeded in shooing the flies away from her current dish of choice, but just as quick they would have settled onto a new dish. No sooner would they have stopped teasing her about the violin playing then they would have feasted on the fact she brought her big cousin Breanne to fight her fights for her. That couldn't be my cousin's legacy at school. It would have ruined her before she had a chance to even begin building her personality. I wouldn't let it be.

All that day, while my mother was taking care of her as a favor for my aunt, she kept shooting me looks of incredulous disbelief. She looked like I had just announce that I was about to feed her to Wonder Woman, her dog, which, in her case, I might as well have said. In some respects, Katie was like me growing up. My aunt and uncle absolutely spoiled her rotten. They over-indulged her and tried to make her into something soft and billowy, like a pillow. But whereas I started to resist at her age, Katie fell into the role as if she had been born to play it all her life. To compare it to something I struggled with almost ridiculously, she was as afraid of facing down her accusers as I was afraid of the bealing thunder. She hid from it behind people she knew would handle it for her as often and as irrationally as I hid behind my bed or in my closet.

My job was to drag her from behind her bed and into the open in a way that nobody had the gumption to do for me when I was trying to overcome my phobias.

"Katie, I'm not trying to be mean," I said after about three hours of her shooting me looks and not speaking to me. "I'm not trying to say I don't love you, darling. You're my blood and you can ask me to any favor for you under the sun. Most of them I'd be happy as a pig in pudding to do for you. But there are going to be times when I'm just going to have to go and say no to you, you know?"

She merely shook her head.

"I'm trying to make you into a better person. I'm trying to make you into a stronger person, that's all. Did you know the women in our family are probably the strongest women in all of the county? It's true. Hell's bells, they didn't get that reputation by hiding behind their skirts and waiting for their husbands or brothers or sons to do their arguing for them. No sirree, the women in our family like to get their hands dirty, they like getting into the mix, they like giving as good as they're getting, you know? Yes, they all try to be as pleasant and cordial as can be while they're defending themselves, but they don't take no guff from no one. I'm just trying to pass on that legacy. Do you understand?"

She shook her head again.

Finally, I sat her down on the loveseat next to me. I patted her pretty blond head, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered into her ear.

"My daddy told me when I was about your age, 'you can either drive or be driven; you can't do both.' I know that doesn't make sense to you now, but it will. When it comes down to it, my darling Katie, you gotta decide which you love more, playing the violin or what those other kids think of you.

"Do you like playing?" I asked her.

"Yes," she whispered back.

"Do you want to be a rough-and-tumble fighter like your favorite cousin?" I whispered to her again, laughing as I did.

"Yes," she said more confidently.

"Then why are you ever fretting it, little lady. You just tell those nasty kids that your cousin thinks playing the violin is better than whatever it is they do for fun. And if they still bother, you know what you do, Katie?"

"What?"

"You go right ahead and hit them over the head with that little 'ole violin. That'll show 'em," I laughed.

Katie finally laughed with me and I knew everything would be okay the following week.

Yes, she took a couple more days of teasing, but after a few more weeks I didn't hear one peep about her classmates making fun of her. As soon as she showed she had no shame about her musical talent, they had nothing to shame her about. Besides, she's more or less a Holins gal and there's certain mystique that comes with the genes. LOL

----

When I have my own daughter or son, I don't know what kind of mother I'm going to be. I have some inkling as to the woman I want to be partly influence by what I saw firsthand worked or didn't work for my mother on me. I know I want to be fairer, more lenient, and far more imaginative as to my child's possibilities. But the one thing that I want my child to take from her is the one thing that never had to be taught to me and was the one thing I passed along to Katie, that is as a person they have worth. I want them to know that as a person in our family, they have all the support and care they'll ever need. But I also want them to know that they have a fire inside them that's passed along from generation to generation.

I don't want to baby them. I don't want them to grow up depending entirely on me for their self-worth. It's easy to cripple someone by not allowing them to fend for themselves. I don't want to be the kind of mother who has to constantly bail out their kids every time they sink their ships. They should know and, more importantly, want them to do it for themselves.

That's the best lesson I can teach them, that sometimes mommy ain't going to solve their problems for them.

I want them to know that mommy's going to expect them to drive their own lily-white asses around as soon as they're old enough.

Breanne

Please, Believe It, Unless Your Game Is Tight And You Trust Her, Then Don't Bring Her Around Me 'Cause I'm A Flirt

--"I'm A Flirt", R. Kelly featuring T. Pain

one nine six

watching cartoons from
the couch, not watching the brown
eyes now watching me.
~dw

----

The difference between Faye, or almost everyone I know, in fact, is that she would have had the situation under control. She would have been as focused as she is fierce. She would have used the circumstances to her advantage, like a magician manipulation the crowd's reactions. She would have known what she was doing. She would've acted instead of reacted. She wouldn't have let herself be swept away by some tide of temerity, of timidness, like a poor swimmer caught in the undertow. That isn't her. That's one thing I've always appreciated about her, her fearlessness, her callousness when it comes to her own emotional safety. She doesn't mind the little things that would have me reeling. She doesn't analyze every movement or word for hidden depths of meaning. She takes the guys' words at their meaning. She doesn't try to imbue her own words with any subtext. She speaks plainly. She acts plainly. Especially when it comes to being interested in a guy. She doesn't mince words or play all the usual reindeer games. She either wants him or she doesn't. It almost doesn't matter what he wants because she has always had the ability to get guys to do whatever she wants them to do. If she wants them to fall in love with her, it's an easy fix. If she wants to leave them wanting more, she leaves them wanting more. To her the idea of being with someone is fleeting, as temporary as either party wants it to be. She's as committed as long as she doesn't get bored. Not to say she doesn't believe in love, but I think her definition of love is someone who'll keep her interested in him for a lifetime. And, so far, she hasn't found that yet. All of it is easy for her. She doesn't have the long-term goals someone like me does when it comes to her relationships. She doesn't worry the small stuff because it's all small stuff. And whether she's happy or sad or angry is all up to her and how she feels; it's not brought on entirely by how she's responding to what someone else does to her. She's strong enough to make her own game plan. She's smart enough to know that in this business of love that you have to take care of you and he has to take care of himself. You can't ever assume that anyone will care about you the way that you want them to. You can't ever assume you won't get hurt. Faye sets her own rules when it comes to the guys that she sees; she doesn't live by someone else's.

Me? I can't even look at him in the eye without my cheeks reddening, my pulse racing just a bit, and my mind being flooded with a thousand doubts.

Night and day, my sister and I. Night and day.

dw

I Want A Lover Who Knows Me, Yeah, Who Understands How I Feel Inside, Someone To Comfort And Hold Me, Through The Long Lonely Nights, Till The Dawn

--"Dreamlover", Mariah Carey

It's true that you only have one first time. You only ever get that one go around at losing one's virginity in a manner that's both dignified and beautiful. I wouldn't change my first encounter for anything in the world. Hell's bells, it is as special of a memory to me as I've ever made. There ain't nothing beneath heaven that I could have envisioned to make it any more perfect that it already was.

It was one magical night spent beneath a canopy of stars with the one person I loved most at that moment in my life.

However, in the overall scheme of things, there isn't much that can compare to the breathtaking experience of being able to make love to the same man again and again. There's simply no comparison to the level of commitment I feel awash in, knowing that Greg will be the one man I share my bed with for conceivably the rest of my life. As my daddy says, "Every skill worth knowing well comes in two lessons: learning how to do it and learning how to do it well." I always argued with him that conceivably I could take care of both lessons in one fell swoop--make my learning how to do something flow directly into my learning how to do it well. Such was the folly of my impatience. I never understood the separation between the two. I never understood that learning a skill and mastering it have to occur in separate stages. I thought I knew how to have sex, how to make love to a man. I thought I knew every sensation possible, knew the kinds of words that needed to be said, all the right places to touch and caress. I thought I knew what it was like to feel somebody else inside me, both body and soul. And I thought, with the exception of new techniques and new variations, my learning was over.

I was wrong, though. Ever since I got to pledging myself to Greg and discovering what it's like to ostensibly (shudder) be with one man for the rest of my life, I've had my eyes opened to the underlying aspect of making love. I've discovered that there's another layer that sex brings to the picture once you're married. It's hard to describe, but after discussing it with a few of my other married friends, we came to the conclusion that having sex with your husband (or steady boyfriend, whatever the case may be) takes on additional aspects of the relationship. Instead of only being seen as a painting on the wall, it adds a more discernible tactile aspect; lovemaking becomes a statue, with contours and dimensions that never existed before.

Before, when I would sleep with a guy, it was all about the act. I knew what to do because I'd done it before. It felt wonderful, you know? But it felt, more or less, the same if only because I was never with anyone long enough to envision it could be any different. It was like when I first started running in the morning. I would take different paths, vary my lengths, and even choose different times to head out. Yet in the end, the basic act was the same. I would run, go through the course I had plotted out, and then I would finish. When I was young, sex had very much the same sweet steps (except maybe for the finishing part... haha). It was fun, it was good exercise, and it always left me wanting to do it again soon--but there was nothing more meaningful than the motions to it. I'm not saying there wasn't love involved, but I had yet to connect the range of emotions aside from love I was feeling entirely with the act. Love was the only emotion I could show while I was with a guy, even if it sometimes it was only a fleeting, momentary kind of love.

With my husband it's different--more intense and broader in its implications. Making love with him becomes more of a conversation than a speech. It isn't about what we do exactly. It isn't about what position we're in or how many times we make each other orgasm. We've reached every milestone you could think of in a five-year-marriage, done it in more than a few locations, and set personal records of both length and quantity. There really isn't anything new under the sun for us right now.

What's different is that sex has taken on other aspects of our marriage. It really has. Sometimes it's about telling him how much I love him, like how it was for us in the beginning. Other days we do it as something more light, more playful--like two kittens chasing each other over the playpen. Some days we use it as a consolation technique when one of us saddened for whatever reason and words aren't enough to cheer them up. Sometimes it's about letting go of the anger between us, sometimes it's about letting go of the tension between us, and sometimes it's about letting go of the stresses that any normal marriage has. There are times when we use sex in the bedroom to resolve an impasse of something completely random (strange, but true, but we've used it as a way of deciding where to spend the holidays at or where to vacation, or wherever). I don't know how you turn it into a contest of will, but somehow we managed to do that too.

Sometimes making love is both our sleeping pill and our alarm clock. Sometimes it's a birthday gift or a way to distract us from bad news. Sometimes it's a way to keep warm or to cool down. Sometimes it's a way to remember or a way to forget. Sometimes it's a perfect dessert or a way to work up hunger.

And sometimes it has nothing to do with how much I love Greg. Sometimes it's only about how much I need him.

When I was little I use to fantasize about having sex. Along with being able to drive, I thought of sex as a benchmark to know when I had reached adulthood. Little 'ole me used to picture what it'd be like. I have the dozens and dozens of poems to prove how transfixed I was on the prospect. And yet in all those musings, I never once fantasized that it could be both this mundane and extraordinary as I understand it now. Nothing could have prepared me for all the extra meaning and worth it carries along with it now. No longer do I see it as a separate part of my marriage; it's an extension of my marriage, my relationship. Just like a relationship, sex with Greg has it's ups and downs, it's good days and bad days. But one thing that never changes is the fact that every time I feel him on top of me (or vice-versa) I seem to understand him a little bit more. Every little 'ole thing he does translates now into him speaking to me; I can almost anticipate everything he does now and respond in kind in a way I know he understands me. From the slightest tilt in his posture, the order in which he moves from body part to body part I can gauge how he's feeling and I'm sure he can do the same with me. We've been together long enough that we've moved beyond the notes on the page so to speak; we're like two seasoned musicians, just making up improvisations on the same set of themes as we go along.

As Fanny says, "it's like you two are kids with your own secret language."

That first time in the tent on the highway may have been my first exposure to the language. That may have been when I first started speaking it.

But it's only in the last few years that I've really gotten proficient. It's only then that I've stopped thinking in terms of translating everything and started thinking of it as a way to communicate in its own right. It's only recently that I've passed the second lesson.

Breanne

You Sit Around Getting Older, There's A Joke Here Somewhere And It's On Me, I'll Shake This World Off My Shoulders, Come, Baby, This Laugh's On Me

--"Dancing in the Dark", Bruce Springsteen

Nancy Drew turns twenty-two today.

Normally, I wouldn't even mention it since she and I aren't exactly on the best of terms right now, but it's hard not to think about it when her birthday reminder pops up every time I start Facebook. It's a little regretful when I think that last year at this time she and I were out celebrating this birthday and this year I'm considering allowing the date to slide by without incident. Sometimes I think it's amazing how much can change in the course of a year. Last year at this time I was thinking that she and I would remain on good terms even after she moved to wherever she found a job. This year I most often can't even be bothered to call her to wish her well--fight or no fight.

I'm not a huge advocate of making a big deal about birthdays at any rate--there's only a few of them each year that I genuinely remember off the top of my head and most of those don't rate more than a text or comment in passing--but I generally at least acknowledge the fact it is a huge milestone for people. Ilessa's birthday, though, only dredges up the fact of how far and fast we've fallen. I don't much feel like celebrating any aspect of it. I suppose it's the same sense of dread people get around the holidays. Rather than reveling in the fact that they are with family and friends, they choose to dwell on how alone and miserable they are. That's me. All I can think of this year is how much better we were last year.

Part of me wants to bury the hatchet and just call the girl. The other part is still telling me, "Fuck her. You don't need here. She only makes you miserable." I don't know which part will prevail. I'm predisposed to think it will be the latter. In my life I've always found it easier to walk away from people who've squandered all their good faith with me. While it isn't exactly a system of three strikes and you're out, I do have a personal sense of how much I'm willing to take from a person. I'm not a saint, but I do have feelings. When someone like her repeatedly steps all over them and tries to placate me by saying, "that's just the way she is," it bothers me. More to the point, it annoys me. I mean--I can take someone being rude. I'm not the model of grace and decorum either. I can take someone having a temper. I have one as well. I can even take someone I have trouble conversing with at times. Not everyone likes to talk for talking's sake. However, in the few years I've known her, she's pressed on these specific buttons of mine time and time again.

Her blowing up back in early June was just an excuse for me to walk away from someone I consider extremely volatile and quite possibly the type of person I should be avoiding.

And yet.

And yet I'm stuck in the quandary of the fact that we've been friends for a few years now. Coupled to the fact that I'm not exactly swarming with friends, I'm questioning just how awful is awful in regards to her. It's not like she blew up and then walked away. She blew up and then tried to apologize a few days later. That, in some small way, is respectable. No one likes someone who's being mean-tempered, but I can at least recognize the effort it takes to admit you're wrong and the swallowing of pride it takes to offer an apology. It kind of falls to me not to be the asshole now and accept her peace offering. And, while I'm sure she'll do something to break the fences just as quickly as she's mended them, I'm also staring at the fact she is a genuine person, prone to act out on emotion, which I've been accused of myself more than once. Possibly, as Brandy says, the reason I get so fed up with Nancy is the fact I recognize she possesses some of the same off-putting personality faults that I see in myself. Maybe the same reasons she and I get along or also the same reasons she elicits thoughts of abandonment so easily.

I don't know what to do. Her birthday is the perfect opportunity to get the dialogue flowing again. It would be nice to hear from her again. On the other hand, there has been a comforting sense of serenity in my life since we stopped talking. Actually, ever since Miss Flib and Miss Nancy Drew departed from being so front and center in my thoughts, I rarely get all wrapped up in trying to be impressive for anyone. That's a huge weight off my shoulders. There's a peacefulness that can only exist within when you eliminate those people who do nothing but stir disappointment and apprehension time and time again. Sure, they'll provide that sense of adventure too--that's the nature of their ken, stirring passions both scintillating and poisonous--but that sense never lasts. It's their inconstancy that makes them great to be around, but also makes them a pain in the arse to deal with the longer you have to stay around them at one time. She's the type of person that's better experienced in short bursts. I've always thought that. It could be that all I'm experiencing is the same old pattern where I get to missing her and have to renew relations. Then, in a few weeks or whenever, I'll remember what a constant struggle it is to keep my tongue in check around her. Then it'll be back to cooling things off again.

Maybe all I'm experiencing is the fact that this is the longest I've gone without talking to her since we met.

I'm starting to think it's inevitable. Ilessa is that rare creature who's bad enough to be a nuisance at times, but not bad enough to leave completely. I can think of a dozen reasons why she isn't the best friend I've ever had, but none of them separately or put together are enough for me to say I'm done with her for good.

Somehow I get the feeling when her next birthday rolls around I'll be having the same exact argument with myself that I'm having now.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Am The Wilderness Locked In A Cage, I Am A Growing Force You Kept In Place, I Am A Tree Reaching For The Sun, Please Don't Hold Me Down

--"Release Me", Oh Laura

At the end of this month I will be moving from Harbor City to Long Beach. It will be the second time I've moved in 2 1/2 years and the third time overall. It also marks the milestone of being the first time where I won't be having a female roommate. More importantly, it's going to be the first time I'll be moving towards something better as opposed to away from something worse. Up until now each one of my moves has been because I didn't like the situation I had been in. I moved, not knowing what to expect, but hoping that it would be better than what I was leaving behind. That's not the case in this situation. I've loved living with Amber. I've loved my first experience with a real adult job with a real adult place where I wasn't beholden to anyone. I couldn't say that with DeAnn because I still kind of answered to her while we were living together; I still had to run plans and expenses by her. Here, now, it was the first time where I didn't have to check in with anyone or leave a schedule of where I was headed off to. Hell, I didn't even need to explain where and what I was doing, even after being gone for weeks at a time.

If anything the only place holding me back while I've been here was me. I had all the freedom in the world, something that I always thought I was lacking, and I didn't have the slightest clue as to where to direct it. I wasted a lot of time staying home, playing it safe, and basically being the same person I was when I was living with my parents and when I was living with DeAnn. With them I thought it was them keeping me home because it was too much of a hassle to check in all the time. For the same reason I don't often say hello or good-bye to people, because I don't like calling attention to myself, I didn't bother trying to stay out late as often as I could or just go like I wanted to. Instead, I opted to stay home more often than not simply because the excursion wasn't worth the effort explaining it later on. Sure, I went out more on my own and for longer than I ever have before--flying half-a-dozen times to Boston, once to Chicago with Breanne, once to Louisville to visit Toby, and just recently going up to San Francisco to see Jenny--without ever telling a single soul what my plans were, but there were also a ton of times where I didn't do much because I didn't feel like doing much.

I'm hoping this move will change all that. I'm hoping that the new scene with the new roommate will open me to the level I originally intended myself to get to. I mean--I liked the fact that Amber were both quiet kind of folk while we were sharing the space here. But that also meant that we didn't get to know and interact with one another as much as I would have liked. We hardly went anywhere together or hung out. In fact, I think I can count the number of times we actually did that on one hand or barely two. That's a lot my fault. I don't exactly invite new friendships if I can avoid it. I'm very first-impressions oriented and there are fewer and fewer individuals who make a good impression on me. I like doing what I like doing and the people I find in those places are the ones I tend to hang around the most. I don't like trying other people's interests if it isn't already isn't my interest. That's why I think she and I never did too many things together. I was already set in my ways and somebody new wasn't going to change that.


please don't hold me down

However, my new roommate and I enjoy a lot of the same things, which I'm hoping means that it'll get me out of the house more with other people. I've down the whole doing what I like by myself for awhile now. And I've down the whole hanging out with the same people from Bally's and people I know from Rilokiley.net for awhile now. I've also been seeing the same set of faces at my weekly board game meetings. It's time I was introduced to a new crowd, doing things I normally wouldn't do. It's time I step out of my comfort zone.

Some of my first posts here regarded the lack of excitement in my life and how I was planning to change that. And, while I've certainly lived through a lot of close calls and rather interesting experiences in the last four years, as Breanne would say, "that ain't nothing, sugar." It's not nearly enough. I should've done more. I could've done more. Like I said, these last 2 1/2 years the only person holding me back was me.

No more.

At the end of this month I'm putting forth the effort to let myself go even more and get on with the business of doing whatever the fuck I please and not just the same 'ole same 'ole.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Don't Want To Be Your Friend, I Just Want To Be Your Lover, No Matter How It Ends, No Matter How It Starts

--"House of Cards", Radiohead

one nine five

her blue dress across
the green denim sheets of a
room she doesn't know.
~dw

----

I was wrong. I didn't know. I lied. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know how to react.

There was a sound coming off from around your face that distracted me and I must not have ever heard your words properly. Gosh. I'm sorry. I apologize. It's just so rare for people like me to talk with people like you without the awkwardness interceding. Besides, I'm sure you never meant to be talking to me in the first place. It must have been one of those unfortunate accidents where you meant to start a conversation with someone else, but I was the one to answer you instead. It must have been mortifying, like Jason facing down Medusa or something to that equivalent. It must have been horrible. Terrible even.

Did I stammer? I think I stammered. Faye would have been so ashamed of me at that moment. Six years of trying to teach me a little "something something" about the opposite sex and I devolve into a tangled mess of nerves and pressure. The only saving grace was there must have been some musicality to it, a lyricism that transcended the actual situation. You've got to give me that. It was like we were reenacting the follies, two performers at their unwitting best to capture the slow descent of attraction--if that's what this is. I could have been led astray. Do you care about me? There, that was kind of straightforward. I think you care somewhat. You wouldn't have talked to me for that long if you hadn't cared. I'm sorry I was distracted at first. I'd like to say that again to you. There was that noise beside your hide. Maybe it was the imagined sound of the cameras rolling to capture what I thought was a practical joke on film. The reality of the dialogue, of what you were speaking to me didn't register until well after we had begun exchanging phrases of semi-coherence with one another.

I'm newly back to the game, as they say. It's only been about eight months since I started thinking of myself as the model of independent woman as everybody seems to mistake me for. I'm sure I've never looked as lost as this. Could you tell?

I don't think you came to find me like you claim. Something must have distracted you to me like I was distracted. I don't think the steps you took should've led to me. You should've walked somewhere else. They should've led you to someone else, anyone else. I don't want to believe you if you aren't being genuine. Everything is so freshly minted that I'm starting to question its validity. I want to be sure that you're sure. I want it to be perfect like it never was before with Jack. It never rose to those levels. Good, but great. Meets expectation. That's the bulk of my experience with the experience of love. I'm incomplete. My tank is only two-thirds full compared to you. I want to tell you that upfront. I don't want you expecting me to be able to match you stroke for stroke, especially in the beginning. I want to be honest. I don't want to hide where I've been and where I haven't.

You're a horrible flirt. That worries me.

You're notorious for never taking anything seriously. That worries me.

You're pegged for using flattery at the most inopportune times.

That doesn't worry me.

At least you haven't lied to me yet. That demon hasn't shown its face quite yet. When you talked me to last week you said that you'd be lying if you told me I didn't take your breath away. After a few more guerilla conversations in the hallways I'm beginning to take you seriously. You told me that you'd be interested in seeing more of me this week. Today you would not leave me alone until I agreed to "something this weekend." Vague. Awkward. It still made me smile that you would pursue me this far. It's a level of attention I'm still not used to. When I told Françoise, she was glad for me. When I told Jack, he told meto watch out for you. When I told Nora, she practically cried out in squeals. And when I told Faye, she told me to get used to it. "You're smoking hot, sweetie. It's about time those fellas started to notice." Then it was my turn to laugh. I hope it works out. I have something of my self-worth riding on this venture. It would be nice not to be crushed thoroughly my first time in a long time out of the stables. I pray you show up this weekend.

I wonder if you're fretting like I am. I wonder if it's second nature to you yet. I wonder if I'll ever reach that stage of evolution where I can be so blase about being talked to by someone I've noticed and noticed again over the years. Or perhaps that's what you thought of me when you first walked over. Had you been trying to approach me over the last two years and only now worked up the verve to do so? I can be a little skittish at times and a little standoffish at others. I'm like that. I get that trying grin on my face because I've been told it's my best feature, but I can't quite work the words out of my mouth when I'm the shallows of something new and dangerous. This is new AND dangerous. I grin like the Joker when I'm scared or witless, or both. It's what I do. I'm glad you got past that stage. It was nice you were so dedicated. It made things easier for me. A lot easier.

I don't know why I'm writing this. Gosh. I feel like a fool exposing everything so openly as this must read. I wanted to document this somewhere, somehow because it feels real. It feels good. And if somewhere down the road this leads to somewhere tangible, then I want it to be said that I had a premonition about this. I was there feeling it even now. I was there anticipating the best of what was to come. Even if it falls flat on my face like a snowball dropped from the highest tree, I wanted to be capturing moods as they arrived. I wanted to dance with the butterflies now flittering about in my stomach. I wanted to be shaking this all out like the jitterbug rather than hem it in. I feel glorious. I feel exorbitant. That's real. That's something I can describe even while I can't describe how I feel about just yet.

I should take a picture of myself at this desk writing this for you with today's newspaper like they do in kidnapping cases. That'd be funny. See, I did write this on Monday the 10th of November just like I said I did!

The only part I feel godawful about is trying to pretend that you're asking me out didn't mean anything to me. When you asked me if was excited for this weekend. I should have exploded with a thousand hyperboles of the joy I had bursting inside. Instead, I answered with you with a much-too-simplistic "yeah." Yeah doesn't begin to cover it. It's bland. It's boring. It's safe.

I was wrong. I didn't know. I lied. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know how to react.

But I do now.

dw

Sometimes It's Hard To Believe, That You're Never Coming Back To Me, I've Had This Dream That You'd Always Be By My Side, Oh, I Could Have Died

--"You're in Love", Wilson Phillips

Victoria Jane was six when we met. She was one of those kids that lived around my neighborhood--not nearby, but close enough to have made a difference. I wasn't blessed with too many kids that were my age within walking distance so most of my earliest friendships were forged with those lucky few children I met in school. That's where I met her, at school. It was only later that we discovered that we were a five-minute car ride from one another. At any rate, I think we would have been friends however far we may have lived from one another. Our friendship was like that, willing to traverse any amount of distance. From that first day in preschool, when I caught sight of her reddish-brown hair tied up in the same shade of blue ribbons by her mother, I knew we were linked.

I don't know who approached whom first. Hell's bells, it wouldn't surprise me at all if it was me who approached her because the two of us joked that she wouldn't make a move without consulting me first. Whatever I must have said or did must have worked like a charm because there is not a day of my early history that does not involve her somehow. She was such a part of that time in my life that I can't even begin a story that does not story "Torry and I were doing this" or "Torry and I were over here". Needless to say, her parents instantly took a shining to me as mine did to hers. There were plenty of times where we would scamper all over my house--out my balcony, sliding across my studio, jumping down my stairs--while my parents and her parents would sit out back with their sweet tea talking about whatever grown-ups talk about. Mainly, I reckon they talked about us and the scrapes we got into. That always seemed to be a favorite topic of discussion around my house, especially how I would eventually lead Torry into perdition with my wicked ways and my talent for getting her to follow my lead.

As well, I remember sleeping over at her house, her parents precariously sleeping next door and her younger brother and sister just downstairs. On those nights when we would spend talking about the unnamed boy, the future, and whether contacts made you smarter, I would think of how she was surrounded by all this family and yet she chose to spend the bulk of her time with me. Her parents were more open with her; her mother didn't dictate her options to her like my mother did and her father, while not as jovial as mine, worked at home and seemed to spend all sorts of time with her that my daddy just couldn't. Plus, she knew what it was like to grow up with siblings. Yet, even though she was already surrounded by so much love in her own household, she chose to extend her heart to me, an over-indulged only child. For that alone I'll never forget her.

However, it wasn't the mere fact she picked little 'ole me to be her best friend over all the other girls in class; it was the fact that she allowed me my indulgences. She let me boss her around, or at least pretend to. She let me talk her into all sorts of mischief (and even managed to talk me out of a few of them). She never once sought to bring me down when I was all wrapped up in something. She let me be me without trying to improve me. While at home my mother was trying to mold me into an exact replica of her, Torry was the one person who told me to do whatever I want and she would back me up. That freed me, that gave me one part of my life where I could be creative and stupid and free all at once. Moreover, she was the one person and friend who I thought of as being "a friend." I considered her a piece of family. We might not have shared the same blood, but we shared something more important. We shared the same soul. It's only because of her that I knew what it was like to really cherish someone with all my being. I may not have known it at the time. I may have gushed forever and then some about my love for "the unnamed boy," but in actuality it was her that taught me the patience, the fortitude, and the bravery it requires to sustain a long-lasting loving relationship. All my earliest lessons were being taught to me in every conversation every day I spent with her.

Sometimes I imagine how my life would have turned out if she hadn't moved away when we were both thirteen. I get to picturing how my life may have veered off course slightly or not so slightly if we'd spent more than our formative years together. Would we have remained as close or would we have grown apart? Would we have still been friends to this day, sending those cutesy Christmas cards to one another with our husbands and children (sigh) dressed up in festive attire? It's difficult to say, but not a day goes by where I don't wish for the opportunity. It's one of my life's biggest regrets that I didn't have more time with her nor a way to stay in touch with her. I still have the smallest of chips on my shoulder for my mother for deciding it would be best for me not to keep in touch with her. I know Torry's mother was complicit as well, but like her daughter she's difficult to guilt trip. I know why they did it, they thought it would be easier for us to move on if we weren't still clinging onto something that would only ever vaguely resemble the friendship we once had. It wasn't like I could tell her I would drive every week to visit her, you know? Even at that age I knew the difficulties involved in maintaining a long-distance friendship. It still didn't stop me from asking my mother every week to give me an address, a phone number, anything. But she wouldn't budge. She wouldn't even tell me the city Torry had moved to because, knowing me, I was liable to run away after her (which I probably would have done). Even after I had given up on badgering the answer out of my mother, I kept hoping that Torry would find me again--when we were older, more independent, and with vehicles of our own.

But she never did.


now i'll let you go

On my part, I did everything I could to find her. I started searching for her on the internet as soon I could reliably search for people. I asked my friends to do their damnedest to look for her. Bless their hearts, they poked around as best they could--even Patrick and Fanny--but no one could find out what ever became of my Victoria Jane, my Torry. She became my Roanoke, my Amelia Earhart, she became that unexplained loss that could never have any closure. It hurt to think that not only did I not know what became of her, I did not know if she was even attempting to look for me as much as her. It hurt to think that maybe I was only a footnote in her life while she was a good portion of mind. It hurt to think that I would never know how I continued to have an effect on her or even if I did. In the end, she still remains a big 'ole question mark for me.

Lately, though, I've begun to resign myself to the fact that I may never find her again. As my daddy says, "You can only go looking around for the bluest skies for so long." It's time I stop looking. I have an idea of what's going to happen if I don't. Eventually all I'll remember of her is the frustration of not being able to rekindle that friendship again, of not being able to talk to her again. Instead of remembering everything that was wondrous about the two of us together, all of that will be replaced with bitterness. I'm twenty-eight. I've had fifteen years to forget about her and yet I haven't. That says something about the endurance of what we had. If she had meant little to me obviously I wouldn't have spent all this time dwelling on her. If she had meant that little, I would think myself cuckoo for obsessing as I have on a person I haven't seen in so long. It says to me that what we had was plenty special and plenty important. It doesn't matter if I never find her again.

What I have of her is precious enough to retain exactly as it is.

Breanne

Everyday I Wake Up, I Choose Love, I Choose Light, And I Try, It's Too Easy Just To Fall Apart

--"You Me & The Bourgeoisie", The Submarines

I started reading 9 Chickweed Lane in 1994 when it first started showing up in the L.A. Times. It was something to read and laugh at while I was waiting for classes at USC to start.

I've always loved the interplay between the main characters of Edda and Amos.

Finally, after 14 years, starting when they were in junior high and lasting till now, of teasing the audience with this dancing around the issue it looks like they're finally going to consummate the relationship.









This kind of makes me happier than when my friends actually get together because it's like I've been following these two for half of my life, from when they were in that awkward "we're just friends" stage to the recent "we're dating but open to see other people" college stage.

Till now, I always thought this would be how Edda and Amos would remain in the strip when dealing with each other:



People always claim I hold onto 9 Chickweed Lane so tightly because it closely mirrors my story. Dorky guy becomes fast friends with talented and pretty girl who inevitably remain close for a titan's age until they have some kind of detente that settles everything once and for all? Nope, that doesn't sound like anyone I know, right? In reality, though, I knew I grew to like the strip almost in spite of it reminding me and her. The real reason I like it is because it presents reality in this skewed and often hilarious point-of-view that kind of matches my perception. Of course, it mirrors the koala and donkey aspect of my life because it often mirrors other aspects of my life. From the struggles one generation experiences in dealing with the one before it, to the way friends both help and hinder you at different times, to the way no one stays very long in one role in your life--there's a lot more reminiscent of my life than just the friends-become-lovers aspect to the story.

Most of all what ties it all together--and to me--is the fact that the strip almost has a cautious approach to love. I always write about how true romantic love often adopts this wistful and forlorn quality. More great romances are spent in waiting than in the actual doing. For the most part this could be true of all life. The strip almost presents our time on earth as being 80% finding out what we want to do and 20% actually doing it. From finding out how we really feel to what really we want to do with our lives--the characters always seem to be in a constant search for what will make them happy and fretting that every choice they make will inevitably lead them to actually making them unhappy. It's this search and almost fatalistic attitude to living that I agree with.

I don't know if every choice I will make or made is right, but in the end I make my choices, worried that it won't turn out for the best, and have to live with them.

That's Edda.

That's Amos.

That's Breanne.

That's Toby.

And that's me. I can only hope that someday I find my trip to Brussels to put it all together.

Yours Swimmingly,,
mojo shivers

You've Got The Music In You, Don't Let Go, You've Got The Music In You, One Dance Left, This World Is Gonna Pull Through, Don't Give Up

--"You Get What You Give", New Radicals

one nine zero

smiles, smiles, and smiles that
clarify her position
to eyes looking on.
~dw

----

How I Felt About The Election (aka today's impromptu speech assignment)

Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings’ end. As we set out to start the rest of our lives under new guidance, I hope we will look back on our years here and see it has been a tough but rewarding journey we will have made. Any time change arrives the prevailing sentiment is to retreat back to what we've always known. Some of us might be scared what a new President means. Not me. In the next few years it is my hope we accomplish things we never thought possible, foster changes that will last a lifetime, break new boundaries, and push ourselves to the limit. It is a time for joy in America and I can't help but think that this joy has been postponed for far too long.

It's not the usual sentiment around here, but it's a sentiment that needs to be said nonetheless. I've thought long about what a new president means to me personally. I didn't vote for him. I'm confident at least one of my parents didn't vote for him. I know more than a few people here in this class who wouldn't have voted for him. But if I had been old enough to vote, if I had a say in this election, he would have been my choice to lead us. His being elected was a happy happenstance, if only in my own room and not my household. I can only imagine how much more jazzed I would have been had I had a hand in his election.

We are all on the brink of finally having that dream, after eight very long years of uneventful numbness. I realize that this is just beginning. The future is open to all of us. When this day ends, this country that we all love will still be faced with countless decisions, from where we go next to what we want for the next generation. We are not just a country in turnaround. We are a country that is in search of definition. Today we begin that process of defining ourselves. Today we poise ourselves to follow in President's Obama's vision of our future. We are that future.

I'm so excited. Even though I wasn't able to institute that change, I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring. As cliché as this may sound, we can make a difference. We are all capable, unique, amazing individuals. Find your passion. Live life. Don't postpone joy. We as individuals and as a nation need to leave an impact on this world and to show them that here we never give up on our dreams. As a friend once told me, it's better to be afraid of success than of failure. We should be the country that takes risks, bold and confident. With each new day I'm hoping more and more opportunities will present themselves. Our motto should read "be happy with who you are today, never stop imagining who you could be tomorrow". That's what I feel in my heart about this country. I truly agree with the patriotic men and women who hold that this is a land of promise, a land of opportunity, a land of limitless possibility. I want us to succeed and surpass every success with newer successes. I want this to be a culture of progress. And I want to be a part of that success and progress.

Barack Obama may not be the man we all hope him to be. He may not be the man who we all voted for. He may not even be the man he claims to be. But until our expectations of him are dashed, I choose to believe that he is that torch that just may lead us out of the morass that we've all been weighed down in. He may not be everything for everyone. Right now, though, he's enough for me to believe in.

I may sound idealistic, but for the first time since I've been alive I feel it is a time for idealism. I may sound swayed by the rhetoric of sweeping changes in our government, but I can't help shake the fervor that fills me today. I may sound like the person who has no idea what awaits her, hysterically imagining a utopia that might never exist. I can accept that. For far too long I've been surrounded by nothing but negative outlooks, downcast faces. For far too long I've heard nothing but of how this country is a downward spiral. For far too long I've heard we're a people in decline. I can accept that I'm far too optimistic for my own good. Gosh. I've been accused of worse.

To paraphrase a man who once wrote a song about hope, "I may be a dreamer, but I'm thinking I'm not the only one."

Thank you.

dw

What Are We Going To Do With You? You Don't Make It Easy On Me, What Am I Supposed To Do, If You Won't Let Me Help You, Why Won't You?

--"Godspeed (live)", Jenny Lewis

Around 2002 I found out my friend Jennifer was having to deal with a slightly obsessive boyfriend, Steve. But, before then, I didn't even know word one about what was going on. I don't how long it went on before she felt strong enough to tell me and she rarely talked about how truly bad it got. It was just one of those situations where once it's resolved, people rarely talk about it again. Jennifer certainly would never bring it up again to me and I doubt there was anyone else in her life that she would discuss it with. As she told me repeatedly when I asked about Steve, "Steve's gone. Steve's history. Steve won't be coming back." And that was that.

I mean--it's understandable. No one wants to relive those horrible chapters of their lives because no one wants to face the reality that, to a certain extent, they are responsible for getting themselves into the situation. The pattern of our lives may not be entirely of our doing, but every decision we make impacts what happens to us to a greater or lesser degree. And when bad things happen, as bad things often do, it's hard to reconcile the fact that somehow, in some way, we got ourselves there. The same rationale floats through my head when I read headfirst into a harsh reality; the same rationale I'm sure must have been floating through Jennifer's head when that night came. Thoughts like "how did it come to this?" and "how do I get out of this?" must have been running through her mind for at least a few days before she ever approached me because that's not the type of assistance you ask for lightly. That's the type of help that takes careful consideration. People don't like to ask for help, and some people especially don't like to ask for help. Jennifer always was one of the latter. She never wanted to admit that she wasn't capable enough of doing something on her own. Never.

Yet, in the same way I still shake my head at her not offering up the news that she was dying, I kind of fault her a little for not clueing me or someone else in on the stalker ex-boyfriend situation sooner. I don't know if anything could have been done sooner. I don't know if anything would have needed to be done sooner, but I do know that my help would have been there to be given to her freely without her having to ask me if I knew some of the particulars a few weeks earlier. I'm sure I wouldn't have been the only one to offer. There were a lot of people that could have handled him in a dozen ways that might have been somewhat less traumatic or dramatic.

I've never been a rather private person. I possess my secrets, sure, but there are a lot of places where people can pick through my life in a comprehensive manner if they opt to do so. Moreover, there are very few questions I hesitate to answer if there is an answer I can succinctly give. It's just part of my policy not to hold back when it comes to me and my history. Other people, though, found solace in being withholding when it comes to the events that shaped them or continue to shape them. Whether it's due to not wanting to burden someone else with their baggage or a sense of entitlement that dictates to them that what they go through is theirs and theirs alone to own, people can become guarded with some of the stories they lived or are living through. To some extent these experiences are their valuables to hold in reserve or give as freely as they wish, but to another extent sometimes these experiences are like so much deadweight tying them down. And sometimes the only way to get rid of them is to loosen them from your person by sharing the experience with someone else, anyone else who you trust enough to listen.

I'll just say it. I don't quite understand why people hold the various factors, causes, or originators of pain in their lives to themselves. Especially people. I don't understand why, when most individuals are surrounded with a least a handful of people who love and care for them, these individuals can't unburden themselves by saying what or who what is hurting them, by recounting what or who may have hurt them in the past, by broadcasting what or who may be threatening to hurt them in the future. It doesn't make sense to me. It took Tara almost eight months after I met her to tell me of that night she was almost sexually assaulted at her high school dance. It took Brandy almost two months to even let me in that her fiance Joshua died before they could ever get married. And it was almost longer than those put together before DeAnn told me some of the awfulness of her experience growing up. I mean--even while I was hearing these stories and others, one of the first things that comes to my mind is the question of why I wasn't told sooner. Maybe it's insensitive, but I tend to trust people with my secrets and shames rather early on and if anything close to what happened to them had happened to me, that's the story I would have led with. Those are the kinds of tales that I want other people to know, to better explain why I hurt or why I react in certain circumstances in the way I do. Those are the kinds of secrets that I wish people could trust me sooner with.

With Jennifer, I guess the problem was that for some time before she actually told me I knew she was having a rough time. I don't know what was eating at her, thus, I didn't know what to say or do to assist her. I somehow guessed she was in trouble, but waiting to see how best to help her or even if she needed help was, at the time, kind of worse than after finding out. After all, I knew how to deal with obsessive behavior after being on both sides of the mirror regarding that issue. I heard and lived through a few of the results of that kind of behavior coming to its inevitable conclusion--none of which are pretty, but some are relatively safer than others. What I didn't have much experience with was the lack of communication. My other friends I couldn't have helped while what was happening to them happened. I couldn't have been in the car with Tara, I couldn't have stopped Joshua dying even if I knew when and where it had happened beforehand, I couldn't have been with DeAnn every second of those dark days. It's hard to be of help when all the worst things a person has gone through were months or years in the past. But Jennifer was different. Her situation had been happening in the present tense. Hers was a problem I could have been giving advice or even helping firsthand with long before it came to its terrifying conclusion. I often wonder how everything would have turned out had I known about Steve sooner.

Yet, even as I sit here, I'm sure Jennifer had her reasons to keep this affair private. I'm sure she thought she was doing the right thing by handling it on her own. I mean--no one makes a choice to intentionally muck up their lives, right? I could be accused of making more than my fair amount of decisions on my own that ended either in blood, tears, and regret. Any time you ask for help you run the risk of making it a habit, of molding yourself into a person who needs other people's efforts just to get by in the world. The trick I think is finding that point where handling all the world throws at you on your own just isn't up to snuff any more and it's time to call in for some eager reinforcements.

Some pain, some hurt, some people you really do have to go through on your own. But not all of them.

There are some difficult journeys that you can travel along with other people, where it's okay to help each other out, where it's okay to admit you can't make it on your own. No one should have to be alone and suffering if they don't need to be or even if they don't want to be. Sometimes asking for help isn't really admitting you're weak or incapable of coping, sometimes the strongest choice you can make is the choice to allow others into your life to help carry you through the dangerous waters.

Life isn't about being strong, good enough, or perfect enough all the time. There are going to be times, choices, and even people that are going to be stronger, better than, or too much for you to handle. Life isn't about how you get through them all by your lonesome. Life should be about how we all get by those times together, together with the people who are sometimes just as weak, tired, and imperfect as we are.

As Lucy puts it, "life isn't about having all the answers yourself. It's about knowing which person to go to find the answers you need."

All you need to do is ask.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers