This Is Perfect For Me, So They Say, I Guess He's Pretty Okay, After Years Of Stormy Sailing, Have I Finally Found A Bay?

--"Perfect Story (So They Say)", Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

Recently I was asked why I so often choose to portray the slight, quick-to-anger, easily frustrated side of my personality so often. I've been told that the prerogative is mine to do with as I wish and that I should take the opportunity to put my best foot forward with only the occasional lapse into self-incrimination. To that I responded that that's what real life is for, to make a good example of yourself, to try hard to make a good impression. Here on what feels like my domain, I'd rather show myself as somebody not worth knowing if you don't already know me. I'm not trying to win friends. I'm not trying to impress anyone. The only goal of this blog is to write whatever the fuck it is I'm feeling at the moment. Quite frankly, I'm don't stay in a good mood for most of my day, especially when I'm by myself.

When I'm with people I trust I can more easily joke around and more easily be the corny joketelling self that some people know me as, but I'm hardly ever that guy when I'm trying to write something. The truth is that I more easily fall into a dour, contemplative persona than any other persona. It's what I write best. It's what I know best.

I've lived too long to believe that any one person can stay happy throughout the entire life. I have peaks and valleys just like everyone else. When I peak, I let you know. When I bottom out, I let you know. I think what throws people off is that I tend to bottom out and peak rather quickly in any given time period and it's not always known why or when these changes happen. As I was explaining to someone the other day sometimes I'm think four weeks ahead to something I may be dreading, or perhaps I'm recoiling in horror at something I did over two decades ago, but all you see or hear is how I'm reacting to the situation in the present. All you know is what you can see around you, while I may be actively reliving a horrifying experience that may have nothing to do at all with what I'm doing at the moment. I have one eye gazing to the future and one eye looking behind me for a lot of my day. It's how I'm built. I can't devote 100% attention on anything I'm doing now because most of the time what I'm doing just isn't that interesting to me. It's impossible to stay focused like that for the majority of my day. Most of the time I'd rather devote a good portion of my attention to something else, something I might be working on for the future or something I might be wishing I had done differently before.

----

The story I always tell to illustrate this is the fact that when I was giving my eulogy for Jennifer the way I kept my composure was to concentrate less on the words and more on remember who all the people at the gathering were. After all, I'd already practiced what I was going to say. When it came time for it I was more intensely engrossed in the battle of wits I was playing with myself to remember who everyone was. That was the interesting part of my day that day, that was the only thing that was keeping me from wrapping my thoughts around exactly where I was and exactly what I was doing.

I don't tell people that because they'd rather believe the illusion of how so caught up in the moment I was. I don't tell people that because they always get the wrong impression when I say that I'm not fulling concentrating on anything I do. People would rather believe that when I speak or do something I do it with a focus that speaks to my intelligence and/or dedication. They'd rather see my natural ability to listen and respond to people as being a byproduct of caring heart. Actually, while I do care and while I do want to listen, most of the time I'm trying to give advice or do something nice it's because I've heard the situation in some form or another before. If it seems like I want to help, it's because I like fixing problems on an intellectual level just as much as I like fixing problems on a altruistic. Solving peoples' problems is just as important to me as finding the solution to peoples' problems.

That's why I revel in the past.

That's why I seek guidance for my future.

It's not because I like giving good advice or because I like helping people per se. It's partly because I see the world in problems and solutions. When all you do is talk to me is about is giving me answers to something I want to solve on my own (which is almost everything), it bores me to tears. When all you do is talk to me about problems that are so inane and stupid that you should be able to solve them on your own through common sense, it truly annoys me. However, if you give me something I haven't heard before or you spin me a story that I can utilize a great solution I discovered before those are the kind of problems I love to hear about. Those are the kind of problems I love to mull over in my over-analytical brain.

To my friends I'm not the answer to their prayers and I'm not known as someone who's going to pretend to care about something just to soothe your feelings. I like helping people because I can't resist solving a decent problem before somebody else. To me, the satisfaction of helping someone isn't found in the gratitude; the gratitude is just the sign I solved the problem successfully. To me the satisfaction is finding the solution when no one else could.

That brings me back to my original point. The reason why I write about the stubborn bastard I can be here is because that's a problem I can see in myself. I'd rather get that out there so I can set about fixing that. If I chose to write all the time about how I had the perfect day or how well-rounded and mature I've become, well, there's nothing to fix there.

There's no chase.

There's no deliberating.

There's only irrefutable fact.

I'm a person that needs to be figuring out something at all times--about myself, about other people, about life itself. It's why I play strategic Euro boardgames, it's why I watch complicated films, it's why I choose intelligent and multi-faceted people for friends. I want things to be imperfect so there's something to chew on. I want to see myself as flawed and even out-and-out wrong in situations just so I can see where I went wrong. I want to see my days as less than perfect days.

Perfect days are boring because once they're done you're left with nothing to remember. Perfect people are boring because of the fact they never make mistakes.

I'd rather have neither. I'd rather write about those imperfect days and about how I royally screwed myself over. It's more fun and it's more keeping in with the spirit of this blog.

California is a recipe for a black hole and I'd rather be right in the thick of the vortex, thank you very much.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Tadaima

--"Tadaima (I'm Home)", Do As Infinity

This Sunday I leave for San Francisco. As with every extended trip take, meaning any trip lasting more than a weekend, I'm going to purchase a new set of socks. Why? Because I do that every trip. You could say it's my routine. It's my ritual. No practical reason exists for this habit. Indeed, the first time I did it was because I was simply too lazy to do a load of laundry before going to bed so I, instead, opted to pick up a new set of socks before being driven to the airport.

That was some thirteen years ago.

I've been doing it ever since.

I don't know what would happen if I were to ever stop. No, I don't think any great cataclysm would befall me. I don't think the moon would crash into New York City because of my action (or inaction). I honestly just can't imagine staying out a week anywhere without a new package of socks. One goes with the other without any sort of hesitation in my brain. For me, buying socks is just another condition that needs to be checked off before I go anywhere, like packing clothes, Ipod, phone charger, and camera are. I don't make the conscious effort to purchase socks; it simply wouldn't be a trip without a new pair of socks. Something in my psyche wouldn't even let me get out of the gate without that being done first.

I suspect it's akin to a lot of other aspects of my life. I performed the ritual once and it kind of stuck for no other reason that I did it the first time and I automatically remembered to do it the second time, the third time, &c... It kind of reminds me of how I started like Do As Infinity as a group. My cousin introduced them to me and, at first, I saw no redeeming quality in them. They don't sing in English. A lot of their melodies are far too poppy to fit in amidst the rest of my music library. And I didn't quite get the rhythms employed in a lot of their songs. It was a strange and foreign experience for me. I was sure I wouldn't like them in the least. But then a funny thing happened along the way. My cousin burned me a copy of his favorite DAI tracks and I started to listen to it, track by track, on my way to work. I still didn't like the whole CD, but slowly certain tracks started jumping out at me. Foremost among these insidious tracks was "Tadaima". Eventually, it became the track I would play at least once while I was in the car, either as I was first getting into the vehicle or right before I left my car for the last time that day.

To this day I can't even describe the full extent of what the song describing. I just know it's a sentimental song about someone arriving back home after a long period away from those that he loves and the place he calls home. That's about it. The words, the sentiments, the phrasing--it's all foreign to me. I pretty much decided one day I thought the singing and melody were purrdy, and that's all I cared to know. Everything else is secondary to that visceral effect it has on me, to the way it makes my heart stir every time I hurt it. Yes, I suppose I could ascertain the unique qualities that make it such a worthwhile song to me. I could quantify in uncertain terms the various reasons why it affects me the way I do. However, that would be like trying to dissect the notion of love itself. There really isn't an explanation as to why we bond with anything. It happens outside of reason. I could no more tell you why I love "Tadaima" as tell why I love BBQ. It basically boils down to "it's good."

People are kind of a different story. There are definite reasons why I love Lucy (LOL) and reasons why she loves me. Those you can quantify after a period spent in the company of one another. Yet even with people there's always that initial sense of liking someone right away for no apparent reason other than they're likable, there's always that spark of attraction that bursts into being the moment the two of you come into close proximity of one another--like static electricity. That's always going to be a supernatural phenomena.

Just like liking music. You know within the first minutes of a song whether or not its going to be something you'd listen to again.

I didn't think I'd like "Tadaima" as much as I do now when I first heard it... but some part of me always knew I would listen to it at least one more time.

It too became a habit--in this case, it became "the" song I needed to play at least once during the day.

Maybe that's just the type of personality I am. I've noticed I do that with a lot with people. I have no particular reason to like someone, but on certain occasions someone will present me with something that strikes my fancy. I'll latch onto that quality, that anecdote, that remarkable talent, little by little until it becomes a small part of my daily consciousness. I believe that's why with certain individuals I bestow them with nicknames because something they said makes me want to try remembering them for whatever reason. I'll instantly grant them a nickname in an effort to not lose focus as to what attracted me to them in that instant. It's like my bookmark on their soul. It gives me a place to come back to when I next see them.

Jennifer used to tell me that there are two kinds of people in this world, those who make themselves welcome for other people and those who make other people more welcoming for them. I believe I fall into the second category. I'm not the easiest person to get along with at times, but I do possess the quality of being able to get along with others rather easily. More simply, I have a lot of bad habits that are off-putting to some, but I really haven't met a bad quality that I couldn't get past if I really wanted to. Yes, I get annoyed easily. Yes, I'm quick to flare into a temper. Yes, I lose interest in certain topics of conversation. Yet those are all quirks of my nature that other people have trouble getting past. In others, if I for some reason hit it off with them, I tend to move past a lot of foibles that would bother me in people who I decided not to like.

I'm not the type to spend a lot of time going over the ins and outs of a person... or a song... or a tradition.

Once I like something I make it my home and deal with the eventual problems later on. It's pretty cut and dry with me on an instinctual level whether or not I take a shining to an object.

Once I like something or someone, I pretty much set down roots and say, "I'm home."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Quench Me When I'm Thirsty, Come On And Cool Me Down, Baby, When I'm Hot, Your Recipe, Darling, Is So Tasty, When You Show And Stir Your Pot

--"Stir It Up", Bob Marley

While I was in Kentucky, Toby let me in on the fact that her mom taught her how to cook from the time she was eight, as she did both her sisters. When I let her in on the fact that my mom never exactly taught me how to cook for myself, that everything I know I learned from television or independent reading, she was astonished. The fact it was such a part of her everyday life and such a gaping hole in my education was perplexing to her. She couldn't understand it. I attempted to play it off that I grew up in a house with a father, mother, and two sons. Learning how to cook wasn't high on the list of priorities of skills I needed to acquire--not like learning how to mow the lawn, take out the trash, and other manly pursuits. Toby just automatically assumed that for someone who enjoys eating food as much as I do that I would naturally take the next step in learning its preparation.

That's when I had to tell her the truth.

Cooking, like many other areas in my parents' house, was a way of controlling me and my brother--a subtle one, but a way nonetheless. It took me a lot of years to figure out why my dad got upset every time I would try making something the least bit complicated in the kitchen. He would hem and haw about how much noise I was making. Or he would continually repeat that I needed to make sure everything was tidied up after I was done in the kitchen. Or, worse, he would kick me out of the kitchen once he saw me starting to gather my ingredients or equipment. Granted, the layout of our house meant that the kitchen was butt-up against the den. No matter what one does there's no way to be absolutely silent when you're making a meal. I can say how it might be bothersome when somebody's trying to concentrate on a show. But it still didn't explain why he never seemed to complain when my mom was making dinner or why he never seemed to complain when I was making something fast but just as loud.

What I came up with is the fact they never wanted me to learn how to cook. They never wanted me to possess that skill because, as far as I could figure, the less I knew how to fend for myself the more I'd have to rely on them. If I was compelled to spend all my money eating out it would be that much harder for me to honestly live on my own. It was against their goals for me to gain my independence too early. That's why when Miss Delftwaves told me that her mom made it a point for her to learn some of the basics at eight, it didn't make sense to me. The only other experience I could relate to was Breanne, but her family was more like mine in where if her mother didn't cook they just went out to eat. Never have I heard a family situation where the offspring would two or three times a month cook the family meal. It just was unheard of.

Cooking to me was just another avenue of subjugation that my parents employed. I added it to the list of ways they withheld information that could have been useful to me. It made sense with the pattern they had established. For example, talking in tagalog whenever they wanted to have a private conversation away from my brother and I. For example, not telling me my first name until I was eight. For example, hiding my social security card from me until I was seventeen to the point where I had to plead with them to give me my social security number so I could fill out my college applications.

It's no wonder I spent so much of my time in my converted guest house/room. For a long time I felt so tightly reined in by them in the queerest of ways that I didn't want to do with myself. In fact, one of the first real connections Breannie and I had was bitching about our parents, and the way they held us in check. At least her mother was overt about it. My mom would drive me crazy by devising strange ways to be withholding. She needed ways to insure that I always need her somewhat. Cooking was just one of the easiest.

"I mean, think about it, Marion. What's more basic than the need for food? If you can't make the food yourself then, of course, you're going to go find the nearest source for it."

"You more than anyone get that antsy," she laughed.

But it's true. Even when I didn't particularly care for the food, I still took it back to my room. The need to eat overwhelmed my desire not to take any free handouts from them. Even when I could drive and really distinguish the types of food I really liked, more often than not I took the easy way out and just ate whatever my mom was serving at the time.

I'll just say it. I hate my mom's cooking. I hate it in the same way my cousin Vincent hates my aunt's cooking. It just isn't good when compared to the food we've been exposed to since we were old enough to really appreciate food.

I can only imagine how much more enamored of food I would have been had I started seeing the subtleties of the way its prepared at eight like Toby. She's ten years younger than me, but she already knows twice as much than I do in the way of making some outstanding dishes. The worst part about it is she doesn't even like cooking.

I love to cook and I don't know crap compared to her. In the end, she'll get over her annoyance of it and it'll be a useful life skill later on. She's a better individual because of the knowledge. Me? I'm always going to feel like I'm lacking in that area, that I've fallen so far behind in a hobby I really could have gotten into because of my mom and dad--all because they didn't want me to learn too much too early. I don't know if it was because they were afraid I would mess up... or because I would succeed.

And that just makes me sad.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And She Says: So If I Leave On That Plane, Remember By Our Good Days, And You Don't Have to But I'm Going To Wait

--"British Columbia", The Elected

I never thought of myself as having a crutch when it come to my writing. I usually prefer to believe that I write in a certain milieu that I keep coming back to, not because I have to, but because a lot of what I have to say usually falls within the same lines. Whether it be my posts, my fiction here, or even plain letter writing--people that have been around my writing quite come to expect the same themes and lessons I generally write about. Every decent writer has their pet themes, their personal set of ethics he wishes to impart to the world. I'm not different. Some of mine include the idea of pursuing personal happiness often at the expense of everyone else's expectations; the idea of any human connection being valid, especially in the face of societal norms; and the idea that people really do have one great love in their lives that they can and often do horribly ruin before they know what they have. Also, I tend to write about coming-of-age characters or characters in some great crisis of faith or characters that are plainly at a crossroad in their lives. I very rarely start with establishing how their "normal" lives are and tend to jumpstart them in a situation that is perilous right from page one.

That's just what I've noticed in my writing from the last couple of years.

But, even more simply than that, I tend to use the same external background devices a lot. I'm always setting stories in the fictional cities of Tremere and Tropavista. I don't know why. Those were two words I latched onto in high school as sounding interesting for city names so, whenever I'm stuck for a setting, I pretty much stick it in one of those two cities. Tremere I always pictured as being resembling some Northern California city like Redding or San Jose, even though I've only been to those two places a few times. Tropavista has always been modeled after Santa Monica, right down to the basketball courts by the beach. I also use the same house which was four blocks from where I grew up in Sierra Madre in a lot of different writings. From placing Sally Salt and her step-sister Mackie there for my meta-fictional novella It Hurts When They Change to placing the unnamed narrator of The Carisa Meridian--it's always that house on a small hill, with stone steps leading you up a diagonal path to the front door, that I see when I'm trying to think of a quaint family home. Again, I don't know what always draws my mind there, but it's one of those stock houses that I seem to revisit.

Names too. God knows I love using names over and over again. Breanne, Rachel, and Jennifer are obvious: I'm nothing if not someone who can't resist the urge to earn brownie points from his writings. But I've also noticed that I almost attempt too diligently to come up with original and unique names too. From characters like Shawna and Brillon, I can't shackle my characters with common names if they're meant to be uncommon people. It just doesn't work for me. Every time I read a book, watch a movie, or even listen to the news, my ears perk up whenever I hear a name I haven't encountered before. I swear, one of these days I am going to name one of my female characters Whiskey God simply because those are both names I have never heard someone actually being named before.

But what does this say about me?

I mean--why do I have fallback positions for my writing at all?

----

The answer is obvious. There are just some people, some places, some ideas that resonate on a much deeper level for me than others. It's not that I'm incapable of inventing new people, new places, or new ideas, but simply anything new isn't as interesting to me. Even while I search for unique names, I'm only doing it inasfar as presenting a variation on a theme rather than a completely original character conjured out of the blue. I know which people I like writing about. It's the same type of people I like reading about--people who are asking themselves for the first or, maybe, hundredth time, "how do I feel?" I'm all for the stoic types, but very rarely does that kind of character hold my attention for an entire story. Most of the time I feel they are best-suited to secondary characters.

I set my stories in the same places, the same kinds of cities, the same kind of settings I like to read about. I dream of California and the East Coast Cities like Boston. I very rarely set it in the Midwest because very rarely do I enjoy the small-town smarm or traditional value stories. I love writing about people at beaches, especially at night. The reason for this is simple; some of my best and most enduring conversations have taking place at beaches at night. Talks with DeAnn, Tara, and Jennifer have only happened at beaches. In fact, one could write an imaginary chapter to my biography entitled "Conversations at the Beach" that could provide the backbone to a novel unto itself.

I love it when people cry. I think scenes where people cry provide the perfect opportunity to show people at their most beautiful. That's a personal belief of mine, that people look their most resplendent when they are in the midst of a soft cry. Again, don't ask me why. Maybe it's the tenderness of the moment, but it absolutely kills me to read and write about crying scenes.

Basically, I tend to write about the same sort of things that have affected me from other people's writings. I tend to ape or mimic scenes that I liked from other books--not in content, per se, but in spirit. I also enjoy creating characters that are homages to other characters I've enjoyed. There's always going to be a Phoebe/Sara character in my stories, just like there's always going to be a stand-in for me. And when I write about places, it's only because I enjoyed that setting elsewhere, whether from my own life or from a story I saw or read elsewhere. You see, to me, a story never ends. Characters never die. Places don't cease to exist once you reach the end credits.

In my own little way, I try to continue the stories I enjoyed the best by transplanting them all over again to my own works. That way it's almost like the story doesn't have to end if I don't want to. I can continue the universe somewhat even if not the actual specific plot line.

It's my way of never having to say good-bye to a good book, good movie, or good set of companions.

It's my way of keeping them the same in a way I'm incapable of keeping the real world around me the same.

Real people come and go, places change, but in my stories they don't have to.

I can just give them a new name, some minor tweaks, and everything can be as it was when it was at its best. That's why I use a lot of the same elements all over again.

To make sure that sense of joy or excitement never dies.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Waiting, For My Moment To Come, I'm Waiting, For The Movie To Begin, I'm Waiting For A Revelation, I'm Waiting For Someone, To Count Me In

--"Spiralling", Keane

I start reading books for the same reason, someone whose opinion I trust or a publication who has never steered me wrong before recommends a novel for me to read. I'll often pick up a book on the merest mention from a friend or because a newspaper decided to feature it in their review section. That's just the way I am. I don't have time to do a lot of research into the latest best-sellers or what's hot right now. Pretty much if you've led me to a good book before, I'm counting on you to lead me to the promised land once again.

However, the reason I stay with a story is varied. Sometimes I'll latch onto the words themselves. The craft with which the author fashions his sentences is often enough to keep me enthralled in the work; I literally lose myself in the language. Other times I find myself immersed in the through-line of the piece. Action scene after action scene, the building of suspense, a real sense of dying to know what comes next--all of these contribute to that sensation I'm sure all of you are familiar with, where you've just got to read one more chapter to see how it all plays out. Yet the one aspect of a novel that seems to capture me the most are when I alight on a singular character, who I haven't seen before in other work, someone original who ties me into the universe and allows me a foothold into this other world. It happened with me in Catcher in the Rye and Phoebe Caulfield; it happened with me in The Story Girl and The Golden Road and Sara Stanley; and it happened with me with The Dresden Files and Harry Dresden--all of whom are some of my favorite characters.

Rarely, though, does it happen that a minor character captures my attention the way Amelia Land does in the current book I'm reading, Case Histories by Kate Atkinson. Yes, you could argue Phoebe is a minor character herself, but to me when somebody is featured in the last third of the book they cease to be a minor character. Amelia, by comparison, is featured only one out of the three main storylines, and she has to share her storyline with her sister Julia.

Taken from the back cover:

CASE ONE: A little girl goes missing in the night

CASE TWO: A beautiful young office worker fall victim to a maniac's apparently random attack.

CASE THREE: A new mother finds herself trapped in a hell of her own making--with a very needy baby and a very demanding husband--until a fit of rage creates a grisly, bloody escape.

THIRTY YEARS AFTER THE FIRST INCIDENT, as private detective Jackson Brodie begins investigating all three cases, startling connections and discoveries emerge...

Theoretically, it's a mystery novel. It's plotted like a mystery novel. It involves three mysteries. There's a detective piecing together clues to all three central mysteries that may or may not be solved by the book's end. In reality, though, the book is a slow meditation on grief and how often the real tragedy doesn't begin until after the tragedy happens. From Case Two, where the father can't seem to let go his daughter's seemingly random death to Case Three, where your mind keeps wandering to the fact that perhaps if you had been in her situation you might have taken an axe to your husband too; the way Atkinson takes extra time delineating what makes each character tick is what distinguishes this book from other whodunits. It's as if somebody decided to write a Greek Tragedy, but frame it around a mystery story.

Like I said, though, Amelia Land, the sister of the missing girl from Case One is the real heartbreaker of the novel. Olivia Land, her eight-year-old sister, decides to sleep outside in a tent with twelve-year-old Amelia's eldest sister, Sylvia. When the whole family wakes up the next morning, Olivia is missing and never heard from again. Cut to thirty years later and Amelia, approaching the wrong side of fifty is still having to deal with some pretty harsh issues involving her family. From the way her father, Victor, never hugged, much talked to, or even acknowledged the girls; to their mother's subsequent miscarriage and death a few month's after Olivia's disappearance; or even to the fact that her two remaining sisters, Sylvia and Julia seem to have moved on their lives where she hasn't (Sylvia by joining a convent as soon as she turned eighteen and Julia's seeming apathy to the whole affair), Amelia seems to be the one child in the Land Family who still carries the brunt of her sister's disappearance on her shoulders.

It isn't precisely the fact that she's gone, but what her going brought to light that still haunts Amelia. Feelings of inadequacy only grew more apparent once Olivia disappeared. Amelia knew that Olivia was the star of the family, the most darling and precious of the Land sisters. What she didn't know and, I suppose, what she didn't expect was how even in her being missing from the family she would manage to suck all the attention away from her parents. What she can't deal with is the fact that her youngest sister was still more loved for her leaving than she herself was for sticking around.

It's exactly what I've always thought true, it's almost better to be hated than not to be regarded at all. I'd rather someone take the time to acknowledge my existence being being horribly upset with me than to forget I exist at all.


I never saw the light
I waited up all night
but I never saw the light

There's a certain someone who I used to speak to regularly up until three months ago that communications simply died with. There was a disagreement, to be sure, but it wasn't of the scope that my disagreements can usually scale to. It certainly, I thought wasn't momentous enough to be a dealbreaker to the friendship. I mean--I know what a dealbreaker is. I've had dealbreaker arguments as recently as June with Ilessa. What transpired in this situation was nowhere remotely as heated or pronounced as mine and Ilessa's tiff. Even on that front we've managed to patch together a tentative opening to relations again.

That's what irks me more than anything in regards to this other person. Usually, when I end a relationship it's something I can see coming or it's something at the very least I had a large part in overseeing. This one honestly feels like things were going along swimmingly one moment and then one small chink in the armor was exposed. It's like walking on a frozen over pond when one small crack appears in the ice to undermine the whole pond. And it isn't like I hate the person and I'm fairly sure she doesn't hate me.

Things just fell apart for no reason.

As aforementioned, that's a worse fate to me than if she hated me. I know how to handle hatred. I've both dealt and been on the receiving end of hate to know how to handle myself in that forum. It's this silent apathy that throws me for a loop. Neither side wants to open the door, but neither side has fully committed to shutting it either. We both hang in this irritating limbo where it isn't clear whether it would be better to just fully let bygones be bygones, or to just step away from having any more contact whatsoever. It's almost akin to when one is in that stage of dating, but not yet being boyfriend and girlfriend, where neither side knows how to classify the relationship, but both sides are waiting for the other to bring up the subject. I don't know if I'm in or out of this friendship, and it's seriously driving me crazy not knowing.

I don't want to be Amelia, who can only distinguish what she has by what she's missing or what she's missed. I don't want to understand what little I have because I'm constantly reminded by the multitude I haven't. That's not how I want to define myself in the least.

I want some closure either way. I want to know that there will be some opportunity to mend these fences in the future or I want her to say, "Fuck you, Patrick, I never want to see you again." Either would be better for my plain tired psyche.

In the end, it isn't hate that kills you.

It's indifference, the total absence of anything resembling feelings for a person.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Whatever We Deny Or Embrace, For Worse Or For Better, We Belong, We Belong, We Belong Together

--"We Belong", Pat Benetar

When I first tried to come up with something decent to honor my friend Toby's 16th birthday I went through the usual go-to formats. I started devising a poem, which I may use next year, but that didn't seem appropriate since she sees far better lyricism in her everyday reading than I could ever produce. Then I went to doing a list, but that seems like a private affair between me and Little Miss Chipper. It wouldn't do to try and pigeonhole her into that tradition a good four years after it was started. Finally, I decided the best way to commemorate a special occasion such as Marion's birthday is to simply write from the heart and let the words fall where they may.

What I can say that I haven't known her for long. I only met her on the RK.net forums last year. However, it's a testament to her extraordinary intellect and personality that I took an immediate liking to her. Some people it takes me weeks or months of knowing them to even say the merest of words to them. It's fairly safe to say that she and I had that first exchange of ideas and hit the ground running. Perhaps one can attribute this falling into a type--young, intelligent, emotionally open--that I seem drawn to. After all, the same could be said about Breanne, Tara, or even Heidi. I don't know--that seems the type I always enjoy conversing with the most. They always have a lot to say. I don't have to worry about them playing a ton of mind games. Most of all, they just make for good company.

However, the one aspect of Toby's personality that's always appealed to me is her willingness to be vulnerable. Aside from myself, I have never met another individual who lays all their cards on the table as much as they do. She goes beyond being honest about her life; she talks about her fears and insecurities as if they were an everyday occurrence because, for the most part, they are. I mean--on one hand, I relish learning how the other side lives the way Lucy's so confident and forthright. But it's the fact that the youngest Frisson sister is willing to peel back the layers of what makes her tick that binds us in a way that the only Holins daughter and I will never be bonded. In the former case, it's an example of opposites attracting. In the latter case, it's an example of birds of a feather flocking together. There's a reason why I've taken to jokingly referring to Miss Toby as my protege. She's not only like me when I was her age, but I can foresee her taking the same sweet steps I took when I got to them.

Perhaps that's why I like her so much. Perhaps that's why anyone likes anyone else deep down. On some base level, they remind you of you. In a lot of ways, people connect because they share something--sometimes it's interests, sometimes it's demeanor, sometimes it's a basic approach to life. That's what always shines brightest to me about Toby. Like my heroes Linus and Eeyore, she possesses this fundamental realistic, yet romantic approach to life that I've always espoused. She finds happiness in the components of life that really matter to her. She doesn't feign happiness for appearance's sake. She doesn't seek it out because she's afraid to face her sadness, bitterness, or disappointment. She laughs when she thinks something's funny, cries when something's sad, and gets angry when something upsets her. There's not a false bone in her body. Indeed, I daresay she's more honest than me because she's surrounded herself with people who've come to appreciate this quality to her character, whereas I still have people in my life who I have to pretend around.

The first moment she uttered her mantra, "Don't postpone joy." I knew she was going to be somebody I could appreciate. A lot of people in their time, go chasing after the big dream all the time, forgoing the people and pleasures that make the everyday memorable. I've always been in favor of the philosophy of "if it makes you happy, then it can't be that bad." Her philosophy and my philosophy meld so well that it's not a far reach for me to flow right into hers. Those two facets of her character, her willingness to commit to whatever emotional state she is in and her ability to manufacture joy in each and every little thing she does make her such an incredible person to me.

Everybody has their ups and downs. Toby's one of the few people who's managed the trick of riding both with equal aplomb.

Now, she's finally sixteen. She's finally reached that age where she's beginning to take those first steps to adulthood. Getting her license, preparing herself for the end of school and the beginning of college, starting to think more seriously about how the rest of her life is going to go--these are all the momentous milestones she's going to begin to face in this and the next few years. But I'm not worried about her. Not only do I believe she has a good head on her shoulders, but I believe she's well on her way to becoming one of those individuals who hits her stride right after high school rather than before or during it. Not only is she academically ready for college, but she's far more prepared for her collegiate career and beyond than I ever was. She possesses a maturity that I wish I had when I was her age. That's one of the best compliments I could give anyone since I have the utmost respect for anyone who knows what they want out of their lives and takes all the steps necessary to make it happen. Like I said, she doesn't have this one overriding pursuit for her life; she's just dabbling in many avenues so that when the right avenue does present itself, she can arrive at the end of the avenue as quickly and as joyfully as possible. She's doesn't need to conform life to fit into her narrow goals, just as she doesn't need to conform herself into any one thing life is telling her to be; she's infinitely proficient in the majority of the vital life skills that she truly can do anything she sets her mind to. She's going to go far, mark my words. The only question that needs to be answered is in which direction or directions.

It's said that the fairest judge of a person's character is the quantity and quality of the company they keep. I may not do so good in the quantity department since I'm the master of letting far too many people go from my life. Yet I'm happy to say that I've managed to embrace my fair share of decent and endearing human beings, people who make me a better person for being their friend, people who make me strive to never their trust in me. Toby is one of those rare people that I'm glad I measure up to her standard of friendship.

My friendship with her is one choice I'm glad I got right.

I wish her all the best for her sixteenth and look forward to celebrating many more birthdays with her in my fold.

Happy Birthday, Miss Delfty. Congratulations.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Did You See The Shiny Moon? Turned Into A Black Balloon, Just As You Walked Away From Me, Did You See How Hard I Tried? Not To Show The Pain Inside

--"Who Painted The Moon Black?", Hayley Westenra

...continued from "You Are My Sweetest Downfall, I Loved You First, I Loved You First, Beneath The Sheets Of Paper Lies My Truth, I Have To Go, I Have To Go"

OPENING UP
a story by E. Patrick Taroc

“Can we stop here? It's really hurting now, Chris.”

Chris hung up his cel phone immediately. His friend Jeff would have to wait another day. Placing the phone into his pocket, he turned to face Sally who was beginning to teeter on one leg now planted firmly in the beach sand.

“Yeah, sure. Here's a good spot anyhow,” he said, smiling. The sound of her voice still startled him. The two of them had been walking along the shore from their hotel for quite a ways in silence. The only thing he had heard before Jeff had called was the sound of the nighttime waves rolling into shore. Together they had walked maybe two miles down the shore without a word passing between them, hand in hand. He had almost forgotten the fact that the two of them had a great deal to talk about on this week.

He had almost forgotten he had a purpose in asking her to come out with him that night.

“Yeah, yeah. Here,” he heard her say before plopping down on the sound unceremoniously. Her plopping had seemed unnatural for the simple fact she wasn't accustomed to plopping. In fact, Chris wracked his brain to think of another occasion when he had seen her plop like that and he couldn't quite come up with any other instances. He decided Sally was most emphatically in the non-plopping camp. “It's throbbing now now. Great, it's throbbing. Can you take a look?”

He watched her extend her left foot up to him from her seated position. Instead of immediately taking the bait, he took a seat beside her, the sand making a soft cushion beneath him.

“Leave it to you to stub your toe at the beach. Not only that, but stub it with enough oomph to have it bleed,” he laughed. He tried not to, but the sight of her over-exaggerating her discomfort was a funny sight. The two of them used to joke that she wasn't a mere drama queen; she was a drama empress. “Let me take a look.”

“No, you're making fun of me. Now I don't want you to look.”

He watched the corners of her mouth curl up sourly. It was meant to be her indignant look, but to him it always reeked more of petulance. She had meant it to look angered and full of callousness towards him; he was always more reminded of the young girl who had been told to get her hand out of the brownie tupperware. No matter how much rancor she tried to gather up, the most she could muster on her face was mild annoyance. At least to him. Other people saw different things, but he knew better than to believe any sign of bad mojo could be directed at him by Sally. He knew her better than that. To him, no matter her countenance, she was always all sorts beautiful.

He gave her a quick glance under the blackened moon. He could barely make out the reddish-brown hair, usually nested above her face, but this night sprung free and delicately chasing down off her shoulder. He could barely make out the greenish and freckled eyes that the two of them shared. He could barely make out the smile beneath the smirk. He could barely see the Sally he knew, but he had faith she was in there somewhere. After she stopped thinking about her direly injured toe, she would slowly make her way out again to him.

“Come on, you big baby. Let me just see it,” he said. He grabbed her left leg from her and started to lift it to his face. The feeling of her bare skin in his hands felt nice, as it always did. The two of them had gone walking in matching khakis (both his) and non-descript secondhand t-shirts. This had been a last-minute idea suggested at the last minute of the days.

They hadn't spent much time getting ready to go out and basically grabbed the first thing at hand.

“Well, there's just not enough light here to see anything,” he continued.

He felt as Sally yanked her foot away.

“Then give it back. You're hurtiting it,” she whined.

“Oh god, not that again,” he whined back.

He heard her laugh, punctuated with small gasps of her perceived pain.

Sally.

She could be such a baby sometimes, he thought. I mean—there he was a big guy, basically doting on tiny, little here. If you stood them side-by-side, somebody had once told them while they had been spotted walking together, it'd be like looking at a tree walking a rose bush. You would have been struck with the enormity of the tree and the brilliance of the rose bush, but never would have thought to see the two of them side-by-side.

Yet there were similarities, he had to admit. The aforementioned eyes were like an exact clone of one another, urban and serious and green. People always jumped to say, “you guys look like you're related,” when Chris and Sally had been seen sharing a bench somewhere and it always stemmed from how similar their eyes were to one another. However, whereas Sally's hair could shift from red to brown, his hair was a smoky brown. His mouth was a expressive and often broadened into a massive span whenever he smiled; hers was most often tight-lipped and tense almost always. Even when she laughed, her mouth always gave the impression she was holding something back. Except for the eyes they definitely looked like they did not fit with one another.

But fit they did. Whenever he said her name, she almost said his, as did everyone else. They were always being mentioned one right after the other, almost as if they were one word. Chrisandsally, Sallyandchris.

Sally, whose first word had been no. Sally, whose bark was meaner than her bite. Sally, who liked to sing when she thought no one else was around. Sally, who was always remarking that she thought she chewed her food too quickly. Sally, who was a walking ball of wants and desires that had to be immediately fulfilled.

Chris, who always thought a simpler life was a better life. Chris, who almost never said no to anyone. Chris, who scratched at his leg when he was nervous. Chris, who thought she screamed rather too much like a girl when he got scared. Chris, who got lost far too easily.

They did make a rather odd pair.

He wouldn't have it another way.

He listened to her laughter run away just as quickly as it had made its appearance. He didn't know where it went to hide, but very often wished it would stay a moment or two longer. Then, after a short silence, he heard her speak once more.

“I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't think I can walk back to the hotel like this.”

“We can rest here for awhile.”

“I don't think that's going to help.”

“I could strand you out here. I'm good to go back to the hotel any time I want—I don't know about you.”

He watched Sally shake her head. Next she rolled her eyes back.

“Again, not helping.”

“Sorry. I'm serious, rest it awhile. We don't have to go back any time soon. We'll see how it feels and then if it's still bad I'll think of something.”

He turned to face her, scanning for some sign that she was facing back at him. In the darkness it was hard to make out much of anything. All there was was a blackened sky, a laughing ocean not fifty feet from where they were sitting, and the two of them sitting next to one another. Everything else fell away to unimportance. This is all that mattered to him.

“If that's what you think is best, but I highly doubt anything is going to change no matter how much time we give it, Chris,” he heard her say as she brushed some sand off of her exposed knee. “I don't see why we can't...” he heard her continue, before petering off.

“We'll just have to see, now won't we? Now silence up and let the night soak into you.”

That was the extent of him being strong with her. If he had a weakness, it would have been how he treated her. With everyone else he was a pretty affable guy, but when crossed he made sure everyone knew it. He didn't venture into bouts of rage or physical demonstrations, yet the content and tone of his voice conveyed more in a few words than one punch or one stream of profanity could from most men. It didn't take much for people to notice that all was not right with Chris. Not much at all. Yet when it came to the attractive woman beside him, his tone was always playful, his touch was always light, and his demeanor was always understanding—too playful, too light, and too understanding.

He watched her. He really studied her, rubbing her toe incessantly, breathing heavily, making sure he knew she was uncomfortable. He watched her until it was obvious to her that he was watching him. He felt more than saw her face turn towards him. There, they remained for quite some time—both trying to ascertain how much the other was looking at him or her. He didn't see her smile or break her concentration. They just looked for each other in the dim light and continued to look until a few minutes had passed.

He didn't say anything until Sally took the initiative.

“Do you remember the last time we were on this beach?”

“Four, five years ago?”

“Four, five years ago.”

Chris puffed. “Has it been that long? We used to go all the time. Remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we stopped.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, actually, you stopped.” He tried to lighten his words as much as possible. Still, she took it as a jab.

The sound of her taking a deep breath was the start of her answer. That was followed with her saying, “Now? Really? Now? With my hurt toe and everything?”

“I'm just saying.”

He knew she was often too quick to anger, but it still surprised him at her alacrity. He never got the sense he had to walk on tiptoes around her about anything, but she wasn't very accommodating even at the best of times. When someone put her on the defensive, she was worse, fire and brimstone worse.

Rather than acknowledge his statement, he listened as Sally moved past it completely.

“I remember when the water used to come up to where we're sitting now. I would warn you that it's coming in too high, too quickly. But you never listened to me.”

“I listened. I didn't care that much.”

The waters were never that high. The truth was that he knew Sally disliked being bothered with trying things. The water was too cold, it was moving too fast, she didn't want to get wet—these were all the excuses she had tried to give him. In his defense, he had only wanted to keep the lightheartedness going. She always put him in a good mood and on those days at the beach all he had wanted to do is return the favor, share some of the joy she brought to his life. It never worked, though. She always complained about him being incessantly bothersome. She never used those exact words. Mostly she said no and let that explain everything about her demeanor.

“You used to threaten to throw me in.”

“Into the cold, treacherous waters.”

“You were mean to me. I remember that too. Now I remember why I stopped going.”

“It was never that cold. Or that treacherous.”

“The fact I was comfortable should have been enough for you.”

“But I never listen, right?”

“No, you never do.”

“It was water. It was water that would've going up to your knees, Sally.”

“I was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable and you didn't care.”

“I cared. I just wanted to open you up a little.”

“Whatever,” he heard Sally say. He listened as she turned her face away from him. Then he struggled to say something next.

He pulled in close to her. Then he pulled her face close into him. Then he kissed her with the conviction of somebody who had kissed her often before. Sometimes he struggled for words when they were together, but when his lips met hers there wasn't any argument she could present that could ever refute the one he made with that simple gesture. She could tell him no, no, no after the kiss ended, but he knew she could never utter those words while it was happening. That was his one advantage he had over her. She hadn't devised a viable counter to that simple gambit. It worked every time.

“Better?” he asked after he had pulled away.

“Not really. I guess. No,” he heard the words stumble out of her mouth.

“I'm really sorry I threatened to throw you in the big, bad ocean, Sally. You're right, it was mean of me. I apologize.”

“You didn't mean that.” He watched as she slowly wiped her mouth with her free hand.

“Oh, but I do. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

“Fix my fucking toe.”

“Oh, would that I could.”

“Could that you would...” Absentmindedly he heard the words escape her mouth for the umpteenth time.

“I'd fix a hundred toes for you if I had the power, Sally. You know that.”

“And I'd give you a hundred toes to fix.”

He watched her arm come back to her side, but, instead of resuming her sitting there meekly, he felt her form glide closer into him. Then she kissed him softly and almost too quickly before resting her head on his shoulder. “And a hundred more.”

The bemused Chris could only say one thing.

“Bring it.”

He took her changes in mood in stride. The perception was that she was playful when it suited her, when she wanted something, but the majority of the time she was distant and almost unbearable. She was pleasant enough, but most people thought she was the kind of person who was fine in small doses. However, the longer you spent around her the more her caustic side began to worm its way out. That was the perception, anyway. In reality, Chris thought the real Sally lay somewhere in the middle. She was neither gentle nor spiteful. She was neither hot nor cold. She was neither fawn nor falcon. She was a rapacious spirit, prone to shocking honest, but it was never at the expense of someone else. Chris understood she would never do that. When she bossed people around, it wasn't because she believed she was better than anyone else. She did it because she wanted something done and the fastest way she knew was to supervise everyone else to do it for her. The tasks she was better suited for she tackled herself, of course. Everything else she naturally assumed others would do for her. He knew she didn't like to waste a lot of time. If it was faster for you to take responsibility, then she expected you not to be slothful about it. She couldn't have you waste your time either.

This extended to her tender side as well.

When he kissed her, she took it as him acting on his wants, his needs. When she kissed him it was much the same. He understood that aspect as well as her. Wants and needs come first. There's no point in restraint when restraint only slows a person down, when only slows the truth about what was happening or about to happen down.

“You'd like that wouldn't you? Evil,” she said, still clutched to his arm.

“I like doing stuff for you. It's not that hard. You're easy to please,” he lied.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I just do everything you tell me to do. Simple as that.” He let out a laugh.

He felt her head come off his shoulder for only a moment and her fist mockingly punch him there. Her head quickly returned to its nesting place.

“Now it's my turn to wish for a hundred more guys like you. What I could do with an army like that.”

“Everything.”

“Yeah, yeah—everything sounds like exactly what I want.”

“Always have.”

“Always will.”

“Ever since we were kids, enough was never enough for you.”

“Because it isn't.”

He remembered the tantrums at the dinner table and how he used to sneak food into her room when their parents would banish her there. He remembered being complicit in her accusations against them both—how they were unfair, ugly, terrible creature. He would even promise to spirit her away from the both. Even then he looked out for her in a way that went beyond protecting her. She was his responsibility and he took it as his lifelong quest to live it up to that responsibility. He remembered the tears, the insults, the occasional welts when she had gone one step too far and their dad couldn't take it anymore. He remembered pleading with their mom to be a little more forgiving, more understanding, and her telling him that he was the good child. He was the one they were counting on to show her the ropes.

He had grown up feeling like everyone counted on him to keep the peace. He had done his best, but it had taken a lot more than he knew at the time. It had taken everything he could muster to keep his family together.

“You used to drive mom and dad crazy. They'd think they were doing something nice for you and you'd shoot them down time and time again. You were a real brat when you were a kid, Sally. You know that?”

“I know.”

“And you've grown up to be a real bitch too,” he joked with her.

“I don't know about that.”

“I do. I mean—who comes to a place like this—with a guy—the month before they're supposed to get married to somebody else?” he asked, still half-serious.

“For all everyone knows I'm on vacation with my brother. That's all this is.”

“To them. Not to you. Not to me.”

When they were younger, Chris had been the only one to tell it to her straight. Oh, he was nice about it. He gave her advice the best he could without it making it seem like he was pointing out all her faults. Yet there always came a time when he had crossed a line, hadn't thought, and he would have to be brutally truthful with her. The truth was she wasn't a nice person all the time. The truth was she wasn't as decent a person she thought she was. It often fell to him to explain to her why she was being punished. His parents would never do that for her. They would just do the punishing without any word of explanation. The most she learned from them was not to get on their bad side. She never found out how that happened or why it happened. For that she had to come to him to hear it fleshed out for her in words she could understand. That he could do for her. He was good at that. For him, staying on the right side of his parents' good side was easy. It was the wanting more for them that was the difficult part. When he would comfort his sister he felt needed. That was the truth also. The only time he felt like someone saw him for the special person he was was when his sister thanked him, when she showed her appreciation with a playful kiss on the cheek or a hearty embrace.

That was genuine.

That was real.

That wasn't some empty words of praise. That was one person making the other person believe in the quality of their character, their spirit. That was the one thing that made everything else he had to endure quietly worth it.

As a particularly loud wave crashed onto the sand, he heard her say simply, “I am a bitch.”

“You are,” he agreed. He sighed before continuing, “But you can't help it. It's just who you are.”

Shake of her head. Roll of her eyes.

“You always know the best way to cheer me up, Chris.”

“That's what brothers are for.” Chris laughed until Sally had no choice to throw in a sympathy laugh as well. “Look, all I'm saying is that we all were a little too loose with you—mom, dad, and me. We all coddled, gave you what you wanted. When it came time to say no to you—well, eventually everyone figure out that it was easier to give you what you wanted.”

“Is that what it was like?”

“That's what it was like. It took a few years, but that's what our family became.”

“I was that bad?”

“Bad isn't the word. You were you. You are you. It's too late for you to change now.”

He felt Sally turn towards him in genuine surprise, this time leaving the comfort of his shoulder for good.

“You think that low of me?”

“Not at all. I wouldn't be here if I did. There's just few people who know the real you, Sally, who know the real you and like the real you. Just remember that.”

“What does that mean?”

He felt the indignation monster once more stirring in her.

“Nothing.”

“No, I want to know. You're trying to say something specific and I want to know what it is.

“It's nothing.”

He could taste the moment of silence hanging in the wind. There was a palpable tension in the air that was dangerous and deadly to what was happening. He hadn't even arrived yet at what he had taken her out to the beach to say. Again, Chris found himself struggling to right the ship that would get Sally to the place he needed her to be. Again, he found himself placing himself at her patience.

“Then I think it's time we go back to the hotel room then... if you're not up to talking anymore,” he heard her say, every venomous word joined by an equally poisonous tone.

“That's how it is?”

“That's how it is.”

Chris tried to recall her eyes, how soft and slight they could become. He didn't want to picture them as they must look now, hurt and bristling with impatience. That was the ugly Sally that he sought to avoid most of his life. He tried to recall the soft Sally, the loving Sally, and that's what gave him the courage to finally spill what he needed to say to her.

“Fine. I'm just trying to say I don't think Louis knows what he needs to know about you. I don't think he's seen all of you.”

“He knows enough. He knows enough to love me. He doesn't need to know anymore.”

“I think you mean he wouldn't want to know anymore.”

“Same difference.”

Chris pushed his face almost directly in front of where he expected hers to be. Under the blackened moon, he pushed on as well with the thrust of his advice to her. Finally, he could see her lips tightened into the thinnest of lines, her cheeks red with excitement and more than a taste of anger, her green eyes watering at the very corners. He had to see his words through.

“It's not, Sally. If you're going to be marrying this guy, there are things he needs to find out from you beforehand... not after you've both gone through it. That isn't fair to him.”

“That's just where we differ,” he heard her begin. His grasp started to loosen around her as she made to get up and away from him. After a brief struggle to get to her feet, he heard more than saw her plop back down to the sand. “Fuck. I thought that would have been dramatic as hell to walk away from you right then.”

“Quit fooling around and talk to me,” he said, again erecting a state where he could talk to her face-to-beautiful-face. “Rest that toe.”

“Fooliling?” he heard her ask the question after a short while, doing anything she could to change the subject.

Chris tried to hold back his laugh, but one or two escaped before he could regain his composure.

“You're not getting away from me that easily. You asked me to meet you here this weekend.”

Again, he watched her shift her gaze downward to pick at the sand settled on her knees. “You know the reason.”

“No, it wasn't just that. You're smart enough to make me think your reasons were cut-and-dry, but I can tell there's something else.”

“Something else?”

“Something more.”


it must have been the darkest night
not even a star in sight
when you walked away from me

When they were younger they had to hold in reserve the wealth of feelings they had for one another. At home, at school, with family, with friends—it didn't matter. The world was their enemy. Chris always thought in a way it solidified them as one single entity. It provided them one more area of commonality. It bonded them solidly in a way most couples are never afforded. Not only did they have to fight to keep what they had going, but they had to fight everyday to keep it a secret.

Chris knew Sally always fared better in this regard. She was naturally disinterested in gushing about this or that. She had no time for the telling of stories. Sally spoke mostly in commands and protests; the former to people who were underneath her spell, the latter to the people who weren't. Chris wondered which side of the line her fiance fell.

Chris had a harder time of concealing his feelings for his sister. He'd always been fond of her. It had just taken a few years to ascertain exactly what manner his fondness was constructed in. When he had found out, when he had been sure of his hypothesis, it seemed like a laborious agony to not to be able to act upon his findings in the open. It seemed unnatural to not want to show everyone what his heart felt. It felt wrong.

At home it had been easier. There, his parents either didn't care what happened behind closed doors, not wanting to think the worst, or they were to busy to even notice. He didn't know which was worse. He'd almost have preferred that they take some kind of interest in how much time Sally and Chris spent together. He had hoped he could have come to them to ask for advice. But, because they had never found out, they only person he could ever discuss his feelings with was her.

At school she ridiculed him like the bratty sister she was. It hurt him every time, even when she assured him behind closed doors she hadn't meant any of it. The prowess at which she chastised him was almost too practiced, almost too perfect to be an act. He believed her, though, because she also excelled at making it up to him.

He was never good at secrets.

Sally was the keeper of secrets, the Secret Queen.

The Secret Empress.

He watched her now place her head between her knees, her arms atop her head. It formed a perfect ball of armor around her—arms and knees shielding her from the chilled coastal her, shielding her face from his gaze. He went to reach for her, but stopped himself. When she was ready to talk, she would talk. That's what most people had a hard time deciphering. Yes, she was a drama queen, but just as often as she did it for attention, she also did it because she was naturally emotional. Her body was a tool that she sometimes forgot how to handle. When she got upset or sad she showed it. She never said it entirely, but if one looked long enough, she always demonstrated exactly how she was feeling.

“I want to tell him about us before we get married. But I'm scared to,” she finally whispered, freeing her head from her prison. He saw her hands beckon him closer next to her.

When he got closer he instinctively put her arm around her.

“It's alright, Sally. I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me.”

He listened as she wasted no time.

“It's almost guaranteed I know what he's going to think. He's going to hate me. I can't have that.”

“He might,” he answered her quickly.

“Yeah, yeah—that's exactly what I wanted to hear. You're a great brother.”

“I'm just saying this isn't going to turn out well if that's what you're expecting. Don't get your hopes up.”

“So I shouldn't tell him? I should leave it buried. That's what you're telling me”

“On the contrary, he should know.”

“He should know.”

“You should tell him.”

“How?”

“Just tell him. There's no way to sugarcoat it.”

That's what he told her. What he really wanted to say was, your hair has never looked so good on your face, you have never sounded so adorable, you have never been lovelier. What he really wanted to ask was if there was a way for them to stay what they were forever.

“So I should say, 'by the way, Louis, I've been fucking my brother since I was a kid. But it's alright because we've stopped cold turkey.' That's going to go over great. Genius idea there, Sherlock.”

Chris scoffed.

“Not like that. You don't blurt it, Sally. He's going to end up hating both of us.

He watched Sally's hair whip quickly as she dropped her back onto the sand. He tried to pick out exactly what she was looking up at the moment. It couldn't have been stars because there were not many to be found. It couldn't have been him because if he couldn't see her eyes, her eyes couldn't see him. That was the scientific law of how sight worked. He wanted to know because he wanted to be looking up at the same thing as her. At a time like this, it was important that they both be seeing the same exact thing.

“Never mind, Chris. I can't do it. I'm not going to do it. He doesn't need to know.”

“You need to tell him before it's too late. Secrets are no way to begin a relationship. You know that better than anyone.”

“He won't understand.”

He crawled to her head. He rested on all fours while he lowered his head to kiss her. He didn't feel her kissing back, but still he persisted until she did.

“Not at first. But if you explain it all to him, he might. In the end, that's what you want, right?”

Then it was turn to lay on his back and look up at the unstarry night.

“I should tell it all to him,” she whispered again.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she mimicked him in the way they did. “'The truth, Louis, is that when we were kids, Chris and I only had each other. Our parents were never around as much as they were supposed to be. They always said they were overwhelmed with me, and left it to my brother to do all the heavy lifting taking care of me. I know it's sick and perverted, and whatever else you want to call it, but it seemed natural for Chris and I to go that one step too far. The truth is, Louis, I loved him first and I'm just hoping you can accept that about my past.'”

“That's good, Sally.”

When Sally didn't answer immediately, he took it as a sign that she didn't agree. When she didn't bother to raise her head to playact her indignation, that's when he knew for sure she was seriously contemplating the ramifications of giving that answer. Neither of them had told their parents, their friends, or anyone. This was a giant leap of faith she was about to attempt. He could understand her trepidation. He knew his role. It hadn't changed in the slightest. He needed to tell her what the right thing to do was, even though it stung him to do so. She counted on him her whole life to take care of her.

This was the best way now for him to accomplish that.

“No, it's not. That's fucked up, Chris. What we did, what we're doing—that's seriously fucked up,” he felt more than saw her lift her hands to her face, covering it up completely in her palms. “I'll never be able to tell him.”

“You have to. This has to be the last time. We can't do this again.”

He saw her remove her hands from her face and tilt her head towards him. He could barely make out that her lips were pursed once more.

“That's what I said to you once. And do you know what you told me?” He heard her ask the question coldly.

It took him a minute to respond.

“Please, no.”

“You told me it'd be good for me. You'd be good for me. You told me we already loved each other, and that was enough. That's what you said when I told you I felt uncomfortable. You told me you wanted me to open up a little, that's all.”

Trust me, Sally. We need each other. I know that you need me and I want to show you how much I want to be here for you.

Trust me.

Trust me.

Trust me.

“Please, don't say it.”

“And when I asked why we couldn't tell mom and dad, all you said was to silence up. So I did, and we did. You me to believe it wasn't wrong... but why does it feel so wrong now?”

Her voice sounded softer to him now. At first he thought she was bitter, but she wasn't bitter at all. She was confused. That was a fact. She was lost. Her confidence was gone, but she wasn't accusatory. He was always afraid that moment would come. He dreaded coming to find out she had blamed him all these years for what had happened between him. If she said it, then he would have to admit there was kernel of truth to it. If she believed it, then he would have to start believing it. As long as the two of them stayed resolute in their belief in the sanctity of their love for one another, then he could hold it up to his conscience as something pure, untainted. As long as they both believed, it stayed unblemished in his memory.

“We're older. We've got a better perspective to look back at the little things we did.”

“Little,” he heard her say with the hint of a laugh to her tone. “What we did wasn't little, Chris. It was kind of fucking big.”

He wished he could fake it for her. He felt he should have been more confused to make her feel better, to make her feel like she wasn't so alone in this dark, empty beach. He just couldn't act confused, though. He didn't have it in him. He had decided days before they had left on this trip that he wasn't going to apologize for what had happened. It needed for it to come to an end, but he would not leave thinking that he should be ashamed for it, for any of it. It had happened in the course of their lives naturally. There hadn't been some pre-meditation to falling in love with Sally. He hadn't willed it into being. And, despite her misgivings at the beginning, it hadn't taken her long to lose all her hesitation. She wasn't a victim and he wasn't a scoundrel. There had been no crime. There was no sin. There was only what was inevitable and the years they had wasted attempting to halt it.

Sally's voice continued in the darkness to reach his ears.

“Of the two of us, I thought you'd be the one pressuring me to keep it a secret.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah.”

“It's hard, you know? It's hard to move on when you're always around me. When I always see you, when it's this natural, I can't ever get away. It's not like a normal relationship where I can just cut you out of my life. Even when we're through we're never through; you're still my sister Sally.”

He felt her roll up to his side and gently place his arm around her. He wanted to stop her, but he couldn't. Years and years of conditioning overruled what he wanted at the moment. Her natural place was at her side like this. Her warmth next to his warmth had been the only blanket he had ever wanted or needed.

“And you're still my brother. I understand.”

“That's why I'm more than glad you're getting married. Somebody has to break this one and for all. It's time to stop.”

“I know.”

Chris shifted his chest, lifting his sister's head gently in the process. He sat up. Once that was done, he again lowered her head down till it was resting his lap. He watched as her small, fragile lips smiled up at him.

“You have to tell him and you have to get married. Because if you don't, I don't know if I can... if we'll ever be strong enough to be stopping this on our own.”

“Stopiping.”

“Yeah,” he laughed.

Staring down at her small face, he wondered if he knew exactly all that he was giving up. He had told him that all of this was for the best, but now he questioned if it really was. Was his future going to be better from her more pronounced absence from it? Was he ever really going to be free to find the person he was destined to be with? Or was she it? More importantly, he pondered if she would turn out happier without him around. He pondered if this was the best course for her.

He always came to the same solution that it was.

That settled it every time.

“When we looked up at the sky as kids, did you ever think we'd reach this place where we're at now?” he heard her ask him, the voice mysteriously floating up from his lap.

“No, did you?”

“Of course. I think of everything. That's my gift to the world.”

“How quickly I could have ever forgotten.”

“It's an honest mistake.”

He cleared his throat.

“Part of me always knew it couldn't last forever. When started dating what's-his-name in high school I was scared we would have to stop.”

“Jason? Jason was my experiment, to see what somebody different would be like.”

“Yeah, that didn't last long. None of them ever did.”

“But what about Driving Miss Daisy? You two almost lasted a whole year. I was sure you wouldn't want to any more while you were seeing her.”

“Me too.”

He didn't want to tell Sally that Daisy was never his type. The two of them only lasted for as long as they did because he thought he had outgrown Sally. Part of him had pushed to sever the connection and that was the part that he had listened to for that ill-conceived year. Daisy, for her part, never said anything. She was too distracted by having enough of a relationship for the both of them.

Breaking up with her had been the hardest task he ever completed.

Until now.

“Yet there you were at the foot of my bed every time you guys would break up for awhile.”

He let out a slight giggle.

“Imagine the look on her face if she knew I was cheating on her with my own sister.”

“Evil. Though, that would have been funny.”

“Funny.”

“I wonder if Louis is going to think it's funny.”

Chris began to mindlessly run his fingers through Sally's reddish-brown hair, letting them slide effortlessly the entire length till they came to rest near the curvature of her breasts. Then he started the journey all over again.

“Probably not.”

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we had met someone else first, if we still, you know, would have started down this road?”

“We probably would have. Like you said, you needed me, and I've always been helpless to say no when you needed something.”

“Yeah, that part I don't regret at all. It was like there was only one perfect solution—all my acting out, all my feeling alone and sad all the time, all the mean things I used to say—and it was you. You were the only calming influence in my life. The only one,” he heard her say to him. He felt one of her hands brush his cheek as she said it.

“Don't you mean calmiming?”

“How could I have forgotten? It's true. Even mom and dad noticed after we started sleeping together I wasn't as rambunctious as I was before. They probably thought it was a natural stage of growing up, but I think it had everything to do with you.”

“Are you trying to thank me?”

“I guess I am.”

“Well, then, you're welcome. It's not like you weren't good for me either. You were my only ally in that house, the only good thing about growing up.”

“And now we're grown,” he heard her start. He watched her raise a fist in mock-celebration. “Yay, us.”

“Yay.”

As he continued to let her hair draw his fingers in, Chris started to think about how tonight was going to be the last tonight they would have maybe forever. He wanted to remember all of it—the blackened moon, the starless night, the waves rolling into the shore. And her. Especially her. He wanted a picture to take back with him in his head.

“I can say one thing,” he listened to her say. “No one's ever going to take away our memories, no matter how old we get.”

“Yeah, when I'm sixty-five I'll still be recalling your tiny twin bed and listening to the rain hit the roof above us when mom and dad were out of town. I don't know if I'll ever feel that content and safe and happy again. At least, not as easily as that. Nope, can't be done.”

They sighed together.

“That was nice,” he heard Sally comment.

“All the sneaking around. All the secrets and lying. It was still kind of worth it, you know? I can't say I'll miss it all, but there were always more good feelings than bad feelings. They can't take that away from me.”

Sally, not-so-sweet Sally, except to him. To him she was the irreplaceable Sally. She was the timeless Sally. His one and only beloved Sally.

Sally was his life and his life was about to come to an end.

Chris felt he should be sadder somehow. They should've marked the occasion in a grander fashion, taking a cruise somewhere. If this truly was going to be the last night of all the nights they spent together then it deserved to be commemorated in a fashion more befitting of its significance. Sitting at the beach alone with barely any moonlight to wash over them seem subdued somehow, a trifle to the more anxious antics that had enlivened their previous nights together. There he was, about to purposefully misplace the most beneficial and giving relationship he had ever had, and he was about to let it conclude with the smallest of whimpers. He wanted the world to know the importance of what he allowing himself to lose. He wanted her to know just how faded his life would become without her presence. He wanted this night to matter more to the world at large and not just them. He knew there would be no newspapers, no cameras, no throngs of people bearing witness, but he wanted a small spectacle to let at least allow one other human soul entry into a miracle that was about to end. Someone else needed to know this was important. This was special. This was right.

And soon it would be over.

He knew he would never fully lose her. He would never lose access to her thoughts, her intelligence, her humor. Yet the other aspects of her personality—her kindness, her caring, her warmth—all those would be subdued to the degree that they would cease to be recognizable. That's what he would miss. That's what was about to die. She would cease being everything in his life and take up residence as only part of it, still large in its own way, but not everything.

Sally would become his sister again... and nothing more.

It was the nothing more that almost scared him to tears and it was the nothing that he wanted no part of this night. There would be a hole in his life that would never be filled, and he feared that hole would only grow larger and deeper until he fell so far into it he could never escape.

She would be happy, though.

That was his sole consolation.

“I'm ready to get up now, Chris,” he heard her say suddenly.

“That's good. How's the toe?”

“Better, but we'll look at it when we get back to the room. It could have fallen off and I would've never known.

“In that case we better start looking for your toe.”

Chris got to his feet, dumping his sister's head ungraciously on the sand. Even from her back, he saw her shake her fist at him threateningly.

“Do you think it's over there?” he continued, pretending not to notice the ire in her expression. He pointed over to a spot twenty feet from them.

“No, I don't think so.”

“It might be in the water by now. I could throw you in so you could have a look-see.”

“Whatever,” he heard her laugh. “Just help me up, would you?”

“Of course,” Chris said, extending her arm to help her up.

He felt his sister grab his arm tightly to steady herself. Finally, after much effort, he watched as she managed to hop up on her right leg and gingerly put her weight down on her injured toe.

“Chris?” he heard her ask just as gingerly.

“Yeah?”

“What am I going to do if he can't understand?” It seemed her toe was doing better and she was now standing in front of him no worse for the wear.

“I don't know, Sally. I don't know.”

“I love him.”

“I know that.”

“He's really good for me.”

“I know that.”

He watched as she took her first step to the hotel. However, before she could take another one she stopped in place.

“I love you too, but I think you're right.”

“I love it when you say stuff like that to me, Sally.”

He watched her turn her head around, with the rest of her body slowly following.

“I think I'm going to tell him. Regardless of his answer, this will have to have been the last time we 'go on vacation.'”

“I agree,” he answered, catching up to her.

“I think I needed you when I was a kid, I needed that.”

“Me too.”

“But we're not kids anymore. It isn't healthy.”

“Exactly.”

I'll never leave you, Chris. Never.

Chris placed his hand on her shoulder, feeling once more the familiar texture of his younger sister. She still felt warm and smooth to the touch.

“Hey, Sally?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too, sis.”

One last smile for the night. One last good memory to hold onto.

“Yeah, but I loved you first,” he heard her say through the laughter.

He felt her kiss one last time before they made their way back to their hotel. Then it was all over.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You Are My Sweetest Downfall, I Loved You First, I Loved You First, Beneath The Sheets Of Paper Lies My Truth, I Have To Go, I Have To Go

--"Samson", Regina Spektor

...and now for something completely different.

I LOVED YOU FIRST
a play by E. Patrick Taroc

Setting:
A beach in the dead of night

Dramatis Personae:
Sally, a woman in her twenties
Chris, a man in his twenties

Sally – Can we stop here? It's really hurting now, Chris.

Chris – Yeah, sure. Here's a good spot anyhow.

Sally – Yeah, yeah. Here. (she plops down on the sand with him soon following her) It's throbbing now. Great, it's throbbing. Can you take a look?

Chris – (laughing) Leave it to you to stub your toe at the beach. Not only that, but stub it with enough oomph to have it bleed. Let me take a look.

Sally – No, you're making fun of me. Now I don't want you to look.

Chris – Come on, you big baby. Let me just see it (he lifts up her foot to examine it). Well, there's just not enough light here to see anything.

Sally – (yanking her foot away) Then give it back. You hurtiting it.

Chris – Oh god, not that again.

Sally – (laughs, punctuated with small sighs of pain) (beat) I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't think I walk back to the hotel like this.

Chris – We can rest here for awhile.

Sally – I don't think that's going to help.

Chris – I could strand you out here. I'm good to go back to the hotel any time I want, I don't know about you.

Sally – Again, not helping.

Chris – Sorry. I'm serious, rest it awhile. We don't have to go back any time soon. We'll see how it feels and then if it's still bad I'll think of something.

Sally – If that's what you think is best, but I highly doubt anything is going to change no matter how much time we give it.

Chris – We'll just have to see, now won't we? Now silence up and let the night soak into you.

Sally – (beat) Do you remember the last time we were on this beach?

Chris – Four, five years ago?

Sally – Four, five years ago.

Chris – Has it been that long? We used to go all the time. Remember that?

Sally – Yeah.

Chris – Then we stopped.

Sally- Yeah.

Chris – Well, actually, you stopped.

Sally – (deep breath) Now? Really? Now? With my hurt toe and everything.

Chris – I'm just saying.

Sally – (beat) I remember when the water used to come up to where we're sitting now. I would warn you that it's coming in too high, too quickly. But you never listened to me.

Chris – I listened. I didn't care that much.

Sally – You used to threaten to throw me in.

Chris – Into the cold, treacherous waters.

Sally – You were mean to me. I remember that too. Now I remember why I stopped going.

Chris – It was never that cold. Or that treacherous.

Sally – The fact I was comfortable should have been enough for you.

Chris – But I never listen, right?

Sally – No, you never do.

Chris – It was water. It was water that would've gone up to your knees, Sally.

Sally – I was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable and you didn't care.

Chris – I cared. I just wanted to open you up a little.

Sally – Whatever.

Chris – I'm sorry (kisses her). Better?

Sally – Not really. I guess. No.

Chris – I'm really sorry I threatened to throw you in the big, bad ocean, Sally. You're right, it was mean of me. I apologize.

Sally – You don't mean that.

Chris – Oh, but I do. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.

Sally – Fix my fucking toe.

Chris – Oh, would that I could.

Sally – Could that you would...

Chris – I'd fix a hundred toes for you if I had the power, Sally. You know that.

Sally – And I'd give you a hundred toes to fix. (Kisses him) And a hundred more.

Chris – Bring it.

Sally – You'd like that, wouldn't you? Evil.

Chris – I like doing stuff for you. It's not that hard. You're easy to please.

Sally – Is that right?

Chris – Yeah, I just do everything you tell me to do. Simple as that. (Laughs)

Sally – Now it's my turn to wish for a hundred more guys like you. What I could so with an army like that.

Chris – Everything.

Sally – Yeah, yeah—everything sounds like exactly what I want.

Chris – Always have.

Sally – Always will.

Chris – Ever since we were kids, enough was never enough for you.

Sally – Because it isn't.

Chris – You used to drive mom and dad crazy. They'd think they were doing something nice for you and you'd shoot them down time and time again. You were a real brat when you were a kid, Sally. You know that?

Sally – I know.

Chris – And you've grown up to be a real bitch too. (laughs)

Sally – I don't know about that.

Chris – I do. I mean—who comes out to a place like this—with a guy—the month before they're supposed to get married to somebody else?

Sally – For all everyone knows I'm on vacation with my brother. That's all this is.

Chris – To them. Not to you. Not to me.

Sally – (beat) I am a bitch.

Chris – You are. (sigh) But you can't help it. It's just who you are.

Sally – You always know the best way to cheer me up, Chris.

Chris – That's what brothers are for. (laughs) Look, all I'm saying is that we all were a little too loose with you—mom, dad, and me. We all coddled, gave you what you wanted. When it came time to say no to you, none of us had the heart to say no to you.

Sally – Is that what it was like?

Chris – That's what it was like.

Sally – I was that bad?

Chris – Bad isn't the word. You were you. You are you. It's too late for you to change now.

Sally – You think that low of me?

Chris – Not at all. I wouldn't be here if I did. There's just few people who know the real you, Sally, who know the real you and like the real you. Just remember that.

Sally – What does that mean?

Chris – Nothing.

Sally – No, I want to know. You're trying to say something specific and I want to know what it is.

Chris – It's nothing.

Sally – Then I think it's time we go back to the hotel room then... if you're not up to talking anymore.

Chris – That's how it is?

Sally – That's how it is.

Chris – Fine. I'm just trying to say I don't think Louis knows what he needs to know about you. I don't think he's seen all of you.

Sally – He knows enough. He knows enough to love me. He doesn't need to know anymore.

Chris – I think you mean he wouldn't want to know anymore.

Sally – Same difference.

Chris – It's not, Sally. If you're going to be marrying this guy there are things he needs to find out from you beforehand... not after you've both gone through it. That isn't fair to him.

Sally – That's just where we differ. (tries to get up) Damn it. I thought that would have been dramatic as hell to walk away from you right then.

Chris – Quit fooling around and talk to me. Rest that toe.

Sally – Fooliling?

Chris – (laughs) You're not getting away from me that easily. You asked me to meet you here this weekend for a reason.

Sally – You know the reason.

Chris – No, it wasn't just that. You're smart enough to make me think your reasons were cut-and-dry, but I can tell there's something else.

Sally – Something else?

Chris – Something more.

Sally – (beat) I want to tell him about us before we get married. But I'm scared to.

Chris – (puts his arm around Sally) It's alright, Sally. I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me.

Sally – It's almost guaranteed I know what he's going to think. He's going to hate me. I can't have that.

Chris – He might.

Sally – Yeah, yeah—that's exactly what I wanted to hear. You're a great brother.

Chris – I'm just saying this isn't going to turn out well if that's what you're expecting. Don't get your hopes up.

Sally – So I shouldn't tell him? I should leave it buried. That's what your telling me.

Chris – On the contrary, he should know.

Sally – He should know.

Chris – You should tell him.

Sally – How?

Chris – Just tell him. There's no way to sugarcoat it.

Sally – So I should say, “by the way, Louis, I've been fucking my brother since I was kid. But it's alright because we've stopped cold turkey.” That's going to go over great. Genius idea there, Sherlock.

Chris – (scoffs) Not like that. You don't blurt it. He's going to end up hating both of us.

Sally – Never mind. I can't do it. I'm not going to do it. He doesn't need to know.

Chris – You need to tell him before it's too late. Secrets are no way to begin a relationship. You know that better than anyone.

Sally – He won't understand.

Chris – (kisses her again) Not at first. But if you explain it all to him, he might. In the end, that's what you want, right?

Sally – I should tell it all to him.

Chris – Yeah.

Sally – Yeah. (beat) “The truth, Louis, is that when we were kids, Chris and I really only had each other. Our parents were never around as much as they were supposed to be. They always said they were overwhelmed with me, and left it to my brother to do all the heavy lifting taking care of me. I know it's sick and perverted, and whatever else you want to call it, but it seemed natural for Chris and I to go that one step too far. The truth is, Louis, I loved him first and I'm just hoping you can accept that about my past.”

Chris – That's good, Sally.

Sally – No, it's not. That's fucked up, Chris. What we did, what we're doing—that's seriously fucked up. I'll never be able to tell him.

Chris – You have to. This has to be the last time. We can't do this again.

Sally – That's what I said to you once. And do you know what you told me?

Chris – Please, no.

Sally – You told me it'd be good for me. You'd be good for me. You told me we already loved each other, and that was enough. That's what you said when I told you I felt uncomfortable. You told me you wanted me to open up a little, that's all.

Chris – Please don't say it.

Sally – And when I asked why we couldn't tell mom and dad, all you said was to silence up. So I did, and we did. You got me to believe it wasn't wrong... but why does it feel so wrong now?

Chris – We're older. We've got a better perspective to look back at the little things we did.

Sally – Little. What we did wasn't little, Chris. It was kind of fucking big. (beat) Of the two of us, I thought you'd be the one pressuring me to keep it a secret.

Chris – Yeah, I know.

Sally – Yeah.

Chris – It's hard, you know? It's hard to move on when you're always around me. When I always see you, when it's this natural, I can't ever get away. It's not like a normal relationship where I can just cut you out of my life. Even when we're through we're never through; you're still my sister Sally.

Sally – And you're still my brother. I understand.

Chris – That's why I'm more than glad you're getting married. Somebody has to break this once and for all. It's unhealthy. It's unhealthy for me and you.

Sally – I know.

Chris – (beat, lays her head down in his lap so she's facing up at the night sky) You have to tell him and you have to get married. Because if you don't, I don't know if I can... if we'll ever be strong enough to be stopping this on our own.

Sally – Stopiping.

Chris – (laughs) Yeah.

Sally – (beat) When we looked up at this sky as kids, did you ever think we'd reach this place where we're at now?

Chris – No, did you?

Sally – Of course. I think of everything. That's my gift to the world.

Chris – How quickly I could have ever forgotten.

Sally – It's an honest mistake.

Chris – Part of me always knew it couldn't last forever. When you started dating what's-his-name in high school I was scared we would have to stop.

Sally – Jason? Jason was my experiment, to see what somebody different would be like.

Chris – Yeah, that didn't last long.

Sally – But what about Driving Miss Daisy? You two almost lasted a whole year. I was sure you wouldn't to any more while you were seeing her.

Chris – Me too.

Sally – Yet there you were every time you guys would break up for awhile.

Chris – Imagine the look on her face if she knew I was cheating on her with my own sister.

Sally – Evil. Though, that would have been funny.

Chris – Funny.

Sally – I wonder if Louis is going to think it's funny.

Chris – (He begins stroking her hair mindlessly) Probably not.

Sally – Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we met someone else first, if we'd still, you know, would have started down this road?

Chris – We probably would have. Like you said, you needed me, and I've always been helpless to say no when you needed something.

Sally – Yeah, that part I don't regret at all. It was like there was only one perfect solution—all my acting out, all my feeling alone and sad all the time, all the mean things I used to say—and it was you. You've were the only calming influence in my life. The only one.

Chris – Don't you mean calmiming?

Sally – How could I have forgotten? It's true. Even mom and dad noticed after we started sleeping together I wasn't as bad to
them as I was before. They probably thought it was a natural stage of growing up, but I think it had everything to do with you.

Chris – Are you trying to thank me?

Sally – I guess I am.

Chris – Well, then, you're welcome. It's not like you weren't good for me either. You were my only ally in that house, the only good thing about growing up.

Sally – And now we're grown. Yay, us.

Chris – Yay.

Sally – I can say one thing. No one's ever going to take away our memories, no matter how old we get.

Chris – Yeah, when I'm sixty-five I'll still be recalling your tiny, twin bed and listening to the rain hit the roof above us when mom and dad were out of town. I don't know if I'll ever feel that content and safe and happy again. At least, not as easily as that. Nope, can't be done.

Sally – That was nice.

Chris – All the sneaking around. All the secrets and lying. It was still kind of worth it, you know? I can't say I'll miss it all, but there was always more good feelings than bad feelings. They can't take that away from me.


beneath the stars came falling on our heads

Sally – (beat) I'm ready to try to get up now, Chris.

Chris – That's good. How's the toe?

Sally – Better, but we'll look at it when we get back to the room. It could have fallen and I would've never known.

Chris – In that case we better to start looking for your toe. (Chris gets up first, leaving his sister laying on her back in the sand)
Do you think it's over there?

Sally – No, I don't think so.

Chris – It might be in the water by now. I could throw you in so you could have a look-see.

Sally – Whatever. (laughs) Just help me up, would you?

Chris – Of course. (extends his arm to help her up).

Sally – Chris? (jumps up to one leg and gingerly tries her weight on the other one)

Chris – Yeah?

Sally – What am I going to do if he can't understand?

Chris – I don't know, Sally. I don't know.

Sally – I love him.

Chris – I know that.

Sally – He's really good for me.

Chris – I know that.

Sally – (beat) I love you too, but I think you're right.

Chris – I love it when you say stuff like that to me.

Sally – I think I'm going to tell him. Regardless of his answer, this will have to have been the last time we “go on vacation.”

Chris – I agree.

Sally – I think I needed you when I was a kid, I needed that.

Chris – Me too.

Sally – But we're not kids anymore. It isn't healthy.

Chris – Exactly. (beat) Hey, Sally?

Sally – Yeah?

Chris – I love you too, sis.

Sally – Yeah, but I loved you first. (She gives him one last kiss before they slowly walk towards the hotel).

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers