If I Say I Want You Back, Would You Turn Around And Say You Want Me Too, 'Cause I Say I Want You Back, This Time I Really Mean It

--"Want You Back", Mandy Moore

The subject of my much delayed novel centers around a guy who was so devastated by the loss of his childhood sweetheart in sixth that he spends the rest of his life comparing how his life might have turned out if she had lived to the life he has now. He wonders if the dissatisfaction and growing restlessness he is experiencing as wanders through his marriage to the beautiful, but career-oriented, wife and fatherhood to a boy who adores him, but whom he barely knows, stems from their actual flaws or from his constant need to put it up side-by-side with this fantasy of a life he's held onto for so long. What could have been, what should have been, as opposed to what is and what he has encapsulates the main conflict of the story and, honestly, I don't know what kind of resolution the story is headed towards.

Mostly because I don't know how to answer that question myself.

Ilessa keeps insisting we should drive up somewhere for the holiday weekend. She keeps telling me we should leave early tomorrow and just spend the next couple of days somewhere. I know I'm probably going to end up doing that road trip in October or November with her, but for some reason I keep stalling her on this weekend trip. I keep insisting it's because I want to save some money for the "real" vacation. Yet that doesn't feel like the "real" answer. It's much like my theories, it's just something to say aloud to explain an answer that I haven't quite been able to put into words yet.

The real answer is that I'm still holding for somebody better, or, more specifically, for one particular somebody. I too have this fantasy that the literal girl of my dreams for the last fourteen years will suddenly extricate herself from the circumstances preventing her from being with me and I will, at last, have the life I was supposed to have. I too have been guilty of formulating comparisons in my mind that I've never quite voiced, even to the principals involved. I too have spent nights wondering if Ilessa would seem half as obnoxious and pushy if not placed in comparison to the individual I've spent the better part of my life comparing every woman I've ever liked to. I try to be strong. I try to believe that I'm being objective when it comes to new opportunities in my love life because, heaven knows, I'm not the type of person who gets opportunities all that often. A huge part of me is screaming that I should be seizing every gift I'm being given and not to play the part of spoiled brat, holding out for something better.

When it comes down to it, Ilessa is no more flawed or perfect than anybody has a right to be. She's neither a duchess or a devil. She drinks a lot, but I've already moved past that aspect of her personality, and, as I've written before, that is no longer the dealbreaker it once was. She's forthright in her opinions of people, but almost everybody I know could be accused of the same crime. Lastly, she has a lot of guy friends, but I cannot in good conscience lay my petty feelings of jealousy as being her responsibility. We haven't promised anything and, if I really stopped to ascertain the situation sincerely, she asked me to go on this trip, which I should take as a good sign that there is some level of attraction there. That truly should be enough to allay my feelings of being just another fish in her pond. That truly should suggest to me that she has some thoughts of me being special to her.

Then what's the fucking problem?

She isn't bad to look at. She isn't bad to be around. She's smart enough, witty enough, and informed enough to hold a decent discussion with. Yes, she's quite a bit younger than me, but twenty certainly does not carry around the baggage that eighteen or seventeen might. Even if it did, I've certainly have grown accustomed to the stares and backstage gossip-mongering that seems to follow me around like a lost dog.

Nope, the problem is, just like the main character in my novel, I seem to have met someone better first. Worst than that, I seem to have lost someone better first. Because of that dynamic, of having someone I think is as close to perfection that any one person can attain and not being able to have her, everyone else I meet is doomed to play, at best, second fiddle, or, at worst, to be a constant reminder of how much better my life could have been. Is that fair to Miss Nancy Drew? Is that the chivalrous thing to do in this situation, to constantly think of her as sloppy seconds? I don't think it is. I don't think it's fair to agree to go out with someone if the whole time you were wishing you were with someone else.

The problem is I don't know if I'll ever stop wishing. I don't know if I'll ever be that person who can give another woman a decent shot at my heart. I don't know if I'll ever give up chasing that dream, chasing my Amy (as Kevin Smith so aptly put it), the one who got away.

I think my biggest fear, aside from finding out that the dream really isn't all that perfect, is that many years from now I'll come to realize the real one who got away was Miss Ilessa Campbell. I'll try re-connecting with her, I'll tell her I want her back, but by then it really will be too late. I'll come to realize that I wasted some many years going after the wrong woman when the right one was living all this time not more than thirty minutes away. I'll come to realized all the years we could have spent together while I refused to see what she really was. I think that would be the saddest fate in the world, chasing after somebody I never really had a chance of getting and pushing away the only person who could have been everything to me.

After that, my only recourse would be to write a book about a guy who spent all his time wishing for one girl, while the perfect girl was in front of him, changes his mind, and now spends all his time wishing for the second girl, all the while pushing away other potential perfect girls.

It's like I'm always one step behind the curve.

I still don't know what to tell her when Ilessa calls about driving out tomorrow morning. I still don't know if I'm ready to pull up anchor and shove off for parts unknown. I've been tied to this one hope, this one dream, for so long I don't know if I have enough energy to set sail for another one.

I also don't know how long she'll wait for me to make up my mind.

But chances are not long.

Fuck.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

There Are Things In Life I Know, There Are Things In Life I Want To Show You, But All This Time Apart Gets The Better Of My Heart And My Head

--"Helsinki", Mary Lou Lord

There's a process to every individual's life that is compiled of mandatory occurrences and optional occurrences. Quite often people mix up the latter category with the former for a variety of reasons. Sometimes people assume that a so-called "normal" life is predicated on certain events having taken place by that life's closure. Barring that, they feel their life us wholly unfulfilled and wholly incomplete. Fairly soon after a juncture on their journey where they feel the weight of this incompletion they begin to spend their time and energy doing whatever necessary to cross this off their list. Obsessing compulsively over filling this void, they lose sight of the other more essential components of a life live welled. On the other hand, there exists certain individuals who gaze upon these necessary milestones and do their best to relegate them to the optional checklist of their lives. They spend all their time avoiding the obvious fixtures that need attending and chasing all the frivolous pursuits, that they too settle for living a partial life.

Try to guess who falls into which category.

----

thirteen years prior

B - This is your new thing, now, sugar? This is what I have to look forward to?

P - It's inexplicable.

B - You do paint a picture, though.

P - A sad, little picture on a sad, little wall.

B - No, a pretty picture full of pretty things.

P - You really think so.

B - I really think so. I mean--it's not like I didn't have my own thoughts on the subject. It hasn't escaped my attention completely.

P - Sometimes I get scared of discussing crap like this with you. I feel like I'm throwing stuff at you that you might not want to hear.

B - Et tu?

P - What?

B - Are you going to decide what I need to hear also, darling?

P - That's not what I was doing at all.

B - Sounded like you were.

P - I'm just saying I feel uncomfortable.

B - And all I'm saying is get over it. Hell's bells, it's like I haven't sliced myself open like a watermelon for you. Everything I know, you probably know too now.

P - But you're changing all the time.

B - That's why I give you updates. I don't want it ever said that I kept you out for some reason.

P - Appreciated, Breanne.

B - Anyway. You were saying?

P - Probably words.

B - Arranged in sequence expressing thoughts. Yes, we know. But I believe you were about to astound me with a complete breakdown of the mysteries of life...

P - The universe and everything? Hardly. I was just about to tell you my ideas on what it's like.

B - You imagine.

P - What, you don't believe me?

B - No, I didn't say that. I just wanted to make it sure it was clear that we're not talking about personal experience.

P - See? Now you just make me feel bad. Good job.

B - Not my intention. You shouldn't feel embarrassed. I'm right there with you.

P - Rotting away together?

B - Cell mates to the end.

P - Good to know. It's not like I never had the desire, but just never the opportunity. It got to the point where I stopped thinking it wasn't important at all. It's like knowing you're not allowed peanuts into your diet. At first, peanuts are all you can think of, but fairly soon you really do start thinking that maybe peanuts are in your future.

B - With me it's the opposite. All I can think about are peanuts. How they feel, how happy they're going to make me... how they taste.

P - Do you really think about it all the time?

B - All the time. You've read the literature. You tell me how often it crosses my mind.

P - But to you it's just one component of growing up. It's just another way you feel childish. For you it's something to do to prove to yourself that you're growing up.

B - How can it not be?

P - To me it's just kind of a hassle. We're like two ends of the spectrum here with me falling securely on the side of "should have happened by now if it's to happen at all."

B - I don't put you in the category. You're still a young'n yet.

P - Hardly.

B - Personally, I think it's kind of nice to know someone who's not all gung-ho about it. A healthy sense of respect is not a bad thing.

P - What about abject terror?

B - What are you terrified about?

P - I'm scared that maybe it's just not in the cards for me, that I'm on one side here and peanuts are on the other, and never the twain shall meet.

B - I don't think you really believe that, sugar.

P - I do.

B - No, because if you really believed that then you wouldn't be talking to me.

P - What does that mean?

B - I think if you had really given up truly and completely, you wouldn't be talking to me or Jina or whoever else you talk to. I think you'd be penned up somewhere, too scared to come out of the house, or make the slightest intention known to anybody.

P - I don't have intentions.

B - Believe me, you have intentions.

P - And what do you think my intentions are?

B - I think you intend me.

P - I would never intend you.

B - Never?

P - Of course, I can't say never.

B - My point exactly. You might not want to admit it, but you're like the cat climbing the tree. You may look like you're not doing anything wicked, but no cat climbs a tree unless they're chasing something.

P - And you think I'm chasing you?

B - I know you're chasing me. I let you chase me.

P - That's kind of twisted.

B - Why's that?

P - You know why. I'm old enough to be your...

B - Boyfriend?

P - You know what.

B - Look, darling, you can't unbake a cake. You can't treat me like your equal when it suits you and then like your little sister you have to protect when it doesn't. You obviously think I'm capable of holding this discussion with you. You should have the decency to acknowledge that I'm somewhat part of the subject of the discussion.

P - Can't I just be talking rhetorically here?

B - Theories and daydreams are fine, but why not use a real-life example? That's how I was always taught.

P - I guess I'd rather pretend the subject didn't exist, gloss over it until such a time it's okay to discuss it freely.

B - It's just me. It's not like I'm taping our conversation to utilize against you at a later point, Patrick.

P - I know.

B - You trust me, right?

P - I do.

B - Then shush up and be real with me like you usually are.


and no matter what I do I can't stop thinking of you

P - The truth is I think you're my only option.

B - You say it like it's a fate worse than death.

P - And that upsets you? You don't want me to talk about you like that?

B - Please, thank you.

P - The only reason I say it like that is because I don't want to want you. I don't want to feel about you the way I do. It's too soon, I'm too unsure, and, frankly, it just wouldn't be right.

B - Your problem is you worry too much, Eeyore. I think we're a long way from getting to the point where you have to be worrying.

P - But knowing you're even entertaining. There's a lot of guilt there.

B - I hope and wish everyday. Just because you're taking the carriage for a test drive doesn't mean you need to start looking for horses, as my daddy always says. The truth is it feels good to just talk about it. It feels good, to me at least, that somebody is actually talking about me in that context.

P - I don't if there's another person I'd be able to talk like that about, Breanne.

B - Awwww. It also makes me feel good that it's you doing the talking and not me. I think it's better that you initiate it. It's nice to know that it's not all one-sided.

P - Like you said, I wouldn't be talking to you if at least one part of me didn't believe it could happen.

B - Sooner rather than later, I hope.

P - Just give it time. If you really believe it's inevitable, then it shouldn't matter when.

B - But it matters to me and it should matter to you. I think when you feel for someone like I do, there shouldn't be any other thought in your head but wanting to be with that person in every way. It feels unnatural not to want that.

P - I suppose.

B - It's not like it would take much doing.

P - No, I'm not going to entertain this at all.

B - It's a simple question.

P - With a not so simple answer.

B - It's just one word, one way or the other, sugar.

P - One word that can lead to years of trouble.

B - Do you love me?

P - You know the answer.

B - But do you? I think if you know the answer then everything else falls into place. Hell's bells, it isn't rocket science. You either want to share everything you are with a person or you don't. That you hesitate gives me pause, Patrick.

P - I don't hesitate because I don't know the answer. I stop short because saying the answer aloud gives the word power. It makes it real and I don't want to believe this is real. I don't want to get my hopes up. I don't want to think it can happen and then have it not happen again.

B - It's not a hope. If your answer is yes, then mine will be too. I don't know how to make it any clearer than that.

P - How can you be so sure about me? How can you be so sure about all of it?

B - You share everything or nothing. I don't believe in skipping towards bliss. Like the brothers write, "love should be everything or not at all." The only question you should be asking yourself is do you think I'm worth it.

P - Actually, the only question I have is "do you want me to love you?"

B - I do. From my britches to my brain.

P - Then I do too.

B - Peanuts it is then.

P - Someday. I would like that.

B - Someday soon, darling.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

My Little Girl, Drive Anywhere, Do What You Want, I Don't Care, Tonight, I'm In The Hands Of Fate, I Hand Myself, Over On A Plate

--"Behind The Wheel", Depeche Mode

I'm in desperate need of a road trip. Yes, it's only been two months since I went to Chicago, but I feel myself yearning to travel again. I don't know why I get like this. Maybe it's the notion of seeing and trying new things, but I have the skulking suspicion it has more to do with the idea of being in a rut at home. I've always been the type of person to be able to suffer through my day if I have something to look forward to. It's akin to when you're a student in school and you pin your thoughts on the upcoming weekend, or the upcoming break, or Summer vacation. For most of this year that goal was my Chicago trip, but now I don't have anything to look forward. I think it's high time I fill that vacancy.

When Ilessa suggested that we should maybe take a trip for my birthday, at first I was against it. I thought it too much of a hassle and too time-consuming to be something I was in favor of. Yet as time has progressed from that initial suggestion and I realize how dreary life gets when every week seems to blend into the next, I'm beginning to think that she might be onto something there. I could probably do this on my own, but I would feel bad taking her suggestion and not taking her.

What's important to me is that, if I do go on this trip, I don't want us to have an itinerary. I don't want to know where we're going or what we'll be eating or even where we'll be staying. I want every day to be a complete and utter surprise. A long time ago my parents took my brother and I on a road trip up to Seattle and back. I consider it the best family vacation we ever went on. What made it fun wasn't because we were on a strict timetable, what made it fun was the fact that my dad would more or less drive for four hours in the general direction of Seattle and then stop for the day. We never knew where the next city we would be staying in, which made it a necessity to find diversions and sustenance from among the local sights, shops, and restaurants. I think that's the real spirit of traveling. I think that's what keeps me wanting more every time I go on vacation, that sense of exploration and never knowing what I'll find next.


you're behind the wheel, tonight

All I know is this--I need to get the hell out of Dodge. I don't know why and I don't know where, but I'm beginning to feel, as my dad once famously said, "too cooped up in here." I've got the disease and the only cure is the open road.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Not As If New York City Burnt Down To The Ground, Once You Drove Away, It's Not As If The Sun Won't Shine

--"Breakin' Up", Rilo Kiley

"No one breaks your heart on purpose," I thought to myself as I sat on the plane leading me back to Los Angeles. It's not as if somebody meets a person and sets out to destroy them at first glance. It just doesn't happen. That's the only solace I could find in the situation. What else could I do under the circumstances? Wallow in a mire of self-pity and try to find out reasons why Tara did what she did? That wouldn't solve anything. I'd still be on a plane by myself and I'd still be broken up from the person who literally meant everything to me for the last year-and-a-half.

I tried to see it from her point-of-view. I attempted to visualize what could cause a woman to break up with a man on the second day of a five-day trip. I pictured her weighing the options of telling me sooner than later and still having to suffer through three days of having to spend time with me. Then I tried to picture her weighing the option of holding off on telling me and having to pretend she still felt as strongly for me as she once did. I don't know which I would have opted for. I tried to be empathetic for her situation, but it wasn't helping.

All I knew was my side and my side was this. I had set aside time to take this trip to spend time with her. I had made special arrangements to make it as special for her as possible. I had gone with the hopes of furthering a relationship I thought was leading somewhere. For those first couple of days it had been great. We had gotten along as we always had, joking and laughing around interspersed with intense bouts of lovemaking and generally romantic exchanges. I don't know--I thought everything was going fine. It didn't really start to change until she started talking about changing schools next year and what it would mean for us. I said what everybody says in that situation, that we could make it work. I said that, as long as we had each other, we could make anything work. Right after I said that she seemed assured and that was that. For the next few hours everything went back to being fine. I still had my cupcake and she still had me.

Things didn't start feeling weird again until we started to visualize how it would work, my flying out to see her in Pennsylvania, my having to work around a vastly different school schedule. The more I tried to scramble for solutions, the more she came up with more problems to our arrangement. There I was, thinking everything had been settled, only to realize she was already in the midst of deciding nothing was ever going to work for the two of us.

I believe that's all how break-ups begin. I've never heard of an exactly equally beneficial break-up. Usually one person decides to end things and the other person has to live with it. It's never a decision both parties come to amicably. One person most often decides to protest to the utter horror of the other person. I can't even tell you how many times I've wished whoever I was with and I could come to that kind of decision together, how much smoother my life would be if our timetables were in sync like that. But I might as well curse everyone for not thinking like I do. It'd do about as much good.

After that, everything really started crumbling. It was like watching the twelve steps of grief in fast forward. I've often heard that breaking up with someone or divorcing someone hits with as much emotional viciousness as losing someone to death; it impairs that severely and that permanently. And the manner in which she conducted it was especially vicious. I had my vacation ruined, my love life decimated, and my future albeit obliterated all in one fell swoop. I don't know if it would have been easier for her to have slowly drifted away, but going from "maybe we should see other people while I'm away at school" to "maybe we should take a break" to "maybe we should break-up" in the span of twenty hours isn't exactly enough time to cope effectively. I'm happy I kept it together as much as I did. It was like being forced from the nest only to land on the branch below. Then that branch breaks. Then the next, and the next, and the next, until I'm laying wounded on the ground below. Sure, they might have cushioned the fall somewhat, but each landing also gave me hope that that was as far as I would fall, only to have that security taken away as well. Frankly, it felt like a mean trick she was playing. It felt deliberate and it felt cruel.

It was only after I had been in the air for a few hours that I realized any vindictiveness was on my part and not hers. She had held up her end of the bargain. She had been straight forward with how she felt and hadn't held anything back. That's what I always expected of her and that's what I received.

Maybe the whole coming to grips with the break-up didn't happen all on the plane, but the idea that I could almost forgive her so soon after it happened led me to believe this wasn't as bad as it could have been.

Ever other break-up I've had since then has been a lot harder to deal with. I think that's because the way other women have handled it or I've handled has always been with kid gloves. We both have been guilty of allowing for that nasty bugger hope to creep in, the hope that someday bridges might be repaired and we could get back together.

Tara handled it differently and maybe that's why I don't despise her like I do other exes. She basically let me know in no uncertain terms that we were through. She didn't offer up any hope of reconciliation. No, if she did offer up any hope it was the notion that people can stop being in love with each other without resorting to hating each other. I may have left her hating the situation, but I didn't get on the plane with the idea to hold against her. What I left with was the feeling that it hurt a lot, but that it was okay to let it hurt. I left saying good-bye to a fantastic young woman who was as broken-hearted as I was, but with the resolution that time would heal my heart in time.

"No one breaks your heart on purpose," I repeated. Consequently, I landed in Los Angeles, almost secure in the knowledge that whatever wounds I suffered would heal because it's different when you know the pain isn't intentional. It doesn't feel as awful. It's like the difference between having your house robbed and having your house burnt down to the ground.

They're both hard to deal with, but, in the case of the former, it's not as if the house can't be rebuilt.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You're Right Next To Me, I Think That You Can Hear Me, Funny How The Distance, Learns To Grow

--"China", Tori Amos

It happened after school, when he was supposed to be taking care of her. He had been put in charge because he was three years older, he was the responsible one, he was the one that would set a good example for her. She doesn't remember why that first time happened. She can't recall the exact sequence of events--if it had something to do with her being willful or conspicuously bratty, or if she had merely caught him on an off day. That's what bothers her most, that she can't ever piece together how it came to be she ended up flipping a switch in her brother that she never quite learned to switch off. If she had the details she could maybe discern a logical sequence of events that would either allay responsibility away from her (he was always a monster and she was just the most convenient target) or she could finally accept that the burden was hers (she had done something to change him). If he had that inciting incident to go back to she might be able to have some reason to pin her frustration on.

She does remember one thing.

She had been eight at the time when he first came for her.

He had followed her into her room. She was sitting on her bed. She watched him cross the room to her. At first, she had laughed him off. Before that day, he had been somewhat docile, somewhat reserved. Up until then she had carried on as if she had some magical immunity to him. She would tease him endlessly with names that she never really understood the meaning behind. There were just words to her, words she had picked up in school and words she knew bothered her brother to be called them. She would say them. He would hear them. He would chase her around for a bit, but that would be it. Or she would play tricks on him--tying his doorknob with rope to the guest bedroom's doorknob so he couldn't open up his door, purposefully emptying out his Frosted Flakes every week a bit at a time so he would be without breakfast more often than not--and he would just take it. But that day when she tried to laugh him off, underestimate his capacity for actual anger, it only served to infuriate him more. Even when he was standing right in front of her she was still laughing in his face. This was her brother. Wasn't it her sisterly right to get under his skin? Wasn't it her duty, in fact? She was confident he was merely posturing, trying to establish who was boss.

It came as a shock to her when he punched her across her left cheek, not with everything he had, but enough to make his point. She remembers he wasn't smiling like he take any great satisfaction in his wrath. But he also didn't have the usual look of guilt that accompanies hurting somebody. If he had any remorse, he was sure not to show it to her.

She immediately fell to the side onto her pillow. She cried, but, unlike most descriptions she says people give of feeling betrayed by someone they thought loved them, she didn't start crying. In her memory of that day it felt like she had always been crying that day. She doesn't want to see the point where she went from being in awe of her brother to living in a quiet fear of him. She remembers she was crying before her head ever hit the pillow.

Again, he didn't immediately kneel down beside to comfort her. The next thing she remembers him doing was telling her that it do her no good to cry now. There was nobody home to hear her. She couldn't understand what he was trying to tell her. It's true, before, she had used crying as a means to call attention to her brother's bothering her. She had employed over-reacting to get her brother in trouble. But that day was different. That day she cried not as a means to signal her parents to rescue her. That day she cried because there was no other way she could communicate her pain. It was her body's natural response.

That's when her brother died and was replaced by the something that never quite figured out how to fight back against. That's when it happened.

Instead of leaving or maybe calming down, he only grew angrier with the same even tone that she would learn. He kicked at her while she still had her eyes closed on the pillow. Luckily, most of the blow just glanced off her thigh, but he had made his point.

She tried to will away her tears and within a few minutes she stopped. He stood over her the entire time.

She learned that day that the only thing that her brother respected, that the only thing that ever made him stop was when she wouldn't give him an excuse to continue. The way she explained it to me was this. He didn't get off on the pain because he only ever hurt her enough to make it count--a few blows to really illustrate how much stronger he was in comparison to her. He didn't get off on her crying either. Tears or no tears, whimpering or no whimpering--it was all the same to him. No, what she feels motivated him was the idea of cause and effect. She had made him angry, therefore she had to be hurt for that. There was no joy or sadness in the act; it was a form of justice to him that was neither vindictive or unwarranted. Before long she realized the more she kept it business-like and I guess what you could call "professional" the easier of a time she had.

That's when she stopped being as cavalier as she once was. She didn't get quiet or become taciturn. That would have only tipped off her parents that there was a problem in the house, which was also punishable. If anything, she became more social. She started becoming more talkative. Yet, conversely, she also become more guarded. Everything became a big joke to her, nothing was serious. She stopped discussing how she felt to anyone in straight terms. Everything became hints and speculation wrapped up in biting language so you could never get the straight skinny from her.

She became like those hard-boiled detectives she came to revere. After all, those men and women faced all sorts of hardships and impossible situations. They never ran to the authorities to solve their problems. They never expected someone else to come bail them out. No, she rationalized, they always solved their own problems. They always took their licks and kept coming back as if nothing had happened. They never let a unfair situation be the reason they gave up. And, most importantly, they never cried. That wasn't their way. That wouldn't be her way either.

Even after she stopped being that frightened eight-year-old, the beatings still continued. Once or twice a month for the next seven years, things would get bad between her brother and her. She never made excuses for him. She never split him into two distinct personalities. She would knuckle through the painful times and smile and joke around with him during the good times. She never would go so far as to describe him as being a good brother during those times, but she never put any stock into coming up with any elaborate scenarios to get her revenge or to get him caught. Like she had worked out, that would only make him hurt her more. She did her best not to cry and then it would be over. She would be bruised in a couple of places, but to her those were nothing that wouldn't heal. She wasn't about to let a few rough times destroy her or make her weak.

She became strong because he would always be stronger than her.

She became tough because he would always be tougher than her.

And during the good times, she said they would both go on with their business as normal. They didn't share these awkward moments of tension at the dinner table. As far as both of them were concerned nothing had happened. It slowly became a cornerstone of her life experience--no more out of place for her than being grounded was for the rest of us.

She says it was because both her and her brother came to a mutual silent understanding a long time ago. They were never going to be close. They were never going to become tight later on in life. What he did to her on regular basis was a conscious declaration to her that he was forsaking all rights and claims to knowing her as a sister after he went off to college. There would be no coming back from it. This they both accepted. They would go on with their life under the same roof with the knowledge the arrangement was only temporary. As soon as he left, he would be gone from her life for good.

That's the deal they made with one another without ever signing any contract or airing it out in so many words.

Her mark was already placed for her that day when she was only eight.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Cryptic Words Meander, Now There Is A Song Beneath The Song, One Day You'll Learn, You'll Soon Discern Its True Meaning

--"Song Beneath the Song", Maria Taylor

We stare at thousands of faces a day, millions of faces a year, bumping into a myriad of people in our lifetimes. Sometimes we are truly blessed to bump into the right people and make a connection that lasts sometimes your whole life. I've made a few of these kinds of friendships--randomly butting up against the jetty of fate--where I sometimes wonder what might have been had I not come across this certain individual or that certain individual.

However, sometimes the opposite comes sneaking along into my journey.

----

I swear--I stare at faces everyday. There is something more imminently decisive about a person's face when it comes to demonstrating their character. Call it a first impression, call it reading body language, but the nuances of a person's features makes facegazing a fascinating hobby. I don't know--some people call it people-watching or maybe even looking at life, but for me it all boils down to studying people's emotions and their quirks. And all of that starts with their face.

For instance, when I was sick with a cold back in freshman year of high school and my mother made me still go to mass, I'm sure my face must have appeared a sight. I'm sure that I must have been displaying every bit of the annoyance and discomfort I had been feeling at the time, just as I'm sure I must have been also displaying an unadulterated grimace of misery as my nose and cheeks felt incredibly warm at the time. Since I was never a big fan of church anyway I used my boredom as an impetus to engage in some facegazing myself. Most of the people in the assorted pews were people I recognized. Half of them were the families of people I or my brother went to school with. It was the rare sight when I could actually spot an individual who I hadn't seen in mass before. In fact, the sight was so rare, most of my time was spent trying to see just how many people had attended and just how many times they would actually come back.

It was in this manner that I came across a certain redheaded girl. Let's just say she had a face worth remembering and leave it at that.

It's no big secret that a good deal of my time is spent wondering whatever became of her and how close we really were. I mean--how close can any two people get, sharing bits and pieces of conversation in a limited time span? The fact I still don't know her real name tells you a little something of the depth of our conversations. Most of the time, my thoughts just trail off. I come to the unmistakable conclusion that Sniffler was nothing more than schoolboy fascination prompted by an almost unholy attraction to redheads coupled with an insane sense of boredom whilst in church, and topped off with the "awww" factor that just as often as I subtly pushed my family to sit by her family she somehow always managed to sit close by me as well, depending on whose family sat down first. It was nothing, I tell myself. I had no shot.

Yet I always come back to that face--how the two of us just clicked at first glance. I wouldn't call it love at first sight, but there was something I saw in her visage that made me want to talk to her. People often chalk that crap up to beauty, but I see a lot of pretty faces. However, I don't always want to talk to the pretty faces because something else tells me they either have nothing of import to say or they would have no interest in what I would have to say. Sniffer's face immediately told me I could talk to her. More importantly, it told me that I should want to talk to this girl.

Eighteen months later after we first talked I stopped going to church.

Eighteen months and one day later I started wondering if I should have kept going for the sole purpose of hopefully building something more substantial with her.

For the most part, I try not to think of her much. I've grown accustomed to the notion that my decision to quit the church was a good one. Every decision comes with advantages and disadvantages. I've come to accept that losing out on the chance to know Sniffler was one of the prices I had to pay for my freedom. I try not to sweat it much anymore.


oh now the roots are reminiscing
recurring dreams of minor chords

But maybe life has a way of telling you that you missed something. Maybe in the grand scheme of things people really do get portents that there some kind of master plan being executed without you ever knowing. Maybe my gazing deeply into those green eyes of hers was supposed to be the start of something more substantial, that somehow I had missed the significance behind the encounter. Perhaps my growing immediately comforted by her face was the universe's way of telling me which direction to go and that, by forsaking her comforting presence along with the unholy precepts of religion, I had missed the subtext of my times with her. Perhaps those chats were a lot more important to my growth as a person than I gave them credit for.

For me, life smacked pretty hard that I could have been blind to that theory when I was in Chicago with Breanne. There we were sitting at Charlie's Ale House when I spotted a dead ringer for Sniffler and once more I immediately grew comforted by this stranger's whole look. With Sniffer 2.0 I didn't exchange any words, but the brief eye contact we made in passing in and out of the restaurant awakened feelings of being whole that I had apparently forgotten. It's like I was a jigsaw puzzle that had most of its pieces in place, but had managed to lose a central piece. It was like I was song missing out that great backing track that you don't you need until you add it and suddenly the whole song feels richer.

It was just a face and I'm probably bending it to fit the proportions of a girl I haven't stared at or seen in fifteen years, but in my heart of hearts I know 2.0 is a darn good replica of 1.0. It was just a face but maybe it's a subtle nudge, like the ones I used to give my family, that I should try looking for my Sniffler again.

It was just a face, but it could be the face that I was supposed to be seeing all along now.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Know That You'll Go Soon, You'll Find Out So Take Me With You Always, I Know That You'll Go Soon, You'll Find Out So Take Me With You Always

--"Sad Song", Au Revoir Simone

They stopped for gelato before they boarded their bus. It was this skeezy dive that catered to the families, couples, and friends who seemed to meander aimlessly through the shopping center. When he bought her a cup of the raspberry, she smiled like he had just bought her the world or, at least, her own little piece of it. It was a small gesture. Slight, really. And he couldn't quite put his finger on why she was made so happy by it. Yet as she sat down to enjoy her treat, he saw it again, that unwavering smile, that unquestioning hope for him being a decent fellow after all.

He was tempted to take it away from her just to spite her. He was curious to see what she would do then, how happy she would be then. However, he knew he couldn't. She deserved this. She deserved this one small favor. He let her have her treat.

Between bites, he caught her looking up at her out of the corner of his eye--that goldenrod hair of hers, those turquoise eyes of hers. He did his best to ignore the half-hidden requests for contact, to keep his eyes from straying to that pixel-like body of hers. That's how he had ended up in this mess to beging with. He continued to stare out at the ever-evolving crowd--young one minute, ancient the next. He really didn't want to exchange words with her. Not yet. He wanted to keep this delay as brief and as unmemorable as possible. Whenever she asked him a question, trying as she might to engage him, he softly answered, offering nothing more than what he had to. He was the model of polite indifference and fairly soon she hesitatingly gave up on meaningful conversation.

He had hooked up with her somewhere near Bakersfield, on the outskirts of his complete breakdown. He had been one step from desolation and she had rescued him from that. That's why he had been grateful. That's why he had agreed to chaperone her on the rest of her trip east to her future endeavors. It was from a misguided sense of gratitude and a lingering claim to decency that prevented him from leaving her. True, she was good company--always quick with some dangling observation, always offering up some cheery advice for him. In that manner they had covered the last eight states, always on the cusp of stranding the pair of them at the next level.

They had split the motel room for the last few nights, him on the floor, her on the bed waiting for him to join her. Two of those nights he had been weaker and taken advantage of her even more glaring weaknesses. He had tried not to think of it too much. He tried not to think of anything too much. It had been what it had been, another blatant attempt on his part at feeling something real. The experiment had failed completely--at least, according to him.

She was a completely different story.

When she had just about finished her gelato, he pressed for her to hurry so they could get back on the beat-up Greyhound. She didn't want to be late, he asked, did she? Of course she didn't. So he he took her hand, roughly at first, but softening at the sight of her face scrunching in discomfort. He was in such a hurry just to get on the bus, he had forgotten the niceties of traveling with a companion. Simply because he needed to be somewhere quickly didn't necessitate the same need in her. As far as he could tell she wouldn't have minded if this trip had lasted the whole year, as long as she could spend it with him. When the two of them went back to gently sauntering up to the bus, her mood grew remarkably brighter again.

They got on the bus without incident. They sat next to each other without incident. They prepared for the trip without incident. All in all, it looked to be an uneventful ride.

"But you don't even know where I'm headed," he heard himself in response to her question.

"Well, you should care because I might be headed somewhere you mightn't like at all."

He couldn't actually hear the words she was speaking. He could only discern her blonde head moving in barely recognizable patterns of communication. She didn't so much say what she was thinking as much as bob and twist her head to relay her thoughts. It was a wonder he understood her at all.

"We can talk about it later. Now just relax," he told her, placing his hands over hers. They felt soft in his touch. They felt nervous, anticipatory. Those feelings faded within them over time. The longer he remained holding onto them, the more relaxed they felt, until finally they were like gentle wisps of paper, barely registering in his grip at all. He began stroking her arm, gently willing her to relax. Just relax. Just let yourself go.

She had asked him the last night of his weakness. She had asked him to take her with him wherever he went. That night, the way her voice had seemed to crumble on itself, the way her body had rippled beneath the tawny overhead lamp, the way he had felt weak and alone, he had agreed to her entreaty without thinking over what it really meant for him. She didn't want to rescue him, she wanted him to rescue her. Whereas he had needed someone to find a place where he felt like he belonged, she had seemed to need a someone to belong to. For that night she belonged to him and she had been grateful to him for the possession. For that night, he let her believe whatever she wanted to believe--that the two of them would live a life together somewhere elsewhere, that the two of them could fall in love someday, that he was capable of being worthy of her. For that night he let it all ride.

But he knew he could never own her in much the same vein he never really owned much. What was there to own that could ever make him happy, after all?

Take her with him? Impossible.

She wasn't a bad kid--bright, full of hope. She was like a cheerleader who had never joined the squad. She was the type of kid who believed hope and optimism were the antidote to the malaise that most people suffered from. What she couldn't wrap her pretty, little head around was the fact that most people that suffered from what he had didn't want to be cured. They didn't need the hope. What they really needed before anything else was something to convince them that hope was some type of salvation. They didn't need to know that their god was out there for them, ready to accept them into his fold, they needed to be sure that god really had his heavens to back up his claims. They needed the idea that once they had hope, that hope would steer them to happiness. That was her problem. To her hope, happiness, and harmony were all the same thing. To her happiness was like sunshine, you couldn't touch it, but you could feel it. Well, he needed to feel his happiness and he was always in search of the next thing that could provide that sensation.

It had been her for a time.

But now that time was over.


on buses that move through the night
we sleep on and on

She fell asleep a little past eleven by his watch. He watched her curl up her head on the seat, positioning it next to the side of the bus. He gently moved her legs off of his legs and watched her settle into her new shape. He counted to the number eight before finally stepping across the aisle to sit down.

For the next few stops, he watched to see if she would notice he had gotten up. Part of him wanted her to wake up and ask him again to stay with her, to keep her company for the long journey. Part of him wanted her to notice he was gone. Part of him wanted her to miss him just that much.

But she never woke up.

At the fifth stop, some forty miles from the last one, he stood up in his seat. He chanced another look at his sleeping beauty, saw the crinkles of a smile for some dream she was having, and shook his head. Even in sleep, nothing could cut through that optimism. He quickly got off the bus. He made no attempt to stop the bus or to flag it down. He merely started walking for the nearest motel, aware that he had yet one more person to regret meeting in his life.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

sickness

i am sick
sick
sick

because of the weather

silly rain


washing my strenghts away...... ah the soft realm of a bed....

I'd Have Thought, That With Time, Thoughts Of Her, Would Leave My Head, I Was Wrong, And I Find, Just One Thing Makes Me Forget

--"Red Red Wine", UB40

I've been drinking comfortably for the last six or seven years that I sometimes forget that I got a really late start at it. Whereas most people engage in drinking in their teens, I didn't start drinking regularly until I was twenty-six. Before then, I was sure it was one of the quickest paths to hellfire and brimstone. Oh sure, slamming people's arms in car doors and burning their gifts was bad, but it wasn't even close to imbibing alcoholic beverages in terms of sinfulness--at least, not in my book back then. Not only did I refuse to partake of the stuff myself, but I treated people who did rather harshly. I felt above them. I felt that I was morally superior to them and that they were weak-willed. Time and time again I remember getting into fairly strong arguments with my friends because they would go off drinking and I would be forced to watch them. Or, worse yet, I would get a call from one of them. They'd be drunk and in need of a ride or some other assistance. I'd help them or talk to them, but I wouldn't be very happy about it. I would also never let them live it down.

----

"Yeah, you were a real ass back then," I heard Breanne say as we were staying once again really late into the afternoon at the Sheraton instead of going into the city.

"But you still say I'm an ass."

"Yeah, but back then you were a real ass."

I put my arms around her, thinking that a few years ago I would have handled the situation differently. I would have tried to defend my actions more vehemently or perhaps played it off entirely. I probably would have gone the route of saying that I was still against drinking on principle and that my own drinking habits certainly paled in comparison to that of my friend. The conversation wouldn't have remained a friendly discussion of how insanely dogmatic I used to be; it would have turned ugly quickly.

In fact, I doubt I would have been discussing the issue at all a few years back--even with her. For a long time I was really sensitive about the subject because I was always getting trounced by those around me. It's easy to have a guiding principle when all one's friends are in agreement with you. It's much harder to remain resolute when they are all engaged in an activity you find next to reprehensible, yet still have the notion that you trust their judgment and believe that they are fundamentally good people. It was hard for me walking that line sometimes of being able to trust somebody like Breanne's judgment when it came to giving me advice, when every few weeks or so she would call me wasted or close to it and sounding basically like a blabbering idiot. There were times when I would hear some story about her passing out on a stranger's lawn that I would actually begin to re-think my opinion of her judgment, especially when it came to basically telling me what choices I should make. I figured if she couldn't handle her own well-being in a mature fashion, then how could I in good conscience ask her to look out for mine?

"What can I say? I changed my mind. Sometimes I do that."

"Doesn't happen often."

"Not often at all."

"But I guess when it does, it happens quickly. It was almost as if I was arguing with you that I could take care of myself one week and then quick as a cat's tail you were asking when we could go out drinking together."

"It wasn't that fast, was it?"

"Seems like it."

I closed my eyes, my head still faced directly at the back of her head. To me it didn't seem like all that long ago I was having a hard time remaining objective about her when it came to her drinking habits. I always felt it was one of my unwritten duties to watch out for her like an older brother or something. I would actually get into my head that if I were her older brother, I would have been taking a harder stance against her going out so much. I would have been a total dick to her and not allowed her to have any fun without me present.

It wasn't easy for me being so far away and so worried about her, but having neither the wherewithal or the familial ties that would give me the leverage to actually tell her what to do and have her listen.

There I'd be on the phone, shaking my head at the hijinx she was calling me in the middle of, and all I could think was what an unbelievably stupid girl she was. I would think of how I wasn't her friend and didn't want to rat her out to her parents, I would have been waking them up as soon as she called me unable to string more than five words together. And, oh, would I let her have it. I would yell. I would threaten. I would guilt-trap. I would pull out the whole repertoire of tools I had at my disposal--all in the vain hope that the crisis I was dealing with at the time would be the last one that was caused by alcohol I would have to deal with.

"We just grew up differently is all, Breannie. I couldn't understand where you were coming from because I was almost religiously opposed to drinking. I thought growing up I could actually go through an entire lifetime without touching a drop."

"And that was just because..."

"That was just because I saw firsthand what it did to people in my life. I mean--they weren't alcoholics, at least I don't think so, but they turned into real assholes sometimes after they'd had a lot to drink."

"I've seen that too."

"Then why do it?"

"Because, you know me, I always think I can handle anything."

"Invincible, right?"

"Exactly."

I put my arm up on her shoulder.

"I'm not kidding you, there were times when you were younger that I just wanted to fly over and just drag you away from wherever you were. I just wanted to knock whatever bottle or glass you had in your hand and talk some sense into you."

"It wouldn't have made a difference, Eeyore."

"You still would have gone on stubbornly defying me..."

"Probably," I heard her slyly laugh. "What I mean to say is that I wouldn't have called if I didn't think I was heading somewhere I didn't think I can handle myself. And the best help you could have ever given me in that situation is what exactly you did."

"Which was?"

"Stay on the phone and tell me how disappointed you were."

"You liked me being disappointed with you?"

"No, but I liked hearing in your voice that you cared what happened to me. It might not have made me stop, but more than once it made me reconsider some bad choices I was considering."

I think I'm a self-defeatist by nature. I set these lofty goals for myself that are out of my reach and then get rather disappointed when I don't achieve them. Like I said, one of my goals for a good portion of my life was to watch out for her and make sure she never got into trouble. Up until that point in Chicago recently, I always thought I'd failed her on the drinking front. I always believed that if I'd tried harder she wouldn't have gotten into so many embarrassing, sometimes dangerous, situations at parties when it came to getting drunk. I always thought I was a bad friend for allowing so much that was so wrong to happen to her. In my head I thought I was stupid to not get her mother more involved in this secret life of hers.

But hearing that, it made me feel like I did an okay job at being her friend and maybe as an older brother.

I looked around the suite from the bed. It was a large room, but I was still paranoid about people being able to hear from next door. I didn't feel like revealing all my secrets to the whole world, but I wanted to continue discussing this line of discussion with her without fear of eavesdropping. Not that I knew what value my silly little viewpoints had for other people, but it's always been a concern of mine that people value my opinion even if they didn't quite understand it. I believe that's why I try to retain so much useless information because I never want somebody to come to me for advice or an answer to a question and me not be able to provide that for them. I want to at least be able to take a stab at every concern somebody decides to throw my away.

I looked back at her. She looked as full of grace as she normally did. I couldn't think of another time when I would feel as relaxed with her on this trip as I did at that point. I decided to chance telling her a few things.

I tapped her on the shoulder, indicating for her to turn around.

She acquiesced quietly and without a lot of fuss. Once more, I was staring at those oceanic blue-green of hers, like some tidal pools, so trusting and so unwavering in their loyalty. There would never be a better time to spell out just how insidious my perspective had really been and how deeply into me it had reached.

"I was this close to writing you off completely. I didn't want to, but there were times where I just felt powerless to get you to stop. And you just wouldn't stop, weekend after weekend it just felt like you were getting worse. And I came close to saying those dreaded words, you either give up drinking or I can't be your friend anymore."

"Really?"

"Really. I was really torn about you for a long time when it came to that sort of thing. I hated you drinking, especially when you were like barely into high school. I thought that was so wrong."

"And you would have left?"

I brushed the chestnut brown bangs off her forehead. As long as I live I will always use that technique to forestall the inevitable. One, I think it's adorable when a woman's bangs drop so casually into her face. Two, it still gives me a little charge having that intimacy with someone. And three, it's just a long enough pause to give the impression that I gain no great pleasure from whatever I'm about to say or do.

"Yes."

I watched as her blue-green eyes retreated upon themselves and her eyelids close after them. I heard as she took a soft, deep breath. I felt as her heart sank just a tad.

"But how many times have I threatened to do that, Breanne? You know I would have came calling you right back in a few days. I always do," I tried to excuse myself with. "You wouldn't have taken me seriously."

Her eyes opened with a flourish.

"Actually, at the time, I probably would have stopped if I really thought you meant it."

"You would have?"

"Hmmm. Getting drunk off my lily-white ass once in a while or losing my best friend? Hell's bells, Patrick, what do you think I would have chosen? I don't like drinking that much."

"Still, it would have been silly for me to get that huffy over something as small as drinking. I feel like an idiot for even thinking like that. I'm sorry, Breanne."

I heard her hurricane of a laugh, distinct and unmistakable.

"What are you apologizing for? You didn't do anything wrong."

"Just because... I'm an idiot."

I felt her push me back to the bed, pinning my arms down to the mattress. I was about to suggest that we start getting ready for the day ahead of us, but that indicated to me she had something else more fun in mind. I stared deep into her dimpled face, waiting for the suggestion to work its way to her lips. I was hedging that my psychic abilities were finally manifesting themselves and I could correctly guess the next words she was about to say. In fact, I had just started to tug my boxers down in anticipation.

Boy, was I ever wrong.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Being so hung-up about people drinking or you drinking for that matter?"

This time it was my turn to laugh.

"I thought you were going to ask something else. Silly me."

I wanted to build it up. I wanted to lend the gravitas an explanation of this magnitude deserved, but in all honesty I wasn't feeling the same way as I had when I had come to the decision.

"It had something to do with DeAnn, right?"

"Wait, you must have talked to her, didn't you?"

"No. I'm thinking backwards here. It was right after you two..."

"Went kaput? Yeah, that's around when it was."

I leaned my head back into the pillow and sighed slightly. I hate telling stories like that in person. I spend all this time and energy trying to put bad memories behind me. Maybe I let a few slip out here on this site, but for the most part once I forget about something I try never to discuss them ever again with a person. It only serves to depress them and then depress me. That's when I start re-examining my life for the umpteenth time and convince myself I've made both a mockery and a mess of everything. I didn't want to rehash it all. Not with her. Not there. Besides, I had other plans in mind.

But I also knew how stubborn she was and how, once she asked a question, she expected an answer to be given. She would never let this go until I told her.

So I described it all to her. I rambled on for fifteen minutes how hurt I was after DeAnn had ended things. I went into detail about the humiliation I felt in having to move back home because I couldn't keep our place on my salary alone. I described how difficult everyday activities were because she wasn't around--going to the movies by myself, eating by myself, shopping by myself. I listed all these activities I had to get acclimated to doing alone again. It was rough, to say the least.

I then went into even more detail on how during that time I had started seeing Jennifer off and on, twice in one month, four months later, &c... and how she convinced me that life is too short to waste on compiling my own personal commandments. I described for Breanne just then how Jennifer phrased it, how she had said that there are going to be a lot of things I'm naturally not going to like, how she thought it was imbecilic to place drinking especially on top of that list without ever having giving it a serious shot.

So she started taking me drinking. Like I said earlier, I was very resolute in my stand during those first couple of times. But after I'd given an honest effort, I had found that it wasn't as evil as I thought it was going to be. I didn't turn into a jerk like some of my family when they were drunk. I didn't ditch my common sense completely like I thought I would. Hell, I didn't even start stumbling around like a loon until well over a year after my first real drinking experience.

"But you know what really put me over the edge onto the side of those who drink as opposed to those who don't?"

"What's that, darling?"

"I just kept thinking that if this makes me forget about her quicker, then why shouldn't I do? Don't I deserve to move on, you know?"

"So you started drinking to forget?"

"Kind of."

I kissed Breanne on the cheek as a signal that I had passed through the worst of what I wanted to tell her. I really hadn't had the opportunity to detail this to her as it was happening because, as I was probably having the worst three or four years of my life, she was off getting married and acting like a newlywed with the bore of a husband she had. It just didn't seem appropriate to drag her completely into the dumps with me. It was my job to make sure I took care of her at all times. I didn't feel she was under the same obligation in regards to me. I'm pretty sure she knew I was hurting, but I never wanted to get fully into it with her.

She deserved to enjoy her happiness more than I needed someone to make me feel better about everything going on with my life.

We had about ten minutes before we absolutely had to get up to start the rest of our day, but I had one thing else I wanted to tell her before that happened.

"I also kind of did it for another reason."

"And that was?" I heard her ask simply.

"You always seemed to like it and I eventually came around to the mentality that, guess what, if it was good enough for Breannie then, hell, it was good enough for me too."

I watched her smile just a bit at that remark.

"It's true," I continued. "I saw that I wasted a lot of time focusing on how that made us different. I wasted a lot of time trying to get you to change to how I see things, when the easiest thing I could have done was really take a look at how you saw things. I should have just trusted that you weren't really trying to kill yourself and that I would be okay too once I got started."

"I've been telling you all along, you're always wrong and I'm always right, sugar."

I pulled the blankets and comforter over us as I decided that we could afford another thirty minutes to nap. As Camera Obscura might have said, "what did the city have to offer us?" I could only think of one thing to make myself even more relaxed and care-free than I was at that moment.

"You know what I need right now, Breanne?"

"Let me guess. A drink?"

I shut my eyes and spooned in behind her.

"Exactly."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Nathalie

There is a picture I’d really wanna find back. There are three girls on this picture, two of them standing near a wooden table, facing the camera, and a third one perched on a wooden stool, her head is slightly down, her hair pouring down on her shoulders. Of the blonde girl standing next to me, I have no news since a good 12 years… Of the girl perched on the stool, I just waved her goodbye tonight.

At age 8, the three of us were best buddies ever, almost soul mates. The little blonde one, Sophie, never got on well with the little Brunette, Nathalie, and yours truly was often caught in between. But all in all, when get along well, the way kids do.We had the same dreams, the same fantasy running wild, and the three of us loved unicorns. The stories we created, then lived, made us famous and got us the reputation of “special girls “ (this is the kind rendition). We were gonna marry brothers, and live in twin houses, nothing could separate us, never.

Then life separated us.

As it often does.

I kept contacts with Nathalie the Brunette, however, and despite our lives now so different, I must say that she never, ever forgot me. Never. Up to this day, when she came along and gave my folks and I an invitation for her wedding next September.

She appeared in a simple way, in the courtyard. I was reading a book, perched in a stone, and it took me a while to remember her. Shame, I know. The young lady I had seen a year ago had now grown her hair a bit. How could I forgot her green eyes, I still cannot understand. She said hello, and suddenly all the memories were back at once. It was as if I had seen her about yesterday. So far, yet so close. So close, yet so far.

I feel stupid sometimes, for not being able of linking the people that matter to me, of assuming too fast they forget me, when it’s not. Trust more, and worry less. Because, after worries are gone, all that is left is nothing but void. Friendship is too precious, too fragile to be swept away like this.

I’ll be there on September 15th, and its gonna be Her Day, and I’ll be there to celebrate. I hope I can atone myself for all those years when I lost the contact, for all those years wasted by my fault. She came to me like the friend she has always been, honest and sincere. She shared all my childhood secrets, from saint seya to ghosts stories, from drawings to building treehouses, never judging. She was the brains and I was the happy follower, jumping along her stories like a twin mind. Hey, we even looked alike when kids.

I’ll be the fantasy elf, still dreaming of unicorns, attending the wedding of a princess, radiant in her white gown and castle upon the hill.

Be blessed always, Nathalie 

The Rain Keeps Falling All Day, But I Can Feel Spring In The Air, That Would Mean Nothing To Me, Nothing If You Were Not Here

--"If Rain", Sambassadeur

I was asked today if there was one fictional character I relate to the most. People always assume that I would identify with my childhood heroes like Kurt Wagner, Henry Sugar, and others of that ilk. It's true, I do see a bit of myself in each of those people. Hell, I can see a lot of me in Amos too, for that matter. Yet none of those individuals can handle the one creation of fiction that I empathize with the most. I don't know why, but I've always identified with Sara Stanley the most because, as I put it:

She's a storyteller, but because she is a storyteller she never really gets to be in the stories themselves, you know? She's kind of like a director or an artist; always the critical eye, commenting on the world around her, but never really a part of it like other people are.

I feel like that sometimes--that I'm more an observer than a participant.

I don't really feel like I do much. I fall into the trap about writing about life rather than living a very exciting one. It's worse for me, though, because I insist on chronicling my non-existence here time and time again. Yet, rather than tell you the mundane details of the events of my present tense, I try to jazz up my life by telling you all the exciting anecdotes of my past. I delve into experiences and choices I made years, sometimes decades, ago in the hopes of trying to convince you all that I'm still that exciting and passionate person. Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that I'm still that inexplicable man of different pursuits that I used to be. However, most of the time I fear that's just to cover up the fact that I don't really get energized about much these days. I'm simply not all that enthused about anything at all anymore.

Another tactic I employ time and time again is telling you all about the unique characters I've had the great fortune of running into in my lifetime. I don't know how interesting you would find this site if I didn't keep trotting out the same strong supporting cast in my life. How would I even function as being passably worth mention if I didn't have the people that I have to play off of? I'd just be talking to myself, bouncing ideas off myself, which, I fear, would ultimately lead nowhere at all. It's only because I can tell you tales about how my good friend Jennifer died, leaving behind her a treasure trove of wisdom to me, that I seem wise. It's only because I can spin yarns and yarns of how I had it so good with the like of DeAnn and Jina, that I think you can relate to how far from the halcyon days I've fallen. And everybody knows I would only be half a person if I didn't have my Breannie showing me how much more I can be.

I think that's my point. I have a skulking suspicion that my life isn't as interesting as I seem to write it to be. I believe that my life isn't all that remarkable, but I somehow can write it remarkably. I could recount an absolute nothing of a day like last Sunday, where I basically laid around and napped all day, but, because my mind's always coming up with tangents and firing off grandiose themes for me to relate to and write about, I make it sound like I have these grand epiphanies every other day. Instead of writing about what I do (since it's obvious, to me, at least, that I don't do a lot), I write a lot about what I think and what I believe about what I do. Dissecting my life comes easier for me than actually living, which, if you think about it, isn't how all of this is supposed to work.

More often than not I'm less scared of disappearing off the face of the earth and nobody missing me than disappearing off the face of the earth and losing out on my greatest subject. Me.

I've somehow become my own best character and guinea pig all rolled into one.

I know most wouldn't care if I just up and blinked out of existence... but paradoxically I'd miss having someone to focus on for my stories. If I was forced to write about something more real, more substantial than the fluff of my day-to-day meanderings, I don't know if I could do it. I don't know if I could focus my attention on something vital to the human condition.

It's just easier to comment from afar about a life that doesn't feel like it really belongs to me. If I actually started to feel like I owned my life and was in charge of what happened to me rather than feeling like an author manipulating the events to come up with best dramatic tale, I would write less reflexively and more actively. I don't know if I'm ready for that yet.


tell me what's on your mind

Like I said, Sara Stanley are like-minded in that regard. It's easier to control the stories I tell about my life than it is to control the life itself.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

We're Restless Hearted, Not The Chained And Bound, The Sky Is Burning, A Sea Of Flame, Though Your World Is Changing, I Will Be The Same

--"Slave To Love", Bryan Ferry

I've taken a real shining to those Sonic Burger commercials. Even though the closest Sonic Burger is all the way out in Anaheim, those commercials never cease to amuse me. I don't know if it's the dead-pan delivery or the fact they feel completely improvised, but every time I see one I have to look up from whatever it is I'm doing. I may have seen the same commercial dozens of times, even to the point of knowing them line-for-line, but I think that's how you know it's had its effect on you. It's much the same with a comedic film or a thriller, once the surprise is gone, the real test of merit is whether or not it can stand up to repeated viewings. Those commercials always do.

I know most people have a love/hate relationship with those commercials. Some people may claim not to get them or think the humor is pretty stupid. I would have to agree that the value doesn't come from overwhelming glamorous shots of the food or intelligent, witty dialogue. I do think that the commercials are intelligent in their own way. They portray a social dynamic we can all relate to, whether one is talking about the two guy best friends or the married couple. In either scenario the interplay doesn't feel forced; they both possess this exasperated tolerance for one another as well as this playful ribbing that never crosses into cruelty. That's a hard line to maintain, especially after at least a hundred of those commercials according to Sonic's website.

I think that's the real reason I enjoy those commercials so much because, for all their one-upping each other, they really do demonstrate what a healthy friendship or relationship should be like. They're not these stagnant, over-polite conversations that people would like to believe happen between two people who are meant for each other. But neither are they these energetic, peppy all-night discourses that people always seem to fancy when describing how they get along so well with somebody. It's easy to get along with somebody when you have something vital or exciting to talk about. Nope, what I like about these commercials--even as big of an opponent as I am to small talk--is how two friends or two lovers sound like in an everyday situation, when they are not engaged in a discourse over some weighty topic. The conversations are always mundane, commonplace, but they're never boring. Sometimes they veer off into rants. Sometimes they veer off into little bits of "nothing" like Seinfeld used to. But there is a method to this madness.

The other kick I get from the commercials is that even through all the subdued bickering, all the thinly veiled nitpicking, there's a constancy to the relationships between the couples. You don't see one of the two guys getting replaced by some new guy, nor do you see the married couple talking about getting a divorce or even going to counseling. Nope, what you get, which I like, is the same two faces sticking it out and, quite often, demonstrating their human ability to stay tethered to this individual they've chosen to include in their lives despite everything. The commercials all seem to have this underlying theme that we, as a people, have the ability to bend and not break when it comes to maintaining healthy relationships. We put up with the small annoyances to take advantage of the greater harvest a lifelong friendship or relationship yields.

Yes, I'm a sucker for a good fast food commercial. And, yes, the married couple in the commercial especially gets to the romantic in me because it reminds me of the myriad of playful exchanges I've had over the years. But the real reason I love these Sonic Burgers so overwhelmingly is because they plain show how a friendship is both a beast that evolves and remains the same depending on how you look at it. Each commercial is different, showing a different aspect about the same two couples, but yet there's a familiarity to the patter and there's a familiarity to the exact way each participant feels about his or her counterpart.


tell her I'll be waiting
in the usual place

That's why every time I view one of those commercials I laugh out loud, because inside my heart might as well be whispering, "awwww...."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers