Before all my friends went to college, I thought Marijuana was the real enemy. It ate people up, I thought, consumed them entirely. Little by little, they'd become less themselves, less witty, sarcastic and fun, and more...rastafarian. At first all they'd lose would be the subtleties of them, the things I'd spent so long memorizing in their faces and manner. And that would be the worst of it, the hardest part, but from there on they'd just continue to atrophy until they become a walking symbol of what they'd succumbed to: they'd become a pothead.
And there's nothing worse in life than a fucking pothead.
Now I see, though, that marijuana is a afflicition that can only affect a certain kind of person. There are people that are susceptible, and the rest of us are relatively safe. I didn't have too many friends that were the pot kind of person. I had smart, smooth, college-bound kids. They'd fall to something else altogether.
Serena and I commiserate sometimes about how they all drink, all of them. The people we went through high school with, we'd sit at tables with them and scoff at the jocks that were obviously going to spend the night getting drunk. These were the people we'd make snide remarks to about the intelligence and appeal of our fellow students social lives; these were the people who'd always laugh and bitterly agree. And what was alcohol to us? Surely, nothing that could be beaten by a movie in Katie's spare room or a carpool up to Applebee's. Surely, to us it was nothing at all.
I guess there's something about college though that makes you different. Something in classes you can skip without being noticed that makes you thirsty, something about parents being hours away that impairs you.
I guess what bothers me about it so much is that it's such a fucking cliché. This John Hughes teen movie bullshit isn't what it's supposed to be like. My friends didn't write all those essays to get accepted into Animal House. They didn't take the SATs so they could casually assume the roles of Jason Biggs or Molly Ringwald. They're supposed to be real people, and have real interests. Something as one-dimensional as drinking isn't supposed to be real to them.
I'm not the diehard about it Serena is, I have to admit-- I'd even tried it a few times before, the summer of senior year, but it didn't, couldn't, click with me. I always said it was the taste, but I think all I'm really tasting is my own disapproval. I've never had more than a few sips, never been drunk, and I don't think I ever will. And if I do, here's a shocker-- it won't be till I'm 21! GASP!
Because I think the law was probably made for a reason, okay? That's why. I'm not being a hypocrite, I'm not naive, I'm just chose to believe it's not a totally arbitrary number. I believe someone probably decided it for a reason, and that it was probably a better reason than I've heard from any of the drunken 16-year-olds who've tried to change my mind. Aside from which, I just don't have the energy to go around breaking laws on principle.
"She says she's tired of life, she must be tired of something."
I guess I'm starting not to care about the appeal my entries might hold for people, because I don't think there was an ounce of wit traceable in that whole thing. But certain people have been bugging me to write again, and maybe I'm just trying to make a point to them: there's just nothing worth saying anymore.
On with it.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Sunday, June 20, 2004
I am mass-downloading songs by the Counting Crows, the Goo Goo Dolls, and Third Eye Blind, and desperately looking for a copy of a song no one remembers-- Raining on the Sky-- by a band no one remembers-- Naked. All in an attempt to communicate with a part of myself that I fit better into when I had them all downloaded computers ago-- my collection is ultimately skewn across three computers, possibly four, and I've never quite had the time to consolidate. Knowing myself too well to expect the ambitiion to do the work nessecary for such a project, I consult Kazaa in my search for the person who devoted her time equally between midnight conversations with Elorza and witty, well-written e-mails to and from Jeff.
Every song is a thousand left-behind feelings. I am so much less for not having heard them lately, for not closing my eyes and breathing in the whining chords of "Round Here" or dying slowly in the way that "Name" always made me feel. These are the songs that make it clear, if only for moments at a time, what it is the soul really longs for, what it is our hearts truly lack. These are the songs that make sad people so blissfully sad, that make a life spent in grayscale world seem profound and worthwhile.
"She looks up at the building, says she's thinking of jumping.
She says she's tired of life, she must be tired of something."
On our way to Wal*Mart tonight, Zack was listening to a Barenaked Ladies CD that I'd never heard in it's entirety, because the Grand Am we've just bought him, while lacking beauty, dependability, and working locks, does have both a working CD player and a sense of home that had gone missing in our lives since his Corsica's transmission blew. The seventh track was a song I'd fallen in love with years before, waiting to audition for a play that I wanted to star in more than anything I'd wanted in a long time-- "Call and Answer".
The best thing you can do at this point in your reading is to stop and download the song. If ever a breath of me has fallen upon you and you've absorbed the tiniest speck of my being, you will love it instantly. Still, I can hardly expect that of most of the people who have absorbed any significant amount of my being, so for them, I will copy the key lyrics, if I think that I can narrow it down. If you don't plan to read them, the rest of this entry will be utterly useless to you, and I think I'd be insulted if you continued.
---
I think
It’s getting to the point where I can be myself again.
I think
It’s getting to the point where we have almost made amends.
I think
It’s the getting to the point that is the hardest part.
And if you call,
I will answer.
And if you fall,
I’ll pick you up.
And if you court this disaster
I’ll point you home,
I’ll point you home.
You think
I only think about you when we’re both in the same room.
I’m only here to witness the remains of love exhumed.
You think
We’re here to play a game of who loves more than who.
And if you call,
I will answer.
And if you fall,
I’ll pick you up.
And if you court this disaster...
You think
It’s only fair to do what’s best for you and you alone.
It’s only fair to do the same to me when you’re not home.
I think
It’s time to make this something that is more than only fair.
So if you call,
I will answer.
And if you fall,
I’ll pick you up.
And if you court this disaster
I’ll point you home.
But I’m warning you,
Don’t ever do
Those crazy messed up things that you do.
If you ever do,
I promise you,
I’ll be the first to crucify you.
Now it’s time to prove
That you’ve come back here to rebuild,
To rebuild.
---
I've lost my train of thought, really, trying to figure what I should censor and what I shouldn't. I want to go on about how I used to associate the song with Jeremey who, against all odds, has become the one friend I truly trust will be there my whole life long, but I don't want to talk about it. I want to talk about what happened listening to that song, over and over again, unpleasantly enough to Zack, the decisions I decided I had to make, and how blunt I was with him, much more unpleasantly. The two major options I have, and what I'd have to do to go through each one of them. The way I've been living in one decision without having made it, or, rather, not living at all. They say the souls in hell don't know they're not alive, so they pray for death, but death won't come. If this is true, all I've been doing for months-- to anyone that's important to me, anyway-- was putting them farther and farther away from me.
They stayed here, and I prayed myself into hell.
"And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming,
Or the moment of truth in your lies.
When everything feels like the movies,
Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive."
The decision, ultimately, is equally about them as about myself. Do I decide that I want them back in my life, and do what I have to do, and become what I have to become to earn their love again? Or do I stay true to the hell I have created around me, because it reflects what I am, what I am supposed to be? Do I scratch and climb back to earth, or do eat the single pomegranate seed and condemn the ones I loved to winter?
The choice should be obvious, but it's not.
The more I think about it, the more it bothers me to think that I would have to be somebody entirely different to earn back the love I've lost. ("Don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are?") Beyond that, do I really believe life is fair enough to participate? Am I absolutely sure that life's not this giant race to death that I'm losing just by participating? And do I honestly think, for a moment, that I could be happy if I tried?
And would I miss the music?
Zack and I couldn't come to any major conclusions, sitting around in the lawn and garden department. We stared a lot and tried faking smiles, and maybe I stood up thinking it might be worth a try. I don't know anymore. There's something about a certain time of night that makes it seem like there's only one solution. There's something in the tones that people take with each other that makes me want to bleed in protest-- it's not just me, truly: it's racism and sexism and Catholism and injustice. It's the way I feel when I hear pain in someone else's voice, how I can't help but live out people's circumstances in my mind when I get to thinking how much something must suck for them. Beatings, murders, wars, Republicans. Periods, surgeries, the cost of insurance, 80-hour work weeks, never getting ahead in life. Overbearing mothers and people who feel make you feel bad about yourself. This guy I met at work once told me he watched an SUV swerve to purposely hit his cat. These images in newspapers I can't get out of my mind, and the way frustration sounds in someone's voice.
There's only one way to make it all go away all at once.
But I wrote vows to Zack, and I promised him on our wedding day that I would try harder for him. I promised him that I would let him help me. Re-reading the vows just now, I feel a subtly sickening disappointment in myself, knowing that, already, in eight months of marriage, I have already failed at the few things I promised in my last paragraph:
"I'm not going to make a lot of phony promises to you about my endless devotion to honor and obey. To me, that's all archaic nonsense. And I'm not going to stand here and tell you that I've learned how to play the instrument, finally, that I am now a maestro of this proverbial violin because as any one of our witnesses today will tell you, it simply isn=t true. But I stand here today, ready and willing to promise the following: that my humiliations and sufferings will, however subtly, start to be outnumbered by the moments of pride and happiness. That when I start to fail, I will make the conscious choice to persevere. The that eyes of the world, whether critical or kind, will never outshine the look in your eyes as I fall asleep next to you each night. I promise you, that when I fail, I will find some success in the endurance of our love, when I fall, I will give you my hand to be helped up. I will help to make a smooth transition for you as things change for us in life; I will wince for you, and cry for you, and glimmer for you; I will let you do the same for me. I promise to you, Zachary Charles Smith, my love, my Angel, that I will stand and play for you, and while I can't promise you that I will never make another mistake, now, each wrong note and missed beat will be part of a brand new harmony: another change, another chance. I promise you that, despite all imperfection, what will remain perfect will be you and I together, and we will play on, play on."
So it seems I have let down not only myself in so many ways, but the man I pledged my life to, a life I would so carelessly take away, a love I would so easily stifle. It seems that I've failed, on every step of the way, the goals I had set for myself as early as my Kindergarten year, and as late as the lawn and garden department. It seems it's not that I wish to be nothing, I am nothing, nothing but a broken promise, a shattered facade, a swallowed seed.
And they say pomegranates are good for the heart. On with it.
Every song is a thousand left-behind feelings. I am so much less for not having heard them lately, for not closing my eyes and breathing in the whining chords of "Round Here" or dying slowly in the way that "Name" always made me feel. These are the songs that make it clear, if only for moments at a time, what it is the soul really longs for, what it is our hearts truly lack. These are the songs that make sad people so blissfully sad, that make a life spent in grayscale world seem profound and worthwhile.
"She looks up at the building, says she's thinking of jumping.
She says she's tired of life, she must be tired of something."
On our way to Wal*Mart tonight, Zack was listening to a Barenaked Ladies CD that I'd never heard in it's entirety, because the Grand Am we've just bought him, while lacking beauty, dependability, and working locks, does have both a working CD player and a sense of home that had gone missing in our lives since his Corsica's transmission blew. The seventh track was a song I'd fallen in love with years before, waiting to audition for a play that I wanted to star in more than anything I'd wanted in a long time-- "Call and Answer".
The best thing you can do at this point in your reading is to stop and download the song. If ever a breath of me has fallen upon you and you've absorbed the tiniest speck of my being, you will love it instantly. Still, I can hardly expect that of most of the people who have absorbed any significant amount of my being, so for them, I will copy the key lyrics, if I think that I can narrow it down. If you don't plan to read them, the rest of this entry will be utterly useless to you, and I think I'd be insulted if you continued.
---
I think
It’s getting to the point where I can be myself again.
I think
It’s getting to the point where we have almost made amends.
I think
It’s the getting to the point that is the hardest part.
And if you call,
I will answer.
And if you fall,
I’ll pick you up.
And if you court this disaster
I’ll point you home,
I’ll point you home.
You think
I only think about you when we’re both in the same room.
I’m only here to witness the remains of love exhumed.
You think
We’re here to play a game of who loves more than who.
And if you call,
I will answer.
And if you fall,
I’ll pick you up.
And if you court this disaster...
You think
It’s only fair to do what’s best for you and you alone.
It’s only fair to do the same to me when you’re not home.
I think
It’s time to make this something that is more than only fair.
So if you call,
I will answer.
And if you fall,
I’ll pick you up.
And if you court this disaster
I’ll point you home.
But I’m warning you,
Don’t ever do
Those crazy messed up things that you do.
If you ever do,
I promise you,
I’ll be the first to crucify you.
Now it’s time to prove
That you’ve come back here to rebuild,
To rebuild.
---
I've lost my train of thought, really, trying to figure what I should censor and what I shouldn't. I want to go on about how I used to associate the song with Jeremey who, against all odds, has become the one friend I truly trust will be there my whole life long, but I don't want to talk about it. I want to talk about what happened listening to that song, over and over again, unpleasantly enough to Zack, the decisions I decided I had to make, and how blunt I was with him, much more unpleasantly. The two major options I have, and what I'd have to do to go through each one of them. The way I've been living in one decision without having made it, or, rather, not living at all. They say the souls in hell don't know they're not alive, so they pray for death, but death won't come. If this is true, all I've been doing for months-- to anyone that's important to me, anyway-- was putting them farther and farther away from me.
They stayed here, and I prayed myself into hell.
"And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming,
Or the moment of truth in your lies.
When everything feels like the movies,
Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive."
The decision, ultimately, is equally about them as about myself. Do I decide that I want them back in my life, and do what I have to do, and become what I have to become to earn their love again? Or do I stay true to the hell I have created around me, because it reflects what I am, what I am supposed to be? Do I scratch and climb back to earth, or do eat the single pomegranate seed and condemn the ones I loved to winter?
The choice should be obvious, but it's not.
The more I think about it, the more it bothers me to think that I would have to be somebody entirely different to earn back the love I've lost. ("Don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are?") Beyond that, do I really believe life is fair enough to participate? Am I absolutely sure that life's not this giant race to death that I'm losing just by participating? And do I honestly think, for a moment, that I could be happy if I tried?
And would I miss the music?
Zack and I couldn't come to any major conclusions, sitting around in the lawn and garden department. We stared a lot and tried faking smiles, and maybe I stood up thinking it might be worth a try. I don't know anymore. There's something about a certain time of night that makes it seem like there's only one solution. There's something in the tones that people take with each other that makes me want to bleed in protest-- it's not just me, truly: it's racism and sexism and Catholism and injustice. It's the way I feel when I hear pain in someone else's voice, how I can't help but live out people's circumstances in my mind when I get to thinking how much something must suck for them. Beatings, murders, wars, Republicans. Periods, surgeries, the cost of insurance, 80-hour work weeks, never getting ahead in life. Overbearing mothers and people who feel make you feel bad about yourself. This guy I met at work once told me he watched an SUV swerve to purposely hit his cat. These images in newspapers I can't get out of my mind, and the way frustration sounds in someone's voice.
There's only one way to make it all go away all at once.
But I wrote vows to Zack, and I promised him on our wedding day that I would try harder for him. I promised him that I would let him help me. Re-reading the vows just now, I feel a subtly sickening disappointment in myself, knowing that, already, in eight months of marriage, I have already failed at the few things I promised in my last paragraph:
"I'm not going to make a lot of phony promises to you about my endless devotion to honor and obey. To me, that's all archaic nonsense. And I'm not going to stand here and tell you that I've learned how to play the instrument, finally, that I am now a maestro of this proverbial violin because as any one of our witnesses today will tell you, it simply isn=t true. But I stand here today, ready and willing to promise the following: that my humiliations and sufferings will, however subtly, start to be outnumbered by the moments of pride and happiness. That when I start to fail, I will make the conscious choice to persevere. The that eyes of the world, whether critical or kind, will never outshine the look in your eyes as I fall asleep next to you each night. I promise you, that when I fail, I will find some success in the endurance of our love, when I fall, I will give you my hand to be helped up. I will help to make a smooth transition for you as things change for us in life; I will wince for you, and cry for you, and glimmer for you; I will let you do the same for me. I promise to you, Zachary Charles Smith, my love, my Angel, that I will stand and play for you, and while I can't promise you that I will never make another mistake, now, each wrong note and missed beat will be part of a brand new harmony: another change, another chance. I promise you that, despite all imperfection, what will remain perfect will be you and I together, and we will play on, play on."
So it seems I have let down not only myself in so many ways, but the man I pledged my life to, a life I would so carelessly take away, a love I would so easily stifle. It seems that I've failed, on every step of the way, the goals I had set for myself as early as my Kindergarten year, and as late as the lawn and garden department. It seems it's not that I wish to be nothing, I am nothing, nothing but a broken promise, a shattered facade, a swallowed seed.
And they say pomegranates are good for the heart. On with it.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
It was on the night that Ryan announced he was leaving town that I started really thinking about it all, and came to the conclusion, finally, that that was just what I was to stop doing, thinking so damn much.
"South Carolina," He told me, "Tomorrow morning. I'll see you many years from now, when we've both grown old and tired of the impotency of our lives."
It was like he'd poisoned me that moment, while I sat and thought about how truly I hated Maine and Maine winters and Maine towns and Maine boredom. Maine Me. I wanted to be South Carolina Me. Louisiana Me. New York Me.
Point of fact, I didn't really want to be me at all anymore.
And within a few minutes, I knew that what had to change was thinking so many damn things through. A resolve that I'd never known before was in me, but suddenly and without any real sensation to it. I just was, and differently than I had been before.
So I stood up from the porch, after Ryan had walked away, and went upstairs to my room, and kissed my husband, and walked out. Down Vining to Rt. 196, to the Big Apple.
It was late and warm outside, and whether the cashier would have rather been sleeping or partying, I didn't venture a guess, but it didn't take any thinking to know she didn't want to be sitting at a register, chewing her gum and finishing the Sun Journal word search the last shift had started. I had no mind for her problems or my own as I poured myself a Slush Puppy and, sipping it, walked right out of the store.
"Hey!" I heard her call behind me, "Where are you going with that?"
I had no idea.
A few hours later I'm on the Alfred Plourde Parkway trying to thumb a ride before it catches the Turnpike. I have no idea if I'm at the Northbound or Southbound entrance, and my Slush Puppy has melted and what's left has no flavor-- I shouldn't have stolen a large, but I don't care. Truth be told, I didn't even like Ryan that much: Just another guy from my graduating class, one I had sort of a vaguely friendly relationship with. We'd planned to move to New York together after graduation, the way I'd planned to travel Europe with Elizabeth Connor (Whom I almost hate, come to think of it) and promised Shawn Starcevic I'd have sex with him when he (I?) turned twenty-one. Half-witted promises that I would have made good on if I had ever really thought they were anymore serious than I was. Either way, it was before massage school, before marriage, before the suicide attempts and the self-loathing and the Slush Puppy-- way before the Slush Puppy. Now it didn't matter, because Ryan was no more an influence on my decisions than Zack was, and Zack was no more in control than I. Now the only thing that mattered was thumbing a ride.
A couple of teenaged boys in a pimped-out neon blared their horn as they passed, but didn't stop. "Jerk!" I whaled at the driver, and I hocked my Slush cup at them-- the blue remainder slashed on the white paint-- I heard a barely-audible noise indicating anger, and wondered if they'd stop, but they sped on, perhaps afraid that an angry, frazzled-looking woman at the side of the road might be a little too much for them-- they were neither right nor wrong, if that was the case. I probably could have managed something they couldn't have dealt with, some seething comment that hit them where it hurt-- the 500 dollar spoiler on their 95 Dodge-- but I wasn't frazzled. I wasn't even angry. Just sick of holding the cup.
It's been a few more hours when the rig pulls over. "Hop in," says a large trucker with a large smell.
He tells me his story, and he seems nice enough-- how he met his wife in a Memphis strip club, but she wasn't a stripper, just a patron looking for a cheap place to drink. His two kids, the one who had died of SIDS-- It would have seemed sad, if there'd been any feeling at all in me, that the child was ironically named Sid, but at the moment he said it, I smirked, then wondered if he'd seen it He was originally from Georgia, and when I asked what he was doing all the way up here, he just laughed the way one laughs at something truly, truly gone wrong in their life, shook his head slowly, and said "Honey, I haven't got the damndest idea." I believed that.
It didn't worry me when he took out a flask and took a healthy swig, but I passed when he offered me some, anyway. "Don't like the taste." I said. "We'll take of that, Honey. I know a place."
I guess it was New Hampshire somewhere, we got off the interstate and into a town with a name that began with a G or maybe a Q, and we drove through the part with the little houses till we came to a part with a little bar. I followed him in and he ordered me something blue-- having noted that my lips and tongue were stained blue from the Slush. He said I wouldn't be able to taste the alcohol in it, and he was wrong, but he didn't seem to notice that I didn't drink more than half of it as he went through Molson after Molson. He paid and I checked my pocket for a tip, but he insisted that he'd take care of it, so I told him I was off to the Ladies room and I stopped off at some sort of gift-shop-esque counter in the corner. I stole a roadmap and a pen (with the things that go back in forth in the water) for myself, but I saw a swiss army knife that I thought Zack would like and I paid for that-- I'd send it to him if I ever ended up at a place with stamps. Then I went to the bathroom and rejoined Mike. That was his name, just so you know.
In the truck, I fell asleep but woke up not too much later. Maybe subconsciously I was worried about hitchiking in a big rig with a drunken stranger, even if it hadn't occured to me not to get in. Or maybe it was just that I felt the truck slow down and stop.
I sat up to see that we were parked at the side of a dirty little road somewhere, and Mike was staring at me. "How you going to pay for the ride, Honey?" He asked me, slurring his speech. "Uhm...thank you?" I said, with more sarcasm than fear. "That's not going to be quite good enough," he said, leering. He reached over and put his hand on my upper thigh. I hit it away and he replaced it, and I looked up to see his sick little sneer.
I guess I could have just hit him off and walked away, and he probably wouldn't have been able to so much as get out of the truck to chase me without landing on his drunken face and knocking himself unconscious. That would have worked out fine, I guess. But I took out the knife and stabbed him instead.
I didn't pussyfoot around with his leg or anything. Straight into his eye. Twisted it a little, pulled it out, and went for the other one. He screamed a little-- maybe not. I wasn't paying too much attention.
Leaning over him as he was dying, I opened the driver-side door. The fucker hadn't even buckled his safety belt, so he fell easily to the ground, with a little shove. I sat for a minute, deciding that perhaps a moment's contemplation was appropriate at this point, and the realization came to me that I didn't know what the cargo was.
I went around to the back of the truck and opened it. Meat. Going inside, I realized it was packed Canadian beef products-- illegal to the US Since an outbreak of Mad Cow disease in Saskatchewan. Mike, Mike, Mike.
I went back around to the front of the truck, stepped over Mike's corpse, climbed into the driver's seat and started the truck. Off to Canada, then, I guess. I didn't want to be accessory to illegal meat smuggling, after all.
---
Dedicated to Ryan, who really is leaving town Tomorrow morning.
On with it.
"South Carolina," He told me, "Tomorrow morning. I'll see you many years from now, when we've both grown old and tired of the impotency of our lives."
It was like he'd poisoned me that moment, while I sat and thought about how truly I hated Maine and Maine winters and Maine towns and Maine boredom. Maine Me. I wanted to be South Carolina Me. Louisiana Me. New York Me.
Point of fact, I didn't really want to be me at all anymore.
And within a few minutes, I knew that what had to change was thinking so many damn things through. A resolve that I'd never known before was in me, but suddenly and without any real sensation to it. I just was, and differently than I had been before.
So I stood up from the porch, after Ryan had walked away, and went upstairs to my room, and kissed my husband, and walked out. Down Vining to Rt. 196, to the Big Apple.
It was late and warm outside, and whether the cashier would have rather been sleeping or partying, I didn't venture a guess, but it didn't take any thinking to know she didn't want to be sitting at a register, chewing her gum and finishing the Sun Journal word search the last shift had started. I had no mind for her problems or my own as I poured myself a Slush Puppy and, sipping it, walked right out of the store.
"Hey!" I heard her call behind me, "Where are you going with that?"
I had no idea.
A few hours later I'm on the Alfred Plourde Parkway trying to thumb a ride before it catches the Turnpike. I have no idea if I'm at the Northbound or Southbound entrance, and my Slush Puppy has melted and what's left has no flavor-- I shouldn't have stolen a large, but I don't care. Truth be told, I didn't even like Ryan that much: Just another guy from my graduating class, one I had sort of a vaguely friendly relationship with. We'd planned to move to New York together after graduation, the way I'd planned to travel Europe with Elizabeth Connor (Whom I almost hate, come to think of it) and promised Shawn Starcevic I'd have sex with him when he (I?) turned twenty-one. Half-witted promises that I would have made good on if I had ever really thought they were anymore serious than I was. Either way, it was before massage school, before marriage, before the suicide attempts and the self-loathing and the Slush Puppy-- way before the Slush Puppy. Now it didn't matter, because Ryan was no more an influence on my decisions than Zack was, and Zack was no more in control than I. Now the only thing that mattered was thumbing a ride.
A couple of teenaged boys in a pimped-out neon blared their horn as they passed, but didn't stop. "Jerk!" I whaled at the driver, and I hocked my Slush cup at them-- the blue remainder slashed on the white paint-- I heard a barely-audible noise indicating anger, and wondered if they'd stop, but they sped on, perhaps afraid that an angry, frazzled-looking woman at the side of the road might be a little too much for them-- they were neither right nor wrong, if that was the case. I probably could have managed something they couldn't have dealt with, some seething comment that hit them where it hurt-- the 500 dollar spoiler on their 95 Dodge-- but I wasn't frazzled. I wasn't even angry. Just sick of holding the cup.
It's been a few more hours when the rig pulls over. "Hop in," says a large trucker with a large smell.
He tells me his story, and he seems nice enough-- how he met his wife in a Memphis strip club, but she wasn't a stripper, just a patron looking for a cheap place to drink. His two kids, the one who had died of SIDS-- It would have seemed sad, if there'd been any feeling at all in me, that the child was ironically named Sid, but at the moment he said it, I smirked, then wondered if he'd seen it He was originally from Georgia, and when I asked what he was doing all the way up here, he just laughed the way one laughs at something truly, truly gone wrong in their life, shook his head slowly, and said "Honey, I haven't got the damndest idea." I believed that.
It didn't worry me when he took out a flask and took a healthy swig, but I passed when he offered me some, anyway. "Don't like the taste." I said. "We'll take of that, Honey. I know a place."
I guess it was New Hampshire somewhere, we got off the interstate and into a town with a name that began with a G or maybe a Q, and we drove through the part with the little houses till we came to a part with a little bar. I followed him in and he ordered me something blue-- having noted that my lips and tongue were stained blue from the Slush. He said I wouldn't be able to taste the alcohol in it, and he was wrong, but he didn't seem to notice that I didn't drink more than half of it as he went through Molson after Molson. He paid and I checked my pocket for a tip, but he insisted that he'd take care of it, so I told him I was off to the Ladies room and I stopped off at some sort of gift-shop-esque counter in the corner. I stole a roadmap and a pen (with the things that go back in forth in the water) for myself, but I saw a swiss army knife that I thought Zack would like and I paid for that-- I'd send it to him if I ever ended up at a place with stamps. Then I went to the bathroom and rejoined Mike. That was his name, just so you know.
In the truck, I fell asleep but woke up not too much later. Maybe subconsciously I was worried about hitchiking in a big rig with a drunken stranger, even if it hadn't occured to me not to get in. Or maybe it was just that I felt the truck slow down and stop.
I sat up to see that we were parked at the side of a dirty little road somewhere, and Mike was staring at me. "How you going to pay for the ride, Honey?" He asked me, slurring his speech. "Uhm...thank you?" I said, with more sarcasm than fear. "That's not going to be quite good enough," he said, leering. He reached over and put his hand on my upper thigh. I hit it away and he replaced it, and I looked up to see his sick little sneer.
I guess I could have just hit him off and walked away, and he probably wouldn't have been able to so much as get out of the truck to chase me without landing on his drunken face and knocking himself unconscious. That would have worked out fine, I guess. But I took out the knife and stabbed him instead.
I didn't pussyfoot around with his leg or anything. Straight into his eye. Twisted it a little, pulled it out, and went for the other one. He screamed a little-- maybe not. I wasn't paying too much attention.
Leaning over him as he was dying, I opened the driver-side door. The fucker hadn't even buckled his safety belt, so he fell easily to the ground, with a little shove. I sat for a minute, deciding that perhaps a moment's contemplation was appropriate at this point, and the realization came to me that I didn't know what the cargo was.
I went around to the back of the truck and opened it. Meat. Going inside, I realized it was packed Canadian beef products-- illegal to the US Since an outbreak of Mad Cow disease in Saskatchewan. Mike, Mike, Mike.
I went back around to the front of the truck, stepped over Mike's corpse, climbed into the driver's seat and started the truck. Off to Canada, then, I guess. I didn't want to be accessory to illegal meat smuggling, after all.
---
Dedicated to Ryan, who really is leaving town Tomorrow morning.
On with it.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
FieryGwenivere: You told a girl she was fat to test a theory?
C LABRACK: correct.
FieryGwenivere: You do realizing you're going to hell? And it's not gonna be all warm and cozy, no way, because what's going to happen is this girl is going to become so obsessed with this one comment that her confidence will be destroyed, and in her desperation she'll sleep with someone like Kory, and then hell will freeze over and you'll be down there in a great big frozen puddle of Bob Ross's spooge?
C LABRACK: christ, I didn't let her cry or anything.
FieryGwenivere: This is your warning, Ebenezer...at the stroke of twelve you will be visited by the first of three spirits...
C LABRACK: I assured her that she's very attractive.
FieryGwenivere: And then, having shattered her self-esteem and then restored a tiny fraction of it, you were allowed to do her up the butt.
C LABRACK: actually, I really should have leveraged sex out of that.
FieryGwenivere: Insult enough chicks and you'll find yourself writing a steamy letter to penthouse.
C LABRACK: I can't wait.
C LABRACK: keep smacking bitches! don't pretend to give a shit about anyone!
FieryGwenivere: Seriously, this little scheme should add up to be just about all you aspire to in life. And I wonder why you keep my around.
C LABRACK: me too
FieryGwenivere: Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls twelve...
On with it.
C LABRACK: correct.
FieryGwenivere: You do realizing you're going to hell? And it's not gonna be all warm and cozy, no way, because what's going to happen is this girl is going to become so obsessed with this one comment that her confidence will be destroyed, and in her desperation she'll sleep with someone like Kory, and then hell will freeze over and you'll be down there in a great big frozen puddle of Bob Ross's spooge?
C LABRACK: christ, I didn't let her cry or anything.
FieryGwenivere: This is your warning, Ebenezer...at the stroke of twelve you will be visited by the first of three spirits...
C LABRACK: I assured her that she's very attractive.
FieryGwenivere: And then, having shattered her self-esteem and then restored a tiny fraction of it, you were allowed to do her up the butt.
C LABRACK: actually, I really should have leveraged sex out of that.
FieryGwenivere: Insult enough chicks and you'll find yourself writing a steamy letter to penthouse.
C LABRACK: I can't wait.
C LABRACK: keep smacking bitches! don't pretend to give a shit about anyone!
FieryGwenivere: Seriously, this little scheme should add up to be just about all you aspire to in life. And I wonder why you keep my around.
C LABRACK: me too
FieryGwenivere: Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls twelve...
On with it.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
A couple quick updates, most of which are really too long in coming:
-Results are finally in and up for both of the Flash Fiction contests I recently entered. For those of you who don't know, Flash Fiction is a form of condensed form of writing, featuring stories that are always under 1000 words in length, usually 500. Generally speaking, flash fiction stories are focused on precise use of language, fiercely poetic, and start and end a scene suddenly, establishing nothing in advance about character and setting.
The two contests I entred (both erotic in nature) were as such:
-The Logical Lust Flash Fiction contest. Stories had to be under 200 words. I got fourth place. Check out all of logical-lust here, or skip to the contest section to see my entry and others (all surprisingly good.) I, for the record, write as L.M. Coull, and my entry was "Concerto in G".
-The Spring (Flash) Fling from Katy Terrega's writing site. Entries were to be one hundred words or less and include an element of spring. My entry, "Oh, Give us Pleasure in the Orchard White" (Robert Frost allusion) got an honorable mention that is featured on this page, and, hey, if you're interested in sex writing, you should definitely sign up for the free newsletter, the best free sex writing resource on the net.
So, two contests, two victories. I guess that makes me an official writer.
If that doesn't, this site's feature from The Weblog Review sure does. Sadly, the reviews weren't great, but I attribute that almost entirely to the fact that I applied to have my site reviewed months ago, when I was taking it in more of a humorous, topical direction, and trying to steer clear of the personal stuff this site has become so deeply rooted in. You remember, the good ol' days, when I was blogging up a storm with delightful wit to spew about everything from my hair's alternative lifestyle to small children dressing up as household cleaning supplies. I therefore filed it as a humor site, and when the review finally came, I was back to the norm with "SuedeCaramel.com: Adventures in Self-Pity and loathing." Both reviewers complimented my writing abilities but said, in so many words, that there wasn't so much humor as, well, this crap, so I scored only a 3.25 stars on average. I'm sure it would have been higher if I'd filed as a personal site, but since my google pagerank is higher than theirs, I find myself entirely jaded to their blaspheme. When the juggernaut of my genius is unleashed, they will be crushed under the foot of my prowess. Mwah ha ha!
But, here are the reviews, if you want a look-see.
On a non writing-related note, I saw the Movie "Van Helsing" last night. I'd like to say that it was well-written, well-acted, entertaining and visually spectacular, because it is. But I can't say that.
Because all I can think about is the freaking microphones hovering above the heads of the actors in three distinct scenes. I guess even multi-million dollar productions have to cut corners, and apparently they do this by hiring key grips and film editors from the AV club of Hellen Keller's Memorial Institute for the AV Impaired. A noble effort to empower the handicapped, but a real handicap to the movie viewing experience. As hilarious as the mess-up is, it's impossible to root for the monster hunter when you're constantly afraid that, whilst vanquishing all evil, he trip on a power cord or something.
I report about this because, against all odds, seemingly no one else has. The biggest mistake the movie industry has seen since Albert Brooks, and no one's mentioning it-- not one blog, not one message board, not one crappy online comic.
Thusly, in order to get top billing on the eventual google searches, I am going to link to myself, shamelessly and ad nauseam.
Van Helsing Microphone Mistake
Van Helsing Microphone nominated for Best Actor
Hugh Jackman Dead! Brutal Microphone Attack!
In other news, blogger's completely reworked their format, if you haven't checked it out yet, do. Also, google is starting a new E-mail service called Gmail, and as a blogger user I got in as a Beta Tester. It offers a gig of free storage, cool search options, and a neat conversation format. In general, it's cooler than your account, so there.
So, my new primary is SuedeCaramel@Gmail.com. I will slowly be phasing out SuedeCaramel@dog.com, as I'm paying for it and it still offers no protection against the droves of spam I get on an hourly basis, of which my favorite subject line for today is "Overdue smu account". How *did* they know all my smu accounts are overdue?
Smu you! And on with it.
-Results are finally in and up for both of the Flash Fiction contests I recently entered. For those of you who don't know, Flash Fiction is a form of condensed form of writing, featuring stories that are always under 1000 words in length, usually 500. Generally speaking, flash fiction stories are focused on precise use of language, fiercely poetic, and start and end a scene suddenly, establishing nothing in advance about character and setting.
The two contests I entred (both erotic in nature) were as such:
-The Logical Lust Flash Fiction contest. Stories had to be under 200 words. I got fourth place. Check out all of logical-lust here, or skip to the contest section to see my entry and others (all surprisingly good.) I, for the record, write as L.M. Coull, and my entry was "Concerto in G".
-The Spring (Flash) Fling from Katy Terrega's writing site. Entries were to be one hundred words or less and include an element of spring. My entry, "Oh, Give us Pleasure in the Orchard White" (Robert Frost allusion) got an honorable mention that is featured on this page, and, hey, if you're interested in sex writing, you should definitely sign up for the free newsletter, the best free sex writing resource on the net.
So, two contests, two victories. I guess that makes me an official writer.
If that doesn't, this site's feature from The Weblog Review sure does. Sadly, the reviews weren't great, but I attribute that almost entirely to the fact that I applied to have my site reviewed months ago, when I was taking it in more of a humorous, topical direction, and trying to steer clear of the personal stuff this site has become so deeply rooted in. You remember, the good ol' days, when I was blogging up a storm with delightful wit to spew about everything from my hair's alternative lifestyle to small children dressing up as household cleaning supplies. I therefore filed it as a humor site, and when the review finally came, I was back to the norm with "SuedeCaramel.com: Adventures in Self-Pity and loathing." Both reviewers complimented my writing abilities but said, in so many words, that there wasn't so much humor as, well, this crap, so I scored only a 3.25 stars on average. I'm sure it would have been higher if I'd filed as a personal site, but since my google pagerank is higher than theirs, I find myself entirely jaded to their blaspheme. When the juggernaut of my genius is unleashed, they will be crushed under the foot of my prowess. Mwah ha ha!
But, here are the reviews, if you want a look-see.
On a non writing-related note, I saw the Movie "Van Helsing" last night. I'd like to say that it was well-written, well-acted, entertaining and visually spectacular, because it is. But I can't say that.
Because all I can think about is the freaking microphones hovering above the heads of the actors in three distinct scenes. I guess even multi-million dollar productions have to cut corners, and apparently they do this by hiring key grips and film editors from the AV club of Hellen Keller's Memorial Institute for the AV Impaired. A noble effort to empower the handicapped, but a real handicap to the movie viewing experience. As hilarious as the mess-up is, it's impossible to root for the monster hunter when you're constantly afraid that, whilst vanquishing all evil, he trip on a power cord or something.
I report about this because, against all odds, seemingly no one else has. The biggest mistake the movie industry has seen since Albert Brooks, and no one's mentioning it-- not one blog, not one message board, not one crappy online comic.
Thusly, in order to get top billing on the eventual google searches, I am going to link to myself, shamelessly and ad nauseam.
Van Helsing Microphone Mistake
Van Helsing Microphone nominated for Best Actor
Hugh Jackman Dead! Brutal Microphone Attack!
In other news, blogger's completely reworked their format, if you haven't checked it out yet, do. Also, google is starting a new E-mail service called Gmail, and as a blogger user I got in as a Beta Tester. It offers a gig of free storage, cool search options, and a neat conversation format. In general, it's cooler than your account, so there.
So, my new primary is SuedeCaramel@Gmail.com. I will slowly be phasing out SuedeCaramel@dog.com, as I'm paying for it and it still offers no protection against the droves of spam I get on an hourly basis, of which my favorite subject line for today is "Overdue smu account". How *did* they know all my smu accounts are overdue?
Smu you! And on with it.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Friday, April 30, 2004
Casey's been a bit of a slut lately pressuring me to update, but then, that's what I love him for. (No, no it isn't.) So, for El Casey-Nova, my bitchy little muse, an update on my fabulous life.
Yesterday, Zack and I adopted, at long last, a dog: A fabulous one-year-old Shiba Inu named "Max" who's been in an out of my pet store at the finicky whims of several owners within the past month: The original couple bought him from the store about ten months ago, but grew impatient with him as they found they couldn't quite bend him to their will. They brought him back to the store just over a month ago now, handed the leash and his medical information to the first "Petland" shirt they saw, and walked away without saying a word. We put Max (then "Meyers", but he didn't respond to his name.) up for adoption at the cost of a one-hundred dollar donation to St. Jude's children's hospital, and it was then I first considered adopting him-- he was beautiful, after all, with a dark, wolf-like appeareance and feline mannerisms. I had wanted a dog for some time, and I started to think that perhaps he was the one I'd been looking for.
At that point, however, Zack was still unemployed and I had only begun to work at the store. There simply wasn't a hundred dollars to donate, and before I could even so much as finish the last two hours of my shift so that I could try to find the needed money, two hicks and their unfortunate son walked in and took the dog they then named Max on an impulse buy, due to his overly reasonable price. It was me who was forced to walk them through the process of buying needed accessories, and I was therefore privvy to jeweled insights into the personalities of Max's new guttertrash family, onesuch being when the mother practically hit her son for suggesting they buy a red collar for a boy dog. When they left with the dog I had wanted for my own, I sat down and cried.
Three days ago, however, a benevolent God smiled on the world: the hicks decided to get a divorce. This means two happy things: it's almost guaranteed they won't have any more cross-eyed offspring, at least with each other, and Max came back to the store to go through another adoption.
The next impulse buyer wasn't a hick...far from it. A physically perfect waitress from the cafe next store and her Adonis boyfriend decided to take Max home on a trial basis, and while, in this case, I couldn't object to any specific stupidity she had uttered, I found myself enraged that she had her looks, her perfect husband, her perfect house, and now, my dog, in addition to the dogs she already owned. It just wasn't fair.
And Max must have known that. Because he bit the perfect boyfriend. And now he's with me.
More on Max-- and his absolute genius in helping me escape my in-laws-- later. For now, I have to go earn his kibbles 'n' bits.
On with it.
Yesterday, Zack and I adopted, at long last, a dog: A fabulous one-year-old Shiba Inu named "Max" who's been in an out of my pet store at the finicky whims of several owners within the past month: The original couple bought him from the store about ten months ago, but grew impatient with him as they found they couldn't quite bend him to their will. They brought him back to the store just over a month ago now, handed the leash and his medical information to the first "Petland" shirt they saw, and walked away without saying a word. We put Max (then "Meyers", but he didn't respond to his name.) up for adoption at the cost of a one-hundred dollar donation to St. Jude's children's hospital, and it was then I first considered adopting him-- he was beautiful, after all, with a dark, wolf-like appeareance and feline mannerisms. I had wanted a dog for some time, and I started to think that perhaps he was the one I'd been looking for.
At that point, however, Zack was still unemployed and I had only begun to work at the store. There simply wasn't a hundred dollars to donate, and before I could even so much as finish the last two hours of my shift so that I could try to find the needed money, two hicks and their unfortunate son walked in and took the dog they then named Max on an impulse buy, due to his overly reasonable price. It was me who was forced to walk them through the process of buying needed accessories, and I was therefore privvy to jeweled insights into the personalities of Max's new guttertrash family, onesuch being when the mother practically hit her son for suggesting they buy a red collar for a boy dog. When they left with the dog I had wanted for my own, I sat down and cried.
Three days ago, however, a benevolent God smiled on the world: the hicks decided to get a divorce. This means two happy things: it's almost guaranteed they won't have any more cross-eyed offspring, at least with each other, and Max came back to the store to go through another adoption.
The next impulse buyer wasn't a hick...far from it. A physically perfect waitress from the cafe next store and her Adonis boyfriend decided to take Max home on a trial basis, and while, in this case, I couldn't object to any specific stupidity she had uttered, I found myself enraged that she had her looks, her perfect husband, her perfect house, and now, my dog, in addition to the dogs she already owned. It just wasn't fair.
And Max must have known that. Because he bit the perfect boyfriend. And now he's with me.
More on Max-- and his absolute genius in helping me escape my in-laws-- later. For now, I have to go earn his kibbles 'n' bits.
On with it.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
Because I enjoy Kory...and I can't edit this into a damn away message. Clearly.
FieryGwenivere: And here's something that I've found is central to my problem: When I put up away messages, I do it like it's art. I'll slave over each for at least twenty minutes, whether it's a song quote (I listen to three to five songs first, looking for the most appropriate), some cynical or comic piece of conversation, or one single multi-facted word. Anything I put up, it's got about a thousand meanings-- but, see, I work so hard on the message itself that once it's up, the reason I was going on away in the first place has long since past, so I've got nothing to do but give it time to be up-- so generally I go downstairs and eat.
FieryGwenivere: The miracle diet would be to stop doing this.
FieryGwenivere: So it's either stop playing this AIM-based mind games or to start looking up my chunkier friends so I'll look thin in contrast.
FieryGwenivere: I guess what I'm trying to say is, can I get your number?
Ad Nauseam IV: hahaha...you have it
FieryGwenivere: see...at this point, if you were genuinely fat, you'd say something bitter in reply and it would be a priceless away message.
FieryGwenivere: in fact, if you could just say something bitter here, I'll edit and then go make some more toast. Maybe it won't be burnt this time.
Ad Nauseam IV: oh. Yeah. Yeah I am pretty big boned. But yeah I don't give a shit about that, too much. I've got more important things to be bitter about
Ad Nauseam IV: I'm really not all that inspired right now...Uhh...Will a fuck bitches suffice?
FieryGwenivere: Oh, come on now, you've got to give me something better than that. I'm not gonna get fat just sitting here on my ass....oh...86th that.
On with it.
FieryGwenivere: And here's something that I've found is central to my problem: When I put up away messages, I do it like it's art. I'll slave over each for at least twenty minutes, whether it's a song quote (I listen to three to five songs first, looking for the most appropriate), some cynical or comic piece of conversation, or one single multi-facted word. Anything I put up, it's got about a thousand meanings-- but, see, I work so hard on the message itself that once it's up, the reason I was going on away in the first place has long since past, so I've got nothing to do but give it time to be up-- so generally I go downstairs and eat.
FieryGwenivere: The miracle diet would be to stop doing this.
FieryGwenivere: So it's either stop playing this AIM-based mind games or to start looking up my chunkier friends so I'll look thin in contrast.
FieryGwenivere: I guess what I'm trying to say is, can I get your number?
Ad Nauseam IV: hahaha...you have it
FieryGwenivere: see...at this point, if you were genuinely fat, you'd say something bitter in reply and it would be a priceless away message.
FieryGwenivere: in fact, if you could just say something bitter here, I'll edit and then go make some more toast. Maybe it won't be burnt this time.
Ad Nauseam IV: oh. Yeah. Yeah I am pretty big boned. But yeah I don't give a shit about that, too much. I've got more important things to be bitter about
Ad Nauseam IV: I'm really not all that inspired right now...Uhh...Will a fuck bitches suffice?
FieryGwenivere: Oh, come on now, you've got to give me something better than that. I'm not gonna get fat just sitting here on my ass....oh...86th that.
On with it.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Five most relevant songs in my life at the moment, in no particular order: (I hate doing it in order of importance because I always have to sit there and debate what should go where for hours on end until I give up the whole thing. Call it journalistic ethic...neurotic journalistic ethic. Just to avoid that feeling of responsibility, I'll forewarn you that this may not be a truly accurate list. I haven't heard all of the songs in the world, for instance, and of the ones I have heard, not all of them are in my immediate memory. I'm drawing largely from the songs I happen to have downloaded on this computer so far.)
February Fifteenth, The Bright Eyes
Why Can't I Touch It, The Buzzcocks
All By Myself, Jamie O'Neal
Unkind, Tabitha's Secret
Blood and Roses, The Smithereens
"February Fifteenth" is a ballad of loss and regret. I'll never get over the genius of Conor's lyrics-- simple and precise, imagery and apologies, thoughts going through his mind. In this song, in particular, the genius of his design is clear. When you combine straightfoward and effective word usage, slow and delicate melody, and the sincerity of his shaky, unprofessional voice, the result is an undeniable masterpiece that plucks at the heartstrings of anyone who has lost a friend. The song is about the regretful honesty that comes at the end of any epic friendship-- the things you wanted to say all along, the way you want to scream them in all the fevered urgency of desperation, but can only sigh them out in reluctant acceptance: It's over, and, for what it's worth, I'm sorry, and I hope you know I love you.
I guess that it's typical
To cling to memories you'll never get back again,
And to sort through old photographs
Of a summer long ago,
Or a friend that you used to know.
And there below his frozen face
you wrote the name,
And that ancient date, that ancient date.
And you can't believe he is really gone
When all that's left is a fucking song.
I'm sorry about the phone call
And waking you;
I know that it's late,
But thank you for talking
Cause I needed to,
Yeah, Some things just can't wait.
It would be hard to go into a deep explanation of the meaning of the Buzzcock's "Why Can't I Touch It?", a song that so repetetive it just about made me motion sick the first time I heard it. Still, I can know say that I understand the merit of it-- the song is an unanswered question, repeated over and over again, as unanswered questions tend to be. And it's relevance to my life, as of late, is clear-- it happened that this song was already on my playlist after "February Fifteenth", but in thinking about it momentarily, I realized that it works: There aren't too many songs on the market right now devoted to Vaginismus, so in seeking a song to relate to the feelings I have on that subject, this is one of the closest I can get-- One of the ultimate frustrations of the problem is one of not being able to convince myself that it's really something I can't have. When I'm laying with Zack and looking into his eyes, and I know he loves me, and I know I want him, it's hard to process that there's some surreal, underlying force keeping us apart. It's hard to understand.
Well it seems so real I can see it,
And it seems so real I can feel it,
And it seems so real I can taste it,
And it seems so real I can hear it,
So why can't I touch it?
Once read somebody describe this song as "the thinking man's 'American Pie'", though. This, I don't get.
"All by Myself", a continuation on the vaginismus theme, and obviously relevant to anyone who read the last post. Many of the lyrics in the verses don't apply, but the earnest vocals of the chorus ring true for me-- what's more effective than the way something is said, after all?
All by myself,
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore.
I think perhaps Rob Thomas's lyrical prowess has suffered in his efforts to improve his musical abilities-- for sure, as the years go by, he is growing as a vocalist and musician, but his lyrics, to me, have never been more poignant than they were back in the Tabitha's Secret days, back when his musical interests were probably more an extension of his love of writing. All of "Don't Play With Matches", the first (and, more or less, only) album of Tabitha's Secret, was up for consideration in this current list, with perfectly crafted lines like "She said, 'Don't Cry'/Said it only hurts forever and all we have is time" from "High" or "I don't like my neighbors/Well, they're just not my kind/I think it might be over for the whales and I really don't mind" from "Paint me Blue" dotted throughout the entire disc, but "Unkind" is the most totally relevant. I empathize with both the singer and the singee, the song's "you"-- that kind of role confusion is one of the things I love about the music of Rob Thomas. I always feel like he's singing the song from every viewpoint, which is the way I think, most of the time. The song, to me, is about the way being at a bad point in your life can put a strain on friendships-- the questions, the lies, the way anyone can become a fairweather friend if the storm lasts long enough.
Bring it on baby, what you getting into?
Is living on pain the thing that's getting to you?
Write my name, pin it up with my picture,
And say it's the only thing 'cuz I'm not around to be around.
I'm beaten and battered, hell, if my dreams get shattered then
Pain gives me the right to be unkind.
If you can't appreciate the base line leading into "Blood and Roses" for it's raw power, then there's nothing I have to say to you. The band, to my knowledge, never caught on, but it had, I think the repeating 13 notes of bass that drive the whole song would have gone down in history the way that the base line in "Iron Man" did. The song is a story of the ill-fated love of two people-- a love so strong and a will so powerful as could only be defeated by one thing-- a woman's inner demons. It's a song about how insecurities, fears, and being incomplete as a person can rip any couple apart at the seams, despite the strength of their love. The girl is faithfully devoted t the man, but, in the end, her insurmountable unhappiness forever keeps them apart.
I fear this song will one day become the most relevant of my entire lifetime, surpassing the incredible "Push".
Bought flowers in the springtime,
October, we were wed.
In winter time, the roses died.
The blood ran cold, and then she said:
I want to love, but it comes out wrong.
I want to live, but I don't belong.
I close my eyes and I see
Blood and roses.
On with it.
February Fifteenth, The Bright Eyes
Why Can't I Touch It, The Buzzcocks
All By Myself, Jamie O'Neal
Unkind, Tabitha's Secret
Blood and Roses, The Smithereens
"February Fifteenth" is a ballad of loss and regret. I'll never get over the genius of Conor's lyrics-- simple and precise, imagery and apologies, thoughts going through his mind. In this song, in particular, the genius of his design is clear. When you combine straightfoward and effective word usage, slow and delicate melody, and the sincerity of his shaky, unprofessional voice, the result is an undeniable masterpiece that plucks at the heartstrings of anyone who has lost a friend. The song is about the regretful honesty that comes at the end of any epic friendship-- the things you wanted to say all along, the way you want to scream them in all the fevered urgency of desperation, but can only sigh them out in reluctant acceptance: It's over, and, for what it's worth, I'm sorry, and I hope you know I love you.
I guess that it's typical
To cling to memories you'll never get back again,
And to sort through old photographs
Of a summer long ago,
Or a friend that you used to know.
And there below his frozen face
you wrote the name,
And that ancient date, that ancient date.
And you can't believe he is really gone
When all that's left is a fucking song.
I'm sorry about the phone call
And waking you;
I know that it's late,
But thank you for talking
Cause I needed to,
Yeah, Some things just can't wait.
It would be hard to go into a deep explanation of the meaning of the Buzzcock's "Why Can't I Touch It?", a song that so repetetive it just about made me motion sick the first time I heard it. Still, I can know say that I understand the merit of it-- the song is an unanswered question, repeated over and over again, as unanswered questions tend to be. And it's relevance to my life, as of late, is clear-- it happened that this song was already on my playlist after "February Fifteenth", but in thinking about it momentarily, I realized that it works: There aren't too many songs on the market right now devoted to Vaginismus, so in seeking a song to relate to the feelings I have on that subject, this is one of the closest I can get-- One of the ultimate frustrations of the problem is one of not being able to convince myself that it's really something I can't have. When I'm laying with Zack and looking into his eyes, and I know he loves me, and I know I want him, it's hard to process that there's some surreal, underlying force keeping us apart. It's hard to understand.
Well it seems so real I can see it,
And it seems so real I can feel it,
And it seems so real I can taste it,
And it seems so real I can hear it,
So why can't I touch it?
Once read somebody describe this song as "the thinking man's 'American Pie'", though. This, I don't get.
"All by Myself", a continuation on the vaginismus theme, and obviously relevant to anyone who read the last post. Many of the lyrics in the verses don't apply, but the earnest vocals of the chorus ring true for me-- what's more effective than the way something is said, after all?
All by myself,
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore.
I think perhaps Rob Thomas's lyrical prowess has suffered in his efforts to improve his musical abilities-- for sure, as the years go by, he is growing as a vocalist and musician, but his lyrics, to me, have never been more poignant than they were back in the Tabitha's Secret days, back when his musical interests were probably more an extension of his love of writing. All of "Don't Play With Matches", the first (and, more or less, only) album of Tabitha's Secret, was up for consideration in this current list, with perfectly crafted lines like "She said, 'Don't Cry'/Said it only hurts forever and all we have is time" from "High" or "I don't like my neighbors/Well, they're just not my kind/I think it might be over for the whales and I really don't mind" from "Paint me Blue" dotted throughout the entire disc, but "Unkind" is the most totally relevant. I empathize with both the singer and the singee, the song's "you"-- that kind of role confusion is one of the things I love about the music of Rob Thomas. I always feel like he's singing the song from every viewpoint, which is the way I think, most of the time. The song, to me, is about the way being at a bad point in your life can put a strain on friendships-- the questions, the lies, the way anyone can become a fairweather friend if the storm lasts long enough.
Bring it on baby, what you getting into?
Is living on pain the thing that's getting to you?
Write my name, pin it up with my picture,
And say it's the only thing 'cuz I'm not around to be around.
I'm beaten and battered, hell, if my dreams get shattered then
Pain gives me the right to be unkind.
If you can't appreciate the base line leading into "Blood and Roses" for it's raw power, then there's nothing I have to say to you. The band, to my knowledge, never caught on, but it had, I think the repeating 13 notes of bass that drive the whole song would have gone down in history the way that the base line in "Iron Man" did. The song is a story of the ill-fated love of two people-- a love so strong and a will so powerful as could only be defeated by one thing-- a woman's inner demons. It's a song about how insecurities, fears, and being incomplete as a person can rip any couple apart at the seams, despite the strength of their love. The girl is faithfully devoted t the man, but, in the end, her insurmountable unhappiness forever keeps them apart.
I fear this song will one day become the most relevant of my entire lifetime, surpassing the incredible "Push".
Bought flowers in the springtime,
October, we were wed.
In winter time, the roses died.
The blood ran cold, and then she said:
I want to love, but it comes out wrong.
I want to live, but I don't belong.
I close my eyes and I see
Blood and roses.
On with it.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
It must be so hard for him to hear me sobbing, as quietly as I can manage, and not turn around to see me there. It must be so hard for him to turn his head and look at me, and see the tears on my face-- they are always there, when he turns around. In my experience, the people who talk about how hard it is to make them cry are the ones who cry the most, and I gave up pretending it was hard a long time ago. When he does turn around, most times I pretend not to know he's looking. I don't move, or waiver at all. I just stare at the laptop, at the AIM conversation with tonight's perpetrator, or the sad e-mail someone's written me, back when people still wrote, or the lines I've written someone else-- the most poignant of which, as of late, were in the end paragraph of a long e-mail I wrote in the middle of the night to Nissa, who does not write back anymore, which I fear is because of my eagerness in trying to get to know her:
Zack sleeps beside me and I have to sit up in between paragaphs, and
shine the light from the moniter onto his face, and remind myself how
much I love him. I touch him and shed a tear and try to think very hard
about how I married a man, not just a circumstance.
I sent this very long e-mail to both her and Casey, but pretended sending it to him was a mistake. Because of this, he never read it, which always disappointed me: I had explained so much in there that I wanted him to understand, but I couldn't tell him that without feeling like he'd only read it out of obligation, obligating people being one of the things that scares me msot in life. I wanted him to read it because he was curious, because it was five pages of me, pure and honest and true. I guess he had no way of knowing that it was, though. I guess I'll never tell him.
When Zack stares long enough at me, crying at my computer, so that we both know that I know he's looking, I must say something to keep him away. I have grown so sadly disillusioned that there's nothing my knight in shining armor can do to save me from my inner dragons, and I so miss the days when I, and I alone, was responsible for my sadness. When I was hurt, I could cry and not have to worry about who would hear. I could hate the world and everything in it and not worry about whether or not that hurt anyone else. It was a more comfortable sadness, back when I had nothing to really be sad about. Before love. Before marriage. Before Vaginismus.
Now that I am in love, and married, and unable to take my husband in, to make love to him...now my sadnesses feels more like his failure. As well as I'll make the argument that Casey isn't a destructive force in my marriage, he is the person I tend to turn to when I want something Zack can't give me, and lately that something's been consolation.
It's a sad coincidence that he's checked out of our friendship emotionally at this point. It was inevitable, and everyone knew that, though as hard as I tried, I couldn't get anyone else to acknowledge that they did. The bitch of a life spent living convinced that eventually everyone will leave you is that they always do, and having this pattern so well established in my friendships is not a great encouragement to my feeble belief that Zack will stick around. Without sex, without satiation, without sanity.
I don't want to live anymore. It's no secret. Sure, vaginismus is my biggest problem, and maybe it is treatable. Maybe I finally am at the point where I can get treatment-- maybe I'm at standing on the precipice of a happy life, a healthy marriage, success. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But will I ever really get over my anger at life that they could do this to me, if only for a little while? Will I ever really forgive God or whoever it is for not allowing to consumate my marriage on my wedding night? Will I ever forget that there are some problems in this world that you can have that absolutely no one will be able to understand, no matter how dear to you they are, no matter how close? Will I ever forgive my friends, my family, my husband for not understanding-- for not taking the time to make themselves understand?
Tell me you're sorry for me, go ahead. Tell me it's sad that I can't have sex, that it's a "bummer", that, Gee, Linda, that sure does suck. Tell me you can't imagine, even, it's a popular phrase. "Can't imagine."
But who the hell are you? You haven't tried to imagine. Of all the friends I have who claim they would do anything for me, of all the promises people have made that they would be there, of all the implications that are involved with being a parent or a husband, not one of you, not one has taken themselves away from their lives for a moment, and really tried to get it.
No one's sat down in a dark room, laid down, and thought hard about it: Imagine you're a sad person, that your whole life has seemed like a waste, and then imagine that one day you meet someone that makes you happy. Someone who makes you finally want to throw away the uselessness of being sad all the time, shown you the triviality of your youth, the possibilities of your future. Imagine that finally, inevitably, you're totally happy. Because of that one person, that one fated meeting, that dream within a dream, you finally feel like nothing is keeping you from the next stage in your life.
Imagine you take that person by the hand, and you lay down with them, and you bring them close to you. Imagine you're finally ready, and you feel so open to them that your heart wants to explode. Imagine that you're trembling at their touch, rejoicing in their kisses, imagine that you're bringing them closer and closer to you, and imagine the deep breath you both take as it's about to happen....
Then imagine anguish. Physical and mental at exactly the same time. Imagine all you want, in sudden and violent contrast, is to hit that person away, to hurt them, this person you love so much, because they've hurt you. Imagine the guilt after that moment. The reaching for them, unsure of whether to trust them for a moment but needing your arms around them so badly.
Imagine trying again.
And again.
And again.
And again. And more pain. More anguish. More crying. Imagine you hit them-- actually hit them-- without having any control over it. It just hurts too much-- you try to make love and it feels like you're being attacked. You try to open yourself up and it feels like they're invading.
You try to give yourself to someone and it turns out there's nothing to give.
But pain. And anger. And frustration.
And another night you try again. And again. And another night. And another.
And pretty soon you realize. You're
Fucking.
BROKEN.
And as much as you could love this person, you're just damaged goods.
And how could they love you?
And how could you love them, if one day they stop looking at you the way they used to.
Stop wanting you. Stop
...loving you.
And you know the only thing to do is keep trying.
AND IT HURTS. And with each and every goddamn try you feel less and less like a person, and you just know they're going to walk away. You just know that they're going to give up patience. You just know that...
...oh god. One day they'll see someone-- ANYONE-- and they'll want what you can't give them-- what ANYONE else COULD give them-- and...it's inevitable, isn't it? It's nature! You're just this unnatural freak, this problem, this disease, and everyone else, from the ugly to the insanely beautiful, all of them have something you don't.
So now every time they even mention someone else's name you're jealous. Every time they talk to someone, look at someone, every time you think they might think about talking or looking or thinking or wanting...it doesn't matter who, anyone's more complete that you are. And suddenly there's nothign at all that isn't a threat to you. And you find yourself less able to love them because you can no longer appreciate anything in their life that's not about you. Everyone represents something that will one day lead to them wanting someone else-- because you can't do it.
You can't do it.
You can't do it.
It doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing. Anytime you're in a crowd, you're the only one there they couldn't make love to. Anytime you're watching TV, all those beautiful people who were never a threat before might be able to give your lover something that you aren't man or woman enough to give them. And it's your fault. It's your fault. How could it be anyone else's fault? It's yours.
And your friendships start falling apart because your never happy anymore. You're so afraid while your with your lover all day that you've become nothing that it starts effecting the way you are with everyone. You're so insecure, so afraid. You're never happy, and they start getting annoyed because they miss the happy, carefree you. The witty, self-assured you. The you they liked in the first place-- and why shouldn't they leave? They've made no promises. The deal was always that you'd hang around each other as long as it was mutually worth it and, let's face it
you aren't worth it anymore.
So you start lashing out at even the ones that aren't hinting that they might leave. And the ones you control yourself with, well, god, you never noticed how often they talk about sex. And how often sex is on TV. And on the Radio. And in books, magazines, printed on fucking napkins-- suddenly the whole goddamn world revolves around something that YOU CAN'T DO. It's like one giant club that you'll never be a part of.
And you start to think how much easier it would be if you weren't alive anymore. And you start to think that even if you were fixed, things would never be the same. You start to think that now you know all of your friendships are temporary, that your faith in your love isn't boundless, that things that once seemed magical are really just used-up and played out. You start to realize that life isn't fair, and it never was, and you hate it.
And now you know that being sad all the time wasn't worth it when you were younger. You never did know what real loss was. You were a fraud the whole time.
But now that you know what it is to really lose something-- what it's like to be happier than you could ever imagine and have that taken away at fate's sadistic whim-- you miss being a fraud.
You, in fact, miss everything you ever had. And you start to regret the one thing that ever brought you real joy in the first place. And that...that instant you give in to regret, my friends...that's real loss.
Just so you fucking know.
Every one of these sentences represents hours and hours of my life, but most of you won't even give it an hour. You'll put it on your "to-do list", maybe, if we're real friends. You'll give it maybe fifteen minutes and then exaggerate it in your mind. You'll lie. You'll make yourself feel okay about it.
But you won't shed a tear. You won't break a sweat. You won't kick and scream like I have more times than I can count now and you won't come close the realization, the genuine epiphany, that life's unfair.
And hey, that's probably how it should be. But don't come offering me your false pity, your lies that you'd do anything for me. Don't tell me that you "can't imagine" because, trust me, I know.
What I need now is someone who can.
On with it.
Zack sleeps beside me and I have to sit up in between paragaphs, and
shine the light from the moniter onto his face, and remind myself how
much I love him. I touch him and shed a tear and try to think very hard
about how I married a man, not just a circumstance.
I sent this very long e-mail to both her and Casey, but pretended sending it to him was a mistake. Because of this, he never read it, which always disappointed me: I had explained so much in there that I wanted him to understand, but I couldn't tell him that without feeling like he'd only read it out of obligation, obligating people being one of the things that scares me msot in life. I wanted him to read it because he was curious, because it was five pages of me, pure and honest and true. I guess he had no way of knowing that it was, though. I guess I'll never tell him.
When Zack stares long enough at me, crying at my computer, so that we both know that I know he's looking, I must say something to keep him away. I have grown so sadly disillusioned that there's nothing my knight in shining armor can do to save me from my inner dragons, and I so miss the days when I, and I alone, was responsible for my sadness. When I was hurt, I could cry and not have to worry about who would hear. I could hate the world and everything in it and not worry about whether or not that hurt anyone else. It was a more comfortable sadness, back when I had nothing to really be sad about. Before love. Before marriage. Before Vaginismus.
Now that I am in love, and married, and unable to take my husband in, to make love to him...now my sadnesses feels more like his failure. As well as I'll make the argument that Casey isn't a destructive force in my marriage, he is the person I tend to turn to when I want something Zack can't give me, and lately that something's been consolation.
It's a sad coincidence that he's checked out of our friendship emotionally at this point. It was inevitable, and everyone knew that, though as hard as I tried, I couldn't get anyone else to acknowledge that they did. The bitch of a life spent living convinced that eventually everyone will leave you is that they always do, and having this pattern so well established in my friendships is not a great encouragement to my feeble belief that Zack will stick around. Without sex, without satiation, without sanity.
I don't want to live anymore. It's no secret. Sure, vaginismus is my biggest problem, and maybe it is treatable. Maybe I finally am at the point where I can get treatment-- maybe I'm at standing on the precipice of a happy life, a healthy marriage, success. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But will I ever really get over my anger at life that they could do this to me, if only for a little while? Will I ever really forgive God or whoever it is for not allowing to consumate my marriage on my wedding night? Will I ever forget that there are some problems in this world that you can have that absolutely no one will be able to understand, no matter how dear to you they are, no matter how close? Will I ever forgive my friends, my family, my husband for not understanding-- for not taking the time to make themselves understand?
Tell me you're sorry for me, go ahead. Tell me it's sad that I can't have sex, that it's a "bummer", that, Gee, Linda, that sure does suck. Tell me you can't imagine, even, it's a popular phrase. "Can't imagine."
But who the hell are you? You haven't tried to imagine. Of all the friends I have who claim they would do anything for me, of all the promises people have made that they would be there, of all the implications that are involved with being a parent or a husband, not one of you, not one has taken themselves away from their lives for a moment, and really tried to get it.
No one's sat down in a dark room, laid down, and thought hard about it: Imagine you're a sad person, that your whole life has seemed like a waste, and then imagine that one day you meet someone that makes you happy. Someone who makes you finally want to throw away the uselessness of being sad all the time, shown you the triviality of your youth, the possibilities of your future. Imagine that finally, inevitably, you're totally happy. Because of that one person, that one fated meeting, that dream within a dream, you finally feel like nothing is keeping you from the next stage in your life.
Imagine you take that person by the hand, and you lay down with them, and you bring them close to you. Imagine you're finally ready, and you feel so open to them that your heart wants to explode. Imagine that you're trembling at their touch, rejoicing in their kisses, imagine that you're bringing them closer and closer to you, and imagine the deep breath you both take as it's about to happen....
Then imagine anguish. Physical and mental at exactly the same time. Imagine all you want, in sudden and violent contrast, is to hit that person away, to hurt them, this person you love so much, because they've hurt you. Imagine the guilt after that moment. The reaching for them, unsure of whether to trust them for a moment but needing your arms around them so badly.
Imagine trying again.
And again.
And again.
And again. And more pain. More anguish. More crying. Imagine you hit them-- actually hit them-- without having any control over it. It just hurts too much-- you try to make love and it feels like you're being attacked. You try to open yourself up and it feels like they're invading.
You try to give yourself to someone and it turns out there's nothing to give.
But pain. And anger. And frustration.
And another night you try again. And again. And another night. And another.
And pretty soon you realize. You're
Fucking.
BROKEN.
And as much as you could love this person, you're just damaged goods.
And how could they love you?
And how could you love them, if one day they stop looking at you the way they used to.
Stop wanting you. Stop
...loving you.
And you know the only thing to do is keep trying.
AND IT HURTS. And with each and every goddamn try you feel less and less like a person, and you just know they're going to walk away. You just know that they're going to give up patience. You just know that...
...oh god. One day they'll see someone-- ANYONE-- and they'll want what you can't give them-- what ANYONE else COULD give them-- and...it's inevitable, isn't it? It's nature! You're just this unnatural freak, this problem, this disease, and everyone else, from the ugly to the insanely beautiful, all of them have something you don't.
So now every time they even mention someone else's name you're jealous. Every time they talk to someone, look at someone, every time you think they might think about talking or looking or thinking or wanting...it doesn't matter who, anyone's more complete that you are. And suddenly there's nothign at all that isn't a threat to you. And you find yourself less able to love them because you can no longer appreciate anything in their life that's not about you. Everyone represents something that will one day lead to them wanting someone else-- because you can't do it.
You can't do it.
You can't do it.
It doesn't matter where you are or what you're doing. Anytime you're in a crowd, you're the only one there they couldn't make love to. Anytime you're watching TV, all those beautiful people who were never a threat before might be able to give your lover something that you aren't man or woman enough to give them. And it's your fault. It's your fault. How could it be anyone else's fault? It's yours.
And your friendships start falling apart because your never happy anymore. You're so afraid while your with your lover all day that you've become nothing that it starts effecting the way you are with everyone. You're so insecure, so afraid. You're never happy, and they start getting annoyed because they miss the happy, carefree you. The witty, self-assured you. The you they liked in the first place-- and why shouldn't they leave? They've made no promises. The deal was always that you'd hang around each other as long as it was mutually worth it and, let's face it
you aren't worth it anymore.
So you start lashing out at even the ones that aren't hinting that they might leave. And the ones you control yourself with, well, god, you never noticed how often they talk about sex. And how often sex is on TV. And on the Radio. And in books, magazines, printed on fucking napkins-- suddenly the whole goddamn world revolves around something that YOU CAN'T DO. It's like one giant club that you'll never be a part of.
And you start to think how much easier it would be if you weren't alive anymore. And you start to think that even if you were fixed, things would never be the same. You start to think that now you know all of your friendships are temporary, that your faith in your love isn't boundless, that things that once seemed magical are really just used-up and played out. You start to realize that life isn't fair, and it never was, and you hate it.
And now you know that being sad all the time wasn't worth it when you were younger. You never did know what real loss was. You were a fraud the whole time.
But now that you know what it is to really lose something-- what it's like to be happier than you could ever imagine and have that taken away at fate's sadistic whim-- you miss being a fraud.
You, in fact, miss everything you ever had. And you start to regret the one thing that ever brought you real joy in the first place. And that...that instant you give in to regret, my friends...that's real loss.
Just so you fucking know.
Every one of these sentences represents hours and hours of my life, but most of you won't even give it an hour. You'll put it on your "to-do list", maybe, if we're real friends. You'll give it maybe fifteen minutes and then exaggerate it in your mind. You'll lie. You'll make yourself feel okay about it.
But you won't shed a tear. You won't break a sweat. You won't kick and scream like I have more times than I can count now and you won't come close the realization, the genuine epiphany, that life's unfair.
And hey, that's probably how it should be. But don't come offering me your false pity, your lies that you'd do anything for me. Don't tell me that you "can't imagine" because, trust me, I know.
What I need now is someone who can.
On with it.
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