There's No One Left In The World, That I Can Hold Onto, There Is Really No One Left At All, There Is Only You

--"Trust", The Cure

I have a habit of not saying good-bye to people. It manifests itself in different ways. At work, they call me Mr. Stealth because I try to disguise when I leave by carrying a piece of paper as if I'm heading to the copier, but instead walk out the door to my car. On the phone, I have a habit saying thank you just before I hang up. At parties and shows, most of the time I can't stand long, drawn-out good-byes so the more time I spend with people the shorter my good-byes become until they're almost non-existent.

I used to think it was because I didn't like calling attention to myself. It was sort of a corollary to my aversion to saying hello to people first thing in the morning. I'd rather just jump into the actual meat of the conversation than waste time on small talk. It's the same theory on the phone. At work, I rarely delve into asking about my customers' personal lives. Questions like "how was your day?" or "how are your kids doing?" rarely start off my conversations. In fact, I usually start off with the customary "the reason for my call is..." because most of the time I really don't care for all the rest. Call it a lack of manners, call it impatience, call it plain being forthright, I dislike wasting time with pleasantries.

Now, however, I think it goes deeper than that.

----

Back at Bethany Elementary School, where I went for Kindergarten and First Grade, I had two friends named Adam and Gus. They were my closest buds. We basically did everything together, including hanging out after school at each other's houses. Now, my memory has never been that spot-on to begin with so I can't exactly say how often that actually occurred, but there were enough instances for me to remember that it was a pattern. During that time it seemed we would be lifelong friends just because I was unaware of the concept (yet) of losing friends due to outside circumstances. For me at the time and at that stage of development, once I made a friend that would be a friend I would have for the rest of my life.

The trouble started when my parents started checking the school up the street, St. Rita's. It turns out academically St. Rita's was the creme de la creme in the area. It became my mom's mission to get me into that school despite my already having formed fast bonds at Bethany. All of this was unknown to me at the time because, hey, I was in First Grade and, yeah, my parents have always been secretive around me to begin with. I seriously remember the chain of events being finishing First Grade, having a party during the summer one week before school started during which my parents informed I wouldn't be coming back to Bethany next year, and starting St. Rita's in Second Grade. There was no discussion about it at the beginning of summer. There wasn't even a chance for me to properly say good-bye because I found out when all the rest of my classmates found out which, if you really think about it, is a dirty trick to pull on your son. One week before I thought I would be going back to see my friends, it would turn out that I would have to make all new ones.

As I recall, my good-bye wasn't really sincere because it hadn't sunk in yet that that party was really the last good times I would be having with Adam and Gus.

As it turned out, my parents invited them over again for my birthday later that year, but by then I was already a month or two entrenched into St. Rita's. Whereas these days, six to eight weeks wouldn't be enough time to forget about them, back then it was a whole lifetime I had had to make new friends and forget about my old ones. That birthday turned out to be the last time I did see those two. But by then the damage was done. I had already stopped caring what they thought because, hey, I knew I would never see those guys again. Like the saying goes, they were already dead to me. Through no fault of their own they had ceased being people of import to me and as such warranted no heartfelt or long good-bye. I basically saw them off with a vague promise to come to their birthday parties and never heard from either of them again.

That has come to be my pattern, if somebody is forced to part company with me then I stop caring about them. It's not like I want to forget about people, but it's a defense mechanism I've built up to guard against people I've grown attached to hurting me. If I don't give people a proper good-bye, replete with descriptions of how much they mean to me, then it becomes easier to tear about the friendship in my mind. It couldn't have been that strong, I seem to rationalize, otherwise they wouldn't be leaving it so easily. Or, worse yet, if I'm the one who's doing the leaving then I rationalize it by saying something akin to "if they were really good friends, then they'd come with me." In either case, I never want to give people the satisfaction of a true farewell because only my friends warrant a farewell and, since we're not going to be seeing each other as much, then, obviously, we were never really friends.

I never claimed to have exactly the most logical mind. A couple of my close friends have figured out the trick that I like to work backwards. I like to work out what action I'm going to undertake and then think of a reason why it makes to undertake this action. In this case, I feel awkward about saying good-bye to people so I've come to rationalize it with the whole "they were never my friends" theory.

The thing about that is I've had to leave a lot of good people behind and there are a lot of instances where I regret not having that closure with them. I hate to use her as a example, but the farewell I gave to Jina was the return of her gifts to me all burnt, which doesn't count as a good-bye. With Tara I sort of stopped calling her. With John, Paul, Phillip, and Tommy, I had to quit Boy Scouts just so I wouldn't to go through the awkwardness of not seeing them in high school the following year. In every case, I tried to pretend that their losses didn't bother me. I tried to pretend that since I never said good-bye, I still had the power. They never got to know how their loss really messed me up. And because they never knew then their loss really never messed me up, right? That's what I actually thought.

----

So that's why I still refuse to say good-bye to most people who know me well. I still have that superstition that if you say those words to someone, you let them have a piece of you. And, if it is true that you'll never those certain few again, then that's a piece you can never get back. I figure if I never say good-bye to anyone, then I'll never have to give up anything of myself.

Sometimes I think I'd rather be alone then risk losing a part of me forever.

Other times I wonder who I'm saving all those parts for if not for the people who I've grown to trust and respect.

It's a mystery.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Somehow Everything's Gonna Fall Right Into Place, If We Only Had A Way To Make It All Fall Faster Everyday, If Only Time Flew Like A Dove

--"Hallelujah", Paramore

Little Anne,

I suppose I can't call you that anymore, can I? God, what do I call you? Is it still Anne or are you going by Annie these days? It's been so long--almost ten years. I'm guessing you don't even remember me. Back when you were young you used to call me Uncle Cal. I'm sure you don't remember that either. It really has been a long time.

How are you doing? What are you like now? The little girl I remember was barely talking, a silly little thing in pigtails that her mother insisted she wear. The little girl I remember had only barely begun to dream when I decided to stop visiting. I'm trying to imagine how you've grown up, what kind of person you've developed into. It's like the game people play in the movies. One afternoon I'll be picturing you as Anne the Acrobat in some traveling circus. A month later I'll be thinking about you as Anne the Safari Hunter. Just today I was commenting to your mother how you could someday become Anne the Astronaut. Do kids even dream of becoming an astronaut still? All I know is, I never even got to know what you were dreaming about being so I have no idea where your head's at right now. I'm hoping you're a good student because that's very important. I'm also hoping that you're somewhat popular because, again, I know what it's like when you're not so popular. I know you've already had a hard life and I'd hate to think of it being any harder than it has to be.

I'm sure you're wondering by now who I am. Well, it's kind of why I'm writing you this letter. I would've explained all of this to you in person, but your mother was saying this probably would be a better tact. I don't want to scare you. I want it to be your decision whether or not getting to know me is something you want for yourself.

I was a friend of your father. He was my coach at Tropavista, where I used to play minor league ball for a time. I'm proud to say I got to know him very well during my few months there and I'm proud to say he was one of the finest examples of a human being I have ever met. I'm not sure what kind of father he was to your sisters and what kind of husband he was to your mother, but I know what kind of role model he was for me. Something tells me that he was the same way at home with his girls.

I'm writing this letter to you because your mother called me the other day and told me it was time you learned something about your father, something about the way he died.

This is the hardest letter I've ever had to write someone.

I think you're old enough to hear it, though. You see, back in 2007, Tropavista was playing our out-of-state rivals from Tremere. I remember it was a close game--seven to six. Everybody was tense. Everybody was on the edge of their seats, including your mom and your two older sisters. It was the bottom of the seventh and I was up to bat. I admit, I was a stupid kid--barely nineteen and cocky as all hell. I think that's what your father was trying to instill in me the most, how not to be so flashy, so reckless. But I still was every bit the blowhard. I remember stepping up to the plate, noticing your father out of the corner of my eye at the first base coaching box. He was rolling in his eyes like he always did when I came to the plate. I don't think he meant any disrespect. I think it was his way of keeping me in my place, of making sure I never knew how much he thought of me as a person or my talent.

I remember taking that first pitch, trying to get a sense of what kind of stuff the reliever who had just entered had. I remember taking that first pitch and realizing I could break this guy. I could take the ball all the way out. So on that next pitch, against my manager's advice, I swung for the fences. But I was early on the pitch and lined it foul towards first base.

Right towards your father.

I was already preparing for my next swing, figuring he had ducked out of the way, by the time I heard the crowd react. That's when I saw your father flat on the ground, unable to get up. I dropped the bat and ran immediately over to him. Even then I didn't believe it was serious. I kept picturing in my head he would wake up with one hell of a lump and have one hell of a screaming session at me. I kept picturing myself having to pick up trash in the stands, do his laundry, or some other demeaning punishment as payback for striking your father. As I got closer, those images began to fade faster and faster every second. He wasn't getting up. More importantly, he didn't look so good. The ball had struck him square on the forehead. He didn't even have time to cover up or duck or anything. It had been a quick one-two action.

There isn't a day that doesn't go by that I don't see the image of how he looked on that field on that day. Nor can I ever forget the image of him being carried away to the ambulance. They stopped the game that day--the first time in almost eighty years a game had been called. Nobody could keep their mind on the game. I sure as hell couldn't.

And then--God, that was the worst part--seeing your mother's face, your sisters' faces, as they ran up to your father and as they tried to get to the car to follow your father to the hospital. That was excruciating to watch too.

Because I knew. I knew all of it was my fault. People can say that it was an accident and that I shouldn't have blamed myself, but the truth is how could I just shrug something like that off so easily. Maybe I hadn't intended to kill him, but kill him I did all the same. I was responsible. I'm still responsible. And I'll keep on being responsible for all of it until the day I die. That kind of thing doesn't go away. It never goes away.

Your father stopped breathing before the ambulance ever made it to the hospital.

He never got to see so many things because of me.

He never got to see your sisters both graduate from high school and college.

He never got to see your mother finally start that restaurant she'd always imagined your father and her opening.

He never got to see you born... or grow up.

That's why I'm writing you this letter, to make you understand how sorry I am and how I owe it to you to make sure your life is as smooth as possible. I know I can never replace your father. No one can. His loss was devastating to me. I personally had deprived his loved ones of the greatest source of joy they have ever known. I had done that in a matter of seconds. I had killed somebody. I can't get your father back for you, but I can give you as much support monetarily, time-wise, or anything else I have the power to give you from here on out. I try to send your mother as much money as I can. Sometimes she sends it back. But whenever there is anything you girls need or something I hear you're struggling with, I try to right by you.

I think I'm being selfish, though. I'm trying to fix this so I don't feel so horrible all the time. This guilt, it eats away at me on a daily basis and the only way I push it away is when I think of something else I can do for your family. Bit by bit, I'm trying to make everything fall into place for all of you. I'm trying to make your life as uncomplicated as possible. I want all of you to grow up like your father never died, like he had been here to see all of you succeed. It's difficult. Sometimes I think I'm not doing enough. Sometimes your mother thinks I'm doing too much. It's hard to find that balance that will make everything better. So far, I think I've figured out a place where your mother and your sisters are comfortable when it comes to my gifts.

But your mother and I thought it was time you had a say. It's high time you let me know what I can do for you that you'd be comfortable with. Please, be frank. I want you to take my help because it'll ease my mind knowing you're being taken care of. Let me do whatever it is you need doing for you.

I took something away that I can never get back for you, Anne... little Anne. And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never lack for anything else if I can help it.

Also, I'd like to see you. Your mother says you've been asking questions about what your father was like and she thought it might be nice if you could ask me questions. If you're feeling up to it, I have this whole weekend off to ask me whatever you want. I know it's going to be hard. I know you might be a little angry or hurt or shocked or whatever, knowing what you know now, but I'd like to do this for you I can. I'd like to help you get to know your father like I knew him.

Please call me. Anytime. For anything.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. I don't know what else to say.

Uncle Cal

Yours Swimingly,
mojo shivers

He's The Reason For The Teardrops On My Guitar, The Only One Who's Got Enough Of Me To Break My Heart

--"Teardrops on my Guitar", Taylor Swift

Having friends is kind of like managing a baseball team. You can't use everybody for every situation, nor should you want to. Everybody comes with certain aptitudes and the real trick is sizing these skills up. You have to know when a certain friend would be far more useful for your purposes than another friend.

The other trick is to recognize someone who is going to contribute to your life in a sizable way and to get them aboard to your team as soon as possible.

----

When I first met Ilessa, it wasn't at some party or at some restaurant. I met her like a lot of people I meet these days, online. I had seen or she had seen my Myspace--I don't remember which--and saw that I had graduated from USC. What also binds us together is that I had grown up about five miles from her in the San Gabriel Valley. In fact, it was the idea that I had worked at Crown Books in La Canada, which was only six blocks from her high school and about two exits from where she lived that got the ball rolling for us. At first, it was just polite messaging--well, as polite as Miss Nancy Drew can ever get--and random IM'ing, but soon we started texting and call each other every once in awhile for those first two weeks. I don't know what drew me to her initially. She's very forthright and very abrasive at times, but I knew there was something about her that was keeping me interested in her.

It wasn't until the day I decided to leave Bally's early to go watch the Dodgers play the Twins that I found out what it was. On the spur of the moment, I had made a choice to make that game the first game I saw during the 2006 season. I knew Ills was a big Dodger fan so I asked if she wanted to tag along, fully expecting her to say no since Dodger Stadium isn't the easiest place to meet-up at and doesn't make for the best of circumstances when you're still trying to get to know someone new. For all I knew, it would have just been three hours of silence punctuated by the occasional comment about the game.

When I first saw her, I'm not going to lie, she was prettier than she looked in her pictures. But, to balance that out, she's way more pushy when she talks in person. She's basically a person that takes self-assuredness to a whole new level. I mean--Breanne's a confident person and she always speaks her mind. But Breanne also knows how to be courteous and well-mannered when addressing other people. It's this second quality that I fear Ilessa was born without. At the game she had no fear of speaking her mind. Not once did she try to couch her words into something gentler or less caustic to spare my feelings or those of the fans around us. Truthfully, I was starting to believe the whole day was going to be a bust because, let's face it, who wants to be around a person that is always running roughshod over the environment with her mouth?

But then she started to speak about something that I could latch onto.

"But I say screw him. I'm not losing any sleep over his ass anymore."

"Who's that?"

"Oh, some guy that I've been dire over for the last few months... or years, I forget."

Here was something I could wrap my head around because if there's one thing I know, it's all about pining for someone who isn't pining for you. Hell, I've basically turned this whole site into a mecca for that kind of writing. And there I was talking to somebody who seemingly knew my secret shame as well. For the first time in the evening I began to turn my attention slowly away from the game and began to give it to my companion.

Her thoughts on the subject could fill volumes. It isn't so much that she has a lot to say on the subject, it's that the manner in which she speaks about it lends an air of authority to her. Especially on that day, I found myself hanging on every word she was spewing. Fairly soon, the game became but the merest backdrop to the real show playing itself out next to me.

"I've had this thought that's kind of been my guiding principle, Patrick. And here it is. Fuck him. I don't care how I feel about him or how it may end up, fuck him. It isn't important to me that I find happiness with somebody else. I got myself and I can party plenty good on my own."

"So there's no one you'd reconsider for?"

"Not a soul."

I didn't know it at the time, but I think her stance towards people taking a dislike to her or brushing her off was formed really young. Since that game I've come to find out that she was beat up pretty badly by her older brother on a regular basis when she was younger. Because of that I think she had to build up this tough exterior, this bravado that she can't allow herself to turn off. Since she's lived this life basically 24/7, it's extended itself into everything she does. She cops this take it or leave it persona that I know she knows is off-putting. But you know what? I've come to discover it's her test for people. She intentionally puts on this rude act to drive people away. Most people take the bait and leave. But the people that ride it out, like myself, discover she has this whole other layer to her that isn't quite so strong, so tough, and so hard-boiled.

"For me, I wouldn't know how to walk away. It's too built up. I'm too invested."

"But, ask yourself honestly. Would it really kill you to walk away?"

"Sometimes I think it would, Miss Ilessa."

"Pussy," she laughed.

We talked throughout the remainder of the game. I don't even remember what the score ended up being. But I do remember the fact that the longer she talked, the more I wished I could emulate her devil-may-care attitude. It really seemed like she had built this teflon shield around her skin. Nothing I said, no scenario, no what-if, could permeate that thick counting. She refused to concede that, given the right guy and the right situation, she could allow herself to fail with somebody else. Her whole point was that, if she was to fail, she'd rather do it on her own, where nobody could see her.

She has this philosophy where she wants to live for the now, which, in itself, isn't a bad philosophy to have. She doesn't want to temper that hedonistic attitude with having to worry about how it's going to affect other people and especially one other person. That would only slow her down. To place the fate of her happiness in somebody else's hands, even if only partly, would be akin to death for her. She doesn't want to give somebody that control. More importantly, she told me, she doesn't want to give somebody that responsibility. She wouldn't want to burden somebody with the task of trying to please her when she already knows how difficult she is to please.

By the time the game let out, I thought I had heard everything she had to say about the subject. Truthfully, I was agreeing with a lot of her points. It made sense not to care so much. It made sense not to allow myself to feel the pain to such a degree where it becomes a distraction. The more you allow somebody in, I knew all too well, the more they can leave you hollow when they go, the more they can use to break you apart from the inside.

I found myself wishing I didn't care so much and so easily for people.

It wasn't until we had made it to our cars, said our good-byes, and both had become ensnared in the gridlock of trying to leave the stadium that she called me on my cel with a caveat to her earlier claims.

"It isn't that I never had anyone I cared about. I just never had anyone who cared about me enough to believe that it was worth it. Hmmm. Maybe if I found that guy I could take the hit and suffer through it."

"I never thought about relationships as being something one had to suffer through, Ilessa."

"Are you kidding me, Patrick. Nothing fucks you up like a good heartwrench. There's no greater pain than seeing the person you've decided to pull stakes with turn their back on you. Nothing compares. It isn't even a contest. Not even close."

"Yeah, I got that."

"But the opposite's true too. Nothing rocks your socks like finding that one person who, well, rocks your socks. I guess it's all about control, like I said. It's all about letting people get the best of you. You can either allow people to get the worst of you and pretend to be shocked when they don't want any part of you."

"Or?"

"Or you can allow somebody to get the best of you and hope they don't run off with it someday. You never get that shit back, you know? Once you've given them that small portion of you at your best, at your weakest, at your most vulnerable--you never get it back. It stays with that person. And if they're a good person, that's jim dandy. But if they're a bad person, then you're SOL."

"I take it you've run into a lot of bad people?"

"Patrick," she said solemnly, "they've all been bad people."

At that I thought she would have hung up, so acrid was the bitterness in her voice. But again she surprised me with a small amount of optimism peeking through.

"Yeah, but, it only takes one, right? It only takes one," she said before saying good night and turning towards home.

----

As first meetings go, it was definitely one of the most interesting times I've had. It's also set the bar on what the rest of our get-togethers are like. Now I wouldn't say she's the easiest person to get along with. She's very fun and she's very lively, but beneath it all is this sense of cynicism that is as wide as it is deep. It's almost bottomless. There are a lot of times when I find myself wondering why I even hang out with, why I even try. There's a part of me that knows being around her tends to bring me down and bring out some of the most dour thoughts I've ever conceived.

However, if there's one person who I think understands how it feels to be so utterly alone that you kind of miss the solitude when you're out with people it's her. She may be the center of attention and the one people congregate to, if only on the off-chance she'll do something crazy or stupid (or both), but she really does feel like she's fighting everything on her own.

That's what I go to her, for advice on what it's like to be left wanting by people and how to go on being strong when all you want to be is weak and fragile. That's what I talk to her about, that's her special gift.

She only knows how to be strong and that's an attitude that I sometimes need more of, especially when I'm trapped in one of my dour and wallowing funks. She makes me want to be a stronger person... sadly, if only not to end up as bitter as her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You're The Best! Around! Nothing's Gonna Ever Keep You Down, You're The Best! Around! Nothing's Gonna Ever Keep You Down

--"You're The Best", Joe Esposito



For a period of eight months in sixth grade my dad enrolled me into a karate class. On Wednesdays and Fridays every week I called the Okinawa Te Dojo on Foothill Boulevard in Monrovia my home away from home for four hours. I'm pretty sure my wanting to join had nothing to do with The Karate Kid since it was about a year after that movie premiered that I started going and I was as I have always been, unwilling to wait for something I wanted. No, I think the real reason I enrolled was because it seemed like something fun to do without actually having to be co-ordinated. Plus, it had the added benefit of being a one-on-one activity rather than a team sport, which I was notoriously bad at. I don't know--something about the possibility of failing in front of a large crowd of spectators, coupled with people who are supposedly depending on me, brings out the nerves like I have never experienced. Karate was a shortcut past all that.

Now I'm not going to say I was the best student in the class, but I wasn't a total dead weight either. I'd have to say I was in the upper echelons of those who actually were getting it, getting what the sensei was trying to teach us. Every form, every stance, every kata came kind of easily to me. It wasn't that I was especially talented, but I was definitely determined to work hard at it if for nothing else than the four hours seemed to go by faster when I was actually trying my hardest. The other reason why I treated the lessons as if the were a leisure activity and not work was that I was kind of one of the tallest students in the class. I was also kind of one of the biggest students, so, when it came to sparring, I was outclassing a majority of the students. You have to remember this was back when I was eleven and still tall for my age. I had energy to burn and I had the cockiness that being hands taller than any opponent present gave me.

I daresay that was the selling point of the whole experience, the fact I didn't think I would be embarrassed by losing all the time whenever we sparred. I've never done well under pressure when it comes to physical activities. I've always sucked at most sports. I've always been laughed at when it comes to activities involving co-ordination. The only thing I've ever been supremely confident at is schoolwork or other tests of intelligence. I think that's what gave me this distaste for competitions. I never wanted to be "it" in games of tag because it bothered me sincerely when I couldn't catch anyone. I never wanted to be the center of attention for any game during P.E. or recess or lunch. I never wanted to be accused of being the one who lost the game. For me, I'd rather compete with someone against a computer or other inanimate entity than compete against an actual person if the possibility of losing is there. It's the knowledge that I can lose that screws me up and actually causes me to lose, which is a paradox I know.

And it isn't because I'm a sore loser, even though I can be. I think it boils down more to the fact that I hate surprises. I hate that loss of control. I'd rather go into a situation knowing what the outcome most likely is going to be rather than going into a situation that is somewhat up in the air. I'd rather be prepared to win graciously than be caught in a loss unawares.

That's what I liked about karate, that I was winning so much. I knew how to deal with winning. I didn't even have to think about losing at all.

I remember there was one sparring session after our lessons where I was matched against a relatively new student. Normally, that would be enough to give me an edge because by that point I'd already been there six weeks or two months. But the advantages were piled up in that particular match-up. Not only was I about two or three years older than my opponent, but I probably had a good foot over his height and about the same advantage in reach. It wasn't even a contest. If anything, I was scared that I would be performing a forward kick to him and accidentally punt him through the front window--that's how small he was.

I mean--I fought him like I would any other opponent. I didn't play down to him just because he was smaller than me, but I was definitely cocky about it. Whereas with most of the other students I kept my game face on, serious and determined, with him I caught myself grinning ridiculously and fighting back the urge to laugh. It was such a lop-sided match-up that I don't know my opponent could help but not feel embarrassed.

However, when I asked him later why he enrolled in the class, if he knew it would mean getting beat all the time in sparring and having to work extra hard because of his size. That's when I learned his reasons for going were vastly different than mine. He went because he expressly knew that he was short and small. He went because he knew he would probably be losing left and right at first. For him, it was wasn't the thought of being able to take somebody down that drove him. For him, it was the matter of principle. He just wanted to be able to say he hung with people twice his size, as well as to be able to say he picked up a trick or two.

See, that's what differentiates me from most other people. I will only jump into the ring if I know I will win. Fair competition just isn't my cup of tea. For me, winning when I'm supposed to is the only thing that matters.

I think that's why I've had the life I've had, because I don't like to take chances when it comes to most things. I think that's why I've done some underhanded things, why I'm a notorious passive-aggressive personality when it comes to relationships. I'd rather guilt trip somebody than actually argue because it's really hard to respond to a good guilt trip. It really is an unfair tactic to win a fight. I hate saying I'm wrong and I hate having other people see me lose at something. That's why I try to avoid situations where there's a fair chance of those happening.

It makes me sad in a way. I know there's a lot more I could have done if I had just put myself out there more, if I wasn't so intent on playing it safe and being cautious. I know there's a lot more opportunities that could have come my way if I had been willing to risk more.

But I made my peace with this personality quirk a long time ago. I'm not a gambler. I like to know the odds and know when to put myself out there for something. I like picking my battles and not just jumping into the fray simply because that's what most people would do.

Eventually, I think that's why I quit karate. I reached a plateau where I couldn't learn anything new and where the other students were progressing to techniques I just couldn't master. As soon as I reached that point, it stopped being fun and it started becoming more of a chore to go.

The truth is I like being the best, even if it's in only a few things. And I do not like even trying anything else I know I probably won't be good at.

That's my cross to bear.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Funny, I Seem To Find That, No Matter How The Years Unwind, Still I Reminisce About The Girl I Miss, And The Love I Left Behind

--"My Eyes Adored You", The Four Seasons

I was re-reading through The Carisa Meridian the other night and I was sad to realize it still has no resolution. There it sits in my shelf, a half-finished tale of mirth and woe that truly has the potential to be the best thing I ever wrote. That's when I came to the conclusion, that rain or shine, I'm going to start working on it until it's done. Fourteen chapters and one hundred fifty-four pages are nice and all, but they're no novel.

Quite frankly, Carisa, Tierney, Emily, Craig, and everybody else I brought to life almost three years ago deserve to have me see it through to the conclusion. They deserve to live a full life.

----

And you know what reinstilled this hunger to write it? One simple chapter about two young lovers walking home...

The rain fell down on the earth and the trees with the torrent of a full hurricane. I remember looking at the fallen tree branches and the rain overflowing the gutters and thinking to myself, “the things we do for love, eh.” I remember walking on the sidewalks remarking to Carisa how incredibly drenched we were and what wonderful ideas she could came up with. I then told her how much I was anticipating her next scheme of fording the Los Angeles River in hip huggers.

“Are you going to let a little rain falling stop you?”

“If this is a little fall of rain I’d hate to see your idea of a thunderstorm.”

“It’s only water and water can never hurt you. Only people can,” she said, her golden curls currently flat against her face. The water was soaked through her jumper to the blouse beneath and I was wondering how much her water-soaked skirt was impeding her walking skills. Myself I was having a hard time fighting back the unbelievable cold. You would have thought I would have offered her my coat or, at least, gone back to get hers from where it was still laying on the seat at the table we were sitting at, but the only thing running through my mind was I had to get this girl home. She said she wanted to go home and we left, coats be damned.

It was only a twenty-minute walk back to our block and I had been walking by myself for almost a year now since my parents trusted my judgment. Carisa, however, I had never seen walk home by herself. Her mom had always picked her up. In fact, I didn’t even know if she’d ever attempted to walk home at all.

“For a slow poke you sure are walking fast,” I told her.

“It’s the rain. Don’t you just love it? I love it. Plus, it’s just fun walking home.”

“You’d think it was your first time walking home.”

“Oh, but it is, my special, special friend,” she laughed as she jumped into the next big puddle, splashing the immediate vicinity around her. “My mom’s always told me to never try and walk home. But since I had you I decided it would be okay this once.”

“I’m honored to escort you on your first time, Carisa.” I held out my arms in simulation of a royal escort.

“Oh, but the honor is mine,” she said, taking up my arm and laughing the entire time.

“Take me away from all this commonness and petty squabbles, boy. Take me home now.”

“Away we go, milady,” I said as we began skipping down the sidewalk.

A few minutes later, after we’d stopped off at the local fish and chips place for supplies (two seltzers and one giant chocolate chip cookie to share between us), we began walking in the rain again. This time, however, after the brief respite in the warm restaurant I could see Carisa was visibly shivering. I offered her my coat but she shook her head to let me know she wasn’t about to let me give up my only source of warmth.

“But I insist, milady. It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”

“I’m not taking your coat and that’s that.”

“Well if not that how about this?” I asked as I enveloped her in my arms and the coat draped over my shoulders to cover us both up. She struggled for a bit in my embrace but when she saw that I was seriously intending to walk like this for the remainder of the trip she relented.

She felt warmer than my coat ever felt and having my body against her felt absolutely perfect. It’s hard to describe but I don’t think my enjoyment of the moment stemmed from anything sexual. I think it arose from the close proximity I was sharing with her, as if we were two batteries nestled together in a remote control, providing that extra bit of juice between us that we wouldn’t have had on our own. I remember thinking that this is what sex must feel like. Having your body that close to another, feeling somebody else brushing up against your bare skin, seemed like the end-all be-all of physical intimacy. I knew there was much more to it (a rather hurried talk with my dad, a couple of brochures, and many, many, many talks with Craig and Emily had insured I had received a rather circuitous, yet comprehensive, education on sex), but for me I would have been satisfied with the mere touch of Carisa next to me as a substitute for actual sex when we were older. At that age and at that stage in my life I was in love with the idea of sharing affection more than the idea of sharing other things. Besides, at that age, the idea of sex was akin to the idea of driving a car or owning stocks. It was something to be set aside for some future date when I had facial hair. I think in my head those two were linked inescapably, like sex is something only guys in full beards and mustaches had. I often imagined coming home to my parents one day far in the future, telling them I had grown a bit of peach fuzz, and then wishing me good fortune and happy hunting on my sexual escapades.

But on that day with my special Carisa I was content merely to have her in my warm embrace. This was as close to perfect as I ever expected to happen to me.

“I was meaning to ask you, Carisa, how come you never told me you had never walked home before.”

“I don’t know. I guess I figured you’d make fun of me or something.”

At her height my head was directly above her damp hair and every so often the wet tendrils would brush against the bottom of my chin. Also, it made talking to her very difficult because I couldn’t see her face so her voice seemed to be directed at some invisible patron in front of us.

“I wouldn’t have made fun of you. Many kids aren’t even allowed to walk home until they’re twelve or thirteen.”

“If I told you it was my first time you wouldn’t have changed your mind? You wouldn’t have been worried about the rain and all that?”

“Carisa, if you told me to follow you to the ends of the Earth I think I would.”

“Only the ends? Not off?”

“No, I’d say, ‘That’s alright, Sea-snail. You go first. I’ll catch up later.’”

“Some kind of friend you are.”

Truth be told I very well may have taken a header off the horizon for Miss Ashington. I certainly would have made a valiant effort to make a good show of it at the least. I mean—there would have been stylistic points awarded for the twists and flips I was willing to perform for this lady.

“So what other firsts do you think I’ll be a witness to, Carisa?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on there’s got to be some other secret you want me to know. Otherwise, what good are you to me?”

“Secrets, huh? Well, I’ve never gone out with a boy by myself so you were my first for that. And then again you’re the first boy who has ever been inside of my house—the second friend I’ve had over, after Emily. And I guess you’re the first boy who has ever shared his jacket with me.”

“Don’t forget I was the first boy who was willing to fight for you. I’m particularly proud of that fact.”

I watched her nod her head. She shivered again in my arms and I wrapped them a little tighter around her. I was fighting back the urge to shiver myself and I took some small comfort in her warmth.

“Do you think this would be a perfect setting for our first kiss? I mean—the people in films are always kissing in the rain and saying how it is so perfect. They get to that part where they just let the rain hit them in the face and then saw how in love they are. Then they always say how the kiss was so perfect. Do you think it would be good if we kissed in this rain?”

“Yes,” was the most I could get out at that exact moment in time.

“Huh. Something to think about at least,” she said.

I could no less grow an extra foot at that very moment then forget the comments she had just made. I was wondering when this exact subject would come up and I always envisioned myself bring up the subject. I thought my first time would be at a movie theater since I liked to go to the movies with her so much. I pictured myself a year or two from now, when I had grown some facial hair no doubt, at the movies with Carisa. I would playfully put my arm around her and play it off as stretching, even though I’ve been putting my arm around her for a good two months already. Then I would turn to her and she would turn to me. I would brush the bangs out of her face. She would smile. I would smile. Then I would lean in and kiss her. And we would kiss for a good minute and a half. She would giggle. I would laugh. Then she would tell me how perfect that kiss was.

And then I would say, “It’s the stubble, baby.”

“Have you been thinking our first kiss a lot, Sea-snail?”

“A bit here and there.”

We had reached our block and I was realizing soon that the two of us would have to part ways. I didn’t think Carisa’s mom would be too pleased with the idea of the two of us walking home in the gale force winds and driving rain of today’s storm which ruled out any idea of me being able to stay over at her house. I wanted this day to last forever, longer even, because I knew I’d always remember how close she and I had been. I wanted to hang onto that feeling of closeness and comfort for as long as possible. I didn’t want night to come or the sun for that matter because with those two things there would be a chance I could forget the events of today. I wanted things to remain like this endlessly for fear I might not get the opportunity again to be with Carisa like this for a very long time.

In no time we reached the apex of Carisa’s driveway and I kept an eye out for Mrs. Ashington. I knew that as soon as she saw us our walk home would be officially over. She’d come out, question us why we hadn’t waited for my dad to get there like we told her we would, and then lock Carisa up for a good long while.

“Do you want to come in?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I have to get home before my dad leaves work and let him know not to come.”

I don’t know why she didn’t immediately run into her home to get out of the rain. Actually, I knew, but couldn’t bear to tell her to get inside before she caught cold or something. I wanted to stay out here with here as much as she wanted to remain as well. In hindsight, I often wondered if she had been waiting for me to make a move all along or if, like many of her ideas and words, she had stumbled upon the idea on the spur-of-the-moment. All I knew was that we must have been waiting in the rain for a good five minutes before either one of us said anything.

“I think this is the part you kiss me.”

If there were any kind of justice in the world such ideas would be outlawed. Nobody should be as blunt and straightforward as that for fear of placing people in actual stupors. Whenever Carisa said something like that to me she placed me in harm’s way. I would not have been surprised to find myself in a state of paralysis or unconsciousness from the shock. Then they would have to wheel me into the hospital flat on my back and a wicked grin on my face. The doctor would take one look at me and ask what happened. The nurse would say I had just been told I could kiss Carisa. The doctor’s face would turn from one of concern to that of pure and unadulterated horror. He would immediately start checking me for signs of life or coherence. Finding none, he would then turn to the nurse.

“Good Heavens, woman! This boy needs a miracle worker not a doctor. That kind of trauma is almost impossible to recover from.” He would then place the sheet over my face, do the sign of the cross, and say, “May God have mercy on his soul.”

“It is?” I tried to ask nonchalantly.

She then turned around, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed me. It wasn’t a long kiss, nor was it the best kiss I ever had, but it was my first so I shall remember it with great fondness. Her lips felt like soft down. I was fortunate enough to have my eyes open as well and, as such, bore full witness to the delight and pleasure Carisa had within the crushing quiet of her eyes. Whether her happiness issued from a place of pure enjoyment of kissing me or from the fact she had surprised me yet again I shall never fully know. When I felt her lips touch mine I was surprised more than anything else. I barely had time to realize that was what we were doing before it was over. If I was smooth or had my wits about me I would have kissed her back. As it was she gave me that look of hers, the one where she seems to be waiting for me to say something, smiled, and then ran to her front door.

As for me I had to content myself with my own delirious smiles for the rest of the rainy day.

Yours Swimmingly
mojo shivers

I Don't Mind, Not Knowing What I'm Headed For, You Can Take Me Take To The Skies, It's Like Being Lost In Heaven, When I'm Lost In Your Eyes

--"Lost In Your Eyes", Debbie Gibson

I was at the local Border's killing time before rushing off to my next engagement. I sat in their comfortable chairs reading the latest of Filter, checking out some article about Rilo Kiley, when I was interrupted. A stranger with the innocuous inquiry as to whether the seat next to me was currently occupied was the culprit. Within those brief seconds she captured my full cooperation and I had moved over.

It wasn't the voice that caught my attention. It was just an average voice of an average young woman. Nor was it anything regarding the style of dress or how she conducted herself that made me snap to attention. Indeed, I had hardly intended to look up from my magazine. What drew me in were the most alluring pair of eyes I'd seen in quite awhile--a lazy shade of green, perfect in shape, and just this side of doe-eyed.

The engagement didn't last long, what with my having to dash off to the aforementioned appointment. However, even though the exchange only lasted mere minutes, the haunting beauty of those eyes stuck with me until finally I had to write the post you see before you.


I get weak in a glance

I know I've written often about how redheads are my kryptonite and how hair color in general is the first thing that I notice. It's true, I'm a sucker for certain hair colors that I've never been able to explain. Redheads in general, certain light blondes or chestnut brunettes, all have conspired to land me in trouble in the past. But, in addition to my preferences in the matter of tresses, I also seem to have a very discernible preference in eye color as well. There are certain shades of blue, but definitely green that I am powerless against. It's unmistakable. As soon as I take that first glimpse, an almost Pavlovian response begins to flow from me. I'm putty in regards to whatever suggestion they make.

I've had some time to think about it. The closest explanation I can assemble is that it's like Sophie Fisher once said more or less. Hair color, hair style, hair length is like the human body to me, it's the first thing I notice. A woman's hair is what gets them in the door in terms of making a first expression. But it's the eyes and especially the eye color that's like the soul of a person. I don't know--to get a really good look at a person's eyes, close enough to really see what color they are, you have to be really close to them. And to really establish the subtle shades and various nuance of a person's eyes you have to been watching them for more than the briefest of moments. I believe that's why when I can sum up in a few words the definitive color of a person's eyes, it means I've gotten to know that person.

Or, in the instance of that random encounter at Border's, it means that their eye color is striking enough to make a distinct impact within those first few moments. There is a shade of subdued green that has come to mean the model of beautiful eyes. People born lucky enough to have those shades I feel an instant connection with, more trusting, more willing to open up with.

Say all you want about beauty being skin deep, but just as I have a theory that certain numbers work better for me, I seem to get along better with people of certain hair colors and especially eye colors.

For me, hair color is the like the sizzle, while eye color is like the steak.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

When I'm Tired And Thinking Cold, I Hide In My Music, Forget The Day, And Dream Of A Girl I Used To Know, I Closed My Eyes And She Slipped Away

--"More Than A Feeling", Boston

What were you doing on May 14, 2003? Can you even remember that far back? Or does that one day just get lost in the shuffle of all the days before and after it? I tried asking that to a few of my friends in the last couple of days and their answers were both amusing and a little bit surprising. From studying for yet another exam for summer session to planning a summer getaway with one's husband, from getting drunk in the back of St. Francis to whiling away the hours in one's bedroom, nobody can recall doing anything of real import on that day. No one can even remember a single anecdote worthy of telling about the day. It's like its turn could have almost been skipped in the calendar and hardly anybody would have blinked.

Some notable events from May 14, 2003? George Lucas turned 59. Former Bond, Roger Moore, was reportedly doing fine after receiving a pacemaker the previous week. Also, apparently France was paralyzed by public workers striking.

And what was I doing? I was listening to Give Up by The Postal Service. It'd recently come out and recently been recommended to me by a friend who had requested I finally return the CD back to her. I drove in my car listening to "Nothing Better," thinking to myself how many parallels to DeAnn and I that song had and trying hard not to think about what was really on my mind. I was thinking how I really should have given back the CD a long time ago. I was thinking what kind of shitty friend I was to have kept it so long. I was thinking that something this good I really shouldn't have selfishly kept.

As I arrived at the hospital, I said hello to Amelia the day shift nurse at the front desk like I had dozens of times before. She remarked how it was the third visit in almost as many days that week. Then she teased about my being sure that my friend and I weren't a couple like everyone suspected. I laughed it off, clutching the CD in my hand, and told her I was just returning it back to its rightful owner.

I popped into Jennifer's room, thinking I would surprise her, but she was still asleep. I was the one actually taken by surprise. I'd been there dozens of times, but seeing her hooked up to all the monitors, all the tubes, all the electronics, still surprised as much as the first day I had heard the news that my friend was sick. That she wasn't getting better. Instead of waking her up, I just took the CD with me, thinking I'd have another opportunity the next day or later on that week maybe.

Before I left I looked at her one last time. So calm. So peaceful. On the outside I was still worried about her, but on the inside it kind of relieved me to see her so at rest. Earlier in the week, it'd been such a struggle just to keep her focused and alert. It had also been hard for me to keep coming and seeing just how far she was slipping. But I'd promised her that I was strong enough to handle it, I'd promised her that contrary to what she believed she was wrong not to tell me how much she was hurting earlier and she was wrong to believe I would shy away from watching her slowly fade away. I couldn't back down then--no matter how so unlike her she was becoming. The sight of her finally being able to take a moment for herself was relieving. So much pain in so young of a woman. A stupid CD could wait.

It wasn't until later that night that I heard she never woke up. It wasn't until later that night that I heard she had finally found a way out from the prison her body had built around.

It wasn't until later that night that I found out my friend Jennifer had died.

And what was I doing at 9:42 p.m. on the evening of May 14, 2003? I had my eyes closed, probably half-asleep, listening to some song off the CD I had just re-borrowed from a friend I loved very deeply. A day doesn't go by that I hear a Postal Service song and I don't think of her.

I'd like to believe that I'll have an opportunity to give it back to her someday because it's a pretty fucking awesome CD and I think it would be cool to listen to it with her at least once. Yeah, that would be really cool.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You're Becoming A Dream To Me, Fairytale Fantasy, Nothing Can Ever Compare, An Image To My Memory

--"Umbrella (remix)", Rihanna featuring Chris Brown and Jay-Z

I just got back from watching the latest Harry Potter. While I did enjoy it overall, I did have a few concerns about it. Rather than take my time to go into detail to my smaller quibbles, I'll just reprint a post I did for rilokiley.net:

Coming as someone who's never read the books, but seen every movie opening day, I thought this movie was good. I still like Goblet of Fire better.

From a plotting and story angle, it just didn't flow as smoothly as some of the other films. That's probably because they were trying to include so much from the novel, which is understandable. The climax was really good too and, once again, I was drawn into what would happen with every character, not just Harry. Very few movies can engage the audience's interest in all its characters, not just its main ones, like the Potter movies.

I just wished it felt less like a bunch of separate elements trying to be fused together and had more cohesion to it, I suppose. Not to say that it wasn't engaging throughout, but I was noticing the chinks in the armor for more than any of the previous efforts.

Then again, all those screenwriting classes I've been taking might be stripping the magic of the movies away for me. That's been happening to me recently.

Still, I'd see it again

I don't think that's my main beef with it. I think my main beef and why it doesn't hold up to my scrutiny of it is that I didn't grow up with it. To me, it's just a series of movies. It's a well-executed and imagined series of movies and novels, but it just doesn't hold that extra allure that the entertainment of my youth does for me. Which is to say, the whole series doesn't feel like mine. It feels like it belongs to a younger generation than myself in much the same vein that Avonlea feels like mine or The Cure feels like mine. There's an extra sense of ownership and mastery that comes with having a piece of artistry from the time one is mature and sophisticated enough to decide what one's tastes are. When one picks out a favorite band, a favorite movie, a favorite series of books, &c... one establishes a connection to that entity that goes beyond taste or regard. It treads onto the path of definition, which is a sacred path to tread.

I've always had the belief that a person is defined not by what one does or what one says, but what and who they like. One can tell immediately whether or not you like a person based on common interests. This person likes this band. I like this band. I suppose I could like this person because we share that. It's a type of shorthand. Rather than revolve around weighty issues of personal perspectives and philosophical underpinnings, we make instantaneous leaps of faith based on common interests. When I tell people that I like Rilo Kiley. I'm not just making a choice to like their music. I'm also making a choice to share that choice with that of my peers as a sort-of non-physical badge of identification. I'm defining myself to allow others to make assumptions of me.

That's why I just can't own Harry Potter because I don't know enough about it. More to the point, it hasn't worked its way into my system as soul-altering experience of metamorphosis. I didn't start becoming more of an individual because of this series.

I think that's the deal with the movies, the music, and the people we choose to associate ourselves with. It's not just the actual product we're aligning ourselves with. We're aligning ourselves what those images, those sounds, those memories represent--a time in our lives when we were just a little bit more sure of ourselves, a time in our lives when we were just a little bit more happy, a little bit more hopeful. Sometimes looking back we can see that the actual product might not be up to snuff with what's out today, but we still hold those old favorites best because of the sentimental effect they have on us. We were there when it was new. We were there when it was exciting. We were there when it was all everyone could talk about.

But what we're really saying is that we ourselves were new, we ourselves were exciting, we ourselves were what everyone could talk about. Once. And when we talk about having all-time favorites, it's because we want to hold onto those feelings about ourselves for as long as possible.


told you I'll be here forever

I wonder sometimes if all these Harry fans really enjoy the films and novels as much as they say they do, or if they're hanging onto the feelings these products elicit because they were so much a part of their growth. I wonder if they'll feel the same once it all comes to an end like my beloved Avonlea did. I wonder if they'll rail against the critics who say that their enamoration is built on nothing but nostalgia and that if they were to look at the actuality of it all, the whole mystique about Harry Potter was nothing more than a fad that fades in hindsight.

Then I realize that, even if it's all based on having rose-colored memories, it isn't such a bad thing to lay all your devotion into an object that has done nothing but bring you joy. People build their whole lives around the stuff of dreams and, as far as dreams go, the ones you had as a kid are definitely the best. And, as far as a mythos goes, Harry Potter definitely has been a major landmark in unifying a world of dreamers young and old alike.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

where is everyone?

=( seems like there's only one person who posts here on a regular basis. have we all gotten busy or we just think our lives are so boring, it's not worth writing about?

or... hahaha, something else? =P

well, as for myself, ahhh, still working part-time. i'm done with summer classes and just waiting for fall and spring sem to happen. after that? hmm, a vacation! i hope i get a vacation.

i feel like i'm trying to make the most of what i have left as an undergrad. it's not like i'll be leaving to grad school after, but... things will drastically change, i think. some of my friends will still be college students, but i'll be working.

after reading things i wrote in highschool and when i entered college, i noticed i changed a lot. but i'm still the same when it comes to certain things. pretty pathetic. but ehh, i hope i get over this one stupid stupid thing by the time i'm 30.

what will i worry about next year? what will i be like next year? will i still be a college student or something else?

even if my grades aren't good, or i don't get paid much, or life gets really really bad, the last thing i'd want to lose is my integrity.