california is a recipe for a black hole

The Fact That A Man's Needs, A Man's Needs, Are Full Of Greed, Full Of Greed, A Man's Needs, A Man's Needs, Are Lost On Me

2009-12-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

--"Men's Needs (cover)", Kate Nash

When I was younger I never dreamt of winning the big fight or winning the big game. I've never just been one for competition. I'd rather engage in activities that don't place a premium on winning or losing. Even when I'm playing a board game, it's always been more about beating my own personal score than actively engaging in trying to beat someone specifically out. I don't know--I guess I lack that competitive that so many others are blessed with.

If anywhere, my competitiveness comes mostly out when I'm rooting for somebody else I happen to support to do well. I get most fired up when it involves somebody like the Red Sox or the Trojans beating another team. Or I get the most vocal when it's somebody I know who's trying to do well. But when it comes to me having to assert myself in a win or lose situation, that's when I adopt the attitude that it really doesn't bother me either way. That's when I do my darndest to keep the spotlight off of me because Providence knows I gain nothing by doing poorly and doing well only raises expectations. I'd rather do things my own way at my own pace in a fashion that makes me happiest, even if costs me doing well according to somebody else's definition.

----

Recently I've come under attack at work for not sticking up for myself. For the most part, I guess one could say the accusations are true. I do not like office politics. I do not like being somebody who gets his jollies by positioning myself above someone else in some imaginary order. I'd much rather be someone who does his work independently of how it affects other people. I'd rather be just another cog in the wheel, moving along quietly, than constantly grinding against somebody whose only focus seems to be to cause friction. I may be an agitator and prone to ranting on here, but I can assure you when it comes to the workplace the last thing I want is any sort of hassle. Actually, more succinctly, I just don't want to be annoyed out of my skull at work. When people try to bait me into getting all defensive, that annoys me. When people poke at me and poke at me until I respond violently, that annoys me. At almost every job I've ever had I've had I've had the good fortune to be surrounded by people who are quite content to work with another instead of against another.

Then again, I guess I've never really worked in a real office before. It's a much different beast than working smaller offices and retail outlets.

Or to paraphrase my supervisor, there are certain people at my current job who are just like "high school bullies, who are going to cause problems and cause problems until you stick up for yourself and shut them up." My only thought to that proclamation was I thought I was done with that in high school. Like I said, it's been years since I had to deal with people whose m.o. seems entirely comprised of macho posturing. In any other situation I'd be more than content to let the preening peacock have his run of the roost by extricating myself from ever having to deal with him. However, seeing as this is my job and finding another job would prove rather difficult and time-consuming, I am compelled into remaining a situation that is unfavorable to my normal temperament.

I'm not cut out to give tit for tat in a war of words spoken aloud. I believe is life is too short to surround yourself with people who just make you feel bad about yourself and that's what my work's been like in the last few days. I wish I could go back to being in an environment more conducive to honest labor. Instead I'm stuck in a place where I have to constantly watch my back and carefully consider my every move,

Not only is it annoying, but it's also not what I signed up for. I don't want to put myself in direct opposition to anyone. Nobody should be forced to deal with people who are caustic in nature. Nobody should be forced to work along side people who are annoying as all hell.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Mad 'Cause I Got Floor Seats At The Lakers, See Me On The 50 Yard Line With The Raiders, Met Ali, He Told Me I'm The Greatest

2009-12-02T22:21:00.001-08:00

--"Getting Jiggy with It", Will Smith

I have a system in place at work when dealing with my customers of identifying strictly by their account number. Sure, there are some accounts which I can immediately recollect just by their name, but the majority of the vendors I deal with have fallen through the gaps in my admittedly faulty short-term memory. When one is dealing with four hundred accounts over a three-year period there simply isn't a memory shortcut complete enough to allow me access to each and every connection I've ever made. For the most part, even when the customer wants to give me their name and the name of their company, I'm forced to inquire as to their customer number before I can even begin to administer assistance.

It got me thinking of how everything would be so much easier at my job if all my accounts did away with their names and simply referred to themselves by their designated number. I wouldn't have to remember who's the owner, who's the accounts payable person, or even what the name of the company is. I could just ask what customer number was calling and proceed from there. Especially in a business setting, the usage of names is so cumbersome. Every other company name is "Car Audio" this or "Stereo" that; it all begins to run together in my head before long. However, a number? A number is truly unique. When you plug in a name, it pulls up a list of possible matches, but when you plug in a number, it always brings the correct account each and every time. Dealing with the numbers is just simpler.

I acknowledge part of it is just me being lazy. I also acknowledge that part of it is the fact that I've never been too keen on the customer service side of my job. Pretending to be friendly with strangers has never been my forte and I truly find it difficult to be friendly with individuals I'm supposed to maintain a business relationship with. I've never been adept at the whole schmoozing requirement of dealing with people. I'm much more the type to get to the heart of the reason why I'm calling or why they are calling than dally with the non-essential accounts of how their day is going or where they just came back with their family. To me, sadly maybe, they are just a list of numbers. Each company is basically a tally of how much they owe us or how much they can possibly buy from us. This doesn't mean I go out of my way to be cruel to them, but I just find it awkward to think of them as friends with one breath and then have to ask them for money with the next. Indeed, even when my friends borrow money from me I'm always rather straightforward about asking for it back without any pretense of subtlety to it. I've never been one to lead into a difficult question; I've always just asked it. And that's the way I wish I could treat my customers. I wish I could just get down to business--give me you customer number, hand over your check, and let me be.

I don't know--part of me thinks it's the whole name business that gets people into trouble in the first place. The only time one insists on being called by their name is when you're expecting some sort of long-lasting relationship with someone else. I don't tell every cashier or clerk my name because it's really not that vital to me that they address me by my given name. Given that, I also don't make it a point to list in excruciating detail everything I did that day. It detracts away from the business at hand. I'd much rather somebody tell me what I owe rather than tell me their name when I'm trying to buy something or when somebody is trying to buy something from me. Telling me your name in the midst of a deal is a bit like asking me to respect you or be in an awe of you. It's just not going to happen.

By the same token I guess that's why I'm bad with people's names in general. I've always decided who I thought warranted remembrance and it's usually not the people who insist on being called by name. The people whose names I've always filed away have always been the people who have made an honest impression on me enough to seek out their names and lock it away. It's a little like earning a name. Before that decision takes place you might as well be a number to me--that's the extent of how much importance I'll be placing on what you might choose to tell me.

I think the problem lies with the idea that everyone thinks they're important enough to compel everyone to remember them. Everyone thinks they've done enough, said enough, or plainly lived enough to feel important to the world at large. They think just by merely saying words, introducing themselves to everyone they meet, they are making a distinct impression upon everyone. But if you ponder that, that's entirely impossible. How many people do you bump into that truly stand out? How many people do you meet that have you falling on everyone of their words? Not very many. Everybody can't be important to you. By extension, every name that you happen to hear isn't going to be worthy of remembrance. I swear, I would have a far easier time if everyone just introduced themselves by their phone number or even address. At least that's given me some bit of information that is telling and worthwhile of jotting down should the need to contact them arise. A name without connection is just plain boring. Impress me first with your exploits or your personality or your talents... and then ask me if I'd like to know your name. That's almost how I wish the bulk of my conversations would go. I seriously would do away with this whole giving your name first bit and skip right to the part where I find out about you.

I don't know--maybe I have it backwards. Maybe it is like everyone tells me, that everything would go more smoothly if I just treated everyone as if they were special, if I treated every customer as if they are the most important account in the world to me. But to me that just seems like facetiousness. People know when they've earned my admiration and customers should know when they've earned my good graces. Anything other than brutal honesty just makes a mockery of the system. I shouldn't have to pretend that your name means anything to me before it actually does. And I shouldn't have to treat you like you're some hotshot celebrity before by God you've actually become that celebrity in my eyes.

You can't tell me you're somebody worth knowing. Only I can decide that. You can't give away your name; you really need to be asked for it.

At least by me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Goin' Home, Gonna Load My Shotgun, Wait By The Door & Light A Cigarette, If He Wants A Fight, Well Now He's Got One,And He Ain't Seen Me Crazy Yet

2009-12-01T04:03:00.000-08:00

--"Gunpowder and Lead", Miranda Lambert

I was talking with Greg the other day about a great many things. Our conversation ran the gamut from the state of the union to such inane topics as what I was in the mood for supper later on that night. Yet I think the greatest nugget we sifted from our talk revolved around the following self-evident truth:

I reckon I could hold my own against the approaching zombie invasion.

It was touch and go for a few minutes. Greg and I argued that I lacked any real strength to fend them off by my little 'ole lonesome. That put me on the defensive frankly for my whole gender, which just didn't sit right with me at all. Yes, I lack the physical capabilities of much larger and slightly taller husband, but I postulated that against a typical undead specimen we would both be overmatched. He wouldn't hear of it. He counterpointed that, of the two of us, he stood a likelier chance of being able to manhandle a zombie. I moved my arguments towards the fact that, again, of the two of us, I stood the best chance of escaping a veritable horde while he was busy trying to prove his manliness against one or two of them. He buttressed his side by saying running away doesn't constitute actually being able to handle myself were I to be surprised by one. If anything, he continued, it only proved that I lacked the sufficient spitfire to want to fight back. That my first instinct would be to flee only supports his notion I hadn't the fortitude to survive a zombie apocalypse.

We went back and forth, sure. But then like a lantern shining through the darkest woods, I happened upon the support I needed to refute his claims. As any horror movie aficionado knows it really ain't a fair fight to go toe to toe with a zombie fist to mouth. Anybody knows zombies possess a superhuman strength that renders any physical combat sorely lopsided. Hell's bells, no one stands a chance against one of their kin with nothing more than fists in hand.

What you need is a gun.

I'm gonna show him what little girls are made of
gunpowder and lead

Frankly, I know how to use a gun and, knowing that, I stand a decent chance of surviving any attack, zombie or not, unscathed. I'm not like a shrinking violet when it comes to using guns. Honestly, by now most folks know I'm not altogether shy about using whatever weapons are at my disposal to give as good as I get. If there's anything that my daddy taught me it's that everyone's going to have their weaknesses, but it doesn't mean I have to play into them. While it is true that I may not hold the horses in my little 'ole arms to throw anything close to resembling a decent punch, my hands have always been woman enough to handle my daddy's shotgun on many occasion when he's taking me with him to blow off a little steam. I may not have taken to target practice like I did to dance or running, but I assure any intruder who comes calling that I have enough talent to hit the broadside of a barn and more than enough gumption to take aim at a person that threatens me or my loved ones.

My husband doesn't care for that kind of talk. I believe he's still under the impression that I need taking care of, as if there's some kind of code that a man needs to protect a woman before all else. You know what I say? I say should the need arise, there ain't no shame in a woman taking care of her man. Honestly, I think it would be a hoot-and-a-half standing next to my darling husband and defending our home together. It'd be a bonding experience, you know? Other couples might go antiquing or to his golf games. We do that kind of shenanigans as well. But imagine the awe we'd inspire were we to announce that the two of us slay zombies in our down time. We'd be the envy of the neighborhood, I think. I could just see it now. Wives would be telling their husbands, "why don't you take me monster slaying like Greg takes his wife to?" Husbands would be lashing their wives to be more fun-loving "like that stunning and altogether intelligent charmer Mrs, Holins-Meier down the street."

Greg eventually came around to the conclusion that I'd be an asset were we to ever be in a real tight situation. He even went so far as to tell me that he trusted me with his life "even against real dangers and not just the horror movie kind." I know I didn't marry any sort of sexist pig--that would have been a unescapable burr in my britches--but it's nice to know he knows he didn't marry any sort of damsel in distress that constantly needed rescuing. As I said, I've always been able to handle myself in a dangerous situation. I don't try to keep myself in danger, but when it comes I'm not exactly backing down from it either. I know how to run. I know how to fight. And I also know when it's prudent to do the former as opposed to the latter.

As my daddy says, "you can't duck every punch, but neither can they." Sometimes when good graces and godly amounts of charm can't get the job done, a good proclamation to kiss my lily white ass is called for, you know?

Honestly, the only roadblock I could foresee would be how I would explain it to my mother. She doesn't even like it when I go splashing around the fountain at Greg's work with the children, informing me that I don't know where that water's been cycled through, honey. Could you imagine the fancy dance steps I'd have to perform to explain how I ended up with ghoul's blood all over my clothes?

Breanne

But Everybody's Gone, And You've Been There For Too Long, To Face This On Your Own, Well, I Guess This Is Growing Up

2009-11-23T19:16:00.000-08:00

--"Dammit", Blink 182

Brownstone Buildings That Stand

i've always admired
the brownstone buildings that stand

surprised at the end
of family avenues.

old outshining new,
their cracks like glitter fallen

over walls, windows,
and the memories within--

there is honor in
the proud display of their age.

i want to be those
standing monuments today;

i want to forego
settling into foundations

recently laid down.
I want to be seen in awe.

that's the secret there
of getting rid of one's youth--

each year's a red brick
laid next to the year before

till a wall, sturdy
and high as mountains, is made.

dw

Oh, Loving Eyes, They Cannot See, A Certain Person Could Never Be, Love Runs Deeper Than Any Ocean, It Clouds Your Mind With Emotion

2009-11-20T01:33:00.000-08:00

--"Everybody Plays The Fool", The Main Ingredient

Yet another reason I hate lists...

80 Questions That I Could Not or Cannot Now Answer:

1. Why can't she love me?
2. Is she too young?
3. Am I ready?
4. Is she ready?
5. Do I value her more as a friend or as something potentially more?
6. Is it wrong to want something different than what she wants?
7. Am I sacrificing a sure thing that makes me happy for something that has the potential to make me happier, but also has the potential to lose me everything?
8. Should I tell her how I'm feeling now or wait until some of these questions have been answered.
9. If I can make her see where I'm at, would it scare her away?
10. Is it really happening?
11. Can I trust her answers or is she just telling me what I want to hear?
12. Would it be better if I backed off?
13. Would it be better if I waited a few years?
14. Am I really going to go ahead with this?
15. Does she even really know who I am and what she's getting herself into?
16. Is it just a question of time?
17. Is it always this difficult to accept I'm getting what I asked for or am I always going to be this skeptical about everything going my way too easily?
18. Do I accept her invitation?
19. Can I trust myself alone with her?
20. What are her parents going to think of me?
21. What are my parents going to say when I tell them I'm missing Christmas to fly clear across the country?
22. Am I really going to do this?
23. Am I really here with her, seeing her in all her beauty, hearing her with all her charms and graces, holding her hand for the very first time?
24. Is she disappointed now that she's finally met me in person?
25. Should I kiss her and do I dare?
26. Is this really happening or am I just fooling myself into thinking she's experiencing it in exactly the same way I am?
27. Do I let her in?
28. Should I tell her to go before we're caught?
29. Do I even want her to go?
30. Would she even stay the whole night next to me?
31. Can she be this completely right for me?
32. Can this weekend get any more sublime?
33. Am I setting myself up for a crash when I have to go home again?
34. Is there any way I can stay for a couple more days?
35. Will I ever have to go through another good-bye as sad as this one?
36. Am I always going to miss her this me when we're separated from now on?
37. Is it love and do I really care to make the distinction?
38. Can I just let myself enjoy whatever this is for the time being?
39. Should I fly out again, knowing full well what will probably end up happening?
40. Should I go along with her charade that we'll be staying home and that's it?
41. Do I really want to go through with this?
42. Is this really what she wants or is she doing this solely to make me happy?
43. Can I ever live with myself if I turn down this opportunity in an effort to do the "right" thing?
44. Has she ever looked more beautiful than she does tonight?
45. Is there ever going to be a more perfect night than tonight and will it be the night every other night gets compared to?
46. How much has the world changed now?
47. How can I ever say good-bye now?
48. Is what we're doing really fair to her or to me?
49. Do we even stand a chance?
50. Is she really pregnant?
51. What should I do?
52. Am I really ready to be trapped into an entire life with her?
53. Will everything get back to normal again now that the scare is over?
54. Can I handle her talking about seeing other people?
55. Does she still feel the same way about me like she did a year ago?
56. Are we still the same people we were when we first met?
57. Do I want her coming over here with everything still so up in the air?
58. Did we always fight this much and is this what our future will consist of from now on?
59. Am I still in love with her and her with me?
60. Should I be supportive of her and him?
61. Is it just jealousy that fuels me or is it me actually regretting my decision?
62. Should I go to the wedding?
63. Should I just apologize for not going?
64. Is eight months of not speaking to me a sign that this time I've finally crossed the last line and are we truly over?
65. Can we really stay friends after all this heartache and turmoil?
66. Should I ask her to join me so at least we can stay in touch somewhere on a regular basis?
67. Have things really gotten better or does it just seem that way?
68. Do I encourage her feelings of disappointment over her marriage or do I play the optimistic friend, encouraging her to keep hope alive even though I want her for myself?
69. Is it wrong to want a married woman if she keeps insisting I'm doing nothing wrong?
70. Should I go to Chicago with her?
71. Will she really leave him?
72. What the hell are we now and how the hell do I describe her to other people?
73. Is it finally time to give up on that dream?
74. Can I be happy just being her friend?
75. Did I miss my chance at true happiness?
76. Is it wrong to still love her like that?
77. Will I ever get over her?
78. Will I ever meet someone else?
79. Is she really the one?
80. Why can't she love me?

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Every Time I Get My Hopes Up, They Always Seem To Fall, Still What Could've Been Is Better Than, What Could Never Be At All

2009-11-19T00:59:00.000-08:00

--"Could've Been", Tiffany

I learned today that Alaska stands alone as the state that eats the most ice cream per capita annually than any other state in the country. Frankly, it took me by surprise because I always thought it was Massachusetts and its myriad of local ice cream shops. What doesn't take me by surprise is the fact that one of our colder states retains this title. Some would like you to believe that the reason Alaskans or any other northern state dwellers prefer ice cream is that by its consumption it lowers your internal temperature. This leads to the sensation of being warmer since one's body is closer in proximity to one's surroundings. It's the same rationale why people tell you to eat hot soup in the Summer. In that instance one's body temperature rises and soon approaches that of the temperature outside, leading to the distinct feeling that it has gotten cooler. It's a tidy explanation but I'm not buying it.

My theory as to why more people who live in the more frigid states prefer ice cream than those of the more temperate states is that ice cream melts less when it's colder outside. I've always believed that melted ice cream is the most useless food on the planet. It becomes all soupy. It starts losing its luster. Frankly, it becomes an ungodly mess. Coincidentally, you only find melted ice cream when the median temperature is somewhat above normal. I've always preferred my ice cream when the weather is at its coldest because you can go the whole way eating through a sizable bowl of ice cream without losing a single drop to melting. Whenever I'm in Boston I make sure to buy my ice cream at night because you almost don't need to freeze it since the weather sometimes will preserve it in all its solidly packed goodness. And that's exactly what I'm looking for when I'm eating ice cream--rigidity. I like knowing the dessert I buy will remain just as it is when I first bought it regardless of where I may traverse to.

Maybe that's just because I'm a person who likes to know what I'm getting or a person who gets attached to having things a certain way. I sometimes have difficulty with promises which start out so appealing, but ultimately fail to live up to their potential. That's all ice cream is, the potential for a truly rich and satisfying dessert even surpassing that of cake which, unfortunately, more often than not falls far below its potential to absolutely blow your mind. At least with a cake there's stability there. More often than not if you leave a cake sitting out on a table for an hour, it will still retain its cake-like properties. You leave a bowl of ice cream on a table somewhere for an hour and you'll find yourself with a bowl of ice cream soup.

how can you hold what could’ve been
on a cold and lonely night

I've spoken a lot recently with Toby about her stance that it's better to let go of people before they change too much on you. While I still don't agree with her point-of-view, I'm beginning to see more and more where she's coming from. Sometimes I hold people to the same standards of ice cream. I would like nothing more to see the person I meet, the person I immediately form an affection for, remain just as they are. Sure, there are moments where I'm the first proponent for some sort of push in the direction I want the relationship to go, but more often than not I find myself in the role of the old nostalgic, wanting to hold onto a bit of the past in which seemingly everything was sublimely perfect. I'm of the opinion that buying into a person, letting them into your life, is a bit like buying a car. It's not an easy choice or one that you make on an impulse most of the time. And most of the time all you're looking for is a car that appeals to you and which will prove reliable. Now, when it comes to letting people into my life, I'd almost put a priority on the latter criteria than the former. I'm much more willing to overlook a person's other faults, whatever they may be, as long as they prove themselves dependable. As long as I can accurately gauge a person's standard mode of operating I'm almost happy to overlook the deficits in their character. It's far easier to overlook a fatal flaw as long as you know it's there and always will be. What annoys me is when people act a certain way when you first meet them and then reverse footing to change their behavior in rather off-putting manners. When I can't predict a person's next reaction from day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year, &c..., that's when I start organizing my thoughts in the pursuit of finding someone else to befriend.

The steady decline of a person's personality from their youth till the reach maturity is some of the most disheartening days for me. It's like watching my ice cream slowly melt away from me. It's painful to see people change from being likable to being unrecognizably distant and strange. It's happened to me far too often for me to just brush it aside. When people change, for worse or better nominally, it always hurts. It pains me to know that they're no longer the person I care like I want to. It's like they're breaking some unwritten and unspoken covenant between the both of us.

While I wouldn't go so far as to follow Marion's example of abandoning people preemptively before they become unrecognizable, I definitely am more aware when a person's disposition starts to unravel at the seams. I may not marginalize that person's importance to me to any sizable degree, but I notice a shift in how I treat them. I can see all the little ways I change stemming from somebody else changing. I stop giving them the benefit of the doubt so often, I stop being so adamant about seeing them on a regular basis, I start abbreviating my conversations with them, &c...--all in an effort of minimizing the damage done to me when communication between us possibly breaks down. I won't "break up" with a friend simply because they start making adjustments to their life, but when those adjustments start adding up to a new person with new goals and aspirations running afoul of my own, that's when I consider walking away from the whole shebang.

After all, who wants a bowl of ice cream once more than half of what you started with has melted away? One can only take so much alteration to one's dessert before it starts becoming unappetizing and even sickening.

If only we could freeze friendships as easily as ice cream....

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But How Your Mood Changes, You're A Devil, Now An Angel, Suddenly Subtle And Solemn & Silent As A Monk, You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk

2009-11-16T23:18:00.000-08:00

--"You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk", Pet Shop Boys

Stop me if you've heard this story before. I used to have a friend about two years ago that I thought I was pretty close to. I mean--we didn't hang out every weekend and she wasn't the first person I called when I was bored or lonely or just wanted to do something spontaneous, but we saw enough of each other for me at least to consider us decent friends. I could have been wrong. I could have been misinterpreting what we had for something more substantial than what she considered it. All I know is that two years ago she moved away and suddenly it was like the three years previous to that didn't exist any more. Suddenly it was like everything between us just died.

And it's weird because she celebrated her twenty-third birthday recently--this past Saturday, in fact--and I didn't even realize it until the day of. Facebook at least acts like information like that is still relevant to me. If it were up to me I probably would have gone blithely on all weekend not acknowledging the fact. It's not like she even remembered my birthday last month or the one from last year. And it isn't like she's even bothered to drop me a note or pick up a phone in the almost two years since we last spoke. When somebody has to tell you when a person's birthday is, you know you've stopped considering that person as being important to you at all. It's like when you're mom has to tell you to kiss your aunts good-bye because she knows you wouldn't do it on your own given the chance. Well, given the chance, I have no doubt I would have blocked any well wishes to the person in question at all.

And yet all this reflecting on how far the two of us have fallen away from one another has only stirred memories about how good we used to be. It reminds me of all those nights in the Dodger Stadium parking lot talking about how television shows aren't as good as they used to be, or how our cars were pieces of shit, or how a good whiskey or bourbon can make it feel like everything's better when it's really not. That last part we were always good at. Even when we realized that deep down we didn't have a lot in common between us, we always had passing a bottle around to keep us talking. If anything, she's the only real drinking buddy I've ever had. With most people the last thing I want to think about doing is going drinking with them. With most people, it's always a last resort, something we fall back on if we can't think of something better to do. But with her most of our nights it seemed to begin or end at the bar. And if not there, our outings always involved celebrating some random achievement with a bottle or two safely ensconced with us in the parking lot of the Glendale Galleria or the aforementioned Dodger Stadium. Whereas with most people a night out meant a decent restaurant in Pasadena or Los Angeles, my outings with her always entailed cheap Mexican food and an expensive bottle of scotch, wine, or whatever was readily available.

Maybe that's all we were to each other, somebody to listen to while we got drunk and started spouting off at the mouth. I can't remember any of our good times involving us being sober. I mean--I think we had okay times, but nothing memorable. All the good memories I have of us liking each other involved getting way too happy way too quickly. It's like we needed that social lubrication before we could be comfortable around each other. Usually that's a crutch one utilizes when one is in the company of strangers. One normally doesn't rely on such tactics with people he considers close friends. Let's face it, if you have to get drunk just to face a person then you know something's off.

I don't know--she was one of those gals that Longfellow once wrote about--when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid. And it usually revolved around whether or not we had been drinking recently. She was a foul-mouthed drunk. More than that, she was mean sometimes when she went too far. Yet she was also lively and talkative and half a million things I wish people could be when they were just acting normal. She was almost a different creature when she wasn't drinking. She was depressing and cynical; she was the definition of a person looking to escape the dreary life around her. Given the option, it was almost always preferable to have a little something before we did anything else. It made life easier. It made her easier to deal with.

Perhaps that's why we ultimately failed at the staying in touch endeavor. We just couldn't think of anything to say to one another that was real. Maybe the only kind of communication we knew how to do was fueled by alcohol and insomnia and a shared distaste for doing as we were told. That's what our friendship was, an opportunity to vent without limits. That's what made it special, that we felt like we were saying something significant for the first time to somebody significant enough to recognize it. And then when the uniqueness faded away and we found ourselves repeating the same old tired chestnuts about how we had screwed up our lives or how being lonely fucking sucked, we each stopped serving that purpose for one another. She started to see me for the empty vase that I was and I started seeing her for the ball of seething anger that she'd always been. When she moved to Philadelphia, it might have given us the excuse to walk away from a dynamic that had outlived its purpose. Or, better yet, her moving away might have given us the excuse to put things back into order.

At the end of our days as being two people who knew each other well, it might have been akin to us waking up from a dream. For awhile there we both might have wanted to get back into that dream, but it might have taken that separation to instill the distinction of what was real and what was a case of convenience.

We staked our knowledge of one another to what we learned while in the midst of many an alcohol-fueled confessional. But once the drinking stopped, that's when the process of getting to know one another stopped. Without that there was nowhere else for us to go.

Our talks, our whole knowing each other, was a castle made out of sand and two years ago may have been when the wind and waves finally caught up to us.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Want To Thank You, For Giving Me The Best Day Of My Life, Oh, Just To Be With You, Is Having The Best Day Of My Life

2009-11-13T04:05:00.000-08:00

--"Thank You", Dido

Certain Collisions

when the moments we're
supposed to remember first

stray into our path
we often step around them.

we're often wary
when being dislodged from the

steps we're committed
to take in exact sequence.

but the next time those
moments merge into our lane

we're not so guarded
against certain collisions.

dw

----

In 2004, when I was all of eleven, Choppers began dating a boy named Neil Allen. Apparently, she was very enamored of the child because he began coming over to our house with some frequency. This was a huge deal to me because before then none of my sisters had been granted the privilege of having their boyfriends over an almost nightly basis. It was like having a small pebble thrown into our once calm pond. On second thought, it was more like a huge boulder being dislodged from a mountain far away and having it roll into our once calm pond. It was distracting, disconcerting, and, most importantly, disquieting to our family. Okay, it was mostly all of those things to me.

Gosh. At the time it felt like I was the only person who could see what a disruption his presence was. Everyone else in my family accepted his intrusion with good grace. It was almost as if we had been waiting for his company all our lives and yet I wasn't even aware he had even been invited. I took the realization like I did most things that didn't agree with me. I smiled politely. I said all the right things to make him feel welcome. However, I internalized a great deal of confusion and grief at what I felt like was a violation of the sanctity of my family structure. It no longer functioned the same. It didn't feel the same. Instead of coming home to dinner with just the five of us, he would be there oftentimes. Instead of being able to ask Nora to come with me to the grocery store or to take me the movies, she would have to clear her plans with Neil first. And instead of being able to play poker with my oldest sister like we used to do on Sunday nights, she would often be gone for the whole night, if not the whole afternoon as well.

I know it wasn't my fault for anything I'd done. Yet it felt my losing time with my sister was a punishment for something I couldn't put my finger on, I can tell you that much.

For a long time I tried to rationalize what kind of sins I might have committed for God to be taking someone I looked up to as much as I did to Nora. And for a long time I wondered what I could do to get her back. I couldn't wrap my head around the concept that my sisters, as close as we might be, weren't always going to be around to be at my beck and call. Someday, even someday soon, they very well might be gone from my lives completely. I just couldn't get my brain to accept the truth of the matter, which was that all of us are kites in the sky. We may share the same airspace from time to time, but eventually the winds take in different directions. It's impossible to stay at the same height as one another forever. Eventually the wind will die down or may completely blow us in different directions. Soon, we may find ourselves flying a different sky, sharing space with different kites.

That lesson came within a few months after Nora started dating Neil. I was up in my room not exactly sulking that she had just cancelled yet another invitation to come see Chasing Liberty with me. I'd been asked to come downstairs three times by my mom to "come say hi" to Neil. But I didn't feel like coming down just then. What I felt like was a petulant child who just didn't know she was being petulant. Rather than voice my displeasure outright and force the issue, I preferred to give the excuse that I was feeling under the weather and dare not risk bringing the mood of the conversation down. My mom said that was alright and to come down anyway. I told her maybe in a few minutes, if I was feeling better. We left it at that.

I was planning to come down. Gosh. I wasn't. I was going to stay up in my room until I heard Nora and Neil leave. At the very least I was going to wait until Faye gave me the signal that the conversation was wrapping up. If everything had gone to plan, I would have just been coming down the stairs as they were walking out the door.

Fortunately, that plan wasn't meant to be.

I came down the stairs five minutes earlier than I planned to. Instead of waiting for Faye's signal, I estimated at what I thought would be an appropriate amount of time. I was hoping to catch them still at the tail end of the small talk. When I got down there, though, the talking was still lively. More's the pity, I thought. Gosh, I felt like saying. I wonder how I'm going to excuse myself back upstairs.

Something was different, though. Keen investigator I am, as I had come down the stairs I had noticed the sound of someone else's voice interspersed with the other's voices. Younger, more impulsive, this voice sounded. When I reached the bottom of the stairs that's when I saw him. That's the first time I saw Neil's younger brother, Jack.

Jack, Mr. Stranger himself.

Jack, who it turns out would be my closest friend for years more than Nora would ever date Neil.

Jack, who I would have never met at all if I'd stuck to my plan.

----

And now it seems it'll be Jack who I'll have to leave behind me. We haven't applied to the same schools. We never even talked about that being a possibility. Gosh. I suppose we don't have that type of friendship that's really demonstrative or full of outright outpouring of emotion. Me? I've always been a little emotionally stunted when it comes to saying how I feel at the point I'm feeling it. I've always been a firm believer in saying how you feel after you've had time to process it. And Jack? Jack's always been feeling what you're going to feel but never discuss it type of person. I think he understands that I'm going to miss him and I'm certain he's going to miss me, but it's never been super-important that we stay in touch with one another all our lives. We've never given certain indications that's where we wanted to head.

I look at people like Patrick and Breanne, who were always intent on preserving this ideal of friendship their whole life long. I've read how they discussed it and changed their lives to accommodate that goal. As much as I admire the sentiment and the fact that they were somehow able to eke it out, I just don't see that for myself. I don't see myself as the long-term friendship type of girl.

I think I still have that image of kites flying in the sky in my head. We're just not meant to fly forever next to any one person. My belief is we're supposed to enjoy the time we spend with them. God only knows I've enjoyed the time I've spent with Jack and Françoise both. They've both been a testament to my belief that you don't postpone joy; I've spent the last four years learning from them both what it's like to treasure each moment as they occur. I've spent more days coming out of my shell with them than I did in the ten or so years prior. They've really been some of the best days I've had the pleasure of living through.

Yet when high school ends so shall my high school friendships, sad as I may be. It's the only way I know to function. I can't plan on holding onto anyone or anything forever beyond my life. Trying to hold fast to a specific way of doing things is how I shut myself off from the world in the first place. And trying to hold onto the same set of people would be a mistake when next year will be my one big chance to truly blossom as a person. I don't want to be on the path that only leads me back to myself and the life I've always had and the friends I've always had and the sunsets I've always seen.

When I go to college in next year--be it Michigan, Notre Dame, Kentucky, Irvine, Iowa, or wherever--the only thing I want to know for sure is that it's not going to be exactly the way it is now. And the only way I can make sure of that is that everything and everyone I begin the school year with is a new and exciting opportunity.

I love Jack. I'll always love him for getting me through high school, but when the time comes to say good-bye I won't hesitate to do it. And you know why? Because Jack of all people would know that it's only until you let go of what you have that you open yourself up to what else might be out there.

He was there when I came down the stairs... just like somebody else, I hope, will be there when I start life over in college next year. Just like somebody else, I hope, we'll be there when I graduate after that. That's all life is, people who enrich your life and who you give your gratitude to, that lead you to next set of people who enrich your life and so on so forth, a never-ending pattern of grabbing on and letting go.

Gosh. Just like monkey bars. LOL

dw

I Know You Think That I Shouldn't Still Love You, Or Tell You That, But If I Didn't Say It, Well, I'd Still Have Felt It, Where's The Sense In That?

2009-11-11T04:33:00.000-08:00

--"White Flag", Dido

Continuing the Dido motif...

I love Tuesdays. It's my favorite day of the week. Even better than Saturday, even better than Sunday, Tuesdays for me have long been unofficially my day. And I'll tell you why.

It's the one day of the week I get to nap.

I'm not talking about a short catnap that lasts all of fifteen minutes. Hell's bells no. I am talking about the quality kind of nap that little 'ole me can't get enough of. Ever since I was sixteen I've set aside four to six hours every Tuesday for the last thirteen years just to sleep. Now this doesn't mean I get four to six hours of sleep every Tuesday, but I sure as the sun comes up in the east make sure nothing of any great importance is attempted to the time. I have the same routine each and every single time. I turn off all the lights in my room. I turn off all my phones and computers, anything that could be a distraction. Then all I do is lay in bed willing my mind to surrender to the great stillness of life. I sleep the sleep of a gal empowered enough to know that the most powerful choice a person can make about their life is where and when to slow it down. For all my talk about being the one who's always going, Tuesdays have become the points in my life where I can afford to just stop it all for a second. For one day a week I become as still as a lake in the morning hours just before dawn. For one day a week Breanne is less than she could be willingly.

The other great part of my Tuesdays is that during these naps I have these wondrous dreams that make me feel ever full of hope and contentment. Every time I wake up, it's like waking up from a vacation that you didn't even know you were on. I just wake up with a smile on my face, a carryover from the bliss that has become my weekly visitor as well.

For instance, yesterday I dreamt that somebody loved me and her name was Shelly. I dreamt I was fourteen again and she was turning eighteen. We were in my room and it was eight at night. I was dressed like Snow White and she was dressed like Rebecca Howe from Cheers. And for some reason we were ordering food from the market down the street even though, for the most part, they have never delivered to my parents' house ever. I remember reciting whatever foodstuffs that Shelly would tell me to get, from Arizona Ice Tea to Chee-tos, from Cupcakes to Beef Jerky. It wasn't even a long list, but for some reason the boy on the other end of the phone couldn't keep up with each entry. I had to repeat myself two or three times before he got the gist of what exactly it was we wanted.

I just remember how surreal it was and yet familiar at the same time. The way Shelly would scrunch her voice just so, pretending she was already bored with the activity at hand; the way I would emulate her exact pitch as if monkeying her words would somehow make me as refined as her. Even the red tank top and yellow shirts I wore in the dream were the exact pair I used to wear all the time.

But what I remember the most was how comfortable the scene felt, as if it were some kind of play we had rehearsed for months and now were finally being able to perform. I remember how my words felt crisp in my mouth. I remember how straightened my room looked. I remember smelling the hint of jasmine floating through my balcony window, every so often mixing with the orange scent that was coming off my body, a scent that I often wore when I was at that age.

Most importantly, Shelly was still my cousin and not some long lost relative of my own. We were talking like we were still family. She still loved me and I didn't have to pretend so diligently that it didn't matter at all what she thought of me. We were just two nightingales singing the night hours away, chirping for some food, but mostly chirping at one another in playful reverie. Every smile we wore was genuine, heartfelt even. It was like a scene straight out of my memory, but it also felt so new as if it was happening for the first time.

When I finally woke up I almost had the urge to call Shelly right then and there. Then I thought better of it. The dream had already made me so happy. Why should I ruin my image of her with the dull reality of what has become of the two of us. That's the good thing about dreams and Tuesdays; you don't have to let the real world back in until you're damn good and ready, you know?

Breanne

I Won't Leave, I Can't Hide, I Cannot Be, Until You're Resting Here With Me

2009-11-09T23:06:00.000-08:00

--"Here With Me", Dido

Contemplating my upcoming second visit to Kentucky this May, I've come to the realization that the majority of the trips I go on turn out really damn well in the end. I'm not stuck with bad memories of long stretches of boredom with whomever I might be traveling with at the time. Nor do I have a stockpile of stories of how everything went wrong from the word go when speaking in regards to the dozens of trips I've taken over the years. Maybe it's just because it doesn't really take much to make a vacation successful for me--good food, good company, and some sort of purpose in being even if that purpose is only to take in a baseball game or attend a friend's graduation, as the case may be. Or maybe it's just because I've had great luck when it comes to everything falling my way when it comes time to sally forth from my perch in Southern California.

Indeed, the only horrifying trip I believe I've ever taken was the drive up and down the coast we went on in 1998. That's the only time that I can recall that something might have been off from the very beginning and continued to fester until we pulled back into my driveway. Even then, I still possess some pleasant memories of that trip. Even then, I would hesitate to label it an unmitigated disaster. It remains the one time I fell closest to completely canceling a trip entirely, though.

However, it's not even close in comparison to the trip that on the outside sounds like it was absolutely horrid. That honor goes to a trip I took in February 2003 with my ex at the time, one Miss DeAnn.

For starters, you have to understand, that the two of us while we were dating had the bad luck to have our first long-distance trip get off to a rocky start. Back in 2008 about two months after we started going out we were supposed to have taken a car trip to San Francisco. However, somewhere over the Grapevine my car had decided to overheat and completely leave us stranded on the side of the road. We had to wait for an hour before the tow truck came and two hours before my dad could pick us up from where they had towed the car. And yet, that time still turned out okay. I borrowed my parents' van and the two of us took a shorter weekend excursion up to Santa Barbara, where we spent most of our three days looking out over our balcony which was literally one hundred feet from the ocean and pretty much eating and strolling throughout most of the beach community. In fact, I'd daresay it was a complete rescue of what could have been a disastrous excursion.

Keeping that in mind, there was a precedence for us having somewhat bad luck when it came to going on trips. The intermediate trips between that road trip and the D.C. trip, which turned out to be the last trip I took with DeAnn had all gone smoothly (yes, even counting are planned trip to New Orleans on 9/11/01), yet there was alway the potential there that we could have had a repeat of San Francisco all over again.

My first clue that the timing may have been off was the fact DeAnn's body decided to come down with appendicitis a week before we were supposed to take off. Granted, we only decided to go to D.C. two weeks before the date of departure so it wasn't like a huge gap for something to come up, but it was almost like her body was trying to tell us something was destined to go wrong with the trip. We talked about canceling when she got out of the hospital four days after she went in, three day we were supposed to leave. A lot of her friends and family counseled us against leaving. Most of the people I knew thought it was a bad idea to even still be hanging out with an ex two years after we had broken up, let alone pay for a trip for the two of us, so I wasn't about to disclose that she had gone to the hospital at all. In the end, though, we decided that four days in D.C. was too much of an exciting prospect to pass up.

So, despite her doctors giving her a strict warning that exerting herself so soon after major surgery was a bad idea, we left for D.C. that Friday morning. Everything went smoothly after we landed. DeAnn was a little tired so all we were able to do when we landed was go to dinner in the hotel restaurant. Happily, though, that restaurant turned out to be a Shula's Steakhouse, which please me to no end since we had an awesome steak dinner (ordered off a football, no less) to begin our stay in Washington, D.C. We came back to our hotel room, watched a little TV, and DeAnn soon knocked off within the next ninety minutes. I stayed up for another couple of hours, but turned earlier than usual since I too was tired from the flight and the fifty minute drive to our hotel in the midst of the city proper.

That's probably how I missed the start of what could have completely ruined our trip.

During the night the city received three feet of snow. While we slept the city was slowly being layered in white. What's worse, it just kept on snowing the next day off and on. By the end of Sunday, newscasts were calling it one of the top ten worst snowstorms they had seen in the last hundred years. By the end of the weekend almost eight feet of snow had been dumped onto where we were staying.

When we woke up Saturday, I thought there was still a chance they might have the roads cleared up by the afternoon. Hell, even if they had gotten the buses or trains running, I would have been happy. We had so many places I wanted to show her--Smithsonian, Congress, Washington Monument, Lincoln Monument, Monticello, &c...--that even a few hours delay was enough to make me antsy. We'd already been pressed for time when we thought the weather was going to be good, but missing the morning was like torture for me. It worked out for DeAnn, though, because despite her protests to the contrary, the surgery had knocked her out more than she had let on. When she heard the roads were snowed over and that they probably wouldn't be getting around to plowing it till the afternoon at the earliest, she used it as an excuse to stay in bed sleeping for another few hours. She probably needed the sleep, but all I could think of was how all of that was not what I had carefully planned the week before.

I think the only thing we ended up doing of any interest was go out to dinner at a restaurant a few blocks up the street since the roads were still too dangerous to drive. Aside from that momentary distraction, we stayed in our hotel room and watched TV. Well, I mostly watched cable on TV. DeAnn pretty much drifted in and out of sleep till it was time for dinner and then pretty much the same after we had returned to the hotel room.

Sunday's weather was no better. Fairly soon I realized that we weren't going to be able to do anything at all that was on our list of activites. Fairly soon I realized I had just wasted $400 dollars on a trip to see the inside of a hotel room and on a van that would pretty much drive us from the airport to the hotel and from the hotel back to the airport. We wouldn't be seeing any of the sights. We wouldn't be reliving any of the memories I had made when I had gone to D.C. in sixth grade. We wouldn't be doing anything new and different than what we could have been doing in any hotel back in California.

I should have been pissed. I was annoyed, for sure, but a funny thing happened on the usual path to me losing my temper. It turned out not having to do all that driving and all that touring forced the two of us to spend time together in a way that we hadn't spent time doing since we'd gone out. Rather than me trying to keep her occupied all the time so should we think of how much fun I was and the fun times I could pay for, which was the real reason I wanted to go on the trip, we ended up having a decent time all by our lonesomes in the hotel room. We were relaxed, something that I don't think we would have been if we had attempted to keep up with the hectic schedules we had planned for ourselves at the trip's outset. And I know we avoided a slew of fighting from the simple change in plans of not having to decide what or where we would go first. Yes, we were already broken up, but I have the funny feeling that if that trip had gone on as scheduled we would have been at each other's throats like we had been when we had been seeing each other.

Truth be told, it was nice just laying in bed with her, waiting while she slept. It was nice just taking care of her while her body was recuperating. It was nice just being in the same room with her without having to worry about what the status of our relationship was. In the hotel room we were just two friends trying to make the best of a bad situation and, for the most part, succeeding on sheer will.

By the time the roads had been cleared and the sun was shining again on Monday, we were both talking and joking like we had been on Friday morning when we had flown in. DeAnn, not surprisingly, was doing a lot better--way better than she would have if we had actually tromped around Virginia and Maryland like we had wanted to. Also, it was a point of joking of just how bad of a weekend I could have picked to go flying to the East Coast. Instead of going somewhere, you know, warm for February, I had decided to go to a place already known for snowstorms, blizzards, and just plain mean weather. All of this helped to relieve the disappointment at what the trip could have been. We were joking that this had to go down as possibly the worst trip in human history. To this day, I still think she jokes about it with her family and friends.

But as aforementioned, I don't consider it a disaster. If anything, it goes a long way to proving my theory that any time can be a good time as long you're with the right company. If anything, it only asserts the distinction that I'd much rather take a nap and watch cable with a close friend and confidante than scurry around all over our nation's capital with a stubborn and mean ex-girlfriend... even if, by coincidence, those were one and the same person.

No, I don't consider that trip a disaster.

I recall that trip as one of the many good times that I had the privilege and honor to share with her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Like Running Away With The Wind In My Face, It's Like Flying, And You And I Are Open Wide

2009-11-06T01:14:00.000-08:00

--"Running Away", Polyphonic Spree

Marion was stopped the other day at her church service by somebody who reads this blog and recognized her picture. She, like me, has only been used to people she willingly gave out the web address to reading her posts here. It took her rather aback because blogs are a curious thing in that you think you're writing them for yourselves and a select group of people, but anyone and their mom can read them (if it isn't locked, that is). There poor delfty was, thinking she was writing for less than a handful of people and she finds out that not only are certain classmates reading here, but that it's also spread two generations across by now in reaching people she doesn't know directly. She could have reacted differently, but she took it in stride as befitting her newfound confidence. She thanked them for their patronage and went on her way.

Me? The only people I know who read here are people I've suggested read it. I know people from both when I worked at Bally's and people I know from my current job at Eclipse read it. I know people from my boardgaming group also read it. Hell, I know people from almost school I've attended has read our blog at one time or another. Does that alter what I write? I can't say for certain, but I believe I would have to answer no. While I might have intended the audience for this site to be limited, I learned a long time ago that there won't be any controlling of who has access to my thoughts which are posted here. It'd be a losing battle if I tried to fight that fight. As of now, I just write like I write my letters, picturing as if I'm chatting with one of my friends or telling an anecdote to someone I may have just bumped into at a party or something. One strength I've always had is that I'm able to write about personal ideas and events without a sense of propriety. I attempt to write everything as I remember it or as I think of it, without editing and without hesitation.

Yes, it bothers me a little bit that there are certain groups of people who are reading this that have frankly no good reason for reading it. Certain people I know who I know I've grown out of touch with and who have made it clear they want nothing to with me still read this blog. That doesn't make any sense to me. And, yes, it makes me a bit nervous that my full name is associated with this site, meaning that my vendors from Eclipse can, if they want, find out some fully embarrassing tidbits about me. What they would do with this information is beyond me, but it is out there to color their assessment of my capability to do my job. That bothers me some. And, yes, ever since my parents upgraded to their laptop I'm sort of curious to see when they'll finally stumble across my blog. I'm anticipating a call from my mom that will be long and in-depth about what certain facts about me that I may have hid from them. That's not going to be a fun call, explaining each and every indiscretion and questionable choice I've made in the last thirty years.

That doesn't mean I'm thinking about taming anything down here and I'm encouraging the other SFoM members to do the same.

The way I see it is that, first and foremost, this is a place where I can relay what I'm thinking and what I'm remembering so that there is some kind of record of what I was going through at any given moment of my life. I'm basically telling stories to myself before I forget that they were once important to me. Also, it's a place to get certain skeletons in my closet out into the open before they stink up my psyche. I have a problem deciphering what I'm supposed to feel about certain poor choices I've made until ten or fifteen years have passed. I tend to hold reflecting on what a mess my life has sometimes become until an acceptable amount of time has transpired. That's usually when I come to write it here, so, again, there's some kind of record of the lessons I've gleaned.

To stifle that simply because I'm worried what other people might think would be disservice to this whole exercise. I'm pretty sure Breanne and Toby would say the same. What's the point of writing down your feelings and telling your secrets if you're only going to be embarrassed by them later on? If you feel that way, then you might as well keep them inside until they fester. Part of the process of unburdening yourself is the restraint to not care who later rifles through those burdens. It's like throwing away trash; you've just got to let certain things go into the world lest you hold onto too tightly.

That's why if a similar situation were to happen to me where a friend of a friend or long-distance acquaintance were to disclose to me they've been reading about me, I'll try not to take it personally as well. I've opened that Pandora's Box a long time ago. I've let my stories and Lucy's stories and Marion's stories remain up here for over five years now. During that time over 100,000 people have shuffled through them. I'm sure of those 100,000 people quite a few them could recognize the name of Patrick Taroc before they even came here. I'll just try to thank the person for reading my stuff and try not to dwell on which potentially unsympathetic story they may have glanced through.

After all, this is a place for my words to be read. I can't back down now because I may take umbridge with the quality of those selfsame readers. I either let everyone read it or let no one read it.

Right now I'd much rather have the problem of too many readers than too little.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

These Days Are All, Share Them With Me, These Days Are All, Happy And Free, These Happy Days Are Yours And Mine

2009-11-04T04:05:00.000-08:00

--"Happy Days Theme"

Ask anyone who knew me when.

They would agree that I used to be the most carefree spirit the world has ever known. It's not by accident that I was given the nickname Little Miss Chipper at an early age. I was that gal. I was that gal who smiled at everyone walking down the street. I was that gal who danced around in class, swung from the trees, climbed roofs, played ball with the neighborhood kids, and went to Sunday service because I enjoyed it. I was that gal who wrote thank-you notes and letters to all her friends and kinfolk all the time, each one more heartfelt than the last. I was that gal who showed up early and left late to everywhere. I was that gal who played everyday, really played as if the whole world were a giant set of swings and seesaw all rolled into one. I was that gal who heard music in her heart and wanted to share it with her mouth and eyes and hands. As my mother used to say, I had the joy in my heart which was brighter than even the noonday sun.

I couldn't even tell you why. It isn't that I woke up one morning in my bed and decided I was going to be cheery all of a sudden. I never made the conscious effort to improve my mood. That's genuinely the state of mind I took up residence in. It was the simplest of tasks. Aside from my many issues with my mother, I was as happy as an afternoon softball game played at a family reunion. I had a comfortable life where I was taken care of by my adoring parents, spoiled even some might say. I was well-liked at school. People claimed I was the "prettiest sight they ever did see." I was intelligent, even clever by half, according to all my teachers. I never wanted for anything. I never threw tantrums or complained publicly. I was well-behaved. I knew my etiquette and was taught the finest of manners. Everything seemed like the picture of idyllic bliss. How I was supposed to be, that's how I was. That's all I knew to be.

Maybe that was a slight problem in the beginning. I had been told all these different routes to being a happy, normal child that I took to like a duck takes to water. I didn't fight it at all when other kids might have had to be dragged kicking and scream. Where others chose to resist, I believed. Where others chose to question, I took people's answers at their word. Perhaps all this joy I felt in my formative was all predicated on the lie that there were people older than me who knew better for me.

One would have had only to taken a look at my early pictures to glean the depths of my complete immersion into the life that was planned for me. I took dance lessons that I never thought I needed, that even my dance instructor Mrs. Harvick said were only sharpening a knife which could already cut through glass. I studied and got grades which were reflective of someone going through their senior year in high school, not third grade. I volunteered with my Church group starting at the age of four. I dressed with fancy ribbons in my hair every day of the year and tied it up with an even fancier ribbon at night. And for what? To make myself happy? Sure. But it wasn't all about me either. A lot of the bliss I experienced during those years of my life were invested in the prospect of making everyone else happy. I can see that now. I'm not going to lie. Parts of those years were a hoot-and-a-half. But those times were more associated with choices I made to make myself content. All those other times, all those other choices I made, were made with the specific intent to please someone else; be it my parents, my teachers, my friends, or, yes, even my God. If I were to compare all the times I actually made decisions to please myself with the times I was just going along to appease someone else, my share would be altogether miniscule. It would be ridiculous even making that comparison.

That isn't to say that I don't take kindly to assisting others. That's a part of my nature too. But the stronger part of my nature, I can see now, is rooted in the belief that I need to be in control of what I do. When I help someone out I want to be secure in the knowledge that it was due to my choice and not out of a sense of obligation to others. All my years seem nothing more than community service and time served for the crime of being born to high expectations. I never even had a chance to complain because, frankly, I was never taught properly how to complain.

I was happy because I didn't know I had the okay to be angry or dissatisfied.

I smiled because I was told good girls don't make that other face.

I couldn't cry because it would ruin my complexion for the whole day.

All those times I got in trouble for being "wicked" were maybe the way my subconscious was rebelling against the way I was being raised. I didn't feel it at the time, but I a collar around me that was keeping me in line. Sure, I possessed the longest of leashes, but it was a restraint nonetheless. I was happy but only because that was the only sort of happiness I had ever known. It would be awhile longer before I saw for myself what it's truly like to experience happiness on my own terms and on my own timetable.

It was the same with my friendships. Those early ones, the ones with the likes of Fawn, Hanna, and, of course, Torry--they were built upon the strictures of the way I was taught friends were supposed to act. There were the play dates carefully choreographed among my mother and the other mothers. There were the subtle ways we were influenced not to allow anyone unsavory into our small group. There were the constant reminders from my parents how a good friend was supposed to act. And I stored it away like a mother bird building its nest. I utilized these little 'ole pieces of information to intricately construct what I thought was the perfect, yet small, circle of friends. About the only time I ever improvised my way through the adventure of having friends and keeping them back then were the few minutes of recess and lunch us girls shared everyday. That was when it was real, that's when I truly felt close to them all. All those other times, when we were taken shopping, when we were paraded around in pageant after pageant, when we were told we would be attending the Church picnic--they all felt dictated to us, or at least to me. It felt like everyone else had the blueprint to this wonderful house I was expected to live in except me.

Towards the end I picked up enough to know what I wanted out of confidantes and I can honestly say I started to experience what it was like to grow true friendships in the absence of expectation. It's only towards the end that I put together a real bond with all three of those gals that genuinely endures today (just ask Fawn). Those last two years when all four of us were together, that's some of what I thought was real happiness.

However, it took my friendship with Eeyore to show me what real happiness with friends is supposed to be like. In the beginning I thought we would make a good set of friends because we had similar interests and a somewhat similar perspective of the world. We both liked writing and we both by that time had developed into truly headstrong people. You would have thought it would be calling down lightning itself to consider pairing up two of the most stubborn cusses in the world, but in the beginning it worked phenomenally. During that so-called honeymoon phase of the friendship we would talk on the phone just about everyday. There wasn't anything I wouldn't share with him. We were joking and compassionate and even a little bit infatuated with one another. It's no big secret that my mother wasn't too appreciative of the amount of time I was spending on him and I reckon that Patrick's parents were entirely thrilled either. But it was new. It was exciting. It was what I thought the whole experience of having a mature friendship would be like. We could have the intellectual discussions about the latest art films or the current nonfiction bestseller, but we could also share our passion for baseball, barbecue, and bestiality (just joshing). We seemed to have it all. We were shaping our own destiny as a couple, us against everyone else, and in the beginning it was relatively stress-free. I thought all our days together were going to be the happiest days I would ever experience.

Hell's bells, was I ever wrong on that call.

You can't have two people that stubborn in close proximity to one another and maintain a semblance of control for any lengthy of period of time. The fights, when they did come, came quickly and often like a flood that just never seems to let up. It wasn't more than a few months till it seemed like we were having a fight every week. We would fight. We would yell. Phones would be slammed down, words would be exchanged, and a lot of feelings would get trampled upon. I'm usually a tough person. I usually don't let the world drag me down for too long, but I'm not exaggerating when I say there would be days when I would be scared that he would call me that day to begin the latest fight anew. It was almost as frustrating as the days when I would be scared that he wouldn't call me at all. For a long time there, years even, we had hit the period in our relationship we like to call "the Troubles". We're not the type to keep our feelings bottled up for very long. When they came, they came hard and fast. Whatever emotion you could start a fight over we would start them repeatedly over. Jealousy, revenge, paranoia, skepticism, and even plain spite--we weren't strangers to leafing through our rolodexes to happen upon a good reason to get something off our chests.

Even when we started seeing each other, that only made it worse. Then we had a whole other set of reasons to be disappointed with one another.

I can't even tell you when exactly we left "the Troubles" behind us. Part of us still believes that we won't ever leave that state of friendship. There are some days where we'll talking and an old wound will just fester again because of some joke he just made. There are some days where I specifically tease him too long or diligently for pure amusement. That's the way it is with old friends. Old fights never really die; they just get postponed until a later date (or year).

But what I have learned in the last five years, the last five years since we had a fight which led to us not speaking for eight months, was that there isn't ever going to be a fight with him that'll be more important to me than preserving what we have here. Yes, I'm a very proud little 'ole lady. I don't suffer losing with the easiest of spirits. A lot of my being comes from the steady confidence that whatever I say and what I believe is what I stick to. I haven't gotten this far by remaining that witless puppet who let her mother dictate to her her every action. But now when Patrick and I fight, it's different. At the end of it all, I don't see me sticking to my guns on general principle. We've gotten to the point where it isn't as important to be right as it is to be together. I can't speak for him, but I reckon we've reached the point where we see that a bond like ours doesn't come around everyday. The priority is in keeping that alive rather than keeping old grudges going.

I used to think the perfect friend would be the one who said and did everything to make me happy.

Now I just think the perfect friend is the one who brings out the best in me, who makes me want to say and do everything... or at least a great deal... to make him happy. I don't mind being wrong as long as it's to him because in a lot of ways being wrong with him isn't being wrong at all.

I have nothing to prove. I don't have to show how smart I am to him or how my ideas are entirely foolproof. I don't have to defend everything I do. And I don't have to explain myself in fear of him judging me. When you lose the need to constantly try to your best self to a person it makes it easier to concede that you aren't always at your best and that you're going to be wrong a good deal of the time. When you don't have to be perfect in front of a person, it makes dealing with your own imperfection a lot easier, you know?

I used to think happiness had something to do with being right all the time. Now I see happiness has more to do with being able to be wrong sometimes without being judged at all. That's such a wonderful feeling which I can't even explain to you.

It's the same with Greg and I. In the beginning I thought I had all the answers about how love was supposed to work. I was the one in the relationship telling him how the relationship was going to proceed. I was the one guiding the ship. Greg was content to be my subordinate. According to him, he was just so relieved to have found me he decided it was easier to allow me to take charge than to give me all the input he could. That suited me just fine. In the beginning I had constructed a perfect scenario of how I wanted my relationships to go. Partly based on what I had read and seen, and partly based on the mistakes I had made with Patrick and a few other of my starter relationships, I thought I knew how my one true love would proceed. It was that simple to me. I was a twenty-year-old vain and stubborn jackass, who thought she knew all the answers. Woe betide anyone who got in my way, including Greg. I had a plan and no one was going to stop me from completing it.

It's a recurring theme, but I let my vanity get the best of me. I thought love, like most things, was done best when there was one clear voice in charge. I thought that, if anything, my rising to the forefront of accepting responsibility for the success of our relationship would relieve some of the pressure off of Greg. I thought he'd be happy not to have to work so hard. I was willing to work entirely too hard for the both of us. We used to discuss that as one of the reasons we hit it off so well. I was domineering and shrewish; he was supportive and submissive. He was everything I didn't have with my previous relationships, someone malleable, someone pliant. I thought he was wonderful for his generosity even as I was taking full advantage of it. I thought he was delightful for his lack of drive when it came to us even as I was spoiling myself upon it. It just felt great not to have to butt heads like Patrick and I. It just felt like a relief to stand tall as being the authority in everything regarding the two of us.

I didn't see the pattern for what it was. It was just another example of my believing the initial phases of our relationship would be the template upon which the rest of the relationship would be built. My father has a phrase about me that I'm sure I have written about before. He says, "Breanne doesn't think. She just goes." And that's what I do. I don't think much about the repercussions of my actions. I do what I do because I think it for the best and I don't let anyone hold me back. Very often it doesn't work out the way I think it would, but the majority of the time I'm more than happy with the results. Yet it's the times that I fall far short that I'm known for. I've erred so often on the side of rushing headlong into walls that it's become something of a joke that I don't possess even the slightest amount of patience. That's what happened with Greg. I took our initial dates as a sign of things to come. I made those crazy days and wonderful nights the basis of how the rest of our lives were going to look like. No matter how you slice it, I was jumping the gun. The next few years while we were dating, while we were engaged, and while we were married, I would compare it to those days of halcyon and sunflowers. When the plan didn't seem to be proceeding as I expected, I didn't blame my high expectations. I blamed Greg for for not believing in my ideas. I blamed him for not being supportive, the one thing he's always been.

Worse yet, I blamed him for not doing enough.

When those first years weren't as happy as I told him they would be, I became discouraged. I started to look more and more in his direction to help out, which wasn't fair to him at all. All that time I'd been telling him he didn't need to do anything. That I'd take care of it. All that time I'd been scolding him for wanting to put his input in. That I wanted to be in charge. Then all of a sudden I make it his fault for not doing or saying enough. I put him in the worst possible position of telling him that standing back and giving me wasn't wrong, and then I crucify him for doing that very thing.

I thought he wasn't making me happy when the truth was that I told him not trying so hard to make me happy would, in fact, make me happy. It was a terrible position to put him in. I was such a wicked wife when all this happened.

That's why I went to Chicago. That's why I cheated on Greg. It started to look very appealing to me to be with someone who wasn't afraid to stand on his two feet and give as good as he got. It started to look like I wasn't cut out to be with someone who was entirely passive. I was tired of being unhappy with someone who apparently didn't give a damn about making our marriage work. I was tired of doing all that work on creating the happy home scenario all on my own. I was just plumb tuckered of being the perfect wife.

It wasn't until after the trip and after Greg had finally forgiven me that I figured out where I went wrong. I'd based our relationship on me being the boss. I was so afraid of being overruled by my husband that I didn't let him have any power at all. I didn't let him contribute enough to make the marriage he wanted. When he responded to my domineering ways by retreating even further, it only set up a vicious cycle of me telling him he was worthless and him becoming a ghost in our very house. Greg's not like me. He doesn't respond by fighting back then running. He runs first and then he just keeps on running. My first option has always been to insure my ideas are heard. Only if it becomes apparent that I'm going to be given the short shrift, then I run. I only fight the fights I want to win. Everything else becomes expendable. Greg is so docile that he'll give in just to make me happy. He responds to conflict by doing everything he can to make sure there is no conflict. There we were, two people fumbling at being married to one other and neither one of us having the first clue how to expertly talk through our inconsistencies.

When we started seeing our couple's therapist she explained it to me.

She told me that my plan for the perfect marriage was faulty from the very beginning. Any plan that isn't shared by both people in the marriage is no plan at all. It's not like a film or a novel that soars from having one clear vision. It's more like that seesaw from the playground of my youth. I can't just push and push on my end, expecting it to work. I needed to give a chance for my partner, for Greg, to give a chance to push back. She said that I was too intent on blazing a path through the tall grass just to make it to the other side of them that I had neglected to make sure Greg was right behind me. And she was right. I thought happiness from a marriage was the by-product of doing it right. I thought of it as the pot of gold waiting for me at the other end of the rainbow. Now I can see that happiness isn't the goal of a good marriage. It's the definition of a good marriage. Happiness in a couple isn't the result of planning everything to perfection or executing everything flawlessly. Being happy is just what good marriages are all about. Being happy leads to a good marriage. What I should have done is made sure that we were happy as often as possible rather than where we were headed as husband and wife. I was so caught up in having a stellar marriage than I couldn't see how much of it I was allowing to fall apart. My tunnel vision almost led to me to getting divorced from the only man who truly could make me happy.

Now I finally understand what it means to be Little Miss Chipper. It doesn't mean I have to be 100% perfect. It just means I have to be 100% invested in whatever I'm working at. I can't let my perception of how things are cloud where I want them to be. That only leads to me working too hard at the process. I need to remember that it's not all up to me to make everything good. Like my daddy says, "You can either drive or be driven; you can't do both." I can try very hard to do all the work in this relationship, but eventually I'm going to find it's too much for one woman to handle--as intelligent, beautiful, and stubborn as she may be. Sure, most of the time I like being out front and taking charge. But there has to be some days where I can let him take over and just sit back in the buggy to enjoy the ride for once.

Being Little Miss Chipper doesn't mean being on all the time. Sometimes it just means being content to enjoy the stillness every so often. I can still be that little 'ole girl with the joy in her heart that my mother saw once upon a time. All it takes is showing that joy to others... and not shoving it down their throats. I can't force people to be happy. It's not my responsibility to put a smile on everyone's face whether or not they like it. It's only my responsibility to put a smile on my own.

Ask anyone who knows me now. They'll tell you I still have a smile on my face almost every day of my life. The only difference it's entirely because of me and not because I'm working all the time to make everyone else happy. I'm happy because I'm happy, and not because I think I can brighten the whole world through sheer will. I'm happy to just let my sun shine and let others seek it if they choose to do so.

After all, I can only be me--no more, no less.

Breanne

I Used To Play For All Of The Loneliness, That Nobody Notices Now, I'm Begging Slow, I'm Coming Here, Oh, I'm Waiting

2009-11-03T04:18:00.000-08:00

--"#41", Dave Matthews Band

"No, I don't want to tell you. You're only going to sass me about it later."

"No, I'm serious. Just tell me."

"No."

"Come on, I'm not going to make fun of you. I swear."

"No. And that's that."

"What was it? Did you hear something?"

"Hell's bells. You're not going to let go of this, are you? You're like a hound dog fixed with a bone in its mouth."

"You sounded upset. I wanted to know."

"It's nothing."

"It's something. I can tell."

"I was sitting here just now and the wall started shaking. Happy now?"

"No. What'd you think it was."

"I have no idea and that's what's got me spooked right now."

"Could your parents be up?"

"No, they would have checked up on me if they saw my light on. I'm nervous that it wasn't them. Forget it. It's probably the wind telling lies again, as my daddy says."

"Wind on your wall. From the inside. Not likely."

"I'd rather not dwell on it, please, thank you."

"Well, it's got you all upset. I was just asking if you were okay, Breanne. I'm worried about you because you sound worried about yourself."

"I was. I still am, but talking about isn't making it any better. Now shush up."

"Okay."

"I'm probably exhausted is all it is, you know? I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing."

"If you say so."

"I do. It only sounded louder than it was because it's late at night and everything else is so still, you know? Silly Breanne--I'm only scaring myself. Nothing else is out there."

"The good thing is you've got other people in the house. I hate it when weird stuff happens and I'm all by myself."

"They're asleep."

"Yeah, but you can wake them. They're only down the hall. They could hear you if you were to scream bloody murder, right?"

"I suppose."

"Then feel better because of that."

"Wait."

"Wait, what?"

"Shush. Hold your horses and be quiet. Did you hear that?"

"Not over the phone."

"Hell's bells, something shook the wall again. I'm getting really nervous here, Patrick. What in gracious Providence is that?"

"Are you scared?"

"Stop it."

"You are scared."

"Don't do that, please, thank you. If you're going to be on the phone I don't want you to be making light of my situation."

"Okay."

"I need you to be a friend right now and tell me I'll be alright. I need you to strive to convince me of that."

"Okay."

"Good."

"And you're sure your parents aren't just getting a snack right now?"

"I'm certain."

"How certain?"

"They would have peeked in. I'm sure of that."

"You could check."

"Leave this room? You're crazier than a mule in a pool."

"If it really is nothing, wouldn't you want to know?"

"Yes. But if it is something, I don't want to know. I want to stay right here until I'm sure it is nothing we are talking about."

"Okay. But it's only going to drive you crazy until you're sure."

"There it is again. This time it came from down the stairs. I'm really getting scared now, Patrick."

"Go see. It's the only way."

"That's just great. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to. Hold on, I'm getting dressed and going out to check. I'm going to leave the cordless here so I ain't distracted."

"Be safe."

----

"Patrick, oh, Patrick. The light's on in the kitchen and someone's walking around downstairs. I could hear them."

"Someone's in your house right now?"

"There is. What am I going to do?!"

"Wake up your parents for one. You should do that now."

"Hell, why is there someone downstairs? What do you think they want?"

"You're not going to wake them up."

"No."

"Why not?"

"If it is nothing I don't want to be their little 'ole scaredy cat."

"And what if it is something? What then? You should dial 911 if you're convinced someone is downstairs that doesn't belong there."

"I'm sure of it."

"Then wake them up or dial someone."

"Talk to me. Tell me I'm acting crazy."

"You're crazy."

"Say, 'Breanne, you're crazy.'"

"Breannie, you're the craziest."

"I'm serious. I'm overreacting, you know?"

"I'm not there. I can't tell if you are or not. I'm just scared what if you aren't imagining things and there really is somebody downstairs. I want you to be safe."

"Thank you. I'm going to wait up here for now. If I hear it again or something else happens you have my vow that I'll wake somebody up."

"Good. That's all I want."

"Hell's bells, I can still hear them ruffling through the cabinets and such. I don' reckon if it were my folks they would be rooting around in their own house like that, you know? I'm really torn up inside right about now."

"You'll be alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think if it were really someone breaking in they would have noticed there was somebody up by now. They would have either gone upstairs to confront you or they would have been scared off. Nobody's going to continue to make noise in a house they're planning to steal from if they know someone's up. It doesn't make sense."

"What do you think it is then?"

"It's probably some homeless guy making a sandwich. He'll probably leave when he eats something."

"That ain't funny."

"I'm serious. It's probably some vagrant looking to eat something."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"It's harmless mostly."

"You're wrong."

"He'll go away."

"He hasn't so far."

"Are you sure you saw something?"

"I came halfway down the stairs and the kitchen lights were on. There was some noise in the kitchen. I tiptoed back up the stairs, checked my parents were both in their room, and high-tailed back to my room and the phone. Someone's there."

"Okay. I believe you. You need to do something, Breanne. Make some noise, call the police, do something--just to let him know you're still up and such."

"Shush up again. I hear something else. Errr! What was that? Something just tapped against my window right now. Hold on again. I'm going to assess the situation, darling."

----

"What on God's green Earth is going on here, Patrick? What on God's green Earth is happening to me?"

"What is it? What'd you see?"

"I'm truly frightened right now."

"What did you see?"

"I don't know how to process this all, at all."

"Breanne. Focus. Tell me what's out your window right now."

"Somebody put two long wooden poles onto my window."

"Wooden poles?"

"Two story thin window poles. I haven't the slightest indication what they're used for. Most of all, I have no inclination as to why somebody would want to bang them against my window."

"Could somebody trying to climb up to your window, Breanne? Is that it?"

"With poles? Two of them? What are they going to do with them, you figure? Shimmy up them hand over hand as if they were circus folk? Why not just use a ladder?"

"That's what I was about to say."

"Why are there poles against my window? Why that window? Why not just come up through my balcony? It'd be a much easier time of it. This isn't making the least bit of sense and it's really got my perplexed, Patrick. I feel like it's midnight at the oasis and all I'm seeing around me are mirages."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Can you just stay up with me until I get this sorted out? Do you have work tomorrow or anything, sugar?"

"Yeah, but this is more important. I want to at least stay up until I get an explanation. Besides, you have school tomorrow, little lady."

"I haven't even finished my homework yet."

"At least you have an excuse."

"I can't do anything right now but concentrate on this. What is going on here?"

"This is a mystery."

"Wait, I hear my mother up. I'll be back."

"I'll wait here."

----

"First thing she asked me was what I was smoking. Can you imagine?"

"You tell her how scared you are and what you saw and heard..."

"And she thinks I was on something."

"Figures."

"The worst part is she didn't even go downstairs. She just said she didn't see the kitchen light on currently. She wouldn't even wake up my daddy so he could go down to investigate. I just want to know what it was, you know? At this rate, I'll never know. I hate her."

"I'd go check it out if I was there."

"I know you would. You're a good friend like that."

"I'd make you come, of course."

"You always do. Haha."

"You know it."

"At least it's quieter now. I don't feel like a cat at the edge of the bath tub so much any more."

"Do you need me to stay up any longer?"

"If you don't mind."

"Do I ever mind?"

"You never do, sugar. This is true."

Breanne

I Used To Be So Cute To Me, Just A Little Bit Skinny, Why Do I Look To All These Things, To Keep You Happy

2009-10-29T19:56:00.000-07:00

--"Unpretty", TLC

On Buying A Halloween Costume

even pretending
leaves me confused, like a dog

trapped on the subway.
curvy, colored masks never

suited me nor have
disguises ever hidden

me completely. I
can't quite comprehend the need

to shed, like snakeskin,
one's character to open

one's soul to the world.
forgo the cape and leave the

black spandex behind.
hiding your face just weakens

what you can offer.
don a smile the way you would

a golden halo
and the world may just believe

you are every
bit the saint you're carefully

attempting not to
be ever mistaken for.

dw

She Got The Current In Her Hand, Just Shock You Like You Won't Believe, Sun In The Amazon, With The Voltage Running Through Her Skin

2009-10-28T22:54:00.000-07:00

--"Electric Feel", MGMT

I watched Orphan yesterday night with high expectations. It hadn't drawn my interest when it first came out in theaters, but with each passing week I started to hear more and more about how over the top scary it was. Not gory or gruesome, mind you, which I tend to dislike, but out-and-out-we'll-toss-everything-at-you scary. Not to mention I kept hearing how the "twist" for Esther, the orphan in question played by Isabelle Fuhrman, was freaking batshit nutso that it made the film all the more a guilty pleasure for having known the twist right from the start. I had to buy the film the very first day it came out and watch it.

And it did not disappoint. I can honestly say that compared to any other demon child/bad seed thriller or horror films, Orphan truly pulls out all the stops. With every other film in the genre, you still get the impression there's a sense of decency or even innocence at what the children in question are doing. You are still left with the impression that, if they knew more about the consequences of their actions, that possibly they might think twice about committing the various horrifying acts they perpetrate throughout the course of the film. You still believe, like the axiom goes, that they are good at heart buried down below their complex upbringing and whatever forces twisted them into such sadistic creatures.

I believe the point where I knew I wasn't dealing with that kind of child in question in this film was when Esther asks her deaf seven-year-old little sister to help hide the body of the nun she had just smashed twice in the head with a hammer. At that point I was completely thinking to myself that there just isn't an ounce of innocence at all in this little girl. It's bad enough to kill someone... but a nun? And then to trick your truly innocent little sister into becoming an accomplice? There's a whole other level of evil in that scenario.

And what's worse is that's one of the more subdued acts of violence that occurs during the film. As the plot just goes from mildly disturbing to outright menacing and shocking, you as the audience begin to see why, because of her perfmance, Roger Ebert said Isabelle Fuhrman "is not going to be convincing as a nice child for a very long, long time."

do what you feel now

----

While not a box office success, I think the film succeeds on its merits because it plays upon the simple premise that adults severely underestimate the capabilities of children. Even setting aside Esther for a second, Max, as the younger sister who is put in peril constantly by the arrival of the older (much older it turns out) Esther, shows herself just as capable of being deceitful in order not to draw the suspicion of her sister. If anything, it's Max and her older brother Daniel who do the most effective job at stopping Esther before their mother ever gets involved. And their poor father still remains clueless as the Esther's true nature till the very end. For most of the story Esther preys upon all the second chances her family affords her. She uses the very nature of her small stature, the way she dresses, and carries herself to get away with murder, literally. Even her voice and her very inflections she manipulates to the situation. She's a different kind of monster, using the ribbons in her hair and the lack of strength to obscure the fact she is, without a doubt, batshit crazy.

I mean--I never killed anyone (that I'd be willing to confess to, at least), but I believe the same thing happened to me and my brother growing up. I was forever coasting on the fact I got good grades and pretty much stayed out of trouble to hide the enormity of how much trouble I caused when I set my mind to it. I never hurt anyone physically except my brother, but vandalization and stealing all sorts of other peoples' possessions were a lot of the ways I dealt with my frustration. My family still doesn't know how often my "taking a walk" really meant blowing off the steam by destroying or taking stuff.

And it's the same with most of my good friends. Breanne's parents never knew how far and what she did all those times she ran away from home. They didn't even find out about sleeping underneath her friends' old home until like five years ago and certainly have never been told the story of her almost accepting rides from perfect strangers. She's only told them half of what actually happened all those times. Most of the time they were content with her explanation of staying over at a neighbor's house or having one of her relatives hide her away. Rather than think the worse, adults are always more willing to find the more excusable and innocent explanation for what their kids do or say. Nobody wants to believe that their children are capable of deceit and cruelty on par with the rest of the world. Nobody wants to be the one who finds out that their kid is just not like the rest of the kids in their class.

They have these expectations that because they turned out fine, that their kids will as well.

I used to think the same way because none of the kids in my elementary school or even high school revealed anything I'd qualify as horrifying. It wasn't until I got into college and older that the sick and twisted childhoods of some people I knew started to make their way to the surface. From Ilessa being routinely beat up by her older brother for more than five years of her life to Jennifer's brother's own stories of being tossed down their well by kids in their neighborhood claiming to be his friend--I've heard too many stories of kids just being outright evil to think that we're all born good. While it's true that most kids fall somewhere between being good and evil, that doesn't mean there aren't just some bad seeds out there.

Not every kid can be little miss sunshine (or even Little Miss Chipper).

Somebody's kids have to grow up to be the Esthers of the world.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Hold My Breath, And You Close My Eyes, As A Curtain Of Light Drops From The Skies, I Never Knew, My Love Could Get So Far, From Me

2009-10-26T23:46:00.000-07:00

--"Sippy Cup", Gospel Gossip

I was watching Castle tonight do their big Halloween-themed episode. While it was superb as usual--full of the requisite twists and cinematic banter between all the characters involved--what struck me as quite original was the use of Nathan Fillion in the opening scene. Because it was a holiday-themed episode, we see his character Richard Castle strapping on his boots, donning his brown leather duster, and stepping out of the door as... Captain Malcolm Reynolds, otherwise known as the character he portrayed for less than a season five years ago on his other starring vehicle, Firefly. As Lucy would say, it was a hoot-and-a-half to see him unexpectedly reprise, even for a fleeting moment, one of the most beloved characters in all of the Whedonverse.

Two different characters. Two different world views. And yet they were both portrayed by the same actor. While it might have been five years since he last looked like a Browncoat, I can honestly say that even if the show had lasted five years long, I couldn't have pictured Nathan looking any different as Mal than he did tonight. In fact, it makes me wonder how much his character's appearance might have transformed had that show run its full course. Would the Mal I saw on Castle still have been the Mal on Firefly, season 6? Who's to say. It was just nice getting to visit with an old friend again, albeit briefly.

I've written me off, I've written me off

It also makes me wonder what becomes of the affection an actor holds for the character he plays, especially television actors who sometimes have to don the coats of the character for upwards of six or seven years sometimes. After their show has been cancelled, after all the sets have been torn down, I wonder just how much they really miss the invitation to walk in those shoes ever again. I know--some actors treat their roles as the jobs they are. I suppose some actors really are able to jump from character to character, like Sam Beckett, never giving a second thought to the people whose soul they pushed into their bodies, but I believe that with some performers they truly do feel like they've lost a part of themselves when they are told they will no longer be able to be that person ever again. I believe that some actors or actresses just take it that much to heart; just like I believe there are some roles that are harder to shed than others--not because they're more profound or because they are in any way "better" roles, but because there are just roles which are more illuminating, more rewarding, and just plain more fun to tackle than others.

Those are the roles that make me wonder how hard it is to give up the ghost. Those are the roles that come along only a few times in a performer's life.

It makes me think of the precepts we normal folk adopt, the characters we choose to portray. Shakespeare had it right, I'm afraid. One man in his time does play many parts. What he failed to mention, though, is that there are some parts that we seem to take to more effectively than others. Whether that's because we find the challenge in the role ourselves or because the role is thrust upon us and we get pigeonholed into playing that part over and over again; there's just some masks that we wear that over time blends into the face we wore before, and just becomes a new face. The more we put on these masks, the more we hide behind them, the harder it gets to separate us from the costume. That's what I've come to discover over the years. It isn't so much who we are as people on the inside that defines us, but what the world sees us on the outside as that defines us. It's really like the difference between a person's story and a person's backstory. The backstory may be able to explain why a person does something, what their motivations are, but the only thing that matters is what a person's remembered for, never mind the reason they did what they did.

When a person changes identities--when that awkward teen in high school tries to become that easygoing college student, when the weakling runt of the litter takes up martial arts to become more proud of himself, when the stubborn tomboy grows up to become the earthly mother of three--sometimes there's a struggle involved. Sometimes the struggle is external with the world not knowing that person as anything other than what they are known for. Sometimes it takes an extended period of time for those closest to the person involved to see them as the person they are trying to become. Sometimes the struggle is internal with the person not really sure he or she wants to change anything about himself at all. Sometimes it does take outside forces and outside pressure from people around them for that man to become the person they are meant to be.

Often, though, it's more than that. Often, despite the acceptance that their transformation is for the best, a person will still struggle with the process of letting go of their old identity. They could have been known as a boldfaced liar, a notorious violent person, or even the scourge of the seven seas, and even though they see for themselves the need to metamorphose into something grander, they still blanche at changing any more quickly than they have to. It's not that they really want to hold onto the viler aspects of their character; it's merely that they had to live with that facet of themselves for so long it's really become all they know. Even though they know it isn't working out for them, they really lack the experience to be any other way in the beginning.

That's why people hold onto their old monikers for so long. That's why the class clown often becomes the wearisome jokester long after his jokes have stopped being funny. They don't know what else to do if they don't do what they've always done. If I'm not funny, they say, then I'm nothing.

That's why I can empathize with actors who still revisit with their more well-known characters. I know what it's like to be thought of in a certain light early on... and then suddenly lose that quality that made you special. I know what it's like to lose all definition of who you are, to be a performer without a new role to play. I know what it's like to fall back into old routines, old conversations, because you know who you were when you were playing that part. It may not be who you are now, but when you're still struggling to figure out the "new" you or the "improved" you, it's all too easy to wonder if you simply weren't better off going your whole life being known for one part of your personality and that one part only.

At least you were somebody and at least people talked about you.

When you have a purpose in life you tend to hold onto it strongly, sometimes longer than you should. It beats not having a purpose and feeling like you need to grab onto whatever you can that passes near to you. When you have your role set for you, you sometimes stay rooted to that role rather than look for the part you really were supposed to play. Sometimes its easier to get stuck in the rut rather than wander off directionless.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's The Colorless Picture, In A Heart-Shaped Frame, The Silhouette Of A Doe-Eyed Girl, Who At One Point Had A Name

2009-10-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

--"Common Reactor", Silversun Pickups

Sometimes I receive invitations from people to "friend" them on Facebook or Twitter. Now, I'm usually inclined to accept everyone who asks me just as I'm usually inclined to invite people I barely know. But, even so, there are just some people I'm still surprised even ask me to accept them. It's still amazing, given my history with certain people, that they would even think of me as someone they would want to know every facet of their business. It's not like they don't know that a lot of what I read or hear ends up being posted on here in some fashion or other. And it's not like they don't know that I don't usually actively engage many people outside of a small circle of friends. What they expect me to say I have no idea.

I've also come to realize, even though I'm constantly tweeting throughout the day, I've turned facebook into a place where I really allow a lot of who I am to shine through. I mean--I may share my most poignant or serious stories that I possess here, but on facebook I kind of let loose of what a big geek I am. I post links to songs I may be listening to, stupid ideas I may be working on, and just random crap that really captures how random my thought processes are. I do that a little on twitter, but twitter is usually employed more to capture what I did during my day--where I ate, who I hung out with, where I was. But facebook is more closely associated with daily adventure of being me. Quite frankly, that's a collection of information I would rather certain people didn't have access to. That's why there are certain people that I routinely turn down friending me on there. It's not because I think I have anything to hide, but because there are certain people that I just don't feel like sharing anything about myself with--so deep is my animosity with them.

It's a strange feeling. It's like I don't care that people know what I've been through, even if I don't know them that well. But I also do hold grudges. I also do take things personally. Knowing that, I realize that I'm prone to fits of pettiness. I can't take away what people already have in terms of knowledge about me, but I can withhold as much new information as possible from ever being gleaned by them. I can't control much, but I can control somewhat of who and what I share with people. That's what I've taken as a personal lesson from dabbling in the new era of social networking.

I know the 192 people I have listed as friends on my facebook list aren't all truly my friends, but I'm more satisfied knowing that of those 192 people, none of them are people I wouldn't want to be friends with in real life. It would really ruin my whole perception of being a part of the great facade that is social networking if I ever included somebody I truly despised in real life onto one or all of my friends list. That would just be too facetious, even for me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Releasing My Heart, And It's Feeling Amazing, There's No One Else That Matters, You Love Me, And I Won't Let You Fall, Girl

2009-10-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

--"Forever", Chris Brown

By the Lake by Herself

so she sits with the
sun on her shoulders, silver
gown falling off her
shoulders like airy whispers.

so she wonders what
the silver scarecrow she calls
her sister will be
once she's able to exhale.

so there's the lake, waves
turning over; so there's the
cake, rippled and white;
so there's the trouble anew.

so she stands alone,
neighbored by tables of friends,
chairs of family,
and wonders what's the meaning.

then they lose their lips
in each other and she sees
what guise forever
may don for her sake as well.

dw

----

There are days when I feel unfortunate to have been born last in my family, when it really eats me up inside that I'll be the last to experience just about everything. I know it's a common refrain among the youngest children, but it's a refrain that I never thought I'd be singing myself. I was always happiest when I was trailing in Tattie's and Chopper's footsteps. Like our namesakes I was content to blindly skip along behind my Scarecrow and Tin Man playing their Dorothy. They knew the road because they had travelled it years before me. Who was I to argue with such hard-fought experience? For much of my life I couldn't imagine myself wanting anything different than what they had.

But lately I've been wondering if it's all going to be milk and cherries the way it was for them. I've been wondering if the same conceits, the same pleasures, are going to be what fulfill me in the end. I have a feeling that what they wanted to make out of their lives isn't going to be the same brass sculpture I want to make out of mine. I'm already beginning to see that I might have a different treasure map to follow when it comes to planning out my ultimate adventure--my last crusade, if you will.

And from what little I've experience so far--and it has been little--I'm not so sure the whole wrapping myself up in the cocoon of love and marriage and kids and family and commitment is going to fit all right in. What little I've experienced of the fruit of passion has left with a somewhat bitter aftertaste in my mouth. I know I haven't experienced everything every man, young or old, has to offer, but it hasn't left me rearing to charge the gates all that soon again. For now I'm content to play the wary bystander, blithely picking her battle to engage in but not finding much to engage her just yet. I'm not saying I've given up on the prospect of love as much as it's shifted in priority for me for the time being. I have other matters to attend to. Other sirens are calling out delftwaves' name.

Still, I can't help but think of Nora and Harry's wedding and how happy they looked. That was a day I was glad to be last in line. It gave me the chance to see what my future might be like in six or seven years when I get to be Nora's age without having to go through all the bullshit. It was refreshing to see the prize at the end of the race and not just the course itself. Maybe, perhaps, possibly, it might've been enough incentive to get me to swing the needle of true love's compass back northward someday.

I can't guarantee it, I can tell you that much. But it's still nice to know what's waiting out there in the jungle should I ever decide to brave its breaches again much later in the future.

Stay tune. I still have hope for my love life yet. LOL

dw

And It's Sad To Walk Away, With Just The Memories, Who's To Know What Might Have Been, We'll Leave Behind A Life And Time, We'll Never Know Again

2009-10-20T04:04:00.000-07:00

--"Please Remember", LeAnn Rimes

The two of you were standing out on her balcony. She started throwing over the stuffed animals first. The first to go was your older than the hills stuffed koala bear, Mr. Shrimps. Both of you had swaddled him tightly in a navy blue blankie that had somehow survived Shelly's toddler days. After peering over, you watched her toss Mr. Shrimps in the air casually as if she were lofting a baseball to another child to hit with a baseball bat. The only difference was she was lofting this particular baseball over the railing of her parents' balcony and this particular baseball soon was plummeting a full story down to the trampoline below.

Success. You both laughed that your test run had been met with a rousing show of support. Even though they had been against the idea in the first place, your aunt and uncle, once they had seen how close the trampoline was to the balcony begrudgingly has to admit that it did look like fun. Mr. Shrimps, bouncing his way halfway up to the balcony again, certainly looked to be having a hoot-and-a-half. Even while your aunt and uncle stood behind the doorway filming you both for posterity, they were the perfect witnesses to what could only be described as your latest stunt. And it wasn't even your idea. They could blame their own daughter for that one.

You looked over to your co-conspirator. Both of you had the same chestnut brown hair and both of you had the same Holins' features to your faces. In those days it was as obvious as the sun that the two of you were related to one another. You were proud to notice the resemblance too. You especially loved it when the folks would mistake you for sister because, more than anything, you had wished she could've been your older sister. You both had on your morning robes, hers in navy blue and yours in your characteristic orange, over your nightclothes. You thought it best to wear something comfortable. You didn't much see the point in changing or getting ready just to hurl yourself over the edge of your uncle's house. That would make as much sense as buying a new dress to jump off a bridge. For all you knew you were just going to rebound off the trampoline's surface and onto the grass beside it. It would have been a real shame to waste a perfectly functional outfit when your whole motive was to muck around on the trampoline any way.

You watched as your favorite cousin then tossed her robe over the railing, watched it as it bounced (not as high as your koala, but still) up, and then finally come to rest on the trampoline's surface again. It was like watching a blue ghost hovering for a few seconds in the air.

You loved watching every second of it.

Then you watched Shelly climb over the railing. She glances over her shoulder behind her to line up her intended target, the area upon which she intended to fall, before scooting an inch this way or that way. Then she just looked at you, smiling. She was telling you, this is it, my dear. This is where all of your planning the night before becomes real. You watched her hands as they let go of the iron railing. You watched her body fly away from you like she was an actress in a movie, plummeting to her demise. You heard her scream your name in an almost ecstasy that one can only achieve at that age. A million things could have gone wrong. She could have banged her head against the metal frame of the trampoline. Worse yet, she could have fallen awkwardly and snapped her neck. Or the trampoline could have broken. A million things could have just happened to make the experience end vastly differently.

But they didn't. You watched as her body recoiled on the contraption below. After that she was just a brunette tressed Irish jumping bean, a particle caught up in the winds of her folly. And you couldn't wait to join her.

Soon it was your turn to join her. She was calling your name from far below. "Breasy, come and get me," she said, daring you to follow her in her madness. She was willing you not to be scared. Your aunt and uncle started to repeat to you that you din't have to jump if you didn't want to. "Simply because Shelly's a daredevil, don't mean you have to be one too, child," your aunt warned you again. But you had to show Shelly. She had to know that she could count on you not to be scared. You had to show your cousin that there wasn't any place on Heaven or Earth that you wouldn't follow her to. She had to know that you were willing to do anything to be in her company. You had to jump. You had no choice, you know?

"Clear off the robe," you yelled down to her as you begin to climb over the railing. "And clear away Mr. Shrimp," you added.

"Like that?" she asked as she pushed them both to one pile on the side of the trampoline.

You stood on the other side of the railing by then, hands grasping the rail behind you. "Please, thank you," you called down. You still had on your orange robe. You thought it might look spectacular flaring about as you fell. It would be your cape or, in the worst case scenario, it would be your parachute--you weren't really sure which. "I'm going to do this facing you," you shouted down. You thought that would be the braver manner in which to fall. Shelly had set the bar. You were intending to go over it. You would watch yourself as you fell back down to Earth instead of looking up at the sky like Shelly did. You wanted to feel that rush of emotion. You wanted to see how crazy as a polar bear in the desert you really were.

the time was yours and mine
and we were wild and free

You jumped down and the whole world jumped down with you. You didn't so much feel you were rushing to meet the trampoline as being pushed into the ground, into the Earth, with a velocity you hadn't experienced as of yet. It was a rush of motion that seemed to go on for hours even if only took all of milliseconds to reach the ground. You landed in a sitting position, with your lily-white ass striking the trampoline before the rest of you. Then, just as violently as you had fallen down through the air, you were rising once again through it. It was like you were as weightless as snow once again. It was like you were flying under your own power. It was this close to being heavenly, you thought. Even when you inevitably fell again, you were laughing at the sheer joy of it. You were smiling at the thought that this is what it's like to be a young girl and carefree. Some part of you knew, just knew, that times like these weren't long for the world and that it wasn't going to be every day of your life that you would be able to just jump from a balcony without repercussions. Some part of you knew you had to savor that day because it was going to be one of the last few days of childhood you would have left.

What you didn't know at the time, what you couldn't have known, was that this was going to be one of the last few times you would be spending with your beloved cousin like this--so amenable and so talkative. You couldn't know a few years later that you'd be looking at times like these spent with Shelly as being the highlight of your relationship with one another. All you knew at the time was how much you looked up to her and how glad you were that she had talked you into jumping off a balcony for no other reason than it was there... and the unmistakable fact that the two of you were bored. You had done something incredible. She had been the direct cause of that. That's all you knew at the time as the two of you rolled around for awhile atop the trampoline. And that's all you cared to know.

You now realize that sometimes that's all you get with people. Sometimes all you get is that one roll in the hay, that one swim to the lakeshore, and you've got to make do with the time you've got. Sometimes, as much as you wish you could leap again and again, all you get is that one chance to make a connection with somebody you care about before it's over. You just have to take the leap, eyes wide open to the fact that you might only get that one chance to do it right. You might only get that one day when everything's perfect--the sun is shining, your aunt and uncle are in the right mood, and you're just young enough not to know how dangerous what you're planning is--and you know you have to take your shot at immortality. You don't get second chances to do things over all the time, so often times you just have to make do with the time you have and know deep down that, like the saying goes, it was fun while it lasted.

As your daddy says, you can't keep the fireplace burning forever. And you say, you can't keep hoping it's going to come roaring back to life either.

Breanne

As The Storm Blows On, Out Of Control, Deep In Her Heart, The Thunder Rolls

2009-10-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

--"The Thunder Rolls", Garth Brooks

Ever since moving to Long Beach, I've had trouble with watching television in my room. As I've explained before, watching tv in my room has always been a time-honored routine of mine. For the better part of twenty years, I would tune it into ESPN or some other non-intrusive show, and let the ambient noise soothe me into falling asleep. Well, that just isn't possible here with the way my cable box breaks down with regularity. Most of the time I can't even count on it to turn on, let alone change it to the channel that I thought I needed to sleep. Indeed, for the last six months, I've had to make due without it when I'm trying to fall asleep.

What I've been doing instead is listen to those nature CD's people like to employ. I'm talking about those rather soothing sounds of wind blowing through wind chimes, rivers gently bubbling, or the surf crashing lightly into shore. I've always thought one day I would check them out as an alternative to leaving the TV on in sleep mode, but it has only become a necessity in the last few months. Starting with a set of 2 cd's of the surf crashing into shore in Hawaii, I've made leaving the stereo playing me to sleep a nightly habit. While I haven't bought too many of them, it's helped quite a bit with my not being able to relax my mind long enough to succumb to slumber. In fact, it's gotten so that I think I should have been doing this all along rather than trained my mind to only fall asleep to Sportscenter or some other show. It's far more easier to fall asleep to waves crashing or the sound of distant wind chimes than some guy's voice droning off in a meek whisper. I daresay when taken measure against the speed with which I fell asleep to the tv before, I'm drifting away a half-hour quicker with the CD's--if not quicker. I can definitely say I'm getting better quality rest now than I did before.

That is until I bought my most recent nature sounds CD.

Under a friend's suggestion (ahem) and due to the fact that I've always thought a rain CD would work the best for me, I bought a soundtrack of about a hundred minutes of rain falling on a rooftop called Suburban Thunder. I thought it was going to be quiet like the other CD's. Also, I thought that was rain was kind of soothing, quiet even.

Boy, was I wrong.

The track starts off fine. It starts off with a hushed whisper of rain falling on a rooftop. The thunder, when it does hit, registers a medium-level crackle. The first time I listened to it, I thought I could get used to this CD and this isn't so bad. There's something about rain falling that reminds me of when I was a kid. It reminds me of afternoons where the weather was too bad to play outside, but not bad enough to fall asleep too. The patter of water hitting the gutters and sliding down the drain had always been a constant companion during those afternoons where I would just nap beneath the sounds of the subdued storm outside. All in all, the CD starts off as very soothing.

It's when it hits the thirty minute mark that all hell breaks loose. There is a crash of thunder that goes on for so long and hits so loudly that it woke me out of my sleep. Not only that but, because it emulates the sound of pounding on the walls, scared me half to death that first night and every subsequent night I've listened to it. It's funny, I never fully understood Lucy's terror at the sound of thunder, but I get it now. The reason it makes more sense is because, like her, I even know the thunder is coming in the duration of the CD. I even know the exact time it starts, and yet it still makes my heart leap each and every time. There's something instinctual, almost primal, at my recoiling at something so basic. No naturally-made sound should be that loud or last that long. It really does feel like some other sinister force at work here.

Now I'm rethinking my whole stance at falling asleep to nature idea. If all future tracks turn on a dime so quickly to be so menacing, then I don't want to risk my comfortable sleep to chance. I mean--what's next? Listening to hurricane-force winds destroying peoples' homes or maybe a nice 7.1 earthquake working its way through the speakers. No thank you. LOL

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Will Always Hold Your Hand, I'll Never Let You Fall, 'Cause Nothing, Nothing Else Matters At All, If You're Scared Just Think Of Me

2009-10-15T00:51:00.000-07:00

--"Cricket", Dance Hall Crashers

I saw Paranormal Activity on Saturday, which just happened to be my birthday too.

It is without a doubt the scariest movie I have seen in the last ten years. Never before have I seen people scared to leave their seats at the end of a movie, but that's what happened on Saturday. I have also never seen a film where half of the audience screamed at the same part loudly. Usually one or two people get jumpy, but that film had everyone on edge for the last two or three key scenes. I went to go see it with Case and Laurel, and they remarked how into the tension the whole audience seemed to be. At various times during the story, you could just hear everyone holding their breath in anticipation. Truly, it's an experience not to be missed.

Of course I was fucking scared out of my mind. Not only do I hate thinking about ghosts (even while I love ghost stories--go figure), but I already have enough trouble sleeping on a good night when nothing preoccupies my thoughts at all. This movie totally pinpricks at the idea that somebody or something could be messing with all of us while we are sleeping. Not only that, but it suggests that we are right to fear about going to sleep because seemingly that is when we are at our most vulnerable. Watching the couple in the movie endure night after night of something torment them was like watching one of my worst fears come true. But what made it even more frightening was the idea that any scary monster can be made doubly worse when one is attempting to confront it while under the duress of lack of sleep. I couldn't imagine trying to bolster my courage to face whatever terrors might await me in the evening when all I want to do is get a good night's rest. That's like a disease which both debilitates you while at the same time striking down your body's defense. Paranormal Activity does an excellent job at conveying the couple's inevitable decline into paranoia as more and more of their nights are given over into fighting an enemy they don't understand and can't even see.

Needless to say, I couldn't stay at my place alone on Saturday so I just stayed over at Casey's.

just close your eyes and ignore
the dark that troubles you most

I felt like an idiot carrying on about how I was too chicken to go home, but the truth was the truth. I wasn't about to attempt to face an empty condo alone--not when I had seen literally someone dragged from their sleep. I wasn't about to put myself in the position of having to relive that nightmare with no one around to rescue. I'd rather face ridicule. I'd rather admit that a film got to me where I'm bothered the most than later wish I hadn't been so proud. For their part, though, Zig and Zag, were most gracious hosts. I only had to ask them once if it was alright. I brought it up at dinner while we were still in Irvine and they didn't make me jump through hoops to get them to agree. Other friends might have been less than kind and taken advantage of the situation, but Case, true to her past form, just let the situation unfold naturally. I asked. They agreed. And no more was said of it.

I suppose I could chalk it up to them being on their best behavior because it was special day and all. And Faye even suggested that they did it partly because they were scared too so they wanted a third body in the house as a precaution. Also, it wasn't like I haven't spent the night in their spare bedroom before, right? But I think it went further than that. Birthday or not, scared or not, I think they both could tell that this was one of those times where logic simply wouldn't work with me. Yes, I know it's silly to be scared of something as hokey as ghosts, but that doesn't quite change the matter that I am scared of ghosts. And it doesn't change the fact that, like it or not, it takes me more than a few hours or even a day to be able to put such a fear at the back of my mind. Casey especially could see that it wasn't so much a request to be amongst friends that night while I slept; it was an entreaty for asylum. I honestly don't know what I would've done if they hadn't taken me in. I might have put up the money for a hotel room; that's how real my fear was.

I've been spending a fair amount of time with Z and Z lately. I'm almost always over at their place on the weekends--at least two weekends out of the month. Originally, I thought it was a matter of convenience. I'm coming from Lake Forest and Irvine. Their house is about ten to fifteen minutes away from there, a lot closer than where I live. It was convenient to call them to see if they wanted to hang out since I was already out there.

But this past weekend has proved that it isn't merely a matter of convenience and that the two girls aren't simply people put in my life to pass the time. They're really turning out to be two great friends in every sense of the word.

There's not a lot of people who would put up with a person who gets this worked up over a scary movie. There's not a lot of people who would understand me when I said that the fear is real. Most people would send me away with words of scorn, that I should grow a pair or face my fears. Only a true friend would be able to see that what I needed most on Saturday wasn't someone to tell me what the adult thing to do was; I needed someone (or someones) to hold my hand and tell me that everything would be alright by the next morning.

Lucky for me that that's exactly what I got that night.

My advice? Go see Paranormal Activity as soon as possible. Just make sure you take a friend with a spare bedroom with you... just in case.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

If There's Any Good In Me, It Must Be Plain To See, 'Cause It's Your Fingerprints Inside The Very Heart Of Me

2009-10-12T22:23:00.000-07:00

--"Wonderful", Jump 5

To Marion on her 17th year of living...

When I met Toby back in 2007 she was a very self-conscious and pragmatic fourteen-year-old, prone to periods of doubt. Now that she has reached the ripe old age of seventeen I still find her very self-conscious. I still find her very pragmatic. And those moments of doubt still creep up upon occasion. And yet--it's been an interesting span of two years, getting to know her better and also getting to see how much she has transformed her since then. It's been like watching a river work its way down to ocean. There were bumps and there were twists. And, sure, there were times where it became rather difficult to hazard a guess as to where her journey might take her. And, sure, I don't exactly know what lies ahead of her. From where I stand, though, she's already covered so much ground that to reflect upon it is certainly breathtaking.

I never thought I'd be writing about her two years later or that she would come to be one of my closest confidantes, but the facts stand where they're placed. She has become all those things. I, in return, have accepted the fact that I may have just learned a trick or two about her myself in those intervening years. For one, it's plain to see she's blossomed as someone who questions the world. I've seen those peerless lenses with which she once only viewed only her problems and only her concerns turned outward a bit more. I've seen her open up to the possibility that there is more to the world than good 'ole Lorryville and more to concern herself with than just plain Toby Claire Frisson, a feat I've never been able to accomplish all that successfully. People always concern themselves with how they are perceived, what they look like to other people. I think it's a brighter sign of maturity when one can start to begin to see how they perceive others and how others look to them is far more worthy of investigation. She hasn't gotten all of society figured out just yet, but it's an interesting development to see her in the first footsteps of that pursuit.

It's also been interesting, yet sad, to see her lose some of the innocence that first made her noticeable. She isn't quite the doe-eyed impassioned youth that I first met. She's gotten a little rough around the edges. She's also become a little more skeptical, even cynical about the world. While it's all fine and dandy to think ideally about everything, it's also a sign of becoming older when pragmatism becomes applied to more than just studies, religion, and personal philosophy. I'm a bit saddened to see the little girl who used to accept everything at face value go, but in her place I'm beginning to notice the first unmistakable signs of a challenging, and fiercely questioning, young woman in her stead. I'm seeing a vibrant young woman beginning to really figure out her place in the world at large--not just how she fits in, but also how she can break out a few of the boxes she may have been placed into from an early age.

Additionally, while I was out visiting her that in addition to her proneness to moments of somber reflection, she's also started to develop new tools of discourse and discussion in her education outside the classroom. Rather than instantly fall back to the relative safety of her own mind to muddle through her problems, she's began to look to others more and more as a viable means to a solution. Before she was always of the persuasion to hear advice but not really listen to it; she was always of the mindset that other people were only good for confession rather than absolution. Now more than ever I'm beginning to hear her find out the distinction between simply doing as she was told, as she used to be prone to do, to sifting the wheat from the chaff. She's beginning to rely on others for advice rather than herself while at the same time remaining in control of her ultimate fate. I think it's this precarious juggling act of balancing her quiet independence against her will to be accommodating to almost everyone that is her greatest accomplishment so far. She's always been the best at smoothing out the frayed ends of any situation; she's always been the troubleshooter rather than the instigator. Now she's learning to accept the fact that sometimes she's going to be the one with the frayed ones or the troubles to be shot; and not to be afraid to let someone do the heavy lifting for her for a change.

However, lastly and most importantly, as I reflect on my favorite Toby turning seventeen this year, I would be remiss if I didn't mention how much she's changed me in addition to changing herself. Just by knowing her, I've become a little less temperamental and a lot less impatient when it comes to dealing with people. I'm not perfect in those areas yet by any means, but by seeing how swiftly Toby resolves her problems with people and by seeing how just by being nice 117% of the time can win you a lot more points over your lifetime, it's slowly dawning on me that there is more than one way to act in any given situation. While it feels a tad wrong to say since it is her birthday, I just wanted to take the time to thank the youngest contributor here for that gift and all the rest of the gifts she's given me over these last few years.

Happy Birthday, Toby, and I'm sorry this note of my admiration for you is so tardy in its execution.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And I Love You, It Just Comes Natural, It's What I Was Born To Do, Don't Have To Think It Through, Baby, It's So Easy Lovin You, It Just Comes Natural

2009-10-10T04:16:00.000-07:00

--"It Just Comes Natural", George Strait

My dearest Eeyore,

Happy Birthday!

What a lucky day it was for me in the summer of 1993 when I was surprised find an e-mailed response to my poem "We Lose A Friend". Now I'm not normally one to open strange letters from folks I don't know, but something about the way my day was working out prompted me to open yours. I'm grateful I did, though. It not only lifted me up that day, but it also showed me that what my mother had been telling me all along is true; when we lose a friend, God always gives us more to take their place. It was the sweetest thing what you wrote and how you tried to console little 'ole me when you knew only the barest bones of what I was going through. You took pity on my poor heart. I've never forgotten that because I've always wondered what it was about that poem on that day to prompt you to take such an interest in me. What led you to me? What did I do to become so lucky?

And I've been grateful ever since as well. We've been through a lot of birthdays together--some spent more pleasantly with one another than other, to be sure--but one thing's remained constant. Yours is one of the first letters/e-mails/phone calls I want to take when my birthday comes around and yours is one of the first greetings I want to be when yours comes rolling around. I never look upon it as an obligation. I don't see it as a chore where I'm as frazzled as a duck in a kitchen trying to decide what to get you. It's a day that I mark with utter joy because I already know the perfect gift to get you, the perfect sentiment to express to you, the perfect way to show you that I'll always care, you know? It'd be a different story entirely if I, even for a moment, felt a wavering in the strength of the bond of our friendship. Perhaps then it'd feel like I was putting forth the effort out of obligation rather than free will, but that simply is not the case here. I still feel every bit as close to you as the day we met. Closer even, if that is even possible. I still feel every bit of the need to quantify exactly how much I hope your birthday turns out truly wonderfully for you. And, yes, I still feel every bit that I want to be happier for you on your birthday than you are for it. That's one of my job descriptions. That's what I do. I want to be that cute cheerleader in your corner, who's perkiness might become distracting after awhile, but is kind of comforting in its ferocity... like a tiger. haha

Even though I can't celebrate your special day with you (through no fault of my own, ahem), I can tell you that I'll be celebrating it over here in my corner of the world in small, but important ways. You can expect calls from both my parents, from Fanny and Katie, and from everyone else who knows you that I can remind to do so. Today you're going to be busier answering your phone than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Hell's bells! That ain't even half of the plans I've got up my sleeve. You still have my present to receive later this week. However, I still have a whole host of little reminders of your birthday's importance to my social calendar to spring upon you.

But for now, since I do have so much more I want to tell you when we talk later on, here's a small sampling of the direction today will be taking for you.

Patrick, I adore you! You are the most wonderful man. You have always made me important and that I had something important to share. You have always made me feel loved and worthy of love. And I'll never forgive you for that. It's a hard burden to shoulder, trying to live up to that honor, sugar. Until I met you I feel like I missed so much in my life because I never had that connection. I once thought Torry was that companion I was waiting for. But it was you, it was always going to be you, Patrick. You are that friend, that companion that I have wanted for so long. You are that person that, even though we hardly see each other, I still want to share life's adventures with while they're happening to me. You are always my first call. You've always been the friend I can share my innermost secrets with. You've always been that supportive and trusting friend I can turn to when I'm feeling hurt. It's no secret I've always striven to be just as supporting and trusting towards you--to the best of my abilities at any rate.

I will always be here to carry the boulders of burden if you ever need it. I will always be here to encourage you, prod and poke you if need be, and to treat your every accomplishment as a hoot-and-a-half even when everyone else marginalizes them. I will always be here to laugh with you, cry with you, fight with you, and make up with you. That's what good friends do. I love to talk to you on the phone when you're having a good day and I love to talk to you when you're having a bad day. I just love to share the intimacy of talking from the heart as we are apt to do.

When you met little 'ole me I felt like I had so much to share with someone but it was always dammed up like some mighty river behind a rock wall. Before you no one was interested in seeing what was on the other side of the wall, the richness of spirit I had to offer. Well, you not only broke down the wall, but you made sure that another one would never be built to take its place. You always care what I have to say even when what I have to say isn't always so Christian towards you. You understand I can only be me, I can only be Breanne--no more, no less--and you don't make me apologize for it. Even when we're stubborn and are tearing each other to pieces like wild jackals, you always make it clear that no matter what I do or say I'm surrounded by a love that emanates directly from your heart like the rays of the sun. That, more than anything else I know about you, is the one fact I always take with me when I think about what I like about you. You inspire me. You embrace me. You welcome me.

You see me with the eyes of someone who is my equal and that's an experience that doesn't come along all that often.

So, on this your 34th birthday, I only want to say that your the friend I long to love and cherish with a rare form of love until there are no more days to hold it in. You, sugar, are the one friend who does friendships best.

Again, happy birthday, Patrick!

Breanne

It Hardly Matters, It Does Not Matter, But Let's Unravel The Edge Of Time, Where Proofs And Postulations Rise

2009-10-08T04:39:00.000-07:00

--"Proofs", Mates of State

Not Fond of Mushrooms

When you're wondering
about the delivery

guy--how he got to
be forty-two or look like

Bob Saget in a
faded red shirt and khakis--

he is spending time
wondering why you're not fond

of mushrooms and if
he ever thought as young as you.

And when you're paying
him the twenty-six dollars

he's owed, he's thinking,
you're going to need it more

than I do, sweetheart,
before he hands you your change.

dw

----

My English teacher brought up the anomaly of being a poet and writer aficionado, unlike other worshippers of celebrity, ours is a mostly faceless form of adulation. Even though I have spent many nights padded down with a great collection of this certain poet or breathtaking new novel of that certain writer, were I to cross paths with any but a handful of people possessed of this writing gift I would surely not recognize a single one of them. You can only look at so many cover jackets, so many publicity photos, before they all meld into a formless haze of unrecognizable facial features. The idea's the thing and putting eye color or hairstyle to the words the woman says seems altogether superfluous to me. How am I to recognize the brilliance of a man if that man does not hang a sign around his neck proclaiming "My latest piece was featured in The Atlantic Monthly"? What hope do I have in discerning the average passerby from the genius that hides within the throng of teeming masses?

It'd be like when wind met earth; two mighty forces of nature with no working knowledge of how the other operates. Were one to stop me without so much as a by-your-leave and say, "Hey there, Toby. I'm Catherine Marshall and I was featured in The Best American Poetry 2009," I very well might run away. What I would not do would be say, "Gosh, it's real swell to meet you."

That is not what I would do.

I have it worked up in my head that profiteers and professional purveyors of the written word operate on a wholly different set of instructions as to how to function. They sidle from brilliant thought to brilliant thought the way a jazz singer shuffles through the different notes--lightning fast and without mercy. That's why the sight of someone like Jane Smiley or Annie Proulx shopping at the malls of America might short-circuit some inner wiring regarding how people of a certain intellect are supposed to interact with the rest of the world. For one, they are not supposed to release themselves from their self-styled enclave of creation. They do not get to peek at the sun. They do not get to drive a car, dance a jig, or drop off their dry cleaning. Their greatest contribution to society is one that requires them to be forever vigilant in their pursuit of the perfect compilation of thoughts and ideas and philosophies. It does not suffer idle chit-chat or errands lightly. It would be like seeing a automobile manufacturing robot arm taking in a movie at the cineplex; if your main function is to write then it behooves you to write without end, Amen. Otherwise, you're just depriving the rest of the world and the fans which it encompasses of your brilliant insights.

It also strikes me that I don't want to be leveled by the normalcy in their visages. I don't want to see their arch to their back or the slight imperfection to the right side of their cheek. I don't want to know that somebody whose work I once compared to one of Jesus' miracles on a good day lists to one side when they walk. I don't want to know the color of the ocean if it is not the blue of my imagination. Writers do not have bodies, after all. They only minds and mouths with which to speak the truth.

I know I wouldn't be able to hold court with them. I could not hope to keep up my end of the conversation. Were it even to devolve to the smallest of talk, I would still bow to their authority, I can tell you that much. Every query would be met with my "I agree." Every statement of opinion would be met with "I agree." Every challenge to my preconception of how things are done or work or are understood would be met with "I was so wrong." It wouldn't even be a fair fight. My independence would suffer the loss every time. They made it, they're doing it, my brain would say in upper case letters and exclamation points. Everything they tell you would hold the weight of gospel. If they tell you to be careful crossing the street, then, gosh, you'll cross the street as if you're guarding the crown jewels themselves. If they tell you to have a nice day, then you'll strive to have the best day anyone has ever had in a decade.

That's how I would understand them, not through the lens of truth but something more reverential and slightly fanatical.

I've been thinking, though, it wouldn't be any different for them. They wouldn't see me either. All they would see would be just another doting fan. They might not see what it's like to be one of their readers; they might not see what struggles their words produce when it comes time to dovetail the insights their works have incited with the universal truths one has held onto since a small child. They might have forgotten what it's like to be working your upward when it comes to understanding how language can both lash one's psyche and massage it at the same time. For them it might be a foregone conclusion. They might not understand the sense of being astounded like I still do. When they look at me they might not recognize my curiosity for what it is--like the smoker who mistakes the alley cat for some common street rat. They may not believe that I'm a writer myself so instead of seeing me with the eyes of a colleague or at least master to apprentice, their gaze may more resemble that of the way a hawk eyes its prey or a shepherd eyes his sheep. It wouldn't be a look of empathy. Pity perhaps, but most likely indifference.

It would be a difficult task meeting a writer and try to gain equal footing as them for the reasons mentioned above. It would be most troubling establishing any type of peer-to-peer set of ground rules. The idolized and idolater relationship is, indeed, a hard habit to break. Or maybe it's not even the sociodynamics of celebrity that's the problem. Maybe it all comes down to the idea that one's self-image is not ever the image projects out into society. The way I see you is not the way you see yourself. It's not a matter of which version is the truth; it's accepting the fact that both images are true and both images are false. For me it would be the trial by fire of accepting the fact that these gifted individuals are both masters of their craft and still servants of the human condition. There is no either/or choice when it comes to heroes; everyone is a hero and the damsel in the distress. Everyone should be applauded and overlooked. Everyone's important and everyone's nobody.

Everyone wins.

Everyone poops.

Maybe that's what I should focus on were I to run into Stephen King strolling down Fourth Street Live! or meet Nick Hornby at the nearest White Castle. They're better than me, to be sure. But when they look me in the eye my thoughts should turn to the truism that perhaps, perhaps I'm a little bit better than them as well. We all need that chip on our shoulders to have someone else knock off, otherwise, we're all walking around thinking that we're no better than the average personage of no interest to anyone. We need to be our own biggest fans so we don't all become someone else's, I say.

dw

This Is Why Events Unnerve Me, They Find It All, A Different Story, Notice Whom For Wheels Are Turning, Turn Again And Turn Towards This Time

2009-10-05T23:34:00.000-07:00

--"Ceremony", New Order

I have a birthday coming up on the 10th. Yet, to be certain, I'm more excited that both my brother and my friend Toby's birthday are coming up on the 12th. Don't mistake me--I'm glad to be receiving gifts and all, but the weight of the occasion still hasn't hit me yet. The way I see it, turning thirty-four is about as momentous as turning thirty-three, which is to say it isn't very momentous at all. On that day, nothing's going to truly change for me and there won't even be any kind of celebration to commemorate the date.

Yes, I'm having a few dinners with a select group of friends and relatives all this week, but there will be no birthday party, bash, or any type of shindig to be had.

Frankly, I think I outgrew birthdays by the time I was twenty. I've never been all that jazzed about parties celebrating me. I've always preferred to put forth the energy into other people's celebrations. I've always strived to make other people's birthdays memorable and special. I suppose it has something to do with the idea of me not liking to call attention to myself--the no good-bye rule and the no small talk rule--but I also believe it has to do with the idea that birthdays in and of themselves aren't very noteworthy. It's not like an anniversary where you're celebrating an actual choice; birthdays really celebrate something you had no control over. That's why it's okay for friends and family to want to do right by you in making a big deal about your birthday. It's their choice to really honor the fact how long you've come in the world by choosing an arbitrary date to turn the metaphorical hands of the clock of your relationship. But to move the hands of one's own clock is to really acknowledge that there is a clock which is moving all the time in the first place.

In my case, it's neat to think that my "little" brother will be thirty-two years old this Monday or that Marion will be turning the same age when I first met Breanne, but it just makes me sad to think I'll be turning ten or more years older than people who have accomplished more than me.

Basically, my birthday is what holidays are to most people...

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers