Jane, Divided, But I Can't Decide Which Side I'm On, Jane Decided Only Cowards Stay While Traitors Run, Jane, Jane

--"Jane", Barenaked Ladies

When I told Casey and Laurel that my parents were selling their home I'm sure they didn't how I wanted them to feel. Honestly, I didn't know how I felt about the decision. I still don't. On one hand, I haven't lived there in almost five years and the majority of my time there was thinking about either how to get out or feeling sorry that I was compelled to move back. On the other hand, it is the home I think of as my childhood home. Even though my family and I had at least three houses we lived in before that one, the house in Sierra Madre is the one I spent most of my life in. Hell, it's the one practically everyone I've ever met has been to at one time or another. It literally is the one place I thought I could always come back to.

I just don't know how to feel about it because you're supposed to have let go of your childhood home a long time before this. Many people don't even have a family home they can come back to because their parents have already moved long before their mid-thirties. I feel like it shouldn't be a big deal. I feel like it shouldn't bother as much as it does.

And yet it does. I don't know what I expected, but I'm beginning to think that I expected that house to be there for the rest of my life. I think I expected it to be always around somehow. And I'm kind of thinking I dislike my parents a bit more for deciding to sell it out from under me. It's almost as if they betrayed me by selling off a piece of my childhood, a so-called security blanket that I never knew I had. And I know it's crazy to believe this was done as a direct affront to me, but it still doesn't lessen the sting.

That's why when my friends decided to take me out to karaoke bar on Saturday night to cheer me up I found the only song that fit my mood was "Jane" by The Barenaked Ladies. Not only is it a song about feeling ambivalence, but it's also a song about obsessing on something innocuous that for some reason gets under your skin. That's how I feel about the house. The house is my Jane, something I shouldn't give too hoots about at this stage in my life.

And yet I do.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But I Can't Live Forever, I Can't Always Be, One Day I'll Be Sand On A Beach By A Sea, The Pages Keep Turning, I'll Mark Off Each Day With A Cross

--"Calendar Girl", Stars

I finished one of the best novels I've read the other day. One Day by David Nicholls on the surface sounds like something I would've liked if it had been recommended to me. However, I actually heard about it from having read the author's previous effort, Starter for Ten (another good book if you've ever read it).

From the product description:

'I can imagine you at forty,' she said, a hint of malice in her voice. 'I can picture it right now.'

He smiled without opening his eyes. 'Go on then.'

15th July 1988. Emma and Dexter meet for the first time on the night of their graduation. Tomorrow they must go their separate ways.

So where will they be on this one day next year?

And the year after that? And every year that follows?

Twenty years, two people, ONE DAY. From the author of the massive bestseller STARTER FOR TEN.

The whole concept of visiting the same pair of friends on the same day each year just appeals to me. Not only does this afford the author the space to develop his character naturally, with the ups and downs of the awkward period between college and settling down, but it also allows him to gloss over having to detail all the mundane bits in between. Some of the best passages in the book are when some innocuous detail from the previous chapter ends up affecting Dexter and/or Emma for chapters to come without them realizing it originally. Conversely, there are other passages where these same two characters believe they are in the midst of really shaking up their life, only to have it turn out that nothing of much import comes of the big decision they have made. Even if the novel only had its conceit going for it I probably would have read it.

But what the book also has going for it, and what I think is its chief selling point, is that it has two of the brightest, if believably flawed, stars in Dexter and Emma. It's been awhile since I read a book that had two compelling characters at its center. Dexter, with all his boisterous confidence in his twenties who ultimately learns to shed some of his arrogance, and Emma, with her huge dreams and small self-image, are a suited pair. Both the author and audience know that from page one. On the surface the novel is a romance between two people who should've been together from the first moment they met, yet who spend the next couple of decades realizing this for themselves. But beneath this framework is the real theme of the book. The book is less about how these two fall in love and more about the process of merging who they are and who they will become. It's about reconciling all those dreams people have of what their life is going to be like with the realities of what their life is turning out to be. Mostly, it's just years of frustration and second-guessing interspersed with moments of great joy and sadness, all the while relying on your dearest friends to pull you through the malaise.


and I'll laugh about all that we've lost

I'm serious. If you're expecting this romantic comedy like When Harry Met Sally... or Sleepless in Seattle, two films this novel gets compared to, you're in for a shock. One Day is moderately darker than those two stories. There's a lot of heartache, even genuine tragedy, contained in the pages of this novel. Indeed, by the end of the book I found myself in a rather sad state at Dexter and Emma's ultimate fate. It wasn't that I didn't see the ending coming; it had more to do with the angst I felt at the circuitous route their journey had to take. I mean--the novel wouldn't have been half as good if the journey was shortened, but it makes for a very sad tale indeed when one realizes how much time Dexter and Emma waste in acting on their convictions. But, alas, that's the human journey in a nutshell. It's about people who think they know what they want but are clueless about as to how to get there or if even there is worth the trouble.

It goes without saying that I recommend this book. Buy and read it now. Hell, buy two so you can give a copy to somebody you care about. That's what I'm doing.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Baby You Know My Love For You Is Real, Take Me Where You Want To, Then My Heart You Steal

--"More, More, More", Andrea True Connection

1996

Dear Breannie,

I'm answering this letter fairly quickly so you simply must forgive me for its expected brevity. You know how much I detest short letters. You also know that of anyone I do so relish the opportunity to bore you to death (LOL). I don't know--it's currently 3:12 in the morning and I'm not entirely sure tonight is a night for letter writing. Letter reading definitely, but maybe not letter writing. Perhaps I might have to continue my efforts on another night if this letter turns out as short as I believe it shall.

That's cool you can go to baseball games with your day. Every time I've gone to a game with my parents they always ruin it. If it isn't wanting to leave early than it's the fact they never really know the rules to the game. I can't tell you how irksome it is to have heathens accompany one. It's like asking deaf people to go to a rock concert with you. I guess baseball just isn't their thing. It's gotten to the point where I just stopped asking for them to come with you. I really would rather go it alone than have people who don't really love the game like you or me to go with me. And I just know how you feel about your moods being affected by whether or not your team loses or wins. I mean--I don't expect everything to be perfect in order for me to enjoy the game, but it's just like having the right company with you. Everything is so much better when the game is actually good and exciting and you're with people who all want to be there. That I totally believe can affect your mood positively (or negatively). It's one of the reasons I like going to baseball games when I'm not feeling so hot. It's therapy, actually. It's therapy and theater all wrapped into one neat package.

We really should get out to a game some time.

I don't really have a view from my window here. As you know, all you can see is my backyard. Most days all you can see is Alice chomping at the bit and chasing after something or other. Still, it is rather nice back there. If it weren't for all the bugs that can and do get into my room I'd almost call it serene. At four in the morning I can't see anything right now, but I suppose I could take a page out of your playbook and recall the scene from memory.

Someday I'll have a view worth describing to you. Someday I'll be able to take a look off some balcony or window to tell you of the wonders that are spread out beneath me. It's weird; I never really put much stock into having a good view. It just never seemed important to me. But reading your letters and talking to you on the phone puts me in the mood to stop more often in order to take a peek at the world surrounding me. You're forever going on about how inspired you get by something you saw in a moment. It makes me want to be a more perceptive individual, B. Sometimes I think I'm too oblivious to the world around me in a way that most people aren't. I think you called it awhile back when you said that there are times you think I would rather paint the world I see rather than look at the real world around me. I tend to get more relaxed when I imaginate (LOL) a scene rather than draw from the scene I'm already in. I'd rather fix everything into how I want it to be than subjugate myself to the constraints of reality. Maybe that's why I have such a fondness for landscapes because I'm forever drawing them in my head as well. Certainly I never call up the scene of my backyard when I'm searching for something to inspire me. Hell, I tend to call up the scene from your balcony more than I recall my backyard in situations such as those.

I'm that way for a lot of my ideas. I tend to draw from other people's personal lives than from my own when I'm picturing stuff. I see house down the block when I need a house to describe in my stories; I never use my own. I tend to base characters on friends of friends or people on tv rather than my own friends or family. And, yes, I tend to see your vistas when I need to set scenes in my head. It might be a form of self-deprecation since I always say that my own life is too boring to ever capture into words, but it's more likely that when I populate my stories or what have you I have this desire to fill them with objects, people, and places outside of my own experience. I want them to sound foreign, exotic even. Granted, the lives of your people in Macon isn't exactly Vienna or Africa, but it's foreign enough to be exciting for me. Does that sound weird, Breanne? I just can't think of somebody who writes about their own life extensively if he isn't writing a memoir. People tend to gravitate towards stuff they haven't lived before or at least very much. New and exciting is what sells tickets, not old and stuff, I guess.

As for Tommy's, I had it the other week. It was delish. LOL But seriously, I don't know how I'm ever going to get you to try one. You're just going to have to get your ass over here, I guess, little gal. Personally, I think it's worth the trouble because once you taste the greasy goodness of an old-fashioned Tommy's burgers you won't ever want to go back to substandard chili burgers ever again. Sometimes I really wonder how people like y'all out there do it. How do you live without places like Tommy's and In-N-Out? It's like going without water as far as I'm concerned. I would know because ever since I started working at the bookstore I haven't had much opportunity to get down to Tommy's. They really need to build more of those like now. Shit, all I eat these days is like Subway, Round Table Pizza, and McDonald's. It's crappy. Well, the Subway isn't because you know how much I love them Seafood and Crab sandwiches. They're like heaven in a six-inch loaf of bread.

Speaking of putting too much stock into ordinary objects, I realize that, yes, your prophecy is coming true. These letters have taken a bent towards me describing a food every other paragraph. Pretty soon you might be right and these things will turn into nothing but food, food, food for every sentence. I just think that food is the great equalizer. It's like music. Everybody has their own story about the food they grew up on, the food they like, and, most importantly, the food they're currently digging on. Everybody has their opinions about what makes what they eat good and everybody is dying to share those opinions with everyone else. I couldn't give a rat's ass about what people do for a living. I couldn't give a fig about people's politics, philosophies, and, yes, religion. But talk to me about a good restaurant and I'm your boy. Life's too depressing to talk about subjects that lend themselves to conflict all the time. I say the world at large could do with more talk about the topics that we all can relate to. And what's more relatable than food? Nothing, I say. Nothing at all.

And you know what else food is good for? Allaying thoughts of disappointment. When the world seems to be passing me by, when my friends seem to be all moving away or, worse, moving on without me, I can count on food. When people are acting pissy and when friends are just seeming to be not so friendly, I can count on food. After all, very rare is the day when I walk into a place like Subway and just have a bad Seafood and Crab. At least that never disappoints me; it's always good. My relationship with my family and with my co-workers may go up and down, but there is stability in my favorite food places. I can count on them.

That's not true. Some places have started to suck recently. Shakey's isn't as good as I remember it when I used to go there in eighth grade a lot. But aside from places like Shakey's, most of my favorite foods are still comforting me after all these years.

Well, you know my stance on sleep. It doesn't matter if it's the radio or tv--something has to be on for me to fall asleep. I can't just do the whole sleeping in silence bit. And it's not because of the whole being afraid of the dark or that death is out to get me. It's more that I can't seem to get my mind to shut itself off. I need to tucker it out before it'll get any rest. My whole body might be screaming for sleep, Breanne, but if my mind just isn't exhausted then this whole sleep thing just doesn't work. I especially can't sleep if I'm thinking about how differently my life seems to be turning out from what I expected it to be. That's what has been lately keeping me up at night. I just lie there, thinking about how all of this was supposed to turn out differently, thinking how I wasn't supposed to be twenty-one-ish and still living at home. I keep thinking about how my degree was supposed to be my ticket out of Sierra Madre and onto better, brighter things. But mostly I just think about how stuck I feel in that same old bed in the same old room I've inhabited for five years then. I don't know why the five years thing bothers me so much. I know a lot of people my age (not your age, of course) who have been in the same room for fifteen, even twenty years. I don't know--I guess I just have this wanderlust thing going on where five years just seems like an eternity to be sleeping in the same bed in the same room. Especially when you're alone, all of it feels like you've been doing it for your whole life and you might be doomed to do it for another lifetime. And I just can't seem to assure myself that any of it is going to get any better. I wonder how the happy people like you do it. I really want to know--how do you forget your problems when they loom so large and stick in your face all the time like mine do?

Dancing won't help either. That's right out of the book.

This helps, I guess, so there is that.

I never got the distinct impression that either of my parents wanted me to be just like them. I always got the impression that they somehow wanted me to be better than them; like being exactly like them would be a failure on my part. Maybe that's where I get this whole self-deprecating trait (or wallowing as you call it). My parents never seemed to think they were worthy of being admired by the population at large and I inherited that same trait. I've never been like you, one for the spotlights and the attention. I just want to make myself happy rather than try to entertain or enrich everyone else. Fuck, I can't even do that right. I can't imagine what I'd do if I was actively seeking other people's good opinion of me.

I guess if we were smart we'd swap parents. Yours could have the kid who doesn't cause waves and is perfectly happy being ordinary, but accepted. Mine could have the girl they always wanted who really, really likes to shine in everything she does. It would be a good trade. Sometime I get the distinct impression my parents like you better than me anyway. You're nicer to them than I am, that's for sure. And I think they think that you appreciate family more than I do, which might be true too. I know for one that my mom would've relished the experience of raising a girl. Three males in one house wasn't the picture my mom had in my mind when she saw the family she was going to have in her head. I wonder if she's really disappointed with the way her life turned out in that regard. Maybe that's the thought that keeps her up at night if she's anything like me.

As for you, I've only ever got the impression that your parents adored the way you turned out. Minus the occasional bout of wickedness, you're like the perfect kid. I can't tell you how much of a gift that is and one you shouldn't dismiss out of hand. I would know--it's a different ball of wax when your parents think they can always improve you. I know they mean well, but all I hear is that I'm somehow deficient; that I somehow need improving in the first place. And that really isn't a thought that people should grow up with their whole lives. People should grow up that their parents--hell, their family in general--really do see the best in them even if it isn't true. People need someone in their corner, cheering them on, even if it's all bravado. People need to feel that support from an early age, otherwise they get to be like me, feeling like they're mostly on their own in this whole affair. I'm glad I get some of that feeling of you've got my back from you, but I could do with a little more of it my life sometimes--either from more people or more from the people I already have.

And it's good to ponder things... in moderation. As aforementioned, I try to ponder more of what's actually going on in my life if only because I do so little of it most of the time. It's good to get at the root of what's really eating you up inside. Most people seem oblivious to what the root cause of their concerns are. And most people dig only inches below the service. Personally, I like people who dig a little deeper every now and again. They're the rare creatures in this world--even rarer than unicorns (who still love mushrooms, by the way). I don't know if I could ever be intimate with a superficial person. It even bothers me to talk small talk with people I like. I couldn't imagine having to do it for the entirety of my relationship with a person. It'd be like trying to walk a tight-rope on stilts; eventually I'm just going to fall far on my face. And I like that I can bring out this side in you, Breanne. It's my good deed for this life. You know what they say, if you can even save one soul from being too full of herself then you're one step closer to seeing the face of God. I don't know if they actually say that, but they should. And don't worry, you'll never be somebody I get bored of.

You're too cute for that (LOL).

Do you know what I find funny? I can sit in my bathroom, sit on the toilet, and fall asleep with my head on the sink. It's that close to the toilet. I'm looking at the bathroom now. I'm contemplating just trying to fall asleep there. It's especially good when it's summer here because it really is the coldest room in the guest house. There's plenty of days where I'm just taking naps there because the rest of the house is just too hot to even consider sleeping in. And I know you know those days where everything is so scalding hot that all you want to do is just take a nap. Well, that's where I take mine. There, now you know my secret shame. I fall asleep on the toilet AND the sink. I bet you don't meet too many people who can make the same claim, now can you?

We can go anywhere you like any time you wish. You know me, I'm always up for going somewhere. It doesn't even matter where mostly. As long as you've got good company you've got yourself a good trip. Then we'll broaden those horizons of yours. We'll broaden them right up. Honestly, I don't even think they need all that broadening. I think it's more that I see traveling as a rite of passage. One's first trip without your parents is a distinction that I think more people need to get done as early as possible. People need to stop associating vacations as being family vacations. Vacations are supposed to be deeply personal. One is supposed to be vacating from all those nasty buggers that distill the spirit and tax the mind. If one's family is the cause of your distress, then why in the hell would you want them accompanying you? I don't know--I just think it's important for people to take off from their normal lives every chance they get to. And if that chance includes the opportunity to party down with someone you care about then it's win-win. I mean--yes, when I think about us as us it includes all this correspondence and chats. But it also includes two pretty kick-ass trips to Georgia for me. It's just like when I think of Dan or Peter, it includes all those trips into the city and to San Francisco. You go on trips with your friends; it's just what you do. I suppose it's like saying you have a good baseball team, but you don't win the World Series. I would seriously question any friendship where the idea of spending an extended amount of time with them scares me off. If I can't see myself going on vacay with someone then I seriously question the solidity of my relationship to them.

I also kind of use it as a litmus test of someone's commitment to me. I mean--I fly everywhere for a lot of people if I feel the connection is true. I flew to West Virginia to see Jina. I flew to Maryland to see Tara. I flew to Georgia. And I really judge how strong people feel about me by the fact if they ever fly out to see me. I'm just saying. I guess I could turn the question right around on you, if I asked you to, would you accompany me somewhere? Anywhere?

You know what's playing on the radio right now? Guns N' Roses' "Sweet Child O' Mine". This song always makes me smile because I remember trying to dance to it in seventh grade at my friends' Paul and Phillip's birthday party. They were identical twins and I remember that party they invited the whole class over including (gasp) girls. It was one of my very first boy-girl parties that I actually showed up to. I remember Casey, one of my classmates, asking me to dance and this just happened to be the song that was playing. All I kept thinking was this really wasn't a song you could dance very effectively to. I wasn't thinking about how pretty she looked (which she did), I wasn't thinking about how nervous I was (which I was). Nope, all I kept thinking was how strange my movements must appear because I had no idea as to what to do with this song. I guess that's what people do when they're thrust into unfamiliar situations; they latch onto something simple to keep their minds off the bigger, scarier picture. I mean--if I stopped to think of what I was actually doing I'm sure I would've come apart at the seams. Or worse.

I should try to call up the radio station to see if they'll play the song again. That was fun remembering that night. Do you remember that scary feeling dancing with a boy for the first time? Or were you always Miss Confidence? I have a skulking suspicion you were. People don't change much in that regard from when they were kids. If you were brimming with bravado at an early age it really doesn't go away. I just wonder what boy had the courage to ask you out because I've got to tell you that if I had been in your class growing up, you would've been the type of girl who would have intimidated the hell out of me. More than that, I was the type of guy to allow you to intimidate me all you wanted. That's why that aforementioned story starts out with Casey asking me to dance because, to be honest, the thought just wouldn't have struck me to ask her to dance. Especially not to "Sweet Child of Mine".

I'm a bit of a ball juggler. Hell that sounds dirtier than I meant it to be (LOL). There's a lot of projects that I start and putter around with as I'm doing other things. I try to get things done as they happen, but sometimes the worst thing I can do is just give up on a project entirely. I figure if I play around with an endeavor it'll get done eventually. So, yeah, I have a lot of ideas I've tinkered with that I'm still tinkering with many months or years later. That novella you seemed to enjoy was one of those ideas that sort of got completed despite itself.

And I think it's a great idea for you to go to school out-of-state. I was supposed to go to NYU instead of USC, but I let the cost intimidate me. Hell, that seems to be a motif in my life, letting things intimidate me. Somebody once told me that the cost of doing the right thing is never getting to do the joyful thing, which I believe is a shame. It might even be untrue. I think I would've enjoyed NYU. A lot. I think it would've been one of those edifying experiences that I simply missed out on. It's an opportunity I'll never get back. Sometimes I wonder if it really was the cost that scared me off or if there was deeper-seeded desire to derail myself. After all, going to New York and failing would've been a more humbling experience than staying here at USC and, well, failing. At least here I still had some friends and family to cushion the blow. Over there it would've just been me with my balls hanging out in the air. If I failed there, it would have been a momentous failure. Do you think that's why I ended up not going, to save myself the embarrassment? Or it could have just been that I really do hate that city as much as I say I do? LOL But, for you, I think getting out of Warner-Robins would be beneficial. I don't even care where you go. Something different would do wonders for you. If it even helps you the tiniest bit to round you out into an even more inspiring person I believe it would be worth it for you. You should do it. You should definitely do it.

Okay, let's do it. Let's run off together! You just pick the place and tell me when to meet you. It'll be all so Before Sunrise of us. Except in the end, you better show up and not leave me hanging. That would just suck. Part of me thinks we'll never get it done, but, truthfully, this isn't an altogether out there request. We could even get this done later this summer if you were up to it. I'm not even kidding. If you could make it out here we could just go out to San Diego, Arizona, Denver--I don't even care where. I'm up for that if you're half as serious as you claim to be. So let's do it.

Well, I lied. This letter turned out to be longer than I thought it would be. It's amazing what you can do when you have insomnia and are fired up enough. I ended up pushing through a letter the size of a small baby, I'm afraid. But I think the weariness is at last starting to catch up with me. I promise this shall be mailed off with tomorrow's mail and then you can tell me once more what I should've expanded on and, yes, cut out. I still don't get this whole business of editing letters. It's not like I'm writing you an essay. I'm writing down my thoughts as they happen so there really is no cause for self-suppression. It is what it is, I'm afraid.

Oh 'twell! That is all. I thank you for your time and look forward to your next correspondence.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

P.S. - Good night, Breannie mine, with your eyes so wide, tears so silvery, and my kisses still wet on your cheek.

--"Pollen and Salt", Daphne Loves Derby

Do you remember the first peanut butter and jelly sandwich you ever had? I certainly don't. I mean--ask anyone--I'm probably the biggest fan of peanut butter you'll ever meet. I have been known to take an ice cream scooper in order to just eat two scoops of peanut butter in a bowl. Despite that, I cannot even hazard a guess how long ago it was when I had my first taste of the good stuff. Whether it was before I knew words or after, before or after I started going to school--it's all hazy to me.

I find that there are just some things which are uplifting and good, which put a smile on your face for simply existing that you cannot imagine a time they weren't in your life. It's like trying to imagine when the first time you heard music or the first time you walked outside into a perfect day. You know what they're like know because you've seen your fair share of them, but you'd be hard-pressed to recall the first time you experienced them. It isn't like your first kiss or the first time you rode a bicycle. Plenty anniversaries exist with which you can celebrate, but there are some inalienable joys that don't come with origins or anecdotes. They've just always been there and probably always will be. These joys have been filling a hole in your life for so long you scarce remember there was a hole there in the first place.

Now imagine what it's like when something like that gets taken away. Imagine what it would be like if there were no peanut butter in the world and you'd know how I'm feeling about now.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

When I Say Out Loud, I Want To Get Out Of This, I Wonder Is There Anything, I'm Going To Miss, I Wonder How It's Going To Be, When You Don't Know Me

--"How's It Going To Be", Third Eye Blind

As far as girlfriends and break-ups go I'm batting .500. I've been dumped exactly twice. I've been the dumper exactly twice. In both cases, it fell to me to be the one who offered the opportunity to remain friends. While that offer hasn't always been accepted, I'm coming to terms with the fact that when it comes to forever I'd rather believe in the concept than not believe. I'd rather be the one who is gracious enough to at least put the notion that two people can stay in each other's lives despite their history together, despite the drama, and despite an individual wishing and hoping there could still be more between the two. That's just the romantic idealist in me.

It's strange because I don't place regular friendships under the same blanket coverage. I've walked away from a lot of friendships that weren't romantic in nature. I did it with the folks at St. Rita's. I did it with the folks at La Salle. I did it with the folks at Crown Books. About the only people that it never occurred to me to step away from were the people I befriended at Bally's. Perhaps I haven't spent too much time in their company yet, but so far they haven't become more of nuisance than a nourishment to my life. On the whole I usually find it rather easy to walk away from most people.

But there's something about when I find that romantic spark that defies the idealist in me. It's almost as if I have this rule that once two people connect in that matter they stay connected. I refuse to believe that kind of love dies. Even if two people fall out of love, a good part of me has to believe that the bond between them stays viable.

For a long time I used to question why I have to be this way. I used to puzzle why I can go forgo most friendships, but once it crosses over into a relationship I tend to never say die. I believe it has a lot to do with Jina, the first girl I ever was close friends with and liked romantically. There was a time there where we were as close as any two people can get. Then I went and fucked it all up after she rejected me. I went ballistic. I burned all her stuff, everything she ever gave me. I took it the way I used to take things, thinking first with my temper and not my head or heart. All I could see was the pain she caused me and little else. I didn't care if I ruined things with her because, as far as I was concerned, she wasn't worth keeping around.

Then a funny thing happened a year or two down the road. I started to miss her. After the sting of rejection had faded, I started to realize that I had let go of somebody good and decent in my life. Even if we could never be in a relationship, I started to realize the friendship we had was something special in itself. Especially in comparison to the friendship I'd forged with Lucy almost concurrently, it was like looking at two pictures of the same thing, just taken at different angles. Jina was the girl I'd approached kamikaze-style, guns blazing, who never really stood a chance under all that pressure. Breanne was the girl I'd moved too slowly with for fear of fucking things up again. And yet because I didn't let my temper get the best of me (or her just being as stubborn as I was), I'd managed to hold onto the one I was sure I was going to drive away and drive away the one I thought would last forever.

It really is funny how things like that work out. The people you're sure of as being compatible turn out to be not so and the people who you possibly think you're never going to be seeing again you're still talking to almost two decades later.

I never gave up on Jina, though. She became the one who got away that I really wanted back. Somewhere in the back of my brain I started to concoct the idea that if our bond was true then I'd be talking to her again someday. I even wrote about it here in the early days of this blog. Even then I called her the one that got away. Even when I was talking about the horrible affair of burning her effects, writing her evil letters full of spite, and basically hating her with a passion, I still had it in me to say that despite all that there was still a chance she and I would reconnect someday. It's that strange mixture of hope and hopelessness that formulated the idea that from the point on I would never give up on anyone I started dating. Even if the relationship might end in tears and flames, I knew I was never going to separate myself from them completely. Because of Jina I don't have a box to compartmentalize somebody I was intimate with like that. Because of her every woman I have a relationship with now has to be someone comfortable with the idea of me being in their life for the long haul because that's how I think.

I mean--just look at the facts. About a year after being all miserable about how I'd pushed Jina out of my life forever I found her again on my blog of all places. She still wanted to be friends even after not talking to one another for a decade. That just reinforces the idea that when a connection as deep and as true as ours apparently was, it lasts. It may not last forever like I believe, but it certainly lasts longer than some cynics might posit. Sometimes picturing how it's going to be without a person is more horrible than picturing how it's going to be if you have to deal with them as an ex. That's what I believe anyway. I just believe that I'd rather have an ex I'm distanced from, but still can keep in touch with than lose somebody who was dear to me once completely.

I suppose I just can't imagine giving my heart to someone and then having to ask for it back. When I give something like that it really is a gift that isn't returnable.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Go Waiting For The Stars, To Come Showering Down, From Moscow To Mars, Universe Falling Down

--"Star", Erasure

One of the long-standing tenets of our friendship has always been the idea that we can call each other twenty-four hours a day even if the reason for the call cannot exactly be classified as an emergency. I've used this caveat for many inane calls in my day--from calling to ask if Breanne thought I would make a good zombie to calling to wake her up on many a quarter-birthday and three-quarter birthday. I used to drive her crazy because I would call on the smallest of whims whereas she has always felt that her calls were more warranted in nature.

However, these days the extent of our calls usually lands in the more typical category. We call to catch up. We call to discuss something deeply personal that's affecting both of us. Very rarely does this clause in our friendship agreement ever get utilized. The only time it does get utilized is on nights like tonight where I'm leaving a friend's house after 3 a.m. and I'm a little wary of trying to drive home somewhat drowsy. I mean--I'm usually great at driving home late because I'm a night owl anyway. Yet there have been nights where I just didn't feel like risking out. On those nights it really pays to have a friend who is just getting up as I'm winding down for the night. When it's 3 a.m. here and I'm driving back on the North 405 I'm confident that Little Miss Chipper is just getting up for her morning jog. It's usually no problem for me to just call her and have her talk to me while I'm driving. Even if means pushing back her jog twenty to forty minutes, she's usually game.

I don't know if she's exactly saved my life on those occasions. She certainly has given me a sense of security that I'm really not alone out on the road when I'm driving home that late. Somebody's going to know if I don't make it back safely. Somebody's going to care if I'm still out there at that hour.

It's the same thing I used to do for her when was running away from home as a kid. There'd she be walking out of her house at four or five in the morning, and she'd call me to ascertain if it was a good idea or not. I'd tell her nope and she'd still leave anyhow. But then when she inevitably came back the next day or the day after, she'd tell me that it mattered that she told me when she left and where she was probably headed towards. She'd tell me that it mattered somebody was worried about her right from the get go. Whereas at four in the morning none of her other friends would be awake, I'd still be doing something at one in the morning here. Or, what was also a common occurrence, I'd be awake here when she'd call me from a pay phone at a relative's or friend's house. I'd talk to her from here to attempt to convince her to go home once more. And whereas most people would fail to change her almighty stubborn mind, I had a pretty good success rate at pointing her homewards again.

Maybe there's a reason we had that point in the friendship agreement highlighted from day one. Perhaps that we knew with the difference in time zones and our penchant for crossing in the middle of the night we were in the perfect position to provide a service for one another. Perhaps the foundation of our friendship is that we sometimes function as the rotating guard mentality, whenever one of us is feeling scared and alone, and is starting to lose hope against the night, the other is up and alert to cover the other. When I'm feeling sleepy or worried or grumpy, she's just the rooster to startle me into staying awake for a bit longer until I'm safe in my bed again. And when she was feeling lost and lonely, I was still chugging along after midnight to be some kind of lighthouse to let her know that there's somebody out in the world watching out for her.

I just like knowing there's at least one person who'll take my call during those hours when everyone else won't.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Clearer Inside Of Me, Who I Will Always Be, Opening Up To The Stars, Crystals And Mystics And Scenics And Memories

--"All I Ever Wanted To Be", Lily Frost

Yesterday I turned in a submission for The Boston Review's Thirteenth Annual Poetry Contest. It'll be the first writing contest I've entered in ages.

I probably have no hope of winning, but that's alright. I wanted to actively put my more serious, less blog-related, work out into the universe. Now I have. It's not that I dislike writing this blog and associated promotions thereof, but, while a faithful audience, the audience for a three-man blog is rather limited in scope. I'm nothing if not curious to ascertain what the world at large views my more serious work as. I had planned to only enter their short story contest since that really is my forte. I'm really nothing much as a poet. Hell, I'm not even the best poet on this site. Yet, as Breanne says, you've got to get your face wet if you want to go swimming. Starting off with poetry, utilizing my worst skill as a writer, is my version of getting my face wet. And, really, if I wanted to be honest, I'm not all too confident about allowing others to see my works just yet. I want to put my name out there, sure. However, I want to put my feelers out beforehand.

I used to be more confident. I used to be like Lucy is about things. I used to submit stories and poems on an almost weekly basis to whatever contest, call, or query would have me. I even published a few stories and poems in collections and publications most people have never heard of. I used to get by on sheer brazen pluckiness alone. I felt unstoppable. I felt like I was shooting off a shotgun of talent, eventually something I wrote would hit something. Eventually somebody would take notice of what my imagination had to offer and I would be well on my way to becoming the country's greatest living writer. I was sure of it. Indeed, one of the first ten poetry collections I submitted to picked my poem as one of the hundred best they had seen that year. Needless to say, I let that distinction get to my head a bit. And with every small victory, every tiny glimmer of reassurance that being published gave me, I started to think that my future was being set right before my eyes. And soon confidence turned into its evil cousin, complacency.

I never stopped writing. I couldn't stop that even if I tried. What I stopped doing was looking out for opportunities to improve my gamesmanship. I stopped seeking out ways to improve what nature had gifted with me. After college, after I got that silly piece of paper saying that I was dedicated enough to specialize in Creative Writing, I thought I was done as far as maturing artistically went. I thought I had learned everything there was to learn about my craft. Or, more precisely, I thought having a degree in Creative Writing was like having a degree in Math or Business. I thought it was all the proof I needed to earn a living doing what I love. What I failed to comprehend was that you can't put a degree on art, on creating art. Many writers better than myself never went to college, or even high school. Conversely, some of the most noticeable hacks out there have matriculated from some of the more prestigious universities in the world. A piece of paper don't mean crap when it comes to pouring out your mind's fantasies onto the computer screen. It doesn't make you any better; it doesn't make you any worse. All it says is that you learned how to give and receive criticism. All it says is that you learned how to write for a deadline. All it says is that you learned about the craft from a practical point of view. What it doesn't say is whether or not you have that drive to push a project to its completion. It also doesn't say if you have that spark of inspiration which keeps you up at night because you know the idea is so utterly magnificent you're afraid you'll forget it. It doesn't magically bestow the sense of patience that real imaginative fiction or poetry demands of you.

That is my problem. All the way through school I was either the best writer or one of the best writers in my class in terms of creativity and imagination that I took it for granted that I was that damn good. It wasn't until I got to USC that I realized that there are people who were every bit as good as me (and better). But what is else, there were people out there who flat out wanted it more than me. Everyday I saw people who put in the time and the effort to make themselves better, while I coasted on the laurels of the talent I possessed once upon a time. And even when I saw my peers pull ahead of me in terms of advancing their careers in writing, even when I saw what had to be done to take writing seriously as a calling, I still was complacent about the whole affair. In the back of my head I kept reassuring myself I would be "discovered" somewhere down the line by someone. It wasn't up to me to launch myself into writing full-time; it was just a matter of time. I didn't need to do any more than I was already doing.

I fell into what my screenwriting instructor calls the drawer mentality. I thought the only effort I needed to put in was to get the pieces written. I didn't need to do all the other stuff--the querying publications, the entering national contests from these selfsame publications, the making connections with people who held the future of my writing in their hands. I fully tucked my work away in binder upon binder and, yes, placed them in drawers upon drawers. I really did have the mentality that somebody somehow was just going to come knocking on my door, look inside those drawers, tell me I was an awesome writer, and publish those stories and poems immediately. As Ilessa once told me, I took the writing itself seriously. It was just the other responsibilities of being a writer that I let slide. It's the same way I am with the writing itself. I'm very loathe to self-edit or revise. I honestly think my first effort is "good enough" because for my first seventeen years my "good enough" really was better than everyone else's best efforts. What's the point of trying extra hard when the standard effort still got me A's, still got me published, and still made me feel like I had the juice to make my dream of being a writer happen? It'd be like paddling a boat when you thought you already had a motor going. It was just unnecessary work.

But now after a decade (and some) of really not doing anything with my time but telling people I wanted to be a serious writer, I'm actually putting myself on a plan to become a serious writer. Yes, I know it's one contest. But I'm already in the process of seeing what other avenues I can explore. I'm seeing what publications I have a reasonable shot of getting published in. I'm taking my baby steps into a world I should already be into my adolescence.

And that's my fault. I let talent and confidence make a poor substitute of diligence and dedication. It's not a mistake I'm eager to continue making. Will I become the country's best writer now? Probably not. But I think I'm well on my way to becoming at the very least a writer I would be proud to read someday.

And that's all that matters.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Couldn't Explain When I Said You're A Pain, I Never Knew Another Way, All The Times That We Saw Falling Down Every Hall

--"Twins", The Pains of Being Pure at Heart

I've discovered that there just isn't upside to fighting with close friends. Before it used to be important to me that I was right in a given situation. If I thought my ideas, my opinion of a matter could possess some validity, I would fight tooth and nail to see that the people around me would come to see perspective. It didn't matter what I lost or who I hurt. In the end being right was more important to me than keeping peace. Hell, I've even been of accused of escalating disagreements to fights in order to prove I was correct. I was the very definition of the ends justify the means.

But now I'm starting to see there's a little something to giving a little to get a lot. I still like to be right; that's the stubbornness in me. However, now I'm somewhat more eager to keep the connections I have and lose some face instead of fray the connections but keep my pride. Everyone says it. They all tell me that I've lost a bit of the temper that used to characterize my approach to arguing. No longer do I have murder in my heart and revenge in my mind. Sometimes I can even see the utter pointlessness in furthering a difference of opinion when the subject of that opinion is of no consequence. Sometimes I can even walk away from the table, calm myself down, and come back with a vastly improved outlook on matters.

Yet even with my newfound approach, there are still times where I hurt the other people in my life more than the situation calls for. I think today qualifies certainly in that category. There are still times where if I can't end it with the other people saying I was correct, then by God I'll end it with putting that other person in tears. Sometimes that's the only way I get any satisfaction.

Sometimes I really hate the fact that not only am I stubborn, but the fact that I'm exactly this stubborn. Sometimes I really hate the fact I'm more than willing to trade a moment of getting satisfaction for a couple of weeks, sometimes a couple of months, in somebody's doghouse.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers