Tuesday, September 12, 2006

For those of you who have been following along with the blog since the beginning, this will be familiar to you.

Tina the Troubled Teen

I saw our dear prodigal daugher, Tina the Troubled Teen, again when I happened upon at the weblog of The Mad Dater. Tina was lost, for those of you who don't know, in one of my earliest template changeovers, back in probably 2001. The Mad Dater, who was, apparently, a regular reader at one point, was lost when I forgot to renew my subscription to my domain name, Suedecaramel.com. It was when my poor name was hijacked by a "domain speculator" looking to cash in on the existing links cast throughout the world wide web to, once upon a time, my site. The Mad Dater was just one of the many, many readers who got lost in the whirlwind of it all, and it was then, in my disappointment, that the wind went out of my sails for this blog.

Right now, I find myself in the midst of a hurricane, fueled by drenching torrents of emotion, purposeful winds of inspiration, and the booming static energy that is...unpresented amounts of in-between-jobs freetime. With a whole, eager crew made up of the voices in my head, I, the masterful navigator of self-interested prose that I am, will guide this little ship from port to port, dazzling all with treasures of truth, bounty of beauty, and mountains of metaphors that I take way too far.

Something that
<--this guy
wouldn't like very much.

On with it.

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I read conversations, saved on my computer, that he and I had nearly seven years ago. Our inferior vocabularies, our youthful exuberance, and references to first-run Simpsons episodes that were still funny are all reminscent of a very different time. I was trying to break him into liking the newly-released "Mad Season" CD by Matchbox Twenty, which, of course, wasn't going to happen. We planned impossible trips to Mexico. We invented words together-- Sarcasmic. We didn't yet know each other's last names-- I still called him Andrew-- and we were learning bits and pieces about each other in a way that was constantly new and exciting; we had the advantage, I suppose, being that our lives were still new and exciting, back then.

I like trying to figure out how old the conversations are from the context clues, since the harddrive has been moved from computer to computer enough so that the "date created" stamps have nothing whatsoever to do with the date they were actually created. But I feel pretty safe to say that we're partying like it's 1999.

Two days ago, we had a conversation which has left me thinking of very little else, with the exception of the recently persistent feelings of dread which drove me to go to him in the first place. I've been thinking about how badly I needed to confide in someone about my plans, how I expected him to react; the quite unexpected way in which he did react. I am thinking about his anger laced with compassion, his telltale frustration which revealed a surprisng concern for my wellbeing, and, consequently, his. My future and his; two things I honestly didn't expect to have become woven together in seven years of online conversations, scattered late-night phone calls and three real-life appearences.

Not out of lack for my love for him, mind you.

He told me, "I guess all I can say, is that from what I've learned from you, from what I've experienced through you and from the person I've come to know as Linda, if you're done with it, then Andrew Elorza, being forever less than that, has even less to hope for and to expect from himself."

It's what stands out about the conversation now, that concept...what he's experienced through me, the person he's come to know as Linda. He seems to know my weakness for people calling me by my name. He seems to know that all I've ever really wanted from him is the chance to know him, the chance for him to know me, and the chance that one day, the extent of my esteem for him would be mutual.

That's the thing that stands out about the conversation; that, and the ending line, which has me terrified. Something I've waited so long for, and now I fear it was all out of...strategy and desperation. One line that, in this particular relationship, has become something of a holy grail. One line that has brought down epic friendships before-- a line that brought down me and Casey. But, then, I've seen a lot of people come and go in the time I've known Elorza.

I want to tell him I'm terrified, but it's a bad idea to give the event the attention that...that I've already given it, times ten. It's a bad idea to acknowledge that I've been thinking about it, but I get so detrimentally honest when I'm scared. It's an instinct. It generally happens when my planning or manipulation has gone badly, when the things I've been hiding are blowing up in my face. When I can't keep track of my own lies anymore. So I tell the truth, all of it.

That, I guess, is what this is. Odds are, he'll read this eventually, and then I'll be exposed, and he'll realize that I paid attention when he said it, and he'll regret it. He'll be afraid to take it back-- no one wants to disappoint the girl who's unsure whether or not she wants anything to do with her future-- he'll be convinced it'll upset me more. Instead, he'll avoid me, block me, not come online for a few months.

God, I hope I'm wrong. It seems I've lost my ability to believe anything but the worst.

I should have quit the word when Casey did, when Casey suggested that I should, too. I should have adjusted my vocabulary, clung to awkward phrasing. "Ineffable fondness." Didn't give that it's due credit. Seems fucking perfect, about now. Had I been willing to go with that, I wouldn't be where I am now with Elorza, and I'd still have Casey as a buffer. It's just, it didn't seem honest enough for me. And I get honest when I'm scared.

Which I always am.

Scared shitless and detrimentally honest. That's what this is, I guess. On with it.

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Monday, September 11, 2006

I wrote this entry, and it's all nice, and cohesive, and I like the way it turned out, except that I forgot the whole reason I was writing it was to point out that I've updated my template slightly to include a small section for links to writing I've done that has been featured on other websites. Check them out...three of my best works, really, and that says a lot, because, you know, I'm so talented and prolific. Thought I'd mention it pre-post, rather than screw up the rather nicely somber mood of the post below, once you get into it.


Dan, the newest regular reader of my blog, tells me the other day that I should be a professional writer, like it's his idea. When I mention it to my newest group of friends, they agree with him in such a way that reminds me how little they really know about me. It seems that I've become so focused on the practical applications of my life that those I interact the most with aren't even aware of my impractical dreams. It's what I've always wanted. But do I have the courage to want anymore?

"You have the talent," Dan says, "Just write a book and get it published."

Sam, later, asks the daunting question, "Well, have you ever tried to be a real writer?"

I'm a little drawn back by the question: what is trying to be a real writer? "You could say my whole life has been one long, largely failing attempt."

"That's not really an answer." He says. Among many, many other things, this is what I love about Sam.

But what is trying for it? Is it going to college as an English major? Graduating cumme laude and getting an internship at some local paper? Surely, the last five years of logging my thoughts in a public way, and a way that's practiced and at least reasonably eloquent, surely that counts as some effort. Surely, the hundreds of pages, the dozens of readers, the things people have felt when they read what I have to say-- does it count for anything?

What is a real writer, and why am I not it?

I guess the reason is that I haven't claimed the title as my own. Haven't committed myself to my desires, have been unwilling to lose control to the passion. There's a story waiting to be written here about the many parallels between my waster literary potential, and my dysfunctional sex life, but I'm not going to write it any more than I'm going to have an orgasm anytime soon.

I've been reading books about how to do the latter, lately. Trying to learn the skill, so advised by the therapist who I have been seeing for the Vaginsimus. The world, or those who accept my invitation into mine at least, might as well known that I can't have a satisfying orgasm any better than I can accept penetration, and that, in the last couple of years, I've experienced a great deal of physical pain with clitoral arousal. Any one of these things is enough to cause a lifetime's worth of frustration; together, the three are a viscious trifecta which is slowly but surely withering away everything it touches: the self esteems of and love between Zack and I, in the most obvious ways. My very ability to function as a person, more subtly.

Sometimes I think it's gonna be a chain reaction. A victory in one arena will trigger progress in another, and at once, there will be a wave of relief running through my marriage, and my life. The creative juices will drip off of me, and, practically mid-coitus, I will write the great american novel, the world's greatest love story finishing with a little death that the main character won't soon wake from.

I think perhaps that it is only then that I'll be able to free myself from this feeilng, this not so petite mortality that looms whenever I find myself momentarily alone, drowning in thoughts of what will happen if nothing is fixed soon. I've been giving out warnings and staring at the soft skin of my wrists. I've been desperately grasping at back-up plans and being as honest as I can, either because lying is a bad idea or because I don't have the strength for it anymore. I've been preparing for the worst, because the worst keeps finding me, as fast as I run from it.

I fear for the safety of my marriage, and, resultingly, my willingness to keep fighting. Fighting to fix what's broken in me. Fighting to make a change in the world. Fighting to realize my potential.

Maybe it seems I'm doing the bitching I've chastised so many for, as of late, but I don't think that's it. It's fair warning, on one hand, due dilligence. On the other, it's me, still scratching and clawing at the fears and the doubts and the pain, the only way I know how.

That, I suppose, is what makes me a real writer. Let's see where it gets me.

On with it.

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