How Did You Go So Far Without Your Heart, I Know It's Hard, But You Gotta Do Your Part, I'm Through With Short Cuts

--"New York Minute", Whispertown2000

There wasn't anything easy about the way Joshua and Brandy got along. That's what she tells me anyway. She tells me everyday while she was with him it seemed impossible that the two of them were meant for one another. She had long hours. He worked out of the condo they shared at odd hours, seemingly on a whim. She liked getting directly to the point. He preferred belaboring the point as to give the complete story. She nourished change. He was seemingly stuck in his ways. There were some days where she contemplate the chain of events that lead her to where she was. She would contemplate the possible reasons she might have ever been attracted to him in the first place.

I have no reason to doubt her. Brandy's always been a very forthright person. However, I have debated with her the idea that someone she claims to be her soul mate could have caused her even the occasional bout of agony. Chalk it up to the Romantic in me, but I've always held dear the notion that when two people are meant for each other that they rarely fight. Even if they do, it's the pitifully intangible subjects they squabble over. They fight about where to go to dinner or whether or not to vacation in Hawaii or Colorado. What they don't do is fight about the big stuff. They don't go into depth over differences in opinion and they do go into depth over whose fault something is. They just don't. In my ideal world, I would have people believe that the person I was destined for get along swimmingly without a hint of trouble. I'd like to believe in that world.

She thinks that's why I have so many missteps with the people I've gone out with. I try too hard to peg people into these holes I've created. Then, when they dare not to fit, I turn them loose. Coming from a doctor, the advice that there are some ailments that were never meant to be corrected seems incorrect somehow. After all, if a young woman's inability to calculate the tip bothers me, isn't it my duty to show her how it's done? Or if another young woman's predilection runs to getting me to become a fanatic of NASCAR do I not have the right to turn the tables and actually attempt to break her of her fanaticism? Isn't complete happiness the reward for being patient enough, working hard enough, to find the woman of your dreams?

Brandy says no.

Brandy says that there is no perfection that one can stumble upon. She says that the person you were meant to end up with is also the person you meant to drive you the craziest you've ever been sometimes. Simply because they don't agree with you or necessarily like you all the time doesn't mean they don't love you. It's when you can for the most part accept their idiosyncracies rather than change them that you know you've found someone worth hanging onto. As she likes to say, love never means having to say you're sorry, but it also means never having to say you'll try to be better.

She's the only person I've ever met who has been completely happy with the way her life has turned out. Me, if the person I thought I was supposed to spend the rest of my life died on me, I'd be devastated. She only thinks about now and then. To her the times they spent arguing or disagreeing are just as sweet as the times they spent in each other's arms. To her it wouldn't have seemed as special if their relationship had all been hearts and giggles, it wouldn't have seemed as substantial if the entire duration had consisted of nothing but fluff. She's glad to have the hills and valleys of their journey together. She says she'd much rather have that than a flat road the entire way. Sure, you might complain a bit about the ups and downs of an arduous journey, but you'll also remember it for being so difficult and for having gone through it. No one remembers a walk that's made easily. You might as well have walked down the block and back. She asks me to believe that adversity is what cements two people together. She asks me to believe that there are no short cuts, no easy fixes, or simple answers.

I loved Joshua, but we didn't always get along, she tells me. I still wouldn't change anything, though. He will always remain the love of my life and no one will ever compare to him.

And you know what? I finally believe her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I've Been Looking So Long At These Pictures Of You, That I Almost Believe That They're Real

--"Pictures of You", The Cure

One genre of music I've come to appreciate in my life is the new wave classics that formed the background music of my growing up. Bands like The Cure, Depeche Mode, Psychedelic Furs, &c... for me never go out of style. I can hear one of their songs and still maintain that it holds up just as well as it did fifteen, even twenty, years ago.

On that very compelling reason alone I probably would have gone to see the new Tom Hanks produced British film, Starter for Ten. I probably would have gladly paid my eleven dollars, gone to the Arclight, and sat for close to two hours listening to their amazing soundtrack. With tracks from The Cure, The Smiths, Psychedelic Furs, Tears for Fears, Echo & The Bunnymen--it's a veritable who's who of the music that was very much part of the landscape of 80s. As I sat watching the movie, I kept on commenting to myself how well the soundtrack blended into the story. I also kept agreeing with the choices made. Each song, just from my own life, was like a audio shorthand to what type of emotion the characters were experiencing. As soon as the first few notes played, I remembered what kind of scenes played out for me while that song was playing and, damn it all, if I didn't see that same type of scene playing out before my eyes.

Aside from the music, though, I had a skulking suspicion that this movie was right up my alley for another reason.

I'm a sucker for coming-of-age movies and this movie had coming-of-age stinking off of it from a mile away.

From the official site:

Starter for Ten is a romantic comedy set in the mid-eighties about a working-class kid (James McAvoy) as he navigates through the turbulent first year at University. On his way to achieving his long-held ambition to appear on University Challenge, he falls in love with his beautiful teammate and forms a plan to win her heart through his advanced general knowledge skills. Starter for Ten is a charming coming of age comedy about loyalty, class, falling in love and the difference between knowledge and wisdom. Based on David Nicholls best selling novel and directed by newcomer Tom Vaughan.

there was nothing in the world
that I ever wanted more
than to feel you deep in my heart

As I was driving home from the film last night, I was trying to figure out where this obsession with coming-of-age stories stemmed from. It's been so long that everyone who knows me knows I like coming-of-age stories, that I had forgotten myself what was the inciting incident, to use the business parlance. I couldn't remember what pushed me down this path to this adolescent melodrama addiction. I sorted through my memories and came to the conclusion that I wasn't born this way. Sure, I liked shows like The Wonder Years and movies like Stand By Me, but early on I never made a conscious effort to soak up as much of the genre as I could like I do now. Back then, quality work was just quality work and I never made distinctions about what I was seeing. It wasn't until later on that I started to sort out the kinds of stories I immediately gravitated towards.

Where it started I believe is in the idea that I never really had a good coming-of-age tale to tell people. I got older, definitely, but I didn't have tales of big romantic troubles and processes of growth I had to battle through. Back in my teens and earlier than that, I had some hiccups along the way, but nothing that made any sense if told in isolated incidents. The closest I came to a good heartbreaking story of learning to grow up was the story of my being too shy to come out at the bathroom my first school dance. Even that, though, was not as traumatic as I'd like to believe it to be. It doesn't scar for life. If anything, I employ in the same way I use any other anecdote, for purposes of amusement and not confession.

That absence of anything concrete I could point to as a story of growth and change is the foundation for a lot of my character. I think it's the reason why i gravitate towards people younger than me as acquaintances and friends. I live vicariously through them whenever they regale me with tales of how they coped with adversity in matters of the heart and soul. The first of these friends was Jina, who is five years younger than me. I think that's where it started. Yes, she was intelligent and, yes, we communicated easily. However, a lot of my initial interest in her was the fact she was going through experiences I never really felt I had gone through. I came to fall in love with hearing about this other life that everyone else seemed to lead that I never got a chance to. Everyone who came after her, followed the same pattern, even to this day. Breanne fascinated me to tears with her stories of struggling against her parents for a semblance of independence, whereas my own struggles for the same rights with my parents were relatively painless. Tara confessed to me all her insecurities about starting college and losing friends from high school, of trying to forge her own identity, whereas I made up my mind rather quickly about going to USC (maybe too quickly) and never really felt any huge swell of sadness at leaving most of my high school buddies behind. DeAnn spun tales of getting into trouble that I never would have dreamed of even attempting. And, Carly, who is some fourteen years younger than me, I've admitted that one of the biggest reasons I think we're friends is the fact she doesn't mind sharing some of what her life entails. Looking back, I seem to make friends pretty quickly with people who have lead interesting lives I can mine for stories.

In a sense, watching and writing coming-of-age stories are my feeble attempts to fill a hole in my character. I guess I've always felt a lack of doing terribly impressive or exciting. Somewhere along the way I figured that it was probably too late for me to have my coming-of-age and that the best I could do was try to understand everyone else's experiences. I'm like a sponge when it comes to people telling stories of this nature to me. That reason too is why I got involved so heavily in reading blogs; I crave the intimacy and the raw emotions that other people seemed to have felt that I never got to feel.

I'm not saying I didn't have moments where I felt confused or lost and had to puzzle my way through. But my times always came later than everyone else and when I was in a state of mind more conducive to piece my way through it. I had very few troubling moments in my teens, a little more in college, and even more recently. But I've always felt some or all of those times should have come earlier.

That's the only reason I can give why I'm still drawn to movies like Starter for Ten , because it's almost like Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap. These movies with their characters in turmoil undergoing a transformation is my little way of putting right what once went wrong with my life. For those few hours, I get to feel what it's like to do, say, and feel those things when it could've happened instead of when it actually did.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Is This The Kind Of Fate You Could Contemplate, A Breakdown At My Very Sight, I Promise Hidden Words of Tenderness In Every Single Line That I Write

--"If Looks Could Kill", Camera Obscura

This past Saturday started off horribly. Well, maybe horribly is too strong of a word. I went to lunch with my fellow USC alum, Miss Ilessa, at the Arclight for the express purposes of being able to catch Ghost Rider. Lunch was good so I can't say the whole experience was tainted. It's a bad state of affairs, though, when the highlight of going to the movies is eating lunch beforehand. We had a good talk, got to know her all over again, and then headed into the movie. I won't launch into full detail of how awful I thought the movie was, but I did compare it to "gargling a watermelon, skydiving with a Volvo strapped to your back, and paddling through a sea of broken glass all rolled into one."

Sufficed to say I was one unhappy customer.

Later on, I parted company with Ilessa, to get to the real meat of that day's activities. I drove further on into Los Angeles to the El Rey Theatre on Wilshire to go see my second favorite band in the whole world, Camera Obscura.

And that's when, as they say, things started looking up.

I don't know if I've ever detailed how I got into those plucky minstrels from Glasgow, Scotland, but it's kind of a circuitous route. B. and I were struggling to find a lovely post to grace last year's Mother's Day edition of this site. As always, I suggested we start with a song and work backwards. I knew it wasn't going to be about my mom because, unlike Breanne's mom, I really don't have much to say about mine. I never had the great tragedies or lofty heights that my friend and her mom shared. I'm not much for family in general. My relationship with my mom is what it is, serviceable. Due to this fact, it fell to Breanne to find something appropriately interesting to write. We started scouring the Internet for songs about mothers, loving your mom, and stuff like that. However, we couldn't find anything appropriate. It wasn't until we started doing searches on her mom's name, Jean Holins, that a so-called gift landed right at our feet. We found a song so perfect, so amazing, I still remark to this day that it was some form of serendipity that lead us to the promised land.

That song was this:

--"I Love My Jean" (live on KEXP 2-12-07, probably the most heart-melting version of the song I've heard so far)

And from that song my talented and extremely wonderful friend wrote this:

There's Not A Bonnie Flower, That Springs, By A Fountain, Shaw, Or Green, There's Not A Bonnie Bird That Sings, But Minds Me O, My Jean

That song still brings tears to my eyes, I won't lie. Sure, I know it's only because it's based on an enduring poem by Robert Burns and because it reminds me of Avonlea as well. Yet it's more than that. I'm totally in love with Tracyanne Campbell's voice. I don't know if it's the accent, her unique phrasing of the lyrics, or the fact her voice is in a register reserved for the likes of Allison Krauss, who is still one of my favorite singers. All I know is that from that point forward I couldn't get enough of Camera Obscura. I bought all their albums and downloaded as much as I could get my filthy hands on in a matter of two weeks. Every new song was like finding an old friend and every time Tracyanne, bless her little heart, opened her mouth I was astounded at how beautiful she can make the English language sound. Yes, I'm a sucker for accents and, yes, it doesn't hurt that a lot of the songs she writes touch on the same feelings of loss, regret, forlorness, alienation, and plain stress of life that I seem to always revolve my own writing around, but I can't pay her a higher compliment than saying the reason I like Camera Obscura the most is the fact their music makes me happy.

So it was that I went into my second Camera Obscura show ever on Saturday with high expectations and a twitter in my heart. Their first show had been a gleeful affair and I was hoping this show would follow suit.

I wasn't disappointed.

From "Tears for Affairs" to "Suspended from Class," I was in heaven. Every song sounded as good, if not better, than they did on the album. It was a wonder I got through the whole show without losing my voice because I was singing and screaming right along with the band throughout the entire show. Let me reiterate, I truly think Tracyanne has a unique gift in her voice. It's just pretty, which I know is a simple way to describe a voice, but that's the whole summation of the power and prowess she uses her instrument. She could write a song about garbage heaps and filthy sewers, and all I'd think was I really must see these alluring and dazzling locations she's singing about. The rest of the band also deserves praise. Everyone follows Tracyanne's lead to create a real bang-up job of making wonderful music together. An especially whopping round of applause goes to Carey Lander, the band's keyboardist (and resident redhead... sigh). I didn't know this until I saw their first show, but apparently she handles all the back-up vocals on their albums. I had thought up until that point that they simply dubbed Tracyanne on the recordings. I don't think I was alone in this assumption. Every time I've seen them play, though, Carey has handled her back-up vocals duties with aplomb and determination. It must be rough to be drowned out by such a stong lyrical presence like Camera Obscura's lead singer, but Carey has quite a good voice in her own right. I especially love her backing of Tracyanne in the song "If Looks Could Kill". The two voices blend so well together.

After the show I caught up with Ilessa again and I told her all about my wonderful night over breakfast at one in the morning at The Kettle over in Manhattan Beach. I must have talked her ear off and every word out of my mouth had to be, "you should have been there. It was great." In fact, my only regrets were the facts that I hadn't met her earlier in the month and that the concert sold out so quickly I was unable to procure tickets for her.

Hmmm. There's always next time. Believe me, when they come rolling in again, I'm going to be going to as many shows as possible. I know, I just know, that damn voice is going to haunt me until I can see them live in concert again.

All in all, the day started off sucky, but it ended on one of the most perfect notes I've ever experienced. And all those notes came courtesy of one amazing singer named Miss Tracyanne and one amazing band named Camera Obscura.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Eh, one more for good measure...

"Shine Like A New Pin"

Hey Now, Hey Now, When The World Comes In, They Come, They Come, To Build A Wall Between Us, We Know They Won't Win

--"Don't Dream It's Over" (cover), Sixpence None The Richer

Rachel once said, "Right is right even if no one does it, and wrong is wrong even if everyone does it." I happen to agree with that sentiment. With every fiber of my being I have always advocated for doing what you think is right, what makes you happiest, and what you think is the most advantageous for you. I don't abide making concessions simply because they are easier or because it's what's expected of you. Settling on a solution that benefits everyone or some idea of the greater good is dandy for most people, but it isn't my idea of a goal. As many of you know, I would rather stick to my beliefs even if they don't agree with the population in general than risk compromising my ideals.

I bring this up because there is a situation at work that has left me belittled and, frankly worn out at the end of each day. While I'm there all I do is stress and attempt to get by as best as I can without irritating the wound any more. The originating incident I believed to be a small one, hardly worth the effort my co-workers seem to be exerting in making known their dissatisfaction with me, but I'm hardly the one to be an impartial arbiter of such disputes. I came to work yesterday having already forgotten the whole affair that transpired on Friday. However, they seem hell-bent on retaining their rancor for an indefinite period of time. Needless to say, the silent treatment, the refusal to make eye contact, hell, the blatant attempt to pretend my existence has been dismissed, has all lead up to a situation where I honestly dread going into work these days. That hasn't been the case in the ten months since I've been there.

Everyone is telling me I should be the bigger man and take the first step into patching things up. Breanne's is advising I place the blame solely on me, attributing my side of the conflict to over-reacting and being in the fury of the moment. Carly's telling me to come up with a statement where no one is at fault and, instead, chalk it up to the situation getting out of hand. Lastly, my new friend Ilessa is saying that I should joke my way through it. Maybe if I don't acknowledge there's tension between us, then they won't either.

All that is well and good, but that simply ain't me. I never admit fault where I don't see fault. I never act falsely to smooth things over if I don't feel like being jolly and gleeful. They are wrong and I am right. It's as simple as that. This is not to say I don't want all this pussyfooting around each other to come to an end. I would love for the work environment to be returned to the status quo. I'm just not about to sacrifice my principles over shouldering the blame for someone else and placating people just to avoid a little discomfort.

I'm better than that. Way better.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And There's Nothing Left To Say, And There's Nothing Left To Do, But Keep In Mind, From Time To Time, I'll Always Think The World Of You

--"Camden Town Rain", Mary Lou Lord

I wasn't planning on writing a poem today, but I had a good idea for one on the way home from the movies. The only problem I can forsee with this poem is that it's basically muse-less. I usually write my best stuff when I know who I'm writing to or about, but, fuck, this literally could be about anybody I ever loved, dated, been friends with, or had a crush on. The only caveat would be it would have been written at different times with each of them--some of them when I first met them, others later on, and others only after they left. It's kind of unique of that way because, though it has one sentiment, it's pretty much a sentiment I've had for a lot of people.

I don't know--I guess you can chalk this one up to every lounge singer's requisite song for his adoring female audience.

Or, as Stephen Lynch would say, "this one's for the ladies..."

Enjoy.

AT THE LAKE
by E. Patrick Taroc

Long have I wondered what we are
When facing a fate not yet gleamed.
We’re the virgin lake seen by none
Except the silence and the sun--
By dark, casting back a star,
By morning, mirroring the sky,
Our face reflecting the you and I
I had always hoped you had dreamed.

How to be water there are no ways;
A river can only run its course
From end to end without a thought
As to the chaos in which it’s caught.
Nor does a drop count all the days
It has spent settled upon ground;
Nor does it ever die when found
Dried by that last fanning force.

If unmarred by meddling hands,
This lake shall ever endure true
Because a lake can never break
From the sheer weight of its wake
And a lake levies no demands,
Just as every joy I’ve known
Has been spent being left alone
Within the quiet confines of you.

(02/15/07) Copyright 2007 E. Patrick Taroc

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

So Let Me On Down, Cause Time Has Made Me Strong, I'm Starting To Move On, I'm Gonna Say This Now, Your Chance Has Come And Gone

--"Too Little Too Late", Jojo

I was watching The Class, which is turning into one of my favorite new shows, last night and was startled to discover a very poignant scene amidst the hilarity. I'm not comparing it by any means to the great emotional heart-tuggers like Avonlea or Everwood, but as I sat watching Duncan make her confession to Nicole about why he dumped her ten years ago suddenly, I was actually moved to, well, write a post about it. All season it had been overtly mentioned that Duncan regretted losing the love of his life all those many years ago and called it the biggest mistake he ever made. Conversely, Nicole, continually found herself being torn between Duncan, the first love of her life, and Yonk, the man she eventually married. All season it was this big secret what broke them up in the first place, but I had the sense that it was something trivial and that the two of them truly were a case of bad timing and bad judgment. However, believing one thing and hearing it out loud are two quite different experiences.

Basically, last night Duncan admitted that the reason he broke up with her in high school was that she "was acting somewhat like a bitch" and that he just snapped. He tried to call her the next morning to patch things up, but her mom answered, and he was too embarrassed to call back for the next few days. He then went on to explain that a week after that he heard through the high school grapevine that she was already going out with this other guy and that was that. It was only later he found out she'd gone out with the new guy one time and that she had been secretly hoping the two of them would get back together eventually. Seeing his face when she told him, "it was just the one time," and him answering, "somebody eventually told me a year later, but by then it was too late," was heartbreaking. Compile that with seeing her confusion at his big revelation about why he did it:

"So it wasn't because I was a bitch all the time?"

"Nope."

"And I was only somewhat being a bitch that night. Not a raging bitch, but somewhat?"

"Yes."

"And here I thought it was this huge reason about why you didn't like me or why you thought we weren't meant for each other."

It literally tore me up inside because that sense of regret and emotional imprisonment is the stuff that truly gets to me. People always expect melodrama to arise out of illness or death, but I think the truly saddening experiences are the ones born out of being separated from somebody you were never meant to be separated from due to stupidity, dumb bad luck, or true misfortune. I don't care what anybody says, nothing hurts more knowing you could have been together with someone and you blew it.

Most of the time, I'm on the front of end of regretting a choice a made or a decision I came to. Most of the time I'm the one who is looking back on my life and trying to pinpoint where I went wrong.

There was one time, though, where I actually saw what it was like to be on the other end of someone's regret.

----

It was right after I had met DeAnn in July of '98 which would place the time at August, I think. I think the two of us had been going out for a month or so. Everything had been proceeding smoothly so with her so, of course, out of the blue I get a call from the ex who came before her, Miss Tara. I don't know if I've ever gone into detail just how bad my break-up with her had been, but I'm fairly sure I had. To borrow a device from Nabokov, it was bad (tears, four days). Not only had it happened on a four-day trip to visit her in Maryland, but the following eighteen months of trying to be friends with her proved to be excruciatingly bad. The whole experiment of whether or not the two of us could remain friends culminated in my being stood-up in Philadelphia in May of '98 after it had already been agreed that the main reason I was flying there at all was to see her. After that, both of us pretty much knew there was nothing left to salvage. I think we stopped talking right at the beginning of June of that year.

Yes, it came as quite a shock when I heard Tara's voice on the other end of the line asking me how I was doing and what I'd been up to. I've met a lot of women. I've dated a couple. Even after collecting such a large sample, I still maintain that Tara had the most melodious voice I have ever heard. There was nothing specific about it, but if could imagine what a woman's voice is supposed to sound like if you were picturing the most feminine and alluring voice possible it would be hers. It wasn't sexy or persuasive. It was just nice. Smooth. Soothing. And when she trained her voice to sing, that quality of perfection ramped up considerably. She was always the best singer of anybody I have ever known.

I just remember before I'd met DeAnn how broken I was and how I kept wishing, hope against hope, that Tara and I would get back together someday eventually. It's probably how everyone feels when that happens to them. But, for whatever reason, one always thinks one is the first person to ever feel heartache or loss. For whatever reason, one always believes no one else has ever felt the pain like we've felt. One always thinks one's case is different. But it isn't. I'm not going to say it was the heart rending loss that destroyed me for life because it wasn't. At most, it screwed up my last year at USC and perhaps contributed my not wanting to jumping head-first into the job market. A job? How could anyone expect me to look for a job when my heart was torn into a million flamable pieces? Like everyone else will tell you at the time it happens to them, to me it hurt like no other hurt and I didn't see any way past it.

However, by the time she called that August, I had literally forgotten how much it hurt. She asked me if I was still distressed. Distressed? Not really. She asked me if I ever thought about her still even after not talking for two months. I told her, yeah, of course I still thought about her. She was a large part of my life for a long time. But how I thought about her had changed. It's one thing to be alone and miserable, pining for the one that got away. It's another to have somebody new in your life who isn't better or worse than your last girlfriend, just different. At that time, with my relationship with DeAnn being so new and all, different was good. Different meant I didn't have to worry about what Tara's high school friends thought of me because DeAnn was older than Tara had been when we had first started going out. Different meant I didn't have to contend with Tara's very proper and strict parents. Different meant I didn't have to be fumbling around with someone who was so unsure of herself. DeAnn may have her faults, but she'll never let you know she gets flustered. Her reaction to being confused was to take charge of the situation despite not always having the best solution. At the time, that's what I needed.

Eventually the conversation with Tara turned to the matter of her coming to visit California again in two weeks' time. She wanted to know if we could meet up again. At first, I was torn as to whether I should see her for old time's sake or if I should allow whatever we had between us die. I was very close to saying it was a good idea to meet up when I heard it. The way her voice sounded wasn't merely the pleasant tones I'd been accustomed to from her. Her voice also carried something that reminded me of somebody else.

Namely, it reminded me of me when I had been so anxious to see her again in Philadelphia. It reminded me of the person when I was still waiting around for her. It wasn't desperation per se, but she definitely sounded like a person who was still holding the door open for me to come back through.

The only thing was I'd already shut that door two months' prior.

That's when I told her about DeAnn and how happy she made me. Tara tried to be a good sport about it, but there was a definite tinge of disappointment in her voice. I don't think she ever fully expected me to meet someone else. To her I'd always been somebody who could serve as a back-up plan. I attempted to do my best to let her know that I no longer harbored any ill will towards her, but it was probably for the best we stopped speaking. I didn't want to lead her on into think something could be salvaged should DeAnn and I wither later on down the line. Tara was a sweet girl and there was a time I loved her to bits and pieces, but she had had her opportunity and being with her had ceased being a goal of mine. Whether or not my new relationship with DeAnn managed to last, I knew, I finally knew that Tara would never be it again.

I think like The Class there are some people who you'll always be close with, no matter how long the two of you are apart. That's like me and B. But there are other people who you can come to be attached to for a time, but once it's over, it's over. With those people you can't linger onto the hope that you can keep on reliving the happy memories you shared once. With those people it isn't possible to go back to.

With those people, you end up adopting the attitude that Duncan and Nicole share (for now). You have your one chance and you just have to make it count, otherwise, you could end up regretting it ten years down the line and allow it to eat you alive.

I don't know if Tara still feels it to this day, but I knew she felt it by the end of the conversation. And, yes, I do believe we ended the conversation by stating that we loved each other, but it was more like the pronouncment of affection you give to an old friend who is moving away for good to Stockholm. It was good to say, but it only held that quality because I knew it would be the last time I'd ever to say it to her.

There would be no second chances for us.

I remember the first thing I did after getting off the phone with her was to call DeAnn at home. I needed to be reminded of what I had gained at that point because what I'd lost just didn't seem to matter any more.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Steadily Creeping Up On The Family, Exactly How Many Days We Got Lasting, While You Laughing We're Passing, Passing Away

--"The Crossroads", Bone, Thugs, N Harmony

I waited outside her hospital room, utilizing the only power left to me, denial. Figuring if I refused to see how she was doing, if I didn't allow my mind form a mental sketch of the beginning of the end, then maybe the end wouldn't come. I played the game that children play, if I can't see it, then it isn't true. And I so wanted it not to be true. This just couldn't be happening to her. More to the point, it shouldn't be happening to her. Not to her. Not to Jennifer.

I don't know why we do it, focus on the stupid stuff that has no bearing on the situation on hand, so I can't tell you why it became important to me to focus on the fact that I had Jack in the Box that day. Nor can I reveal to you some mystical reason why I was trying to compile the contents of said lunch and trying to remember the exact total of the meal. I should have walked inside already. She'd asked specifically to see me. Yeah, it was about two weeks after other people had found out, but that day, that specific day, she felt okay to show me what she'd been hiding all those months after she'd found out herself. She was broken and she was never going to be fixed again. I guess the whole revolution of my thoughts around Jack in the Box was a distraction mechanism. If I'd found out with everyone else, seen with everyone else, been lumped in with everyone else, perhaps I could have hidden among the flock. My reaction would have been their reaction. My tears would have been their tears. But, no, she had to single me out so that I would have nowhere to hide.

My waiting out on the hallway, trying to bring about the biggest smile I could fake, could have been construed as being nervous. However, nervousness, I think, is reserved for events we hope to see--promotions we hope to get, proposals we hope to be answered positively, times we hope we will remember always. That time was different. It was akin to fear. I was fearful I would see her lying in the hospital bed, worse off than I could have ever imagined, and never being able to forget that image ever. That was my nightmare I was trying to avoid. It's true what they say, when you know it's going to be the last hurrah, you really will go out of your way to avoid having the last image you see of a person be at their worst. Because part of what was racing through my mind, besides burger wrappers, was the notion I could walk away and have my last memories of her be happy ones. Sure, it'd be the cowardly thing to do, but I was trying to convince myself that would have been what she wanted. After all, didn't she try to hide her secret as long as possible? Wasn't she trying to spare everyone's feelings so they wouldn't pity her? I didn't understand why couldn't things just go back to when I, when all of us, were just skipping along in blissful ignorance.

Five minutes had raced by before I knew it and I was still standing like a doofus outside her door.

I could have prevented it. I had been friends with someone who went to become a researcher studying something pretty damn close to what she had. Maybe if I hadn't screwed up that friendship like I did all my friendships, I could have been able to call her and ask for her assistance. All of this was really preventable. All of this really my fault.

I could have saved her.

I don't know what made me walk in finally. Possibly, it could have been standing out in the hallway far too long and the questioning glances I was beginning to receive. Whatever it was, I walked away, prepared for the worst, steeling myself to be the emotional wreck I always knew I was capable of being. She knew me. She knew I tended to block out unpleasantries such as the inconsequential matter of my friends dying. I had to pretend I didn't care to stop myself from caring too much. It'd be like poking a hole in the dam. I wasn't built to just let a trickle through. If I let a small piece of what I wanted to feel through, the whole facade would come down. That's why I thought it better for all involved if I saved my genuine feelings for her for places like this, my writing. I was more comfortable with getting it all down on paper, choosing my words carefully, without having the unfortunate side effect of my face and my eyes betraying the suffering behind every word. No one should have to say out loud that their friend is dying. I didn't want to say that to her. I didn't want to apologize that she was sick. I didn't want to tell her it was unfair, that she didn't deserve it, or that it should have been me. She knew all that. Besides, saying all those things gave the dying power. It granted the sadness and the grief a strength all their own, that silence did not.

Again, if I never had to say it, it wouldn't be true.

So, yeah, I walked in there prepared to lose myself in the tears I thought she deserved. I wanted it implicitly shown that I would miss her horribly. I wanted her to believe that at least one person cared about her enough to absolutely lose it in front of her.

But that never happened. I walked in there and she was smiling broadly. She treated it like I was visiting her at home. And we talked as if the two of us were merely sitting on the couch, catching up on silly Dawson's Creek re-runs. We joked, we laughed, and we didn't discuss the fact all of this was going on in a hospital. Not, at first, at least. We treated my visit, my two-hour visit, as if her being in that bed was where I saw her every week and as if all the wires, tubes, and machinery strewn about her where pieces of furniture she had chosen to decorate her bedroom with. Everything was normal. Everything was exactly the way it always was.

It wasn't until I was about to leave, that she broached the subject.

"So the doctors I might go really soon, Patrick."

"Oh, really?" I asked. I wanted to ask if she meant leaving the hospital, but, the way she said it, I knew it was a stupid question to ask.

"When I go I want you to do a small favor for me."

"Shoot."

"Say something nice about me. Something cheery maybe."

"Cheery. Got it. Anything else before I go?"

"No, that's it. Just promise me when you come back, you'll let me hear what you wrote."

"If I get something good going."

"When you get done, and you will, promise me you'll read it."

I don't know--maybe it was the way she said it, but suddenly I caught her drift. She didn't just want me to write something cheery for someone else to read. She wanted me to read it when she was gone in front of everyone she knew. Not only that, she wanted to hear it before everyone else. Or because she knew she would never get the opportunity to hear it with everyone else.

And that was it. That was the extent of my first visit to her in the hospital. The first of many, but not as many as I would have liked. That was also the only time I've ever written something I was proud of in one shot. It's probably because I wasn't writing it so I would be proud of it, but that she would be proud of it. I finished it within hours of leaving that room and I read it to her the next day.

And we never talked about her leaving again.

She died with a smile on her face a couple of months later and everyone else got to hear what I always knew about her.

Jennifer's Eulogy

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And Then I Want To Go Away And See, Well If You're Never Gonna Let Me Feel Alright, And If You're Never Gonna Let Me Go Away

--"About the Picture", Smoosh
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I used to be so good at it, this walking away thing. I used to be able to find the smallest excuse and turn it to my advantage. It could be something as trifling as not paying enough attention to me when I was talking about the girl I was seeing at the time. Or it could be something that was a huge deal, but I could have very easily let go like them moving on with their lives when I wasn't prepared to move on with mine. Whatever the excuse, I thought it better to cut out the person who was causing me pain entirely rather than hope for the relationship to progress to a better state. That's actually the way I preferred it. My life functioned much simpler that way. It was a system and it worked for me.

Then I got on this whole regret and second chances crusade where I started to believe that it was never too late to patch things up with people. And it worked too. I reached out for people and got fairly positive responses back. Jina, for instance, still amazes me that she's even willing to let me know how she's doing every once in awhile after the way I treated her. I began to feel good that maybe walking away from someone wasn't the life-ending stigma I thought it was. I learned that you can come home again and all will be forgiven.

However, lately, I find myself in a quagmire of confusion. I find myself enamored over someone who I constantly question my importance to. One can compare it to being told how vital one is to a job, but everyday catching glimpses of just how inconsequential one is. How do react when someone is telling you one thing but showing you another? That's the way I feel about her sometimes. Everyone always says that actions speak louder than words and, from her actions, I get the distinct sense that in the scope of things I'm not very important to her. I'm not going to lie to you; it hurts to feel like you matter so little to someone who matters so much to you. Days, a couple of weeks maybe, will go by and I'll finally resign myself to the fact that there is no hope for anything more than what I have no. I resign myself to the fact that what I have is good enough. And then she'll call and say, "hey, we should definitely do lunch" or she'll call and say she saw the perfect gift for me. Part of me thinks it's just a case of guilty conscience, but then a bigger part of me (foolishly maybe) thinks there is something substantial there to build on.

I've told people about this problem. I've told B. and Brandy, and a couple of people at work and even family members, but I can never quite explain how fully stuck I feel. I would say she's just jerking my chain if I actually thought it was that, but it doesn't feel like that. It just honestly feels like she's too busy with her life to appropriate any more time for me into it. That only leads me to keep hoping that it'll get better in the future. Maybe she'll become less busy. Maybe she'll have more time in the future when all indications point to the fact that she'll even have less time in the future and my importance to her will continue to dwindle away to nothingness.

And yet I stay, partly because I think she is like one of those rare creatures who I'll still be friends with twenty years from now. She's that special and unique.

But it's also partly because I'm afraid to walk away from her now, only to regret it later and want to find her again a year or two from now when it's too late. I made that mistake with so many people. I don't want to experience that with her. The last thing I want to realize five years from now is how important she really was to me and how I flubbed it all again by giving up too soon.

So here I remain, stuck, feeling like I want to be a bigger part of her life, yet feeling too grateful that I'm a small part of it to complain. Here I sit, thinking the intelligent choice would be to end it all and cease all these feelings of frustration at the role relegated to me, but emotionally feeling invested into the friendship at hand and believing it may be the biggest mistake of my life to abandon ship.

The truth is I don't know where it's going. All I can ascertain is where it's at now and feeling whiny that where it's at now is not where I want it to be. Is that enough to move onto greener pastures, more accessibile opportunities with other people? I don't know. Basically, all I know is how she makes me feel when she makes me feel we are close, we are connected in some way. All I know is how empty I think a part of my life would be if she were not in it. All I can do is continue hoping that the time I'm investing in this will pay off in the days to come, when everything isn't so complex.

She's got me on a short tether and the sad part is she hasn't even begun to realize how special she's become to me. It's like Caitlin would say, I continue to know her in the hopes that someday I'll have a reason important enough to know her.

I'm stuck and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing yet.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And She Turned Around And Took Me By The Hand, And Said I've Lost Control Again, And How I'll Never Know Just Why Or Understand

--"She's Lost Control" (cover), 10,000 Maniacs

Having completed my first project, I was discussing with Carly tonight some possible names I've been mulling over for my new screenplay. I don't know if the names will work out (she might be right in stating that Matryoshka is not a name that simply rolls off the tongue), but I'm fairly excited about the basic plot points of the story. Like most of my efforts in fiction, it involves an individual who is not exactly honest and the trouble it leads him into. Except in this instance, I planned him to be a kind of loner who survives by conning people out of their money and persuading his friends into providing him the rest. Then one night, fresh from convincing some yuppies to "invest" in his promising new business, he walks out into a pair of teenagers being attacked by a group of men. So far, it seems like a straight-up "wrong place at the wrong time" story. Nothing too out of the ordinary, right? At first, he attempts to do what most of us would do in this situation. He tries to walk away and pretend he doesn't see anything. That's when the twist kicks in.

The two men shapeshift into werewolves.

This, more surprisingly, prompts our guy to follow suit and change into one himself.

And then the story talks off from there. The way I have it plotted now, it'll have the requisite hard-boiled edge, plenty of plot twists, and what I think is an interesting take on the whole werewolf theme. So far, I think I've got an original story that doesn't follow any of the tired supernatural conventions. It's not going to be a rehash of Underworld, An American Werewolf in London, or any of the other conventions you see in every movie of the genre. I've got a specific take on the beasts and I think it would work well with a thriller rather than a horror film. The main point I'm trying to go for is that he's a con artist who just happens to be a werewolf.

In that vein, I'm setting myself up with some very specific ground rules:

1. NO FUCKING VAMPIRES! I cannot stress this enough. Just because you want to include one supernatural creature does not mean you should leave the door open for all the mystical menagerie to come intruding in. In fact, I'm setting my foot down on it being mystical or magical. There will be no rituals or ancient writing involved. They won't call everything by their latin translation. And I'm getting pretty close to doing away with anything that could be construed as mystical and magical like full moons or silver bullets. I'll probably end up keeping the last two items, if only because I do away with those it may actually be slipping out of the genre, but I'm going to make it quite clear from the onset this isn't your daddy's werewolf film. Truthfully, I'm considering just naming the characters something mundane and far from tough-sounding. For instance, instead of naming the so-called bad guy in the screenplay something menacing like Spike or Thrasher, he's going to be called "Phil". I don't know--there's something ironic (and, yes, comical) of having this eight-foot tall mass of muscle, teeth, and claws be called Phil by his friends and enemies alike.

But, yes, I am shutting the door on ever including vampires into anything I write. As Breanne would say, Vampires can kiss my lily-white ass.

2. There's not going to be this menacing fifty or hundred strong pack roaming the city. At most, I'm setting a cap at two dozen in big cities and them being almost unheard of in rural areas. In my story, you'll probably be able to count the number of werewolves you see on one hand. I don't want it to be about how many I can get on-screen at one time. I want every character to have a name, a story, and the audience to be personally invested in what happens to them, be they wolfen or not. I want it to be like the old Aces Wild novels, where if you get bit by a werewolf you die. I don't want a situation where new ones are made left and right. I want it to be something wholly unexpected. 95% is the percentage I'm shooting for. 95% of the people who get attacked and bit die. 3% live but are never able to handle the change and are lost in the wilderness forever. It's only the remaining 2% who are able to control it and still live among city-dwellers. This is a very important detail for me because I want it to be a case where the beasts are less a society unto themselves, but more or less are a loosely connected collection of outsiders.

3. I don't want the experience of being a werewolf being akin to a disease or hard addiction. I don't want it to be this excruciating experience that ravishes a man's sanity or free will. I want to paint it as a picture of being an acceptable addiction, like drinking or smoking. It isn't so much they lack all control over themselves when they're changed; it's just that power and the thrill are so enticing. Again, this refers back to rule #1. I don't want their struggles to be about some "other" beast taking control over their body. I want it to be a more spiritual and psychological battle for control. The idea should be that every one of them should know the consequences for changing and the damage they're capable of, and still having full control to undergo the transformation at will when it suits them. That's probably why I want to take out all references to the full moon or silver being able to harm them because it reeks of cheese to me.

4. I don't want there to be some governing body over the werewolves. There's not going to be a great congress with delegates from every part of the country. No ruling organization oversees or keeps in check every pocket of werewolves. Everyone pretty much makes up the rules as they go along, which is how it should be. One thing I hate to see in a movie about anything supernatural is the idea of politicking being integral to their survival. If I was a werewolf, the last thing on my mind would be taking orders from anybody or having to adhere to any rules whatsoever.


when the change is gone, when the urge is gone,
to lose control, when here we come

It's this last part that's always drawn me to wolves and werewolves. I like this notion that epitomize of the wildness and savaqery that lay in everyone. In each of us lays an inner beast that does not rely on intelligence or rationality to make decisions. There's a part of us that is guided by instinct and raw emotion. I've always preached doing what makes one happiest, damn the consequences, and a wolf speaks to me of that kind of mission statement.

Everyone is fascinated by some kind of unexplainable creature because they see themselves in it. It's why Brandy always goes on and on about having a personal fairy that helps her out because she's always had this desire to help people out herself. It's why Breanne is always researching and telling ghost stories because she identifies with the idea of being present somewhere and yet disregarded at the same time. It's been a nagging hang-up for her for as long as I've known her. It's why there have always been supernatural tales from the time language was invented, because people have a need to invest personality quirks, traits, and desires into something bigger than themselves to make sense of it all.

It's why I live werewolves so much because I guess I have a need to express all these moments of rage, anger, and destructiveness that I keep bottled up sometimes. There's been plenty of times when different people have seen it come out. I'm not exactly known for keeping my frustration in check a lot of the time, but something tells me there's a lot more darker thoughts and actions that I keep in check. If a werewolf is not the perfect metaphor for allowing those inner demons to surface then I don't know what is.

That's why I think this story is important to me because, in a sense, it's just another means to getting to the bottom of what makes me tick.

Also, I really hate vampires and think there are way too many crappy vampire movies already out there.

It's time somebody--namely, me--makes a crappy werewolf movie.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers