It Seems, It Seems, That I Can't Shake Those Memories, I Wonder If You Feel The Same Way Too, The Littlest Things That Take Me There

--"Littlest Things", Lily Allen

Reading Miss Cooper's insightful post on Linus and The Great Pumpkin, I was reminded that not only does Peanuts remain the greatest and most historically important comic strips ever--as one friend put it, "someday kids will be studying Peanuts strips in History class--but Linus remains, along with Eeyore, one of the greatest fictional philosophers ever. I always looked to these fretters and worriers to arrive at real gems of wisdom. Even to this day I still quote the scripture of Linus when attempting to mock the people in my life. For example, this gem I recalled when hunting for a lead-in to a e-mail about a certain script I was writing:

I don't like to face problems head on. I think the best way to solve problems is to avoid them. This is a distinct philosophy of mine. No problem can be so complicated that it can't be run away from!

Not to mention, as Miss Cooper pointed out, he thinks in a circular logic akin to my own. Whenever I mention the reason I don't eat vegetables is because everyone who ate a vegetable one hundred fifty years ago is dead now and, therefore, I sincerely believe if you never eat a vegetable in your life you'll live forever, it's only because I've grown up reading Linus indisputable thoughts. Indeed, when Linus writes:

Dear Great Pumpkin, I am looking forward to your arrival on Halloween night. I hope you will bring me lots of presents. Everyone tells me you are a fake, but I believe in you. Sincerely, Linus van Pelt

PS - if you really are a fake, don't tell me. I don't want to know.

it's like I'm hearing my own voice in my head telling me how I'd write the same exact missive.


dreams, dreams
of when we had just started things

However, it's not just because I believe that Linus is an important fixture of the modern world, that I enjoy Peanuts. I enjoy ths strip for the same reason I enjoy The Story Girl and The Golden Road. I enjoy it because it truly is a timeless creation. People don't age all that much in the course of the strip. There's something refreshing about individuals who don't grow noticeably complex as they mature. Call it the Peter Pan syndrome, but I always tend to wax nostalgic about a time in my life where the environment around me wasn't any more complex than what I happened to be learning in class that day or what anecdote I wanted to bring up to my friends at lunch. There was something refreshing about not having to worry about these huge problems facing me. It left me ample time and ample focus to concentrate on my number one favorite topic to ponder--namely, myself.

It seems I was never more in tune with who I was, what I wanted, and where I was headed than when I actually had the opportunity to really mull these questions over. When I was a kid I was even more introspective than I am now. It's a dangerous thought, but I actually felt more in control of my destiny and my desires when I was younger. I had myself figured out pretty well, seeming to suffer less from the pangs of self-doubt that sometimes consume now.

Back then I knew what I was capable of and I knew where my potential lay. I didn't waste my time attempting pursuits I either no interest in or no apparent aptitude for. In stark contrast to these days, where every stab at self-improvement is met with agonizing scrutiny, when I was a kid I had direction and goals. I had a guiding philosophy courtesy of that other wise individual, Eeyore:

Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it.

I never asked to mature: Maturity was thrust upon me. Because of that, every so often I long to steal away to a time when what I did made sense. I long to go back to a time when I understood myself. I don't foolishly concede times were simpler then or I was simpler then. Complexity has always been a hallmark of my persona. What I do believe was that, free from all the undue tangents, I could regain that composure I lack these days.

Maybe that's the other reason I empathize with Linus or maybe I can imagine he can empathize with me when he announces to Sally, "Linus: Life is peculiar. Wouldn't you like to have your life to live over if you knew what you know now?" My only exception would be I'd like to have my life to live over again except I would keep doing it over and over again in exactly the same fashion, always skipping back to the beginning the minute I reached a point when the spotlight seemed less trained on what was happening to me and more on what was happening around me.

It's just like Julian Barnes says, people prefer fiction to real life. I don't want my life to read like a biography, I've always wanted to read more like a novel. I'm not so interested in finding out the complete picture of a person's life as much as I'm interested in finding out that person's best story, the one the encapsulates most of who they are. In my case, I think my best stories were written early on and everything else that came after is pure filler.

And who wants to read that? Certainly not I. I'd rather skip back to the good stuff.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

My Halo's Near, The Coast Is Clear, I'm Out Of Time, Speed Out Of Sight, Don't Leave Me Here, Tides Don't Last Forever, Don't You Know?

--"Kate", Sambassadeur

Sometimes I think I know what it's like to have experienced loss. Sometimes I envision my life to be this period with a lion's share of tragedies. People have always told me I take setbacks harder than most and that I've always suffered from the woe-is-me syndrome. In the recent years, among other goals, I've tried to cut back on feeling sorry for myself, but part of me still believes that no one knows the sorrow I've seen.

Yet it only takes meeting (or re-meeting, as the case may be) someone who has had a real loss to put me in my place.

----

"The only person I can say I've ever really lost was Jennifer," I answered her question.

"Was it difficult?" Brandy continued on.

"I wouldn't know. I don't have anything else to compare it to you. The only other person I know to have died is my grandparents, but I was never as close to them as I was to her. I'd have to let you know when somebody else close to me dies."

I had called her a few days ago to wish her a Happy 27th Birthday. Aside from the first few moments of negligible small talk about how she would be celebrating, the conversation had turned to catching up with her. It had been the first time I thought I had a sufficient enough excuse to actually call her up since she found me last month. Up until then, I had confined my interest in her life to the on-line arena. Now, however, I was wondering why I never bothered to call her sooner. Maybe I'm biased, but I have had the extreme pleasure to have met some fairly interesting and proficient conversationalists. Or perhaps I somehow seek them out? Maybe that's my type when I go about meeting people. Whatever the reason, I was discovering that not only did Brandy have a lot to say about a myriad of topics, but that she had a distinctive set of life experiences that I could not even come close to matching.

The thing that distinguishes Brandy from most of the friends I talk to is that she's an understater. I don't know if that's a real word, but it's the only manner in which I can describe her patois. Unlike myself, she doles out her words in carefully portioned bites, loaded with meaning, yet short on actual bulk. She's much like Hemingway that way. I wish I could be more like that instead of the cavalier advocate for grandiose verbage. My only defense is that we can only write and speak how we are born to write and speak. It's the whole nature vs. nurture debate, and I was born to write in length. My style suits me, just as her style suits her.

"That's true."

"And what about you?"

"I reacted differently."

"That's understandable, Brandy. But, since I don't know you that well yet, I'd like to know, if you don't mind."

"I'd rather not."

"I might help. I've been told I'm quite the listener."

I know--I have this insatiable need to get to the heart of what's bothering people. I don't quite understand if it stems more from my hatred of not being in on a secret or from my god-like belief that I can assist an individual with any and all problems. In either case, it leads me to push, push, push people to the point where they either withdraw or break down and finally tell me what's wrong. I was just hoping she was the type to recognize my concern for what it was and not nosiness.

"It's always going to be something with you, Patrick, isn't it?" she laughed.

"Yes, I am quite the stubborn cuss."

"And you won't be happy till I tell you?"

"Come on, Epcot. I know you want to."

Aside from the brief conversations I had with her when she was eleven and the few bits I had gathered in our IMs and e-mails, I knew nothing of this girl. I was determined to change that fact.

"Remember you mentioned about not going to your friend's wedding?"

"Of course. I tell everyone I know that story. It's probably me at my weakest. What about it?"

"I went through a similar incident."

"Really?"

"Not really the same. Similar."

"Tell me more."

I was struggling to connect it up to how it related to somebody close dying, but I was confident she would connect the dots for me.

"In high school, I'd gone out with Scott. He was nice to me for the first two years and I guess we were friends by the end of that sophomore year. The following summer we started seeing each other. You might have said we were that sick couple that everyone knew we'd end up married someday, the typical high school sweethearts."

"I never had that, but, the way you talk about it, I can totally picture it."

"I was happy. I thought he was it, the one. We had even been planning on what colleges we would attend together. It was going to be perfect, Patrick."

Here, she paused, as if contemplating whether or not she wanted to continue. Like I said, whereas most people you see the subject of who they are in what they present, she is the opposite. You catch a lot of meaning and subtext in the absences, in the pauses. She is like an art class study in negative space, on getting the picture in what is left out instead of what is left in.

"You write stories. Tell me what you think would happen next if you were writing this."

"I don't know--maybe he cheated on you?"

"No."

"Did you cheat on him?"

"No. No one cheated. Guess again."

"He didn't get into the school you both wanted to go to?"

"No. We both became Wolverines."

"Then what?"

"I met Joshua," she said.

I have never heard anyone say three words and conjure as many pictures in my head as Brandy did when she said those three. Not only did I get a sense of how special Joshua was to her, but I knew, I just knew that he was the love of her life. I only wish I could say something akin to that and have as much meaning attached it. I only wish I could have someone say that about me someday. It was the kind of revelation that I almost didn't want to ask up a follow-up question to. I thought it would kind of be insulting to her to hash it out for me. In her mind I knew, telling me she met Joshua carried with it all the explanation necessary. It probably would have lessened the moment to have her got into detail about how the meeting went or what he said. Her point was made. She met Joshua and that was all I needed to know.

"And then there was no need for Scott, right?

"Right.

"I tried to let him down easy, but there was no question who I belonged with. Scott was nice, but Joshua was all of it. He was everything."

A bit of romanticism probably is the common thread through most of my friends and Brandy has it in spades. It's probably the reason why I get along with her so well and why I found it easy to pick up things again with her. Not only does she get nostalgic enough to bother to look up someone she only met the once, but she's also enough of a romantic to relate what is probably the most heartbreaking story I've ever heard someone tell with only a modicum of hesitationg. Most people I know it takes them a long time to open up about things that are sad for them. They can be the most glaring social butterflies, but when it comes to the heavier topics of their personal lives, they turn into the classic wallflower. Then there are lucky (or unlucky) few who have this romantic and idealistic viewpoint. They look at life as if they were inspecting it, mulling it over and over again, to discern as much meaning out of it as possible. They are also the people who have no trouble sharing as much of their life through words or pictures or even song with other people. It's this search for meaning that leads them to share this information quite freely. It's precisely because they haven't found what they're looking for that they turn to other people to help them find the answers. They figure that, if they let everybody in on their secrets, somebody will stumble upon the key to everything.

I know that's how I am and that's what I use this site for.

I let her statement sink in before I proceeded.

"What happened then?"

"Then Joshua died. Auto accident."

Her voice started to choke up and neither of us said anything for awhile. Yet, through all that time, I never heard her cry. I don't know if she was covering up the phone. Or perhaps it was something simpler than that? Maybe she'd simply cried all the tears she had to cry over him already.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's alright. It happened awhile ago. I'm better now.

"I consider myself lucky. I could have gone through my whole life without meeting him. Then I'd have something to really regret. I had my time and it was good. The best."

"Thank God for small favors, right?"

"Exactly."

She didn't say much about him. I still don't have the sense of who Joshua was. All I know is how she made her feel. But if that's all I have to go on, then I must come to the conclusion that he must have been like she said, everything and all of the qualities you look for in a partner. Maybe that's the best testament one person can ever give to another, that he was loved as much as she obviously loved him.

"And Scott?"

"Scott got married a couple of years ago, just like your Breanne. And just like her, he asked me to come. And just like you, I couldn't."

"Too hard to see him getting married to someone else?" I asked her.

"No, too hard to see me not getting married... to someone. To anyone."


love is the most that I can bear

It's been a few days after I talked to Brandy and that line still gets to me. I think I have it difficult because I feel like the person I was supposed to end up with got married to someone else. I think I have it difficult because people I want have no interest in me. I think I have it difficult because I have yet to meet the great love of my life.

Then I think of Brandy and I think how she must feel.

I think of the great sadness that's now an everyday part of her life and I think of the great joy that's also now an everyday part of her life. I ask myself if one is worth the other. But there really is no choice for people like us, there really is no decision to be made.

Before I hang up with her I ask her, is finding the love of your life worth all the tears it might possibly bring.

"It is. It so is."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And It's A Shame That We Gotta Spend Our Time, Being Mad About The Same Things, Over And Over Again, About The Same Thing, Over And Over Again

--"Over and Over", Nelly featuring Tim McGraw

I wasn't going to write this tonight because it's still so raw, but, fuck it, this site is about what's on my mind and this has been a lot of what's been on my mind.

I hate fighting with Breanne. People were never meant to fight with their friends to the severity we get into it sometimes. It throws off my whole day, my whole weekend sometimes, and almost always it never ends well. We're both too stubborn to allow a happy ending. Inevitably, what always ends up occurring is that one of us will simply forget exactly how upset he or she is and make the first attempt to mend fences. But that resentment is still there. There still exists an animosity that never quite subsides. Because of this, when the next flare-up occurs, all that residual acrimony just gets tossed onto whatever the current forest fire is producing an even bigger blaze than the previous one. It all turns into a vicious cycle where nothing ever gets solved and I end up hating her or she ends up hating--most likely, both.

I don't know--we've never been able to solve that conundrum of how to be equitable without feeling like we've given up our opinions. That unique puzzle continues to go unsolved.

The latest dust-up involves Carly and how I've been beginning to hang out with her more. It's always been understood between B. and I that we don't have a say in who is or isn't in each other's lives. For the most part, I've never made it a priority to maintain a high opinion of her friends or she, mine. I thought that's the way it worked, that because of the extreme distances involved, that it really didn't make sense to ingratiate ourselves into each other's circle of wider contacts. That's why I've never made it a huge secret that I don't care much for her husband. She knows my opinion on him and, because of that reason, I don't feel any particular need to reiterate it over and over again. It's out there, hanging for all the world to see. But lately it's been more and more of Breanne's pregorative to decide who and what the make-up of my friendships should be. And, lately, her target has been my friend Carly.

I won't go into the specifics of what her problems with Carly remain. Instead, I'll focus on my viewpoint on the whole matter. What my big concern is that I happen to think she's a great person, fun to be around, witty and intelligent, and certainly the most open-minded person I've ever met. Which brings me to what I think Breanne's big flaw has always been. For all her great talk on what a friendly person she is, her definition of what's socially acceptable and what isn't has always been very narrow. It's always been a small of contention between us, but lately this has become a huge rift sometimes with us. I worry about her sometimes. I worry that, as she's gotten older, she's becoming less of the person I thought she was, the person who was always more adventurous and more impulsive, and becoming more of the person her mother is. Don't get me wrong--I like her mother. But she was never like that as a kid.

Maybe it's just like I was telling someone today. Maybe it's just that she's come to the same realization that I've been coming to grips with for the last six or seven years. With the embargo on my going to Georgia and her coming with her husband to California, all the best times we've spent together are now behind us. Conceivably, I will never literally be in the same state with her again. Maybe hearing me talk about being able to go places with Carly has raised a few jealous nerves in her.

Yet that's not what I'm appealing to when I write this in an effort to stop the madness and hell that this last weekend has been. My big appeal is to the fact that she used to hate when people would tell me that I should stop being friends with her. What did it matter what other people said about our differences? All that mattered is that I thought she was spectacular, and she the same of me. Now that she's the one who's playing judge, it's like she can't see that she can't make an informed decision without meeting the individual and she's being hypocritical to the point where I don't recognize her any more. Life's too short to worry about what makes another person happy. If she told me something (or someone) was making her happy, I may have my opinions on how genuine that happiness is, but I would never discount her happiness outright, let alone make an effort to sever all ties to that source of happiness. It really doesn't make sense to me.

What also doesn't make sense is that she can call my ability to examine a person's good and bad qualities into question. I think I've reached a certain age where I can differentiate people who are bettering my life and people who are being so much dead weight. I think I know what entails a good friend and what doesn't.

After all, I saw the good in her once and I stuck around when people made it difficult to be her friend. I didn't doubt my abilities then and I'm not going to start doubting them now.

Carly is a good friend and, hopefully, maybe someday she'll be as good a friend to me as you've always been, Breannie.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Gospel, according to FOB

A letter to the FOBilius from the Haterians,
"And so it came down from the heavens, those happy, eligible, and single shall not be without wench. For he who seeks a life without estrogen will be outcast as a penis lover or animal rapist. Lightning and thunder will shout throughout the heavens as tears of bu-di-sy juice will rain from the skies... For thou shalt not dost be maketh, unless hast proved to be thy good man, when thy hither to the poo-nany!!! For God will not have you be a caddish whore...

As so, the FOBilius responded,
And why, one free of the chains of female bondage is cast down as a donkey do'er? For insult me do I not cry? Cut me do I not bleed? Yes, likely I will rape thee out of spite. But that is the will of nature. Just as God intended a lilly to spread it's seed, so shalt I. For I am but one man to thole the needs of the gender and do upon those what is done on the nature channel. Whence camest thou? Be cast back to how nature intended and not be tied to the bonds of man. For I will not be tied down by a woman until thou bringeth, and return my rib which was stolen from me.

I Wanna Leave It Up To You, But You Never Seem To Come Through, Why Don't You Finish What You Start, Before This Whole Thing Falls Apart

--"Enough", Dance Hall Crashers

My first writing exercise to see if I can dramatize what was once a short dramatic story. Tonight's selection? Close Your Eyes, I'll Watch Over You, Just Tell Me What You Want Me To Do, Close Your Eyes, Just Remember To Breathe by our very own Breanne.

----

EXT. BREANNE'S BALCONY - EVENING

BREANNE is dangling her feet through the rails over the edge. She is staring blankly at her toes. PATRICK is sitting next to her. He is staring off into the distance.

BREANNE

You have to think I'm a terribly, wicked child.

PATRICK

Not at all. Why would I think that, Breanne?

BREANNE

Oh, everyone does. It's alright, sugar.
I've accepted I'm never going to be a saint

Patrick slides his arm around Breanne's shoulder. He scoots in closer.

PATRICK

Personally, I think sainthood is overrated.
Everyone knows sinners are what's hot right
now. Sinners are what's en vogue, Breannie.

I know why I think you're wicked, but why do
you think you are?

BREANNE

Something Shelly told me.

PATRICK

What did she say?

BREANNE

She said that I wasn't a good girl for
being friends with you. Do you think
that's true?

PATRICK

No, I don't think that's true. Your
cousin Shelly doesn't know what she's
talking about. You can be friends
with anyone you want to be friends
with. She shouldn't tell you you're
not good for being friends with me.
If anything, I'm the evil one.

BREANNE

Why?

Patrick begins to move his arm from Breanne's shoulder and rubs her head playfully.

PATRICK

When people see us walking down the
street, it's not you that they think
is taking advantage of me. They all
think I'm taking advantage of you.
You're the innocent one.

Breanne pulls his arm back upon her

BREANNE

I'm not that innocent.

Patrick nods his head.

Breanne swivels to face him and stares at him for a beat. She moves closer so their legs are now touching.

Patrick turns to look at his leg now touching hers.

They both turn back to look at the horizon.

PATRICK

I wouldn't worry about it, B. You're
alright with me, innocent or not.

BREANNE

I'm just worried that I have holes in the
fabric of my conscience. People
always seem to worry about me being
impulsive.

PATRICK

I think your impulsiveness is cute. It's
one of the reasons I like you so much,
Breannie. And, as for your holes, I
think it's our holes that allow the
light to come through. It's all the
ways you're imperfect that make you
special.

Breanne blushes, turns slightly away from Patrick, and then she turns back.

BREANNE

Can I ask you a personal question?

PATRICK

Shoot.

BREANNE

Do you ever think that someday we'll be more than friends, Patrick?

PATRICK

Sometimes.

BREANNE

And do you ever think what that will be
like if we do?

PATRICK

Perhaps.

Perhaps we'd get married someday and
I'd build you a house where all the
doors and ceilings fit you perfectly
even if I had to stoop to get around.
I think it'd be worth it to give you
a place that was built for you. I
was thinking about that the entire
plane ride here--how you said this
house didn't feel like your home. I
was thinking how that'd be the
perfect gift for you, a house you can
tell your friends and family was
designed with only you in mind.

Breanne removes her legs from the railing and tucks them beneath her. She starts leaning into Patrick.

Patrick turns to face her.

PATRICK

What are you doing?

BREANNE

I'm trying to kiss you.

Breanne kisses Patrick. He turns his head away sharply, clearly not into it.

PATRICK

We can't do this. It doesn't feel right.

BREANNE

Sure, we can, Patrick. I want us to.

She attempts again and is rebuffed.

PATRICK

Well, then I can't, Breanne. Right now
you're like my younger sister. I said
perhaps someday we'll be more, but
right now it feels weird. I'm sorry.

BREANNE

Don't you want me at all?

Patrick only continues to stare out into the distance.

After a short wait during which she receives no answer, Breanne starts to get up. Patrick stands up as well. He embraces her and looks deep into her face.

PATRICK

Don't stare at me and try to breathe
normally, Breanne.

They kiss.

...and scene.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

We Are Caught In A Haze, On These Lazy Summer Days, We're Spending All Of Our Nights Just, A-laughing And Kissing, Yeah

--"So Young", The Corrs

I've always held to the theory that going through life is like riding on the bus. Some people will come on and get off within a few short stops, while others will be with you for almost the entire journey. One cannot always tell where one will part company with these people. In fact, it's almost a certainty that the people one gets to know the quickest will almost always be the people who leave the soonest. Conversely, the people one has to warm up to are often the people with whom one establishes a long-running dialogue. It doesn't invalidate the short, but intense, encounters. It merely means that everyone in one's life stays as long they're meant to and that one must gain from these experiences for as long or as short as they last.

Tara was one of those short-timers. I knew her from a period lasting late in 1996 to just before I met DeAnn in July of 1998, during which we dated briefly. Sometimes it's difficult to capture her significance. She wasn't the first girl I ever went out with. She wasn't the great love of my life. She wasn't the girl who was destined to be in life until the end of time. Nope, I think her greatest legacy was the fact she is the first individual to have ever dumped me. That's a historical milestone that can never be ripped away from her. She beat everyone else to the punch.

Indeed, one could say that because of that fact, because she broke up with me succinctly after only a brief time going out, she's the only woman I've ever loved or claimed to love whom I've ever gotten complete closure from. There's nothing about my relationship with Tara that I still regret or still hold out for hope for. I cannot honestly say that about anyone else.

I think from the very beginning there was a sense that she and I wouldn't last. We were coming together at very different periods in our lives. I was about to graduate from USC while she was about to enter college. I was thinking about something long-term and she was toying with the idea of playing the field when she got to college. We both should have known better. The situation was rife with the potential for disappointment. That it came when it did shouldn't have been a surprise. We both should have embraced it for the inevitability it was. I've taken to the saying, "sometimes you just can't hold back the river," and that phrase has never been more apt than the situation she and I placed ourselves in.

Like Tara's famous saying goes, "life's a jigsaw puzzle and [she was] still working on the edges." She was still trying to figure out a few things and one of the things she was trying to puzzle through was where I fit into her life. Ultimately, we both discovered that maybe there wasn't a place for me. The crazy thing is I'm okay with that now. During the first few weeks after we broke up, I would have done anything to win her back. I thought she was incorrect and being immature for giving up, but now I see her decision for what it was. She was making the best call with the information she had at hand. All of the signs pointed to the fact that whatever we were sharing at the time was not built to last. It was all an ice sculpture, lovely to admire, but brief in its existence. Somehow she had come to that conclusion before me and I may have resented her for having the foresight to recognize our fate. I was jealous that I hadn't been the one making the call. I was resigned just to follow her lead.

For a time, I thought all I would remember was how she had dumped me over those days in April. I thought that would be her legacy.

However, honestly, what I remember most was taking her down to Santa Monica Pier, spreading out my blanket, and watching the waves roll in under the blackened sky. I hold onto the feeling of the cold, night air against the warmth of our bodies touched up against one another. I take that night with me whenever I go to the beach or whenever I take someone else to that pier at night.

She wasn't just the first girl who ever broke up with me.

She was the first girl and only girl who I think I was with at the right time for the right amount of time. My time with her isn't marred with any sign of fading or fatigue. It isn't cheapened by the experience of falling out of love with her. It came and went like a lovesong. You can't have the song play on forever. You can only enjoy it while it lasts.

I'm glad I enjoyed my time with her because that's all I have of her now.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Cherish The Thought, Of Always Having You Here By My Side (Oh Baby I), Cherish The Joy, You Keep Bringing It Into My Life (I'm Always Singing It)

--"Cherish", Madonna

I've always found it better to write about someone. I've found that some of my best writing comes when I'm focused on somebody in particular--a muse, if you will. Lately, I've found myself deriding works I write here and aside from here because it seems to lack that certain energy that writing in generalities seems to entail. I don't know why, but when I don't have a subject upon which to heap praise I lose all interest in buckling down and crafting something of a merit. I go through the motions, I rely on old techniques that I know are accessible and familiar, rather than seek innovation and originality. That practice alone makes me feel horrible because I hate resting on my laurels on pieces that I could have written ten years ago, instead of challenging myself to new, spectacular heights that I know I'm capable of.

Tonight I'm sad.

I'm in no particular mood to discuss it now as it has been a very long weekend and I'm still trying to sort out what exactly I think and what exactly I should be thinking. I hate being confused and that's where my brain's at right now. I don't do my best work when my mind's crowded with self-doubt, loathing, and crushed hopes so I'm going to dig up something I wrote about a particular muse of mine that really did bring out some of my best work. And, though other people may not think she's worth comment or even the tiniest bit of feedback, she shall ever remain my lovely girl.

It remains one of the brightest things I've ever written. This is for her, about her, and inspired by what the thought of losing her might do to me.

I WILL NOT FORGET YOU
by E. Patrick Taroc

Flush were the smiles upon your face,
Opulent were the laughs they kept--
Such pure grace even as you slept;
Those blessed memories all return.
Hidden thoughts I again embrace,
Though their spark no longer does burn,
And discover their wealth unmarred
And myself only slightly scarred.
You were the brightest star to fade,
Leaving me alone in the eclipse,
The last thing to have left your lips
And you the last to have touched mine.
No farewells were there to be made
For you said we would ever shine,
That even death could be defied
As long as the love never died.

Now along the rill where we came,
Tiny streamlet which we held dear,
Your meaning becomes just as clear
And swift the times flood back to me.
The small river endures the same
Though its course runs it to the sea
As our love onward does now thrive
Though just one of us does survive.

(08/01/04) Copyright 1994, 2006 E. Patrick Taroc

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm The Biggest Star You'll Ever See, So You Can Go, But Know You'll Miss Me, I'll Leave It Up To You, Either Way You Choose, Oh, Honey, I Can't Lose

--"Biggest Star", The Elected

Tomorrow I take my first step into what I hope to be a new adventure. At or around 9:30 a.m. I will walk onto the evil den of Westwood to take a introductory screenwriting class called "Drafting a Career: a One-Day Workshop" basically to see if I have the chops and the initiative to actually take my writing from an overblown hobby and into the career I always envisioned it to be. I've asked many of my friends and acquaintances, and they've all agreed that this definitely is a good endeavor for me to undertake. With that in mind, I have high expectations that this will turn out to be a milestone in my life, when I finally took a skill I've always thought I was good at into a skill I really became great at.

I don't get cocky with many aspects of myself. I know I'm intelligent, but I've also met individuals who are far superior to me in intellect (cough, Jina). I know I'm funny, but there are far too many people put off by dorky sense of humor than entertained by it. About the only characteristic that people seem to agree on is that I write well and that I have some modicum of talent in whipping up stories rather quickly. I don't try to oversell myself, but as long as I've been conscious of it I've never sweated writing anything--even going so far as to begin researching, writing, and handing a 24-page term paper all in the span of 11 hours. It's the only thing one can ever compliment me on without garnering suspicious looks because I happen to agree that there is some germ of ability in me to put thought to paper.

Especially fiction.

----

The first time that I ever thought I could make a living at writing was when I was in Fourth Grade. Up until that time I had only been thought of as the weird kid who was kind of a pervert (in my defense, every boy at that age attempts to look up girls' dresses, just not everybody makes it so mistakenly obvious...). I think that's the reason it took me a long time to discover that I could harness my really overactive imagination for something productive rather than for idle daydreaming.

We had been assigned to write a story in thirty minutes. Basically, we would divide a sheet of college-ruled paper into three sections. The top section would be the introduction to the story. The middle section would be a simple illustration. The bottom section would provide the ending to the story. Knowing that I was a klutz when it came to illustration, I decided to write out the story in full before indulging in my scribbling for artwork. I let the most inane idea come through me onto paper and just worked from there. I wrote a story about a boy who finds an alien by the river and decides to take it him. The meat of the story involved the alien getting into three major mishaps all involving the boy having to hide the alien's presence by blaming it on himself. It was basically Alf, escept in sketch form. For a one-page story, I think it came out rather cleanly and coherently because, by the end of writing it, I knew I had done an above-average job. Especially for a throwaway assignment to test our creativity, I had put a lot of effort into making it into a story I'd want to read.

Oh yeah, the creative touch I was most proud of involving the story was the fact I made the alien look like a yellow donut.

I spent the last two minutes drawing a crude depiction of the alien at the donut box that I knew would tie into my having to recite it later on. Then I turned it into the teacher. She spent five minutes reading it and told me that it was decent enough to read it in front of the class first.

When I hit the part where I had the alien guy look up into the donut box and say, "Cousins!", the whole class burst into laughter. That's when I knew that I had something resembling a gift for writing decent material quickly. It wasn't like I had the scene planned out in my head going into the assignment. I saw the scene in the kitchen one moment and the opportunity just popped into my head. Looking out onto my class and hearing them laugh with me instead of at me made me realize that I may have been onto something.

And maybe tomorrow I'll finally discover what that something is.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Such A Burden To Carry 'Round, The Vestiges Of Dead Dreams, And I Don't Want To Make A Wake Out Of My Life, I Just Had To Let You Go

--"Requiem for O.M.M.2", Of Montreal

It’s such a burden to carry ’round
The vestiges of dead dreams
And I don't want to make a wake out of my life
I just had to let you go

As Carly sang those lines for the second time on the way to the L.A. Weekly/Detour Music Festival this past Saturday, I couldn't help but smile. She had such enthusiasm for the lines and sang with such abandon that obviously she had some affection for the lyrics and it held some deeper meaning for her. For me, I kind of felt like Jules in Pulp Fiction. I just thought they were some cool ass words to say when one was reminescing, but I didn't really get the meaning behind them as I was hearing her sing them. To me, at that time, they were just some lines to a song I wasn't familiar with.

It wasn't until five hours later as I was taken her home later that night and the CD come around again to that song, that I started to really reflect what an insightful statement the words and phrases made and how all of it, the whole verse, could somehow relate to me.

"No, no, I didn't mind you doing that at all, Carly," I told her when she asked if I minded her smoking at the show. "If you'd done that like four or five years ago I would have totally thought less of you. But now I think I've become more accepting. I think before I was just an holier-than-thou jerk about stuff like that. You know what I mean?

"When I was with DeAnn, I was always trying to get her to stop or cut down on all these things because I was so sure my way of thinking was the 'right' way or the 'correct' way."

Carly broke her period of introspection as we were listening to the CD to join in with her take on the matter.

"Yeah, when Andrew and I were first together, he had a huge problem with it too. He was always trying to get me to cut down," she said.

"I've noticed that in all relationships there's always one person that's more open-minded, more adventurous and then there's one person who's more reserved. And it's never the guy or girl who opens up at first, it's always the guy or girl who's more open-minded who agrees to give up stuff more readily. It's like with DeAnn it bothered me so much that she drank, she smoked cigarettes and pot, that it was like a crusade for me to get her to quit all that. And then it's always this other person who's more eager to go with the flow that agrees to it because they're more accepting of change. The conservative one is always the one who imposes their will on the other one, at first."

"Exactly, he and I used to fight all the time about it, at first. But I wanted to make him happy and so I tried to do him the favor of doing what he wanted, but there were times it wasn't enough."

When I was with DeAnn I think I saw things in black-and-white terms. There was always my way and her way, and that meant to me that there was one right way and wrong way. I didn't entertain the possibility that both of us could be right for ourselves. I thought if she disagreed with me, then she was wrong. I came at the whole couple having two opinions as being a sin against nature. I actually thought when two people are in a relationship that there were certain areas they had to be of one mind. Back then I thought a couple having differing views on any topic was the exception and not the rule.

I was basically set in my ways and I would not budge.

"But then you know what eventually ends up happening or at least what happened to me, Carly?"

"What?"

"I think inevitably the more conservative person begins to loosen up because he or she has to. It just becomes too hard to be so strict all the time. He starts to come out of his shell out of necessity. The only bad part about my change was that part of the reason I loosened up was because she and I broke up."

"You're a wise man, sir," she told me after nodding her head. "Yeah, eventually Andrew loosened up too. Eventually, he started to go along more with my getting stoned and other things."


I remember every day

I began to think about the whole beginning of the conversation where I mentioned that she and I probably wouldn't have been friends for the mere fact she drank, she smoked, and she did pot. There would be no way in hell I would have been okay with it as little as five years ago. What changed? Why was I different? Those are the questions I started to hear in my head.

Was it her? Carly is a great person, full of more insight than she lays claim to and possessing an honesty I haven't found in too many people. Yet I don't think she's ever been this life-changing personality who elicits change in the people around her.

It had to be me. Something about me had to be different.

Then I realized what it was. Up until just about when I met her, I had been around the same group of people I've always had in my life so I never thought my attitude on vices had changed. Sure, I'd started drinking some in the last few years before I met her, but it was still something that I never thought I would get full-swing into. But when I met her, I started to see her as a new element in my life that I never had before, somebody who spoke about a life that I could have had when I was younger.

Here was an individual who, despite all these supposedly "bad" habits, still managed to become a decent, intelligent, funny, and compassionate person. They hadn't ruined her, just as they probably wouldn't have ruined me if I'd just been more open to trying out things, jumping in feet-first rather than wading into things like I usually did.

All my life I'd been afraid of being ruined by the evils of alcohol or smoking or drugs, when, in reality, it may have been the being afraid that was my ruin. People like DeAnn and others, who I felt so superior towards because I was able to remain chaste in the prescence of temptation, were strewn as casualties along the road to my moral highground. I'd missed out on so many great moments and great opportunities because I was too stubborn to think that what a person did in his or her friend didn't necessarily make them any more or less worthy of knowing. I'd made a shambles out of my personal network because I was too pig-headed to see past a person's lifestyle to his or her character.

This past Saturday was a blast. I had my beer. Carly had her smokes. And we listened to some great music. Not once did I feel the need to think less of her because she was pulling out her pipe every other hour. Not once did I wish to tell her she should stop. She was a person I liked. She was a person who was my friend. That's all I needed to know.

On the ride home with her I began to see my life before as some trip that had gone horribly awry. I don't know if DeAnn and I would have worked out had I been more accepting of who she was and what she liked, but I certainly think that we would have gotten along better and all of it wouldn't have ended as terribly as it did. I started to see that maybe, just maybe, Carly is my second chance at being the kind of person I would be proud to know, somebody who doesn't judge people on one or two aspects of their life, but instead judges them as a whole.

I mean--I think that's what she does with me and other. I'm sure I've told her a hundred anecdotes, incidents, and assorted stories that eighty percent of the population would think I've went too far or what I did was less than a decent person would do. But she's never once held my history or my personality against me. Maybe that's what makes it easier for me to do the same. She may be younger than me, but I think she's figured out at her age what it's taken me all these extra years to come to grips with.

If you want your life to be better, you have to let go of what you expect it to be. You have to let go of how you think everyone should act and everything should work. If you want your life to be better, you just have to let it be better.

Letting go of worry is a big step for me. I'm a fretter by nature. Before, I always used to worry about the friends I hung out with, the girls I dated, when I would see them again. With DeAnn it became an obsession to make sure we made plans for the next time we went out, that the next few weeks were all mapped out and to make sure that all her free time was monopolized by me.

I know I've changed in that regard too because, for the most part, I see Carly like once every five months or so. Most of the time it's spur-of-the-moment plans and most of the time we never leave with any idea when the next time we might see each other might be. Also, there is an inherent time limit on how long we remain friends because by next year she'll probably be moved away to college and there's a good chance I might never hang out with her again after that.

Instead of fretting that, though, I'm just happy when I do see her. She's always a delight when I'm around her and she makes every conversation interesting. If I only know her seven more months, I think it will have been seven months well spent. It will be sad to let her go, but I think it would be sadder if I still had it in my head that I need to keep my friends as tight to me as possible, smothering them in my attention. I stopped worrying about if she and I are going to be friends a long time and I've decided just to be okay that we're friends now. That's what's important.


memories don't go away

"I think in the end, Patrick, it's better that Andrew and I broke up when we did because letting go of people is how we learn to live. I think it's in the broken moments of being upset and when you're hurting that we're most alive. It's living in that broken time, when we don't know how to deal with the situation in front of us, that we learn to move forward. Yeah, it sucks to be hurting over him, but it's for the best, I think. I think it's what's best for me."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

If It Isn't Love, Why Do I Feel This Way, Why Does She Stay On My Mind, If It Isn't Love

--"If It Isn't Love", New Edition

"I know what you mean, though, Heidi. People who only talk about what's best and brightest in their lives are only telling half the story. You can only put a positive spin on so much, you know?"

We were sitting between the aisles of the book store, working hard at pretending to be working hard when all we wanted to do was be settled somewhere talking about the more important things in life like love, gossip, and stupid, corny jokes. You start working with someone, forced to spend six to eight hours of your day with the same person shift after shift, and you stop running out of inane banter to trade. Fairly soon, your conversations progress to the state where you're exchanging dearly intimate details of your life that you normally wouldn't divulge to a person you haven't know for more than a year. That's how it was between us. We spent too many hours getting to know each other while we were helping open the store that, when it came time to actually work beside each other in the trenches, the only thing we had left to talk about was the gory, cynical details about what a mess our lives were.

I'm sure our supervisor could hear us, even all the way up at the register, but as long as we pretended to be stocking and not blatantly just sitting on the stools chit-chatting, we were kosher. One of us would stand up and slowly put away the books one-by-one, while the other would be slowly organizing the cart into pre-determined sections. Of course, what would normally take a two-man team about thirty to forty minutes to finish, we managed to stretch into two even two-and-a-half hours.

"Yeah, that's my point. I'm all for sharing happy stories. But sometimes I want the sad or angry stories too."

I looked at her face--the magnetic grey-green eyes; the shortly cropped, dirty blonde hair; the strong, but warm face--and I remembered why it was such a joy to talk to her. The girl could make anything sound vital to the existence of mankind. Also, she had this husky, breathy voice that made everything sound fraught with more intrigue than someone else could.

"Can't forget about those."

"Like the other week you were telling me about how you had or have this crush. Normally, it would stop there, but then you went into detail about just how sure you and her wouldn't work out. Most people wouldn't have gone there. Most people wouldn't want to burden others with their problems. Yet that's the stuff I like to hear. That's the important stuff," I heard her say.

"And all the rest is fodder."

"Exactly. How's that going, by the way?"

"Crap with a chance of B.S. tomorrow."

"That good, huh?"

"Well, I told you it's a hopeless situation."

"Hopeless or helpless? You can't give out on hope, Patrick. There's always a chance."

I took a seat on the bench across the cart from her, pretending to organize the other side of it. I didn't much like standing for this part. I don't know--when you're trying to share intimate details of your life with someone, it's always better to face them. Standing up wouldn't have been doing my due diligence to the gravity of my plight.

"Well, what do you call it when this person, this girl, you've known for years suddenly strikes as being worthy of more? I don't think it's fair to just spring it on her. Not after years of friendship. I couldn't do that to her."

"And you're sure she doesn't feel the same way?"

"Not a snowball's chance in hell."

"Then I say you'll have to let it go for now until a time she feels differently."

"It's just difficult because it's all I think about. And part of me doesn't believe it."

"Doesn't believe it because if she doesn't feel the same way by now, then maybe she'll never feel it?"

"Exactly. And maybe because she doesn't feel it then maybe it isn't real?"

She laughed. At first, I thought it her making fun of my sorrow in an attempt to alleviate the dourness of the situation. But then she got up and walked over to my side of the cart and began putting books away near me. I watched as she turned her head slightly towards me and continue the conversation.

"I've been exactly where you are. I've been to that place between doubt and hope, and I've looked at myself in the mirror and asked whether or not I can afford to ruin things with this guy. The most important question you can ask yourself is if going after a relationship the best thing for both of you or just for you. I'm all for telling someone how you feel, but if it's only going to hurt things then why do it?"

"Well, did you do it?"

"Not yet. But I've got another problem to deal with it."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, Miss Heidi."

She sat down beside me, like the spider to my Miss Muffet, or, more precisely, she pulled up another bench to sit down beside me. Normally, we weren't this brazen in just having a conversation with one another. Nomally, the practice of one person's butt on the seat and one person's face to the shelves gave the appearance that we weren't just goofing off. However, we'd been caught before for taking too much time with one another's interest and not enough interest in actually doing our jobs. Yet despite all they did--separating us, giving us two different carts to shelve, or putting one of us back on register--we were right back at it soon. If we didn't go back to our habits later that day, you could be sure we went right back to it the next day.

Finally, I think it just became easier to monitor how much we were slacking off rather than try to ban it outright.

When she sat down beside me I knew I was in for something more poignant from her than the usual banter we traded. This suspicion was confirmed when we began to whisper our replies to one another rather than let people in the next aisle hear us.

"Did you ever come across the situation where you thought somebody was perfect for you, but then you spent some time with them and realized that they probably make a better friend than boyfriend?"

"Can't say that I have. I'm usually on the other end of the spectrum."

"Well, that's where I'm at. I like this guy, but part of me thinks that all the behaviors I think are cute in a friend would be annoying in somebody I was dating. It feels strange to say. I think I have a double standard when it comes to guys."

"How so?"

"Like it's okay for him to act a certain way around me because we're not serious, but, if we were serious, it'd be a different story. Does that sound right to you?"

"Kind of. Maybe there are people that we feel an attraction to as friends, but don't quite feel once we move beyond that stage. Maybe the attraction we feel is the hope of something more."

"But then the reality sets in and all you're left with is the wish you had the hope again."

This time it was my turn to laugh.

"Remind me to never have a crush on you, Heidi, because the way you talk we might be long-lost cousins or something."

She laughed at that remark and this time we both stood up. We both began to put away the rest of the cart.

I liked looking at her at times like those. It really felt like we'd settled something, came to some deep answer about the mysteries of the universe, when possibly all we'd come up with was the notion we were both deep enough to have such thoughts. It didn't mean the thoughts were of any consequence, but the knowing that we had the capacity to challenge ourselves emotionally was enough of a milestone for us. We were fumbling our way through the experience of learning love and maybe the baby steps we were taking were like the baby steps of youth. It didn't matter how exactly far we got. All that mattered is that we were taking our first steps somewhere.

"Do you think that's what love is?" I asked.

"What's love like?"

"Maybe it's when two people have that implicit understanding that they feel the same way about each other. Until that point is reached, maybe it's all conjecture and hearsay."

"I think so. I think before you get to that stage, you're only imagining what it can really be like. You can like someone or even date someone, but, until you reach that point, you're only trying to get to it."

I paused for a second or two.

"I really wish I could get her out of my mind. She's just so cute, so everything I want in a girl."

"You'll be fine. I have faith that you'll find someone, maybe her, maybe not. You'll find someone, though."

It wasn't until five minutes later that she ventured further thoughts on the matter.

"I've been considering your problem, Patrick, and I think that you should tell her. I'd want you to tell me if you had a thing for me."

"Even if it meant these lovely chats had to come to an end?"

"Even if. If I can't take a little honesty then I'm no kind of friend to you and neither would she be."

"It's nice to know that if there were ever sparks between us I have your blessing."

She didn't say anything further about resolving my problem after that, but I put in my last two cents regarding her problem.

"And in regards to your problem, I think maybe you should give him a shot to be the man you want him to be. Maybe he'll act differently if you act differently towards him. After all, I think if he knows there are higher stakes involved he'll take you more seriously."

"You think so?"

"I really do, Heidi."

And that was the end of our serious talk for the day. The rest of our time spent on the cart was spent joshing around.

It was back to crawling once again for us, knowing that tomorrow or perhaps the next day we would try again at figuring out the way the whole process of caring about someone really was like.

Sure, we'd stumble and fall. However, the more we talked about it and discussed it, the more we had each other as a soundboard, the more we began to figure out it's a process for everyone. We also began to figure out that maybe it's a process that never really gets solved, like some journey to the horizon, where you reach one goal only to have it be replaced by another. We were keen on finding out, though, and it was through that curiosity which was fanned on by Heidi and the rest of my circle of friends that I began to formulate exactly what I wanted in a woman and what I wanted in myself.

Maybe it wasn't the talk that changed my life. Maybe there isn't one specific conversation you can point to that gives you all the answers to all the questions. Maybe the quiet talks like this with people you trust are all you have to go on.

And maybe the quiet talks like this with people you trust are all you really need.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You May Think That I'm Out Of Hand, That I'm Naive, I'll Understand, On This Occasion, It's Not True, Look At Me, I'm Not You

--"Regret", New Order

I was bored. We all were.

We'd been sitting and waiting for the plane to board, but that wasn't to take place for another three hours. It was agony, pure agony, not being able to leave and not wanting to stay cooped on the ridiculously old and unwanted seats at the gate. We tried passing the time talking, then playing card game after game, and eventually we'd resorted to the grumbling annoyance of actually listening to our parents and sitting still in silence. As aforementioned, I was bored and out of boredom comes some of my most inspired ideas. Though, to be fair, I'm not quite sure who thought of the notion first. It seems like something I would think of, but I don't want to claim credit when I'm not fully certain I deserve it.

Basically, the four of us, my brother and my two cousins were sitting there when we were sent to return one of the smart carts provided back to the stand from whence it came. When the shiny quarter came dropping out once the cart had locked into place, we had found our new diversion. Sure, a quarter doesn't seem like much, even adjusting for the late 80s economy, but it wasn't the monetary rewards we were after. We were looking for a diversion.

We began our search scanning for abandoned carts at gates up and down the terminal we were in. Slowly we began to find a couple. We would rack them up and return them two or three at a time. There we were, running through the airport, carts in front of us, trying to return them as quickly as possible in order to look for some more. Of course, we divided the loot evenly four ways. Yet, at a quarter a pop, it was slow-going to say the least. This continued for about an hour until slowly all the abandoned carts began to become more and more scarce.

Not wanting to go back to our parents and still with two hours to kill, we all knew some new tactics would be needed if we were to further our cause. We began asking people who were about to board if they were done with their carts. This tactic too soon began to pay dividends as group after group relented us to doing them a favor. I daresay that some of them may have even though we were sanctioned by the airport as a courtesy service as I remember being offered a tip or two. After we'd grown more brazen, the wagon trail of carts we were returning soon became eight to ten deep with all four of us needed to keep them in line. This facilitated even bigger rewards for less effort, as we stopped having to search high and low and allowed the carts to come to us. All in all, it was turning into a really fun time. By the time this stage of the operation came to an end, we'd pocketed almost twenty dollars between us.

I think where it all went wrong is when we stopped asking people if they were done with the carts. We would watch a couple or maybe a family unload their luggage onto the baggage check-in and then we would zoom in to abscond with their cart before they had a chance to complain. More than once, we'd watch them scratch their heads in bewilderment as to how swiftly we reclaimed their carts. From there, it was a short leap to emptying the carts ourselves while their backs were turned and then getting the hell out of Dodge before they realized what us guttersnipes were up to. It became like a game to us. People started warning other people that we were trying to steal their carts and then the yelling and chasing would began. But it wasn't like we were trying to steal their luggage; we were doing it all for quarters. It seems silly, but it became sort of our mission for the night.

This continued for another couple of hours until something happened to spoil our fun.


it's nothing I regret

I had started to empty this one family's cart while they had settled into some nearby seats to talk among themselves. I had it almost completely empty when their young son, who couldn't have been more than five or six, saw what I was doing. Upon his face came this look of terror I hadn't thought I could cause in a person. He must have assumed I was trying to take his belongings. Yet instead of warning his family, he just continued to stare at me like a deer caught in headlights. To him I had become the big, bad monster and he was powerless to stop me. I stopped in my tracks. Hell, I almost started to put the items back, so profound was his look of terror. Yet I continued to the bitter end and within moments I was pushing their cart back to the rack.

I don't know why I continued. I know why I didn't just stop then and there. All I can say it was one of the first times I realized that there is a part of me that is sufficiently willfull and puts what I want to do before what most people would consider the right course of action. That night, at that moment, it was more important to me to take their cart for a stupid quarter than to put that boy's mind at ease.

It's nothing I'm proud of, but it's nothing I regret either. At most, I can justify my actions by saying that I may have inconvenienced them for a spell but I did not do any lasting injury.

Maybe, just maybe, I may have scarred that kid's psyche for life, but, the way I look at it, if a kid is that scared about a guy taking his cart then he has more serious problems to deal with than me.

The four of us stopped stealing carts after that. Mostly because it was almost time for the plane to take off, but it also stopped being fun after that incident. Before we knew it, it became less of something that the people we were basically stealing from could laugh at to something where we were quite literally being hated for. At the time, we sloughed it off as the misunderstandings of old fogeys who couldn't see we were merely trying to pass the time. But I'm starting to see that it might have gotten out of hand and turned from something purely fun into something a little nefarious.

I'd like to think that if I had a chance to do it over again I might have returned that kid's cart. But something tells me that that part of me that doesn't give a fuck about people I don't know is still alive and well. He might not come out as often as he once did, like that one night in the airport, but he still makes an apperance upon occasion.

It's just who I am and I know that.

My name is mojo. I steal carts and I like it.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Devil's mark

I knew one day, the sins of the past would catch up to me. Going house to house coveting all my neighbors wives over and over again, sometimes multiple times in one night. I was doing his evil deeds...

Bad karma will eventually catch up to you and leave you scarred naked in the gutter with an eternal mark to show... "I'm a bad, bad man..."

Being a pawn of evil, I'm no different. I was recently given the mark. The sign that says, "Will work for naughty spankings..." which has been burnt into my skin as...


SATAN'S HAND JOB!!!

Yes. Ol' Lucifer decided to use his mystical satanic ways to use burning hot oil and nut all over my arm. A scar that will most likely be carried with me the rest of my life, or until I get really drunk and somehow get my arm chopped off. Which ever one first!

But still, I am lucky. If I hadn't used my arm to shield myself I would have been stuck with SATAN'S FACIAL! And that's just not fun unless it's the real thing...

She Was A Friend, Stabbed Backs And Broke Plans, She Would Give You Her Coat, Or Put Nails Through Her Hand, She Was Wise, Full Of Magic And Life

--"Coughing Colors", Tilly and the Wall

October 2nd, 2006

Dear Friend,

Yes, I've noticed it too, how we laugh less like we used to and raise our voices maybe more than any two friends are supposed to. Such things have not escaped my attention. Perhaps it's like you said when you said it was par for the course and that the smoothest road in the world will still have bumps, but something tells me it's much more than that these days. Something tells me the little annoyance, the petty put-downs, and the brief fights we've been having are all symptoms of a more severe condition. What that is, I have no clue. All I know is that there are times like today when I feel, I can feel, that you seem to know what's best for me and you are trying so hard to tell me what the right way to run my life is. In other words, you're trying so hard to tell me how you would do it. And it just about drives me crazy that you think you are so qualified to tell me how to fix my mistakes when, in most cases, I never really saw them as mistakes in the first place. This is not to say I don't make mistakes, but what I consider mistakes and what you consider mistakes are more often than not the same things.

Sometimes I hate you for that. Humility has never been a strong point of yours, has it? You parade your life and how well it's worked out for you in front of me. Then you offer it as proof that you've got all the easy answers. Then you discreetly suggest that maybe if I take a page out of your book that I'll be as successful, as happy, and as fulfilled as you claim to be. As if it were that easy. What you don't understand is that it isn't that easy. My life isn't that easy. I don't know if anyone has led your brand of charmed life except you. Yes, you've had your hardships, but I also can't help but be jealous of how well circumstances have pulled you out of it. When you fall, it only serves to lead to you jumping higher, whereas, when I fall, I seem to always be the one who breaks my ankle.

Maybe that's part of it too. Maybe I'm a little jealous of you, of how happy you seem to be. That's always been part of my personality, wasting my time bemoaning my sorry fate instead of doing something about it. I'd rather throw stones at your treehouse instead of building my own. I can't help it, though. There's still a part of me that thinks your life could have been our life. I don't know if I'll ever get that over my head. It'll probably just consume until I'm an old man and die of bitterness. Wouldn't that be appropriate?

You're right, I said a lot of things to you today that weren't designed to be critical, but only to be mean. And, yes, you're right, I haven't been that way in quite a long time. I don't know what it was about today. I felt that old, familiar short fuse being lit and then it was over. Fairly soon, I was the dumbass jerk raising his voice over the phone, cursing you out over the stupidest things, and, yes, hanging up. It goes without saying that I apologize. I'd like to say that's not like me. However, it is just like me and we both know it. I thought I'd grown out of it, yet it never seems to outgrow me. Old habits dying hard and all that, you know? This won't be the part where I call out your errors and what you could have done better. We also both know that that will come in time. You may be a wench, but at least you're a wench who can recognize her own faults given enough time.

For the record, I am not glad when you're unhappy and I don't intentionally start these things to make you cry. It's not my intention to ever push things that far. It always just seems to end up there, especially lately.

Maybe we're just getting too old to pretend that the small things don't matter to us. A part of me still hurts when someone I have an immense fondness for talks about being with another person. It's been a rough week for that kind of thing all around--not just with you, but with her too. It's like I always think I can be that cool friend with whom you can discuss anything in front of you. I always think I can play it low-key when you talk about being with him. Inevitably, though, my thoughts always race back to the idea of "why can't it be me?" Hearing it from her for the past couple of months, I thought I'd kept a handle on my self-interest, but it finally came to a head yesterday. I finally told her that one day--not right now, maybe not even soon--I want her to think of me as someone interested in her. So I had that running all through my head today.

That's when you started in with all the negativity and all the back-handed comments you sent to my work about how it could only lead to trouble. I tried joking along with you, but eventually you wore me out. I admit it, I snapped. I'd already had my doubts running through my head about it never being able to work out. I'd already thought that maybe I should back off for my own sanity. Yet it's different when you make a plan because you think it's a good idea and when somebody is giving you an ultimatum about ceasing or else. It isn't fair to parlay my faith in your judgment to ridicule me and my opinions. I know I'm a dork and I know I chase after rainbows in the dark, but it's still my call. All I ever wanted you and, for the most part, what I've received in abundance from you is for you to support me in whatever decisions I make. You've always been good at that. Today you weren't. It's as simple as that.

Maybe that's what these last months are all about. Maybe I've slackened off in getting behind everything you're interested in now. Maybe I've been the bad friend in terms of being there when you needed a cheerleader. And maybe that's what I've been feeling lately from you, that we're no longer in agreement about everything like we once were. We aren't kids anymore. I'd like to think we've grown up, become more mature. With that, perhaps we've taken on worldviews that quite aren't parrallel with each other any more. It happens. I know we always had our differences, but maybe we're starting to feel it more. Maybe there is a fundamental shift in perspective that we're only now beginning to feel the effects of. Could that be it?

The only thing I know is I started having those thoughts that I always do when things start to become too stressful for me to handle. I start to contemplate that life would be easier if you weren't in it. And, you know, when I start thinking that is when I start acting like a complete idiot. That's when I would start freezing you out, stop returning your calls, no longer be in such a hurry to catch up with, and just generally doing my best to pretend that I don't need you any more. That's what I've done with almost every other person I've ever known.

But never with you somehow.

Even when I walked away from our friendship, that phase only lasted months. It certainly wasn't the years that Jina and I stopped talking. It certainly wasn't the forever I have with most people I was once friends with.

I won't lie to you. There are times when I hate your fucking guts. You're egotistical. You like to boil things down into the simplest terms. You think everyone can be happy through sheer willpower. You like to give advice that you've never even tested yourself. You commit yourself to such narrow viewpoints sometimes, it drives me crazy. You like to talk over me when you think you're losing a discussion. You're condescending, stubborn, and facetious. You mock everything you don't have a firm grasp of. You grow pensive when you lose.

Yet we're still friends. That's got to say something about the multitude of good qualities you must have, right?

I don't know--what you wrote in your letter might come true. We may stop being friends before we die. I don't want that to happen, but you never know. It's just like in Wedding Crashers, you can't predict the future. You can only use the information at hand to make the best decision possible. I really believe that. I can't know if something I do or something you do will cause an irreparable tear in the fabric of our friendship. I can't predict that. I can only use what I know about you and what knowing you brings to the table. I can only use that information to decide that having you in my life is worth the pain that having you in my life entails.

Yes, sometimes you make me angry when you're all annoying and when I've just had it up to here with your "quaint" sayings and "too cute" platitudes. Yes, sometimes you make me angry when you call me morally bankrupt and lacking all perspective. Yes, sometimes you make me angry when you shove in my face your latest crowning achievement. And yes, you make me angry when you refuse to listen to anybody else's voice.

Yes, sometimes you make me sad when you reminesce about how much we used to be in love with each other. Yes, sometimes you make me sad when you talk about your other life with him. Yes, sometimes you make me sad when I realize that I'm not the last person you say good night to any more. Yes, sometimes you make me sad when I realize that you're the only person that makes me this sad.

But being occasionally mad and sometimes depressed are small prices to pay for the richness you bring to my life.


oh you could see it in her eyes
oh yeah i saw it in her eyes

Days like today, when I seriously take stock of how much you're worth to me and consider folding it in, I'm reminded of days of old.

Days like today, when I don't want to speak to you ever again, they never last. They can't last because days like today don't come around often and days like today always get replaced by days like April '95 or December '94 or July '98.

Also, it's on days like today when I know you've lost all patience with me that I remember days like when a lonely guy stumbled on a poem written by a lonely girl and a connection was made. That connection has yet to falter and I don't look forward to the day if it ever does.

I can't promise you there won't be any more hateful words or stinging missives full of unadulterated bitterness and rancor. I can't even promise you that we'll be friends forever. I can only say I'm willing to give it a shot as long as you are--maybe longer.

"So what do you say we try to have it all? Let's jerk one out of the park."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers