I'm Falling All Over Myself, Dying To Be Someone Else, I Wish You Would Dare To Walk Me Home, I Don't Want To Fight The World Alone

--"Heart", The Pretty Reckless

Breanne has a saying that I've always found rather cute: “Just because you can't hook a whopper don't mean your pole's broke.” I've always taken it to mean that when something goes wrong certain people like to lay blame elsewhere rather than themselves. It's an easy habit easy to fall into, after all. Who wants to accept responsibility as the first course of action. Even if their rationale isn't said aloud, most people tend to drift towards thinking about possible explanations instead of immediately leaping to the conclusion they themselves have done something incorrectly. I, for one, am notorious for spreading the wealth in this regard—even going so far as guilt-tripping people into accepting their part in whatever snafus may have arisen.

However, I've started to see another possible explanation of the aforementioned saying. I've started to notice that a lot of people like to explain away a great deal of their behavior by assigning either the worst or best case scenario to a situation. For instance, people can justify almost any great expenditure on gambling by conjuring images of themselves winning that elusive jackpot or catching that impossible confluence of perfect conditions at the poker table and cleaning out the House. In that spirit they'll lay down the bulk of their life savings, excusing it away by that ideal what-if daydream. Or, even less grandiose, men and women have both gone to great lengths, figuratively and literally, to win over a fair heart that they were sure they were destined to be with. Indeed, my trips to the other side of the country, buying presents I really couldn't afford, and, yes, racking up a forty-thousand dollar credit card bill could all be seen as instances where I thought impulsively with my heart rather than with my head. And, again, at the time, I thought it was innocuous, even necessary, because I had lofty visions of a love that would last my life dancing through my head.

But what if you flip the coin? What then?

I've seen people do some horrible things to other people because they've encountered a situation they were ill-prepared to face. Rather than think rationally, they let the worst possible outcome dictate their line of reasoning. It could be something as simple as Marion's total belief that one day the tiniest of cuts is going to get horribly infected, ultimately killing her, to justify being overly sanitized. Or it could be as complicated as my own frantic search for another college to attend when I was being “interviewed” about possible plagiarizing of my twenty-four page research paper in my Medieval Japanese History class at U.S.C. Yes, some semblance of a fallback plan is necessary in a few key crossroads in one's life, but it's unhealthy to always see the worst possible consequence whenever a momentous milestone arrives.

In those incidents, it didn't end up affecting too many people since we were mainly watching out for ourselves. But what happens when this line of thinking becomes extended to individuals we claim to care about or even genuinely do care about? It becomes a whole different ball game at that point.

----

“I don't understand. She seemed fine last year when I met her. Yeah, she was kind of cool with me and just seemed easy-going in general, Case.”

“A lot changes in a year.”

It's always been my belief that the instant you move in with somebody you find out more about them than you might care to know. I've moved in with exactly one person, that being DeAnn, and let me tell you that even before then we had had our share of problems. But living with the woman only seemed to compound the problem. I don't know if it was our timing or if it was merely a case of finding out more than we cared to know, but there were days where I wish I could have forgotten all I learned about her in those first few months of living with her—just go back to when all we did was date, when all I mostly saw was her good side.

I can also tell you firsthand that whatever quirks in personality you might possess before the big commitment to one another only gets amplified once you reach that serious stage in a relationship. If you're kind of weird like me on your best day, then that freaky side only comes out bigger and badder once you're safely ensconced in that other person's good graces.

Or, if like you're like Laurel, you've always had doubts about your self-esteem, it only comes out more cruelly once you're around that person you claim to love all the time.

“She doesn't like going out like we used to. She definitely doesn't like hanging around my friends. Or my family. Or sometimes me. It's like she's afraid if she doesn't hold onto me as tightly as possible, I'll run away or something.

“And you know what the worst part is, Patrick?”

“What's that?”

“She's being so spiteful and nasty that that's exactly what I want to do sometimes. Ironic. It's ironic somebody can be that paranoid about what I might do to hurt them, that it makes me want to hurt them.”

I once called DeAnn's parents house just to see what she was up to. When they told me she was out doing whatever, I let it get to me so much that I drove the eighty minutes to their house just to wait for her to get home.

I once forbade Breanne going to her school dance because I was that hung-up on her meeting anybody she might fall for that wasn't me. Never mind she'd probably been with the same set of kids for the previous ten years and hadn't fallen for any of them yet. She was acting strange and when people act strange it's because they're planning to hurt you.

That's what I actually used to think. Strange behavior from people you think you've got figured out equals they're planning to destroy you emotionally (or, in some cases, physically).

“She's just worried about losing you. I would be too, if I was her. It's a lot to lose.”

“But why? It's not like I'm Miss Party Girl. It's not like I like being away from her any great length of time. I just don't get what I did to give her the impression I could ever be less than honest with her.”

“Sometimes it's less about what you're doing or what you did, and more about what you could do.”

“I don't get it.”

“The more you let someone in, the more you take with you if you decide to go. She wants to test you.”

“Why does she have to test me at all? What if I don't want to be tested?”

“I don't think it's the kind of test you can pass. She wants to know if you'll follow her lead even when she's being a nutcase.”

“Even if she's being unreasonable.”

“Especially when she's being unreasonable. Where's the fun in issuing orders that are easily followed? Nope, she wants to know if you'll do as she asks even when she knows you want to do the exact opposite.”

“How do you know?”

“That's what I'd do if I were her.

Case had it easy. All she was bitching about was Laurel not wanting her to go out of town for an impromptu girls night out with the ladies from her job. If she couldn't come, she didn't want Casey to go off alone either, for fear of what she might do.

It was paranoid, but it wasn't outside of the realm of what a lot of other couples go through. Some people have a hard time trusting someone once they've gotten a taste of what it's like to be intimately close to them. It's easier to trust someone when they mean only a little to you. It's a lot more difficult when they mean everything.

Whereas before you might have been cool to let them go for a week with the boys (or girls) because, hey, you only recently started dating and, hey, how much trouble can he get into—it suddenly becomes a cause for alarm if they even want to spend one night away from you. It's like the more you invest in a person, in building in life with them, the more you start seeing threats to that life around every corner. Every odd thing they say and every unexplained disappearance becomes a crisis that needs to be hashed out and resolved before anything else. Every little problem becomes a major obstacle.

Sometimes by moving forward with a relationship, you end up tearing it asunder.

I've seen a lot of relationships come and go, not just my own. I've seen a lot of people hurt, I've seen a lot of people cry, I've even seen a lot of people do physical or emotion harm that they would never consider doing on somebody they truly hated. I've seen people change their entire philosophy on life just because it suits the person they're with. I've seen how love is the most evil cause of misery ever invented.

People always talk about holding on too tightly as being the root cause of why people break out. I think it's more of a problem of people holding too long that's the real problem because deep down everybody wants to be held by someone. I think the problem comes when they want to make sure that they're free to go and you still want to hold onto them. Lucy calls it the dog test. Some dogs you can leave the gate open and they'll stay in the yard with you all afternoon. But should you close that gate, all they do that day is figure out how to get out of that blasted yard.

It works the same way with people. You don't have to hold onto someone too tightly, you can just hold onto someone for too long of a stretch of a time.

“Sometimes, Case, it's not enough to make sure someone cares about you. Sometimes, for whatever reason, you just need to push them to the breaking point of not caring about you just to see how far it goes. It's like filling a glass of water when you're thirsty. You could pour yourself enough to quench that thirst or you could pour enough to make sure you won't be thirsty for a great long time.

“It's not enough to know somebody loves you, because that could mean a great many things. Sometimes you want to know what that other person really means when they say it.”

“That's crap. It is.

“She knows me. She knows what I like. If there's a gap of time where she doesn't know where I am, she should be thinking of how much I want to get back to her and not what I can do now that we're apart.

“She should know when we're not together it's because it's something I need to take care that doesn't include her. Doesn't she know I would include her if I could? Doesn't she know that by now? I've changed so much for her. Doesn't she know if this trip was something I could avoid, I'd do it for her? I'd do anything for her.”

“Well, have you told her that?”

“Not in those exact words.”

In the absence of a reason, people will either look to the best case scenario or the worst case scenario. It's human nature, after all.

There are some men and women who, when they can't land that fish, blame the pole. When they can't figure out an explanation why something isn't working, they'll make up their own, and it's usually something they'd like to think is out of their control.
If she's not here it's because she doesn't love me. If she's not here it's because she's cheating on me. If she's not here it's because she's a “heartless bitch”.

If you give them an explanation that makes sense, however slight it may be, that may be enough to see the folly of their thinking. It doesn't take much. Sometimes all it takes is removing all doubt from their head and replacing it with some sign that you still care.

“Maybe you should use those exact words.”

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Another Day Has Gone, I'm Still All Alone, How Could This Be, You're Not Here With Me, You Never Say Goodbye, Someone Tell Me Why, Did You Have To Go

--“You Are Not Alone”, Michael Jackson

Being a child of the 80’s, my earliest memories of Michael were when Mrs. Habersham would play him in the background while we were taking our naps in pre-school. I’m not quite sure about the exact line-up of songs, but I remember his songs were mixed quite prominently in there. I was just little ‘ole thing, barely able to distinguish one style of music from another, but I remember liking what I heard from him. I reckon that’s the way it is with all music one grows a fondness for. You’re not exactly sure why you like it. You only know that you do. And to this here five-year-old gal, him and all the rest of the 70’s and 80’s tunes I heard at that impressionable age defined what kind of listener I’d be in the future.

I may not have had a choice as to what I listened to while I was in the confines of my classroom, but it’s a fairly safe bet to say that most of the other kids in my class had failed to be impressed by that genre of music. While there are many exceptions, to be sure, I come from a strange land where Country and Christian tropes are the only genres seemingly worth following. I can tell you from firsthand experience, as someone who will always harbor an undying love for the music stylings of disco and dance, that it’s very easy to fall out of the norm of one’s peers when you mention that you like something that the rest of your class doesn’t like. I was fortunate that in most every other way that mattered I fell in line, but when it came to the matter of musical preferences I felt very much alone. That was fine by me, you know? As my daddy always says, “Nobody can do your walking for you.” There are some roads that are more suited to be walked (or, in my case, ran) alone. It was evident even then that Michael was somebody who did a great deal of his walking alone and I reckon he was the better for it.

Mrs. Habersham would turn it to the pop station, set the volume down low, and tell us all to sleep. And I would be lying there, thinking how it was that sleep was the last thing I wanted to be doing at the time. Knowing what a handful I was, a regular child of fire, I’m confident that it must have taken all her will to settle me into place. All I can remember was how debilitating it felt to be told to lie still. Then something Michael (or somebody like him--Prince, Stevie Wonder, &c…) and I’d actually lie still, if only to hear the song better. Others would moan that they wanted to listen to another station like she did the rest of the week, but I was always just as happy to listen to this strange new brand of merriment she played on whatever day of the week she played the pop station. I wouldn’t go so far as to shush them up, but I did try that much harder to make out what I was listening to. Words and themes were next to meaningless at that stage in my life. What mattered was how it made me feel. I was disappointed that nobody “got it” like me, but I figured that was due to the fact I’ve always been a step ahead of everyone else at any given time. I’ve always had a special connection to music; it’s always been an area of my life I’ve been proud enough to have separate me from everyone else. My class might have been content for the down time. I was content, if at all, because if I couldn’t be scampering out over hill and dale, I could at least be scampering in my head at the places music could take me. And what people call pop music always, always took me somewhere I had little opportunity to go before. That was always its appeal. That was always Michael’s appeal.

Years later, when I had started dancing, I listened to him with different intentions. That’s when I could finally put into words some of his music’s allure. I could point to his brilliance of crafting hooks that always fed you into the energy of the song. I could write a million words about how the man knew how to put on a show in his videos, could take up every inch of the spotlight, without apology. That’s certainly a facet of his personality I could empathize with. I could even defend how his later works incorporated a more world-conscious bent and still managed to sound like music should sound. Ask anyone I know, when I danced to Michael, I felt like I was dancing to something important. Other songs may have been more favored by me, but each and every time “Bad” or something else he did came on, I always put in some extra oomph into my steps. He was one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen and, coming from someone who knows the rigorous process involved in choreographing one’s steps and trying to be innovative at the same time, I can tell you that’s a high compliment. Or, to put it in simpler terms, Mrs. Harvick, my dance instructor, once told me that the great dancers—ballet, modern, or whatever—were born with that kind of desire from early on in their lives. She even referenced Michael as being one of those cases. I admit, I had a gleeful expression on my face when she made that comparison. I would even take it as high praise if someone said I dance a quarter as well as he did in his time.

I didn’t know him personally. I can’t say that I owned anything more than Thriller. I can’t even say that I ever went to one of his concerts. Yet when I think of Michael, I think of all the times us Gummis pranced in my studio to the sounds of “Smooth Criminal”.

I think of the time I listened to “Man in the Mirror” on repeat when I was crying at my window after my mother had told me she should have never had me after an especially heated argument.

I think of the time I aped Michael’s moves when I was playing the fool in Mr. Agustin’s homeroom in high school.


for you are not alone

I don’t think about the scandals or the rumors, or the intimations about his character. Character is something you worry about when you’re trying to emulate somebody. Barring anything else, I’ve never tried to emulate anyone. I can be only me—no more, no less. No, it never entered into my line of thinking that I should live my life like Michael. But what I can’t deny is the legacy of great memories and even greater music this king among men left behind him. Whatever he was, whoever he was, Michael was an innovator. If I could only say one nice thing about the man is that he made no bones about being different from everyone else. As somebody who has always felt that way, ironically I can say that in that respect he truly wasn’t alone. He was one of a kind and, at least for me, he will be greatly missed.

Breanne

Now You'll Never See, What You've Done To Me, You Can Take Back Your Memories, They're No Good To Me

--'Gives You Hell", The All-American Rejects

two two

toby: the last page
of a novel everyone
has already read twice.
~dw

----

If you close the door before everyone has left does that make you a bad person?

I used to think it did. I used to think that people, especially people you were close to, had an obligation to leave all doors at the very least ajar. It was the conscionable thing to do, after all. But as more and more of my friends, family, and other nonesuch start exiting my day-to-day existence, maybe the right thing to do really is to close the door rather than to keep hoping it'll swing back in and they'll come rushing back. I used to think that too, that they'd all realize they had abandoned me, feel regretful, and return to me.

Now I'm more concerned about why it is that I'm always the last one remaining. It's my fate to always be the surfer out in the water, wondering where the sun went and forever wishing for one last swell before she goes home. That's my nature. Yet it always comes as a complete surprise to me that after all my commentary and analysis is completed I'm always the one left holding the pen in my hand while the events and the people I had been commenting upon have already left the building. Some people can experience life as a seagull in the wind. Me? I always have to land somewhere and watch others fly upon the wings of their dreams. Instead of using wings of my own, I'm always dumbfounded for the first few breaths at how it is everyone else is flying but me. Then, when I attempt to catch up to them, I'm always too far behind to make it to where they are. I'm forced to land again.

It's not even their fault, I can tell you that much. They're just doing what comes natural to them and I'm just doing what comes natural to them. Some people were meant to run the race and others were meant to spectate. That's me, professional spectator. Or, possibly, I'm just a professional ghost, a experienced phantom, whose only skill is measuring the tenacity with which others live their lives.

It's why I have to be happy with my own life, because it's far too easy for me to fall into the trap of playing the apples and oranges game. She has that, but I don't. He can do these, but I can't. It's a far easier row to hoe when you build your fences too high to see over into your neighbor's yard. It's a far easier life to lead when you don't leave by the same door everyone else uses. Go out the other door, see where that leads, and don't let anybody know how long you waited before you even thought of leaving.

And since you are inevitably the last to leave, don't forget to close the door behind you yourself.

dw

And Nothing's Going To Stop Me But Divine Intervention, I Reckon It's Again My Turn To Win Some Or Learn Some, But I Won't Hesitate No More, No More

--"I'm Yours (Live)", Jason Mraz

One.

“There's no need to make this any more difficult, Tilly,” Ryan whispered as he made his way up the aisle back to his seat on the plane. Expecting to see his friend still seated next to him by the window, he sat down without ever casting his glance sideways. “We can just go once we set down, you know?” he continued before he finally looked over.

Instead of finding the familiar ash blonde strands of one Tilly Fleet he was startled to discover the face of an eight-year-old boy staring back at him.

Neither of them spoke at first. They were each too preoccupied with sizing up the individual seated next to him. To his credit, Ryan thought the boy didn't seem terribly unsettled. He couldn't quite be sure, but from his vantage point the kid was almost wearing an oversized grin on his face. In fact, Ryan felt that he was the one more caught off-guard by the turn of events than the child was. He wrinkled his forehead. He didn't know where to go from here. That's when he made the decision to go with the obvious.

“Who are you?” they both asked at the same time.

The boy laughed loudly.

“I think you're in my friend's seat,” Ryan pushed on.

“No, I'm not,” the boy replied.

“She's going to be coming back any minute and I think she's going to want her seat. So why don't you just move on over to wherever it is you belong?”

“No.”

Ryan was stumped. Coming back from the lavatory he had known exactly what to say, he had known how best to respond to Tilly's last question. He had no idea what response for the situation he currently found himself in. He was quite confident this wasn't covered in the briefing before the flight. He turned his face frontward, he sat back, and he decided to ruminate on what the next course of action should be.

That's when he heard the familiar tinkle of giggling behind his seat.

“Having trouble up there?” he heard Tilly's muffled voice ask.

Ryan immediately started shaking his head. He tugged at his nose between his thumb and index finger, attempting to calm himself down. His partner was a lot of things—competent, intelligent, and, yes, slightly funny. Most of all, though, Ryan found her rather exhausting most of the time. There were times when she didn't seem much older than the boy seated next to him.

If he hadn't seen her out in the field, if he hadn't been through hell and high water with her, he would have questioned her focus more.

“Nope, no trouble at all,” he answered back. “I'm just getting to know my new friend here....”

“My name's Kevin,” the boy replied.

“Yup, I just getting to know my new friend Kevin here,” he heard himself say, his voice trailing away. That was met with more giggling and the distinct feeling of his seat being kicked from behind.

One more hour to go, he thought. Just one more hour.

----

Ryan scratched the back of his head. His partner Tilly had gone off-plan yet again. It was supposed to be a routine flight. They were supposed to sit next to each other on the plane, not draw any attention to themselves, and arrive in Portland with a minimum of fuss. Instead, the two of them found themselves taking on the role of babysitters.

After the initial chess match between himself and her—Ryan not wanting to admit she had tricked him completely and Tilly absolutely enjoying every minute of tightening the screws on her dark-haired companion—he had moved to the seat behind her and the kid. It turns out the baby-faced Kevin was flying alone on the flight. From what Ryan could gather, Kevin had been dropped off by his mother in Phoenix and was to be picked up by his father in Portland once the plane landed. The only reason Ryan knew that much was because the flight attendant with the shaky knees (Delores?) kept asking Kevin every half-hour if he needed anything else.

Ryan would hear Tilly and the kid shoo her away with wild flailing of their arms. Then the two of them would double over in laughter at well they played their little game together.

“So you must be a big boy, flying all by yourself like this, kiddo,” he heard Tilly ask.

“It's nothing. This is my third time,” he heard Kevin answer.

“Really?!” she answered incredulously. “I didn't start flying by myself till I was twelve... at least. Wow.”

Ryan knew that was a lie. When she and him had first met, Tilly had told him that she had shuttled between foster homes since she was nine. She had also told him that she had probably seen more states than she knew all the names for at the time. The rest of her story may have changed as often as the pixie blonde haircut and light green contacts she had on, but that part of her backstory he had always believed. She went over the same details too often and in the same exact order for it to have been a total fabrication.

He himself hadn't been on many planes before joining up. He grew up in Los Angeles and L.A. is where he had mostly stayed for most of his life. He didn't know exactly what had prompted him to seek out greener pastures eight years ago, but she had explained to him numerous times that a fish stuck in the same bowl all his life never really grows. It's kind of like Finding Nemo, she told him.

There were times when he wondered if she wasn't more right than he let on. Maybe if he had gone on more planes when he was a kid he would've never had to fall into his line a work. He might have never joined the company.

He might have never been partners with her.

That's no good, he thought.

“You're just a brave little soldier, that's what you are,” he heard Tilly continue.

The kid rustled in his seat.

“You talk funny,” the kid said to her.

“Yeah, well, that's why they call me 'The Entertainer.' That's me, Tilly the Entertainer.”

He heard them both laugh.

Ryan had heard enough. He and Tilly had a long day once they arrived at the airport. She seemed to have things well in hand, he thought. Sure, she was making a spectacle of herself, but that was nothing new. It seemed like every time their bosses told them to keep a low profile, she took it upon herself to be even more vivacious and lively. There he was, curled up in his seat, wearing a non-descript gray t-shirt and blue jeans, not looking anyone in the eye if he could avoid it, and she was practically inviting an audience. But, he'd been working with her for four years now. It was obvious she was never going to change.

Besides, he was just a kid.

The two of them could talk as long as they wanted. Ryan was going to get some sleep, though.

----

When he slept, he thought of having sex with his partner. That's what he always thought about at first when he was restless. While he awake he never publicly harbored the thought, never said it out loud. But now, as he lost himself in his dreams, he found himself in the recurring scene of his fantasies. Tilly was there, her hair dyed red, her eyes slate gray, and she was wearing that skinny two-piece she had worn when they had been assigned down in Fiji. The two of them were lying on towels in either a sauna or some other type of steam room. It really didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was she was throwing herself at him. No games, no lies—she was, for once, just being upfront and forthright with him. In return, he was giving her what she'd always criticized him for.

He was being as brutal with her as he'd seen her become while on the job. Rather than overanalyze the possibilities, he wasn't hesitating in the least.

He was forceful and rough, pushing her down, not allowing her to take control of the situation like she always did when she was awake. He didn't allow himself to follow her lead, and the experience was much better for it. He was taking her by hand, by the knot of her hair, by whatever he could get his hands on, and he was the one letting her know when it was time to stop.

He had her right where he wanted her finally.

While he slept, Ryan couldn't decide if it was the room that was steamy or if the room had been normal and it was just them.

----

He was awakened abruptly by Tilly shaking his shoulders.

“Wake up, Ryan. We've got a problem,” she told him.

“What? What is it?” he said, irritated at the interruption.

“It's Kevin. He's dead.”

He looked at her face above his. He searched her green eyes for the joke, for some sign that this was yet another one of her tricks.

She was deadly serious.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Sense of Life

--"Sense of Life", Do As Infinity

I wanted to quit.

It was early April 2004 and I had just been informed that my position as Junior Accountant for the Los Angeles Regional Office for Robinson's May was being downsized. I hadn't been offered an opportunity to transfer to the main office in Texas where all the finances for the company were going to be handled. I'd been handed an average-sized severance package and been sent on my way. The next few weeks would prove distressing since I still had two more months until I was officially let go. To top it off, the company had paid for an extravagant pizza lunch only days before and I was feeling kind of betrayed at the obvious sense of duplicity.

Granted, I hadn't had the job that long. I had started in February so I didn't have a huge amount of time to form fast friendships with any of the personnel. But even that stung. There I was, in a job I had just gotten. I had gone through all the hoops--the multiple interviews, the rough first couple of days getting to know what my responsibilities were, and even suffering the indignity of a good number of people hating me that I was compelled to work with. It appeared my job was coveted by some of the personnel in the accounting and collections department. The decision to hire outside the company wasn't met with a great deal of approval. I became the ready scapegoat for a few individuals who were decidedly non-plussed about their lack of upward mobility. Then there was the whole getting used to coming to work in a jacket, slacks, and tie when every job I had had before that entailed wearing the freest of free dress. Lastly, I was handed tasks that, quite frankly, were out of my understanding and definitely out of my area of expertise. Though my time there was short, I felt like a fraud since I didn't really have a finance background--not like some of the other department staff had. I had talked my way into the job, bullshitting left and right.

Then, when I finally had some understanding of what I was doing and the least bit sense of security that I would retain the job for a lengthy period, they go and yank it away from me.

I was also downtrodden because in the months leading up to getting that job I had been having a rough time of finding gainful employment. I basically quit my job at Sears Collections in September to work for Sales job in Los Angeles peddling office supplies business to business. I was fired from that job not even two weeks later. I then went to work for Planet Mortgage/Financial in Anaheim in October. I was fired from that job in the middle of November. At that point I was unemployed for six weeks till the beginning of January, when Planet Mortgage decided to hire me back. After that I found the job at Robinson's May. It was a roller coaster ride of being hired and fired, ups and downs, for a good six months prior to that April. When I heard that I wouldn't have a job by the end of June all the same sense of trepidation--"will I find a job quickly?" "will I like the next place that I get hired at?"--came rushing back.

I turned to the usual places I turned to. I went back to listening to new music and music that had been suggested to me by friends--Rilo Kiley, Eisley, and Friendly Contribution all had their chances to impress me during this time period. I also turned back to reading and writing on the internet this time. I began reading more and more blogs. I also took my IMing on AOL, Yahoo!, and other services up a notch. It was actually during a conversation about new music that I was having with my cousin Vincent that the topic of Do As Infinity came up. I had asked him if he had heard any new music I might like and he told me about a band he'd been listening to that he had first heard from the ending theme to the second season of the anime Inuyasha. He said that from that first theme, he grew to gather their entire catalogue up until that point. Any time a snippet of a song can enthrall somebody I know in less than ninety seconds of play time, it intrigues me. I asked him to play me that end theme, "Fukai Mori". I followed that by asking him to send me a sample of some of the other songs. That very night I must have listened to the same two songs he sent me dozens of time. With each listen, I kept falling deeper and deeper into their web. The lead singer had one of the loveliest voices I'd ever heard and the music sounded timeless, yet easily identifiable. It was like listening to songs I had grown up with an liked, except I knew I hadn't. And I think the fact that each of them was sung almost completely in Japanese only added to the allure.

To me, it was like listening to the mood of a piece without being bogged down in the particulars of what they were singing about. It was like, because I couldn't get the meaning behind the words, I could get the meaning behind the complete picture of the song. And I liked what I heard. It had those elusive qualities that always draws me to great pieces of art, the sense of wistfulness and forlornness that the best stories, the best paintings, the best anything possess. I could identify with how the songs made me feel more than with what they are about. At that point in time that's exactly what I needed.

No, it didn't cure every problem that ailed me. Listening to Do As Infinity didn't find me a job, didn't stop me from worrying, or even save me from unemployment that summer. What it did do, when I was finally able to procure the albums in their entirety, was put me in a place where I felt completely at one with my troubles and stress. I went to this sad place, driven there by the songs, and kind of left my worries behind me there. Listening to their songs was like walking into the shower covered in sweat and grime of everyday existence and just leaving it there when I left. It was okay to hurt. It was okay to worry. It was okay to feel all these things that I couldn't just say out loud to anyone because nobody likes hearing someone bitch about their job, their finances, or even their lack of direction of their life. But when I was alone and it seemed like the songs I was listening to were talking about the same themes, I felt okay to let my mind wander in my misgivings. I felt open to explore the possibility of not finding a job in the near future, to the idea that my best years were behind me, to the sense that my life was already passing me by.

Once those song or songs ended, I felt unburdened enough to start hoping again. More to the point, I felt secure that I had delved deeply enough into my travails, that I could start expecting the next opportunity was right around the corner for me. It had to be because I had already reached some of the lowest thoughts I've ever thought while listening to the song. Where else could my thoughts go but up?

That's why when Vincent told me that Do As Infinity would be playing in Dallas at the end of June of that year I had to go. I didn't have a job at that point. I didn't have much holding me tied to staying at home miserable, looking through the want ads and hearing from everyone that if I just applied myself I could find something. What I did have was a lot of free time on my hands and a newfound respect for how music can transform one's soul. Yes, some of their songs are rather happy and uplifting, but the reason I went to the show in June of 2004 was because I felt like the majority of their songs captured the solitude and the longing that real life encapsulates. After hearing them performed live, I couldn't tell you if their songs are sad, per se, but I can tell you that each and every one of them has great empathy to them and a great composite of emotions contained with them.

That idea became very central to me as the next few months rolled by. I needed to know other people were in the same frame of my mind I was.

If I'd never found that sense of connection with something outside of my own head, who knows where I would have ended up. But, because I did, and because it helped me to deal with all the issues with not feeling important to a world that I felt had disregarded me, I came out of it the other side relatively unscathed.

That's why I continue to listen to Do As Infinity to this day and that's why, come this September when they play the U.S. again, I'll be there.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Somebody Call 911, Shorty Fire Burning On The Dance Floor, Whoa, I Gotta Cool Her Down, She Wan' Bring The Roof To Ground, On The Dance Floor, Whoa

--"Fire Burning", Sean Kingston

When I was in eighth grade I had a lot of things going for me. I was well liked, for one. I still had a great deal of fire in me, ambition to go places and do things. I was still somewhat eager to please my mother with her beauty pageant falderal. I had lots of friends. But, most of all, what got me through my days was the idea that twice a week I had three or four hours with Mrs. Harvick in that studio back at home. I can honestly say that's when I was the happiest, when life felt the easiest. Ever since I stopped it feels like that's when my life as an adult began. I don't know if one caused the other, but I sometimes feel the day I quit dancing with her was the day I gave up being a kid ever again.

Yet that year, that one year, I still had it. I still had my love for the craft. I still had that energy to show off to everyone and anyone who wanted to watch me. It didn't even take much to get me started. As my daddy once said, "You put Breanne in front of a mirror and that's all the audience she needs." Hells bells, the times I got caught dancing in class or dancing in church services or dancing at one my mother's social functions had to number in the dozens. I was a dancing fool and the whole world I felt deserved to laugh. I didn't care if I was thought of as the best (which I was, by the by) as long as I entertained people. As long as I could see folks smiling at the end of impromptu routine I had accomplished my goal. That's why when it was announced that my whole class would be putting on a talent show at the eighth grade dinner everyone knew what I would be doing. The only difference between that time and every other dance recital before that was that there would be parents there. It wouldn't just be my parents or friends there; I would have a whole new audience that was unaware of the spectacle, the dazzling display of dancing prowess they were in store for. It's like the difference between knowing the tiger is out there in the jungle preying upon you and being completely oblivious at its awesome, yet deadly beauty.

They wouldn't know what hit them.

I remember I was after Alex and Seth, who did a rendition of "Joy to the World" by Three Dog Night. It was a silly skit where one of them (I forget who) was lip-synching the song and the other one was hopping around, pretending to be a bullfrog. It was funny, but it was what most people expected of the traditional talent portion of the eighth grade dinner. Hardly anybody took it seriously. We had a few people who tried their hand at singing. We had a couple of kids attempt a song on the guitar and piano. I remember Gwen even did some baton twirling, but for the most part, people felt hampered by the required participation portion of the evening so no one really let loose with any sort of fiery passion. To them it was something that was necessary to get through. To me it was something I loved doing and I loved sharing more.

I remember the song I chose was "Every Little Step" by Bobby Brown, a song I had grown up trying to imitate. Say what you will about that era, but you had some of the most flamboyant and well-choreographed dance routines in videos ever. I would plead with Mrs. Harvick to teach me how to go through frame by frame through some of those routines and she would refuse. She would tell me it's too suggestive for a young lady to emulate. But, in the end, I broke her down. I've found that when you combine insistence with the right set of persuasiveness, you can accomplish anything. A year before I graduated I had the steps down pat. I came out onto the small stage with the black wifebeater, black suspenders, and even the black bicycling shorts... with B-R-E-A-N-N-E written down one of the sides for good measure--just like Bobby.

When I started in everyone knew the song. That got the crowd rolling with the smiles. But when they saw I had the moves and timing down, that really got a few of them out of their seats. Yes, I did it on a lark. I can't say that there weren't more up-to-date songs I had steps for that I could have chosen. Part of me was doing it for the novelty factor. However, there was a huge part of me that rather enjoyed going along with the music since I had grown up with it. Eighth grade me was just having fun revisiting the little 'ole me that had whiled away the hours in my studio trying to copy each and every video she saw. Hell's bells, I was just having a hoot-and-a-half trying to stay focused while I was watching a few of my classmates copying me in the reception hall at the school where we were having our dinner. I always have a good 'ole time dancing. That's just a part of my nature, but that time was a little different. I was having fun because other people were having fun watching me do something I enjoyed. It was like what folks always tell you, I was feeding off the energy of the crowd. I was moving just a mite snappier, my moves were just a bit crisper, my smile just a bit bigger--everything was flowing so smoothly I didn't want the song to end at all. A part of me just wanted the song to play forever so I could stay onstage forever, so I could be everyone's performer that much longer.

Eventually I had to stop. All great performances do, but it wasn't for a lack of trying to milk it for all its worth. I was two seconds away from polling the audience to see if they wanted me to do an encore. Instead, I walked off the stage graciously, sparkles in my eyes and a memory I'd never forget.

I can't even begin to tell you who performed after me or what their routine was. The throng of people congratulating me, teachers and parents alike, was so deafening that I must have missed the next performance entirely.

All in all, it was one of my fondest nights of all of school.

----


and when she dances
she goes and goes

I watch these young girls dancing on Youtube these days and I can't help but see how driven they are, how fired up they are about what they're doing. The majority of them are just being silly and goofing off. But some of them you can tell have had training or, like me, are just naturals. I can always spot those right away. Greg calls it the dancing version of gaydar. I don't know what it is that immediately alerts me to the notion that somebody may or may not be a real dance at heart, but I have a good track record at spotting them even before they take their first step. Fanny will send me a video. Even before I know the song they're going to play, even before I see her eyes open, I can tell if I'm going to be watching a truly masterful display or just somebody who thinks they can dance. Maybe I can just spot a dancer's physique. I reckon it's more than that, though. I believe I can just spot the passion in a gal's eyes when they truly love how they're moving. More than that I can spot that same sense of accomplishment when they've nailed a difficult bridge or a complex set of transfers. I remember that feeling well. It was like walking a tightrope one day and then learning to run across it the next day. I just had that eternal quest to become better at my craft--smoother, faster, higher. And I remembered how great it felt when I finally reached the pinnacle of how good one dance could be. I remembered thinking, that was it, no one could possibly do it better than I just did it. No one.

And then I would move on to the next song and the next challenge.

I watch these gals now and I envy them for their drive. Of course, I believe in my day I was as good as them, if not better. But now I just see how excited they are to be out there and showing the world what they can do. I wonder what a handful I might have been had I had something like Youtube or E-mail to deluge my friends, family, and the world at large with the testimonies of my dancing skill. It might have been someone else back then writing about how dedicated I looked. It might have been someone back then telling everyone he knew about how graceful and powerful I looked in comparison to everyone else.

As it is now, I just keep saying as I'm watching, "God bless her little 'ole heart." Inside, though, I'm thinking that it should have been me with all these videos. I should have had asked Mrs. Harvick for copies of my recitals, I should have gotten a copy of the video of that eighth grade dinner. All I have our memories, but it's really difficult to share memories when the people involved weren't there. It's really hard to prove to disbelieving husbands or forgetful mothers or even sarcastic best friends that you really did have a gift. It's like trying to describe rain to a person who's lived indoors all their life. You can try to describe how it felt to see me dance, but it's never as just plain 'ole seeing me dance. I even try to recreate some of my routines, but I'm not that thirteen-year-old girl with her thirteen-year-old legs. Basically, I'm not as spry as I used to be. Jogging on pavement day after day and simple age have seen to that. They can see I was talented once, but I reckon they're afraid to say that I've lost that feeling.

The only thing I can hold onto was the fact that I used to be something special once. I used to have that fire once. Me and that girl that stormed that stage way back in '94 are inexplicably linked. And every time I dance now I might not be as smooth, as quick, or as fast as her. But I'm every bit still in love with the artistry and the joy of dancing my lily-white ass off.

I might not have enough to take anybody ten years younger than me in a competition. And I might not have the passion for it as I once did... but I'll never quite lose my love for it.

Not while I still have breath in my lungs.

Breanne

There's A Reason For The Sunshiny Sky, There's A Reason Why I'm Feeling So High, Must Be The Season When Those Love Lights Shine All Around Us

--"Let Your Love Flow", Bellamy Brothers

Sunday was a typical lazy day for me and Greg. We don't usually do much and most of the morning is spent trying to suss out whether or not that day's errands can actually be pushed till the weekday, or possibly the next weekend. So it was that I got a late start yesterday. It's wicked of me to say so, but there are some days where I truly miss the carefree days of youth where I could have a complete lazy Sunday.

Greg had sent me out to pick up some sandwiches from Subway for lunch. Rather than risking alienating the sense of tranquility established at home, we decided that there would be no cooking that day. There would be no clatter in the kitchen, and there most definitely would be no extended periods of stressing out as to what to make. We were determined to make what to put on the sandwiches the most difficult decision of the day. For me, aside from picking up a new package of socks and boxers for Greg, and grabbing a few hot dog buns for Wednesday's cook-out with Franny and her new beau, my errands would be done for the day after I picked up lunch.

I was as excited as a cat with its tail in a knot when I walked into the sub shop to find no one ahead of me in line. The only people aside from the staff were an elderly couple who were already in the midst of paying. I placed the order, Meatball for me and CCC for Greg, with the biggest smile on my face. I was thinking to myself that I'd be able to order, pay, and drive home in less than ten minutes. My dreams of a lazy Sunday were not completely done for. When it finally came time to pay the person who was ringing me up made a nice comment about the way the orange of my sundress showed off my smile. I, of course, blushed and told him to keep the extra dollar in change. I might have been in a hurry, but, like my mother always told me, "there's always time to hear a compliment, Breanne." All in all, the first few hours of my Sunday were shaping up quite nicely.

That could have changed when I got to my A4.

On the driver's side of my car was standing the elderly gentleman I had seen earlier inside the store. He looked to be in his late sixties, maybe early seventies. As my daddy says, "he looked older than stone." I watched him valiantly attempt to get the woman, who I could have only assumed to be his wife at that point, into the large dark blue full-size pick-up. I couldn't tell if she was merely frail or if there was something seriously medically wrong with her, but I reckon whatever it was he'd been having to repeat this same struggle for some years now. The way he almost gently put her into her seat, then tucked her into her seatbelt rather than quickly strap her in, I figured he had to have been an old pro at this for the last few years of his life. It was sweet, really. To me it looked like the way a parent would take care of his child when placing her into the car, not the way you would treat a grown woman.

Even though I was trying to be on my way, I didn't say a peep. I just stood watching, bags of food and a drink in one hand, car keys and the other drink in the other. I don't know if I was blushing again, but sure got to smiling in a hurry after the first few moments of watching him go through his routine. Besides, it didn't even take that long. Two minutes, if that. I'm sure if I had made a play at coughing or piped in that he was blocking me from getting into my car the man would have stood aside, but I was intent on letting him be until he was done. I just didn't see the sense in hurrying him up just so I could get back to my lethargic ways. What I did have a mind to do was to ask if he needed help, but somehow I thought that might have been insulting to the man. He looked so happy, taking care of his wife just so that I didn't want to deny him the pleasure. Maybe if he had seemed to be struggling or if he had let on a wisp of anger in his actions. However, everything he did with a purpose. Every movement he made was made with a pleasure-filled heart. Even from my vantage I could see that much. To him, it wasn't about the work he had to go through to take care of his ailing wife; to him, it was about the honor, the privilege of being able to do something completely selfless for her. I ain't going to lie. It was a mite surprising to see somebody understand the principle that the Lord teaches us about what we give being more valuable than we get in return.

What he did next was even more surprising. He thanked me for having the patience to wait for him while he helped his wife. Yes, I live in the South, and, yes, we do have a tendency to be more gracious than most folks. But even I was taken aback at the sincerity he seemed to be expressing his apologies at holding me up for so long. I kept telling him it was no big deal, darling, but he must've repeated his words four or five times. Finally, he made me shake his hands in a token of his amends.

"Name's Mr. Eisler, dear. I can't thank you enough for your patience. It's my wife. I have to help her get into the truck most times, you know?"

"I can see that. And it truly was no skin off my back, sugar."

"Well, I thank you at any rate... what's your name again?"

"Oh, I apologize, my name's Breanne. Mrs. Breanne Holins-Meier."

"Well, Mrs. Holins-Meier, you have yourself a nice day, you hear? Me and the wife have to get back home now," he said. "We're having lunch in the garden today, " he continued proudly.

I don't know what came over me. It may have been just the good mood I was in or the sincerity with which he expressed his gratitude. At the first mention of their garden, I gave him the whole twenty second sales pitch--how I just happened to own and run my own landscaping and floral business. He was very receptive.

I'm having my guys do a preliminary walk-through this weekend.

----

just let your love flow
like a mountain stream

I'm usually very kind to strangers. I usually go out of my to be of as much assistance as possible. I have to admit, though, when I first walked up to my car that I was initially preparing myself to be impatient at the hold-up. There was a strong part of me that could only focus on getting home, on getting back to Greg. It wouldn't have taken very much to have asserted my predicament to the gentleman and be on my way in a matter of seconds, please, thank you. Hell's bells, if it'd been some impossibly silly bunch of teenagers or a self-absorbed businessman on his cel phone, I highly doubt I would've shown the same restraint.

But for whatever reason, my good mood or the couple's age, I held my tongue and learned to take some pleasure in the situation. I woke up in a good mood and I reckon I didn't want anything to ruin it.

And because of that feeling of general well-being seeming to be all around me yesterday, I might have a potential new client by the name of Mr. George Eisler for my business.

It's funny how good things happen when you don't let the bad things weigh you down, you know?

Breanne

Rain And Thunder, The Wind And Haze, I'm Bound For Better Days, It's My Life, It's My Dream, Nothing's Gonna Stop Me Now

--"Nothing's Gonna Stop Me (Perfect Strangers Theme)", David Pomeranz

When I was in sixth grade I went on what I thought of was the best trip I ever took up until that point. 60% of my class wen to Washington D.C. for a week in April. It might as well as have been an entire month because the more I think about it the more I realize just how many places we managed to visit. We went to the Smithsonian; Congress; the Lincoln, Washington, and Jefferson Memorials, and, of course, Monticello, where I had possibly the greatest milkshake of my life.

Every day while I was on the trip with my school friends was something new and exciting. Every day was something I had never seen before. I guess you could say it opened up my eyes on how brilliant and breathtaking getting away could really be. Before that point, on vacations with my family, it seemed almost a formality to go. With the exception of one trip in seventh grade, every family trip was exclusively planned out by my parents. Every activity was laid out by my mom and dad according to a strict schedule. It wasn't that we didn't do anything exciting. It was that it was always something that my parents thought were exciting, which matched my expectations just as often as it did not. It was hit-or-miss a lot. After long, it just seemed like my parents wanted to be on their own vacation and were merely compelled to take me and my brother along.

But the D.C. trip felt like it was my trip at parts. For a few hours a day they let us go off and explore parts of the city in pairs. I don't remember exactly what I chose or who I was partnered up with. But I remember that sense of charting one's own destiny away from meddling influences. There I was, in sixth grade, and I was running amok in the streets of a major metropolitan city with only a chaperone I had to check in with every hour. It was very liberating, not to mention it felt to me like how a vacation is supposed to feel like. I grew the audacity to try everything that everybody else would have thought was stupid or exasperating. And I tried it all.

I was laying wagers with the cashier at buffets that I could eat six full plates of breakfast.

I was smuggling McDonald's hash browns thirty at a time to everyone on the bus.

My friends and I went streaking through the motel in nothing more than our untied bathrobes.

And, of course, who could forget getting on-stage during the dinner theater performance of The King and I on our second-to-last night there?

From that point on I decided as soon as I was old enough to travel completely on my own, the rules would have to change drastically.

----

Aside from my tradition of buying a new pair of socks for this trip, I just recently completed the other ritual I go through every year before I leave for parts unknown. Yesterday I purchased a lengthy guide book to all things Kentucky. Sure, I'll have both Marion and Tattie to show me around, but they can't be with me the whole week. I thought it prudent that I get myself a guide just in case the need for exploration overtakes me.

The truth is, even if they were going to be with me every step of the way and even if they had wanted to come up with mea to Cincinnatti (which they don't), I would have gotten the guide anyway. It's one of my favorite things to do before a trip, to read up about where I'm going to be before I actually get there. For me it's like doing a walkthrough of a house before deciding to buy it. It's like reading a good recommendation of a restaurant when you've already decided to eat there. It both serves to keep my interest stoked as well as to provided good ideas about how to best plan my itinerary. I mean--firsthand recommendations are great, but almost always there is at least one miss of a place they believe I'll absolutely love and almost always I discover one place that they never knew existed. Something about being in a place I've never been before makes me wish to find out for myself where all the hidden gems are, rather than just have them presented to me.

My mom's notorious for telling me who I should visit whenever I leave on a trip. She's been doing it ever since I started visiting friends out-of-state. Apparently the Tarocs are rife throughout the nation because in every major city I've gone to my mom has told me where somebody I'm related to lives. I'm happy for the emergency contact, but I never make the arrangements to meet up with them. With my friends it's one thing. I know more or less they're going to find places that are fun and cool to hang out in. But with a relative, it'd be more formal and more about keeping up appearances. We'd end up going to all the places where the tourists are supposed to go. And that's a feeling I can't stand. I don't make the arrangements because I don't like having my time off arranged for me.

I think that's part of the reason why I never plan to hang out with friends the entire vacation either. Aside from Lucy, where we make it about seeing stuff together, I always reserve the right to keep my vacations private and unsullied. Ostensibly I might be going for Nora Frisson's wedding. In reality I'm going because I've never been to that group of states before (Kentucky, Tennessee, and Ohio). That's not true. I've went to Kentucky last year, but I hardly got to see anything I wanted to. That was more about being impulsive, that was more about getting to see delfty at last. This trip feels more like a real trip. And a real trip calls for a real guidebook. And that's the way I'm going to plan it out. Saturday and Sunday I'm all the property of the Frissons. I'm there to help out, delivering that or picking up this. I'm all about getting into the spirit of making the ceremony as awesome as I can help make it. But come Monday I'm going to be hitting the town with the two sisters. I'll be taking suggestions. I'll be listening to advice, but in the end we're going to go where I want to go. We're going to see what I want to see. The way I figure it, they're accompanying me on my trip to their city. If my trip doesn't agree with their idea of a typical touristy trip than so be it. I already told them I'm more than comfortable to part ways with them if the need arose.

I'd like their company. I'd love to be able to spend all Monday doing all these fun things they could devise.

It would make a great segueway into Tuesday and Wednesday when I'll be free to see Cincinnati and elsewhere. Most people would be happy with two days to explore. But I look at it as I'm already folding in to responsibility and duty on Saturday and Sunday. I'm giving up two days of my vacation for something bigger than me. Every other day should be about getting the maximum usage of my time for my own pursuits and crazy ideas. Every hour I waste on making someone else happy is another hour what I might have liked goes undone.

I have my own ideas about what I think will be fun. I have my own wishes for making this trip memorable. The worst thing for everyone would be a trip where I go through the motions of trying to like everything they like, only to have to have it come out later that I didn't enjoy myself at all. Who knows? I might like the whole time with them and I might actually put myself in their hands. I would love for that to happen, because there's nothing than being showed all the greatest parts of a city by somebody who loves and adores the city they happen to live in.

If not, I have my guide book and, more importantly, I have my freedom and the will to exercise it. I think that's the true measure of a great getaway, whether or not you leave behind the burdens of hiding your true self. Work, family, and just plain home life is centered around the principle of adhering to one's responsibility. Vacations should be about forgoing all those voices in your head attempting to rein you in. Vacations should be about listening to one voice, one song.

It should be about opening up a guidebook and finding all you ever needed without ever knowing you wanted it.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Am I Outta My Mind, I Think I Might Be Going Crazy, Cause My Heart Is Yours To Have And Hold Or Break, How You'd Get So Close, When You're So Far Away

--"So Close", Jennette McCurdy

May 4th, 1995

Dear Breanne,

I know we are so far apart, and that is has been weeks since the last time we were together. You would think that I have gotten better at not missing you as much. I can't explain how all this distance and time apart has made my love for you grow. It's not easy writing that to you because it's going to be out there for you to look at any time you want. That's a scary feeling for me. Words floating in the air I can handle, words printed out and preserved terrifies me. But I wanted to send you something to show that, unlike what you said last week, I feel it every bit as strongly as you do. Moreso because I think I've had to hold onto it so long while you had the luxury of being able to speak your mind. But each week that has passed has only served to let me know more and more how I feel.

I know I should slow down and wait a bit. I know I should make sure everything I think I understand is true. But it's hard to remain calm when you finally feel that your world has gotten started. There isn't time to waste because I've wasted so much of that already on people who didn't matter and on foolish ideas that don't belong in the real world. I'm tired of holding back when I know that what I found is good. I don't need time to decide. I only need you.

And it's like you knew early on and I didn't believe you. I thought you were just being impulsive and flightly. I guess I cared about you too, but I was just so used to being hurt so often that I didn't want to dive in straight away. I dipped my toes and then I dipped my knee. Meanwhile, the entire time you had already jumped into the water and were telling me the water was fine. You were so patient with me. I don't know how you did it. I don't know if I could have ever been that patient if I was that sure about you right from the get-go. It took me awhile, up until this last trip out to see you, but I finally think I've caught up.

It pains me to say, but the last night that we were together, I wanted it to happen because I didn't want to stay any longer than I had to. I wanted to free myself of you since the next day I was to leave. I thought it was better that way. I know you noticed how I seemed to turn off when we went out to eat. I was doing such a great job of holding it in so well, but as time wore on I found myself having such a great time talking to you and laughing when we spoke. The facade faded, and it faded rather quickly. The afternoon got away from me and the control I had just vanished slowly. When the night came and we found each other quiet in your mother's car I wanted to die because I realized that I still wanted to stay so much, that I did not want to go home quite just yet. I wished over and over in my head that we hadn't let that week pass by without us talking about what was to come next. I couldn't believe how you said you also wished we had made better plans, but we were just too proud to tell each other, and now I was leaving the next day. Yes, I broke into tears and cried in your arms. After we just gave into our love for each other and broke away our pride and kissed. You cried with me, and those tears still remain preserved in my heart. Though now they kill me every day, because I'm not near you. We must have stayed in that car just outside your house, not daring to go inside. And, an hour later, when we finally did go in, you led me upstairs and into your bedroom. Upon further reflection, that just made matters. It would've been easier if we'd just had stayed in the car all night. How could I leave after that? I couldn't say goodbye. I was forced to.

I was lost for so long after that. Maybe that's why I didn't want to answer your questions. I was so lost about it all. We should've made some plans, worked it all out. But we didn't and that's why I got confused and why I felt like you were pushing me so hard for answers I couldn't give you. You wanted me to give you the thumbs up... while all I wanted to do was twiddle them.

I don't think anyone understands the burden I carry in my heart day by day ... until I am once again with you. I am hopelessly in love with you, devoted to being with you. My first true love, I hope you feel the same, because it would be so much worse if I was lost in this feeling alone, without you to share it with and to share the thought of us being together again. I am sorry for each and every moment that I've hurt you up until now. If I could only remember what this feeling truly feels like then I don't think I'd ever hurt you again. If I could only remember what's at stake here, namely you, I doubt I'd ever do anything wantonly ever again.

I just wanted you to know you were right (as always). Before I left you asked me if I do, in fact, love you.

Quite simply, that would be a yes, Breannie.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And, Of Course, You Can't Become, If You Only Say What You Would Have Done, So I Missed A Million Miles Of Fun

--"Steal My Sunshine", LEN

Tomorrow my friend Faye turns twenty-one. She has it all planned out. She can't come home from school for whatever reason, so a huge contingent of her friends will be taking her around the more adventurous locales of greater Bloomington. Sufficed to say, it will be a birthday she's going to remember... or maybe black out from her mind after tomorrow. But, whatever happens, it will be your typical all-or-nothing celebration.

We've all had them. My cousin Victor spent his twenty-first in Vegas for three days, where I saw him do more things out of character than I have in the thirteen years since. Breanne, twenty-one being a multiple of three, spent the night before hers half-naked in Memphis. My brother Francis got so drunk with his friends on his that I found him that night crawling to the front gate of our parents' house. If I had to recount each and every story I've witnessed or at least heard, it would form a litany of bad behavior and quasi-illegal activities that seemingly brought out the worst and best in people at the same time. Nobody I know had a bad time at their twenty-first birthday outing.

Nobody except me.

I don't know if it was the confluence of events surrounding that time or if it was just my usual dour disposition, but I must have the most unmemorable twenty-first birthday celebration every recorded. Tara was in Maryland, I think Lucy and I weren't on speaking terms (probably because of a fight involving Tara), Dan and Peter were living away from Pasadena by that time, and I really hadn't made it a big deal at the bookstore to have my work friends take me out to do something. Indeed, it would be another year before I felt close enough to start actually hanging out after work with them (as opposed to party at work three, maybe four, hours after my shift had ended already like I usually did). It was the beginning of my last year of college and I didn't want to stay up all night because all my classes were early the next morning.

I didn't feel like doing anything by myself. I didn't feel like talking to someone, anyone, on the phone would be good enough to satisfy my sense of ennui at the whole situation. I didn't even feel like treating myself to something special that night. All I remember was going to class, going straight to work afterwards, and then coming home. If I remember correctly, because I wasn't feeling it, I may have gone to bed early for a change that day. Then, just like that, it was the day after and any chance to actually do something on the day of my actual birthday was gone. Sure, my parents took me out that weekend like they always do. And, sure, a few people called me over the next two or three days to wish me well. But as far as actually propping up the day with something memorable, the whole day was a bust. It's a testament to how little was done to commemorate it that I can't even tell you one thing specific I did that day aside from talk to Tara (which I pretty much did every day back then).

However, I've never liked celebrating something after the fact. I hate it when people say let's just do something on the weekend instead of the actual day. The whole point is that that day is special. When it passes unnoticed, it's only salt in the wounds to try and make up for it some other day. Even when Breanne eventually started talking to me again, I wouldn't let her say word one about wishing me a happy twenty-first. It was already a week past the day. To start talking about it so long after the fact would have been pointless. It needed to have been done on October 10th or no day at all, that's how I felt. Even a week after I was thinking that I was going to regret not making a bigger deal out of it. It's much the same way I never made a huge deal about prom or homecoming or any of my high school events. It's much the same way I never made a huge deal over any graduation before college. And it's much the same way I never made a huge deal out of a good deal number of days that should have very well been important to me. I don't regret not living because, you know, I've done quite a few things off the list of things I've always wanted to do. They might not be extravagant, but they are mine, so they all felt special to me. Nope, what I regret is not attempting to memorialize them more. What I regret is trying to play them off as being no big deal.

Yes, I was hurting on the actual day of my birthday. I wanted to put myself to sleep so I could just start over with the ordinary day on the eleventh.

But on all these other important days I've always taken steps to downplay their significance when I should have been buying wholeheartedly into them. I have all these habits to attempt to make every day seem like the next, even when they aren't.

I purposely don't say bye to people I know I won't be seeing for awhile. People going off to college, moving away, or even about to die, I have truthfully said, "See ya" with the same conviction I would say it to someone I was seeing in an hour. I don't like long good-byes where you have to pour out everything they've meant to you over the years. I can write it (like in this blog) I just can't say it. Conversely, I've said hello to people I haven't seen for years and years with the same amount of feeling I would say it to someone I just saw at lunch. "Hey," is my usual weapon of choice just like "See ya" is.

In fact, I'm not a big fan of any social convention involved with people you haven't seen in ages or aren't going to see in ages. I don't go for the whole, "how have you been?" or "what have you been up to?" or "God, how long's it been?" Worse yet, I don't like making it a big deal when I'm the one who has been absent for a long time. The worst feeling I can imagine after a vacation is the dreaded, "You're back! Tell me what have you been up to?" that happens when I get back to work. My friends know this more than anybody because I've almost trained them to specifically not call attention to any sort of duration. I just want people to treat me like they talk to me everyday, rather than place all this heft behind the first moment we meet after a spell.

I'm the way with any big event. I like planning huge getaways and doing all these great things, but I would rather people treat them as if they're not this huge deal. For instance, when I was taking DeAnn to D.C. for the first time she kept mentioning how everything looked so different. All I kept saying, it's no big deal. She wanted us to embrace the differences and all I wanted to do was get to our eat, watch tv, and sleep like we did back in California every day. Just because we were planning to see all the touristy stuff over the course of the next few days didn't mean we had to make every moment into a huge deal.

That's what I regret about stuff like my twenty-first birthday. I'm so busy trying to ingrain into people's heads not to make a big deal out of everything that concerns me, that when it happens I honestly am surprised at the lack of attention paid to it. It makes me wish I took more pages out of Lucy's playbook, tried to get that spotlight to shine on me more. As much as I protest that I don't want the focus on me, it's only because I'm used to having to fight to make the attention more subdued.

But subdued doesn't mean lacking entirely.

And treating my milestones like they're no "huge fucking deal" doesn't mean they aren't a small deal to me.

I might not want the all-out extravaganza that my friends seem to want when they reach a milestone, but I do want a token memory I can associate with the day. Try as I might, I can't make studying, working, and sleeping into anything but a disappointing twenty-first birthday memory.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers