Some Blog

Laughter and ejaculate

Friday, June 09, 2006

Wistful thoughts that bend don’t break bring me to a place of rest. Falling beams, sunlit stars, perch on the edge of blinking shadows where things, just and honest things, are dark.

Walking barefoot in a place where glass has shattered is less of a risk. Half moon to full moon and back again and again and again and…

remember those sagacious words that slipped by ears not ready to hear. Holding heaven in your hands gold flecks cut my throat. Truly, it tastes like olive juice delicately mixed with vodka and chilled to perfection. Around around we go, where we stop is entirely dependent on the fickle nature of that bitch.

There is bigness to come. A reign of something more, endless rain and rain, can we boycott Mother Nature?

Bored with the old ball and chain, the life emptied into a shallow plastic baggy, one more ride, ride once more. The highs and lows are much more fun when the fun is so expensive. Cost, determined by something other than Ben. The soul pays for it, I tell you, the soul.

The cadence is more the drive than the meaning at times and motion, emotion, is fraught with jagged edges. Don’t forget, rhythm is a dancer. No one can say an effort to participate was not made by all. Just because one did not see the fault of their selfish ways, there are wire hangers in this house. Don’t worry that at 25 you’ve seen you life ride by in a swirl of taffeta, settle down, settle up, just settle.

Work on the listening dear boy, because otherwise the drip drop of a patient girl is going to drip drop no more.

And the girl, she’ll turn out a shiny quarter for fresh linens.

Why are you like this

Saturday, May 20, 2006

I forced her out of the room. To be fair, and why not because that seems so much nicer, we forced her out of the room. My roommate (to be) and I made the plan. There was nothing stealthy about our movements and we were unconcerned with her feelings. Because she was odd.

Understand, this was before, when I didn’t realize that odd was a show of strength of character. I had yet to join (and see the fleshy underside of) a sorority. I was new to college and my whole understanding of the world was shaped in the idealism that was rampant amongst suburban teenagers who never had anything to really test ideals. I (forgive me) was not unpopular in high school and for some reason; college was an inkblot mirror image. I picked up where I left off and the days blended and blurred. The essays that I started to form within my core were able to mature and the fledgling sarcasm and wit (that was very harsh in high school) were honed to a fine craft. I became more of what I was and less of what I wasn’t, but that was to come after we made the move.

She wore clothes that had faded from use and wash, but not in the cool vintage way. She spoke of architectural features with awe and wonder. She wore her hair long and loose with angry fly-aways that were always in her eyes. Oh, and she was so depressing. I don’t think it was so much what she said, more how she spoke. Tone, inflection, weight, all lost on her. The monotonous droning was like Eeyore on lithium.

I just remember when I decided that she had to go. We were unpacking and she put her CDs on the shelf. To this day I have never met anyone with a more extensive collection of the Cure. I know that seems like such small thing, but at that time I was all over Seattle grunge bands and even at that early age had a CD collection that was deeply surprising and well stocked for both parties and impressiveness. I suppose that today I would be less disdainful of her, but I think that I would still have forced her out of the room. After all, she was odd.

Wash away my sins

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I know what it looks like. I get it. I understand your point, but I really need you to stop. Stop talking to me about the 2% that exists because, as the past few days of writing here shows, it’s fucking with me. I don’t think I can do this for much longer. And we can’t go forward and we can’t go back, and all you have is that tone in your voice that makes me think. I tell myself the things that we both know, how the reality is that you need time and patience, being new to the game, and me, being the veteran, with the scars to prove it, I have to be kind and understanding. I have to be the mature person here for both of us because you have no idea what you’re doing, but as I sit here, typing like a fiend, I can’t help but resent the fact that I have to assume the role of the responsible one, by default rather than design.

They laugh when they hear, and they know that I will be fine, land on my feet as always. It’s in my way, my nature, my core. It’s what attracts the others. I will be okay, going into the abyss, coming out with a tan and a story about the great beaches on the other side. The risks, as always, are the times of my life.

I resent the idea that I am the one who would be shallow. It pisses me off that you place that onto me, because it’s what people have always done. I hate that being pretty, or pretty enough to be attractive, or attractive enough in the dim light of bars, makes me automatically different, and not different in a good way. After all this time, why is it that I am the one who has to carry that burden? I thought you would have known me better than that, and in the early hours of this morning, I was unable to verbalize what I was really thinking. Perhaps that bottle of wine had something to do with it, or maybe I was just too tired of trying to justify my choices again.

Time and reflection accord me the ability to state with clarity and assurance that I am not nearly as simple as you think. I am so above that, I don’t even think about it, because as much as you would like to think otherwise, I was raised better than that. I can see past what you think I see and delve deep into who you are and make up my mind. And it fucking hurts that you think it, that you think it at all and that you think it about me. Say what you will about strategic planning or about my refusal to consider an option that is not my ideal result, but at least I’ve never thought of you that way.

A Quid is a Pound, which is $1.78

Sunday, April 23, 2006

If, at 2 AM, you find yourself on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, turn up Tottenham, take the first left down Hanway Street, what looks like a super scary alley, ignore the overwhelming scent of fresh urine and stale vomit, watch out for the oncoming traffic, and on the right side of the street half way up, before it curves to the left, look up for an open window above a tapas bar. This open window belongs to a private bar that opens from 2-4 AM, 6 days a week (Tuesday night seems to be the magic quiet night in London). The membership requirements of the bar is that you need to know where the door is, no secret handshake or dues, just the ability to climb a harrowing set of stairs and to not mind the person next to you.

The bar seats about 75 people uncomfortably, and invariably the doorman lets in 150. Bench-lined walls mean that the proletariat become bedfellows and you must meet the man next to you. In fact, bar etiquette requires you to rudely interrupt the conversation next to you and add your two cents. You will hand out cigarettes and advice like the love child of the Marlboro Man and Ann Landers. The mix of people, philosophers and students, student philosophers, philosophy students, assures that you will have a moment. A moment will be defined as: “We just had a moment.”

Be aware, that you will spend a few hours waxing poetic about the one who got away with a girl whose name you never really heard and the next day you will see said girl at the Starbucks where you get your morning Mochiatto and that you will see the super cute Twinkie who confides that he thinks your date is hitting on his friend (my “date” was hitting on his friend, more of that later) at Ballans the next time you need to have a recovery meal at 6 AM. Or maybe that’s just me.

Above the dado course of benches, lives a m�lange of wannabe Americana decoration with just a hint of old English pub (a pinup girl from the 60s, Willie Nelson, Chili pepper lights, the Queen Mum (God rest ‘er soul)). And above the schizophrenic ornamentation is the border art that frames the origins of this club. In trompe l’oeil dance the figures of Helen, Menelaus and Paris, Agamemnon, Hecktor, Odysseus, Achilles, Ajax, and Cassandra illustrating the great epic story and providing the name, The Troy Bar (I tried googling to no luck).

I don’t suppose that Homer, when writing the Iliad, ever thought that his depiction of a decade long war fought for the right to state that “I own the prettiest girl in the world” would eventually be the appellation of the one place in London where I could drink after the 2 AM closing time (I know this has changed, but work with me).

I also don’t suppose that anyone, my date nor I, ever anticipated that I would use the Troy Bar as a core standard, a fall back position. The first time I spent some time in the Troy Bar, I was on a second date. I don’t remember how I met him, but I do know that I was very clear with my expectations that if I sleep with someone on a first date, I don’t really intend on seeing the person ever again. I have a policy about one-night stands being just that, one night. So the second date-ness of it all was a bit of a surprise, but I had forgotten my hair clips (given to me by someone and were of some value) when I left his house while he was showering the morning following date number one. Date number two I told him I was just for me to get my clips, he suggested meeting for a drink. I agreed because why not?

One of the reasons why I knew that I could never date this guy after date one, date two being held under duress, was that he counted the cash spent on the date, as in, “Your drink cost 2 quid more than my drink, I think you should buy two rounds to my one” or “I paid for dinner so I think you should pay for all the drinks for the evening.” This type of attitude has never sat well with me as certain elements of thriftiness build traits that I hate, mostly because I never keep track of these types of things, with my personal philosophy being that if you can’t afford to be out, don’t go out, but also because eeewwwwww, creepy. Moving on, so date two saw us at the Troy Bar, where he proceeded to ask me when we were going to go back to his place. I stated that I wasn’t going to go home with him again as he already knew that I had a policy about one night stands (he knew this going in, or rather going down).

Turning to me, with a pout on his face, my date very loudly explained that he expected me back to his place that night to improve upon the experience of the first date. Now, seeing that of the five people at our table, three were complete strangers to whom I had been dispensing cigarettes and advice and who had been buying me drinks and making me laugh, these three imperfect strangers heard the comment, and all LAUGHED OUT LOUD. My date stomped off to the bathroom and my tablemates all encouraged me to stand my ground. As I recall, the man next to me said, “You can do way better than that cunt.”

Upon returning to the table, my date stated that he was leaving; I casually waved and said that I would be finishing my drink. I clearly didn’t see the guy again, but I regularly saw the man who had been sitting next to me out at the bars.

The second time I was at the Troy Bar I brought the Film Executive, we had spent the night out and didn’t want it to end. As a way to prevent us from having to decide the inevitable end (your place or mine) we ended up at the Troy Bar. If memory serves correct, that night was his birthday and it was mine.

The third time, was entirely forgettable except for the fact that I made a split-second friendship with a girl who was very loud.

The fourth time, I brought a magazine feature writer who was covering an international photograph exhibition at which I working. I was the English speaking component for a German gallery and he was writing an article. We spent the night sharing stories of moments of glory and shots of tequila. He spent the night being terribly fascinating (faassssccinating) and by the time we tripped our way up the stairs, we were just wasting time until we would go our separate ways. The Journalist chatted up the girl to his left, to the point of exchanging phone numbers, and the kind young gay boy who was eating up my glam, felt the need to point out what I already knew. Ah, the smell of fresh youth and naivety. I, in fact, had already reassured the young girl that I was in no way, shape, or form attached to the Journalist. I think she was more impressed with him than he was, which was no small feat. The Journalist distinguished himself by taking the change from the taxi fare I paid. I always tip 20 percent, out of habit and because I feel like it’s only right, no matter what country I’m in, and this guy I met hours before, took the 3 quid left on a 17 quid cab ride.
Eventually, I became a regular at the Troy Bar, and the times there blend into each other. The visits are only distinguished in the flashes of light and bursts of sound that memories take on with time and distance.

Shiver me timbers

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Deep down in my knees and up through my stomach, I shiver, maybe it’s more a quiver or a tremor, a soulquake that rocks me to my core. I’ve learned today, by accident of deceit. I thought I was too smart to not see. The lie, to be expected for the Internet is a fount of liars…

Lately the anamnesis has been hard work, but then all blogging has been hard work, and I know it hasn’t gone unnoticed. For all those of you who noticed, um whatever.

Last week’s topic (Follow) still resides in draft format and one day will work it’s way out to the blog, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about today.

I had the thread, that’s how it starts. I see the word, I have an idea, the thread is formed and off I go with the whole writing thingy. I had the connections, I was going to share about how my innards shiver when I do coke, e, k, or speed. There is this time elapsed photography that my body does and in between the dancing and the endless proclamations of how great this is, while I dance until my feet bleed (but I don’t feel it) and drench my clothes with sweat, my insides start shivering. This is not like being cold when your teeth chatter and your muscles shiver in response to early onset hypothermia, this is the exact sensation of your stomach shivering. And then your intestines. And then, and then, and then the shakes come and my ankles start to get dancey. The twitching and endless motor ticks outlast the high. Yes, that was what I was going to write about here, in great detail. Maybe next time.

Today, I was perusing the great big blog world and ran into a wall.

Long ago and far away a good friend once said: “The Internet: Where men are men, women are men, and children are FBI agents.”

My friend has always been a pretty smart person, and cautioned me against trusting the Internet:

On non-threatening—I happen to think I’m pretty harmless and try to do the right thing. But, stepping into the third-person for a moment, if I had to render disinterested advice on this point, I’m not sure that it’s really that easy to sort the sheep from the goats—it’d be hard for you to figure out if I’m in fact telling the truth. There are a lot of people who are capable of saying pretty words, and who have the patience to apply them in a way that evades your threat instincts. Particularly true in the online world, frankly, where most of one’s normal critical intuitions on human interaction get dampened out, and hopeful fantasy has a way of filling in the gaps. There are people who understand this, and know how to exploit it. In some odd sense, we should be thankful that the world is full of unsubtle idiots, because a world full of wolves would be a hard one to live in.

Mind you, I believe in trust. I’m not so cynical that I think trust is foolish—the old canard “trust no one” has very limited practical application (in most cases, it is useless). But you have to be careful. I guess what I’m saying is that “the rest of the class” may not deserve your trust. In fact, based on the information you have, I probably don’t deserve your trust (although I think it helps that I’m boxed into a little corner of your life, where practically speaking there’s not a lot I can do to further my own interests at your expense—kind of a non-threat in that regard).

PS. If I haven’t said this in a while, everyone who emails me should be well aware that they have no expectation of privacy.

In my perusal this afternoon, I came across a comment from a blogger I use to read regularly. The blogger (blogger A) in question has started going through medically created menopause and as such the direction of her blog,understandably, has gone somewhere I find of little interest. This is a natural evolution of blog reading and I accept this. Upon seeing her name, I clicked through, just to see if things had drastically changed. While I found more of the same, I came upon a post where the woman’s partner references another blog (blogger B) of which I was a regular reader but have since moved on as is the reality of things. There was no real reason, I suppose I had read enough to get the gist of the story and while there were some memorable posts, having read the entirity of the archives, I could see that there wasn’t going to be a great change of direction to make the blog any more interesting.

The entry about this other blog essentially said that a long time ago blogger A wrote a short post about how blogger B had such a specific take on life and her lifestyle. Blogger A questioned the ability of a person to maintain the lifestyle choices. Blogger B responded with a very aggressive attack, which I can understand as I would probably do the same if someone were to call into question my life and my choices. Blogger B is kind of infamous in certain Internet circles for acts of Internet aggression, to the point where people in forums will just drop out rather than face her wrath.

Intrigued, and nosy, I went to blogger B’s blog to find a confession. She had lied about everything. Her battle with cancer, the death of her son in a drunk driving accident, her husband’s heart attack.

The confession, is in three parts, the first: nothing here is true…the second: I am an alcoholic and addicted to the Internet…the third: I am trying to help other people to make amends and not everything was false.

The confession came as she was outed by the forum she terrorized for years. The back and forth is too hard to really follow, but essentially, blogger B wrote a detailed homage to her slain son, noting that the man who took his life was a convicted murderer. A woman interested in writing a story began to research deaths by drunk drivers in the general vicinity of the woman in a specific time period and facts started to not match the tails she was telling. As the truths came out and her lies began to unravel (she is unmarried, has no children) blogger B has made comments that she will continue to post because so many of her readers said that they didn’t care if she was telling the truth, the readers felt that they had gained some sort of life lessons from her blog (of course the not insignificant number of individuals attacked by blogger B in any number of places were all very vocal on the insidious nature of blogger B and her personal and vicious attacks). So, blogger B has posted a comment that her blog is fiction and that she will carry on in the great tradition of many of America’s great writers.

The fact that this total sociopath (she often commented and posted as her husband on her blogs and in forums) is continuing to spread her ideas on the Internet because people feel like her made up stories of her perfect life (seriously, she should have been awarded super mom/wife/employee of the century) were inspirational. Fucking read the bible or better yet, the poetry of recovering heroine addicts if you need inspiration, encouraging a pathological liar (and self-confessed Internet addict) to continue posting on the Internet is the most irresponsible thing I have ever heard.

Mood rating: Leave me alone.

If Elmo the barking seal doesn’t do the back-flip, he doesn’t get the Mackerel

Monday, April 03, 2006

Amend. (shift F7, thanks Word)

Alter, Adjust, Modify, Revise.

I like Improve the best. Because there is the sense of improvement these days. Life is chugging along and where there was once one, there is now two. I like two. Two IS much better than one.

The short of the long of it is that the long is not so close. Plan he said. Rather, I heard. Now there is just an amendment needed to plan around the unexpected. I can do that.

A beautiful wreck

Friday, March 17, 2006

There were words today and tonight. Being the tail end of Drunk Irish Day (DID aka St. Patrick’s Day) I may have lost the words, but the momentum is still here. 

The support of an unexpected source, via an even more unexpected email because seriously she’s better than I in more than a million ways and maybe more if I were even able to enumerate all the ways (how do I love thee, let me count the ways), made me sit back and remember a time when I was bold and brave. A time when I was truer but oh so hard.

Now the hard crunchy shell has suffered a tectonic shift, revealing the soft inner melt in your mouth not in your hand milk chocolate.

As hard as I have found writing something of worth, I NEED to write. The loss of my vomitiginous verbiage has left me bound and gagged. Having waved down an interested party I know that the only way forward is to move forward.

And now, a memory…Brought to you by the letter A

“Hi Some Girl. I was just on my way to [somewhere] and I was thinking of.”

76-Message one has been deleted.

No matter how much this is about to hurt, I have to admit the truth. So I am sorry. My preemptive apology, clammy aloe on a 3rd degree burn, not really all that successful, I know, but every time I hear his voice I think about how much I love him.

Present tense. Because there will never be a time when I don’t love him. Or the him before him. Or the him before him before him. It carries through my days and night like Charles in charge. The lingering presence will never be eviscerated because I am weak and soft.

I wish I were a better person, more able to compartmentalize and segregate. My mental house of cards does not allow for the removal of the warped card. Instead I integrate and further support the weak join (mix some sawdust into some wood glue and the glue becomes a viable support for the unsupportable).

I like to think that all of this makes me healthy and well adjusted. Maybe I am just honest but neither healthy nor well adjusted. Possibly. Whatever the truth, I wonder, am I holding on to a past truth because at least I know it existed for real instead of taking the chance on the future, which may hold nothing but tears and sorrow. I need to know, how do you stop loving the love(s) of your life?

Bruce and I had a mini tangle this morning. I was madish. He was himself. I know that certain behaviors won’t (can’t) change, and so when he behaved as he would I was sad that I was so surprised by him being true to form. I guess there needs to be a two by four shattering my glass house (made of warped cards) for me to see the obvious.

Optimistic linger

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

I didn’t want some to read this post.

So I wait.

Monday’s child has learned to tie his bootlegs

Monday, March 06, 2006

It never mattered to me what he looked like. The generic, he you understand. There has never been a stock type or the looks of a movie god living in my mind. That’s not how Some Girl works.

The conversations went something like this: smart, taller than me (I mean I am 5 feet tall, anyone shorter than me would be a midget, although I have recently learned that I am only taller than the average pygmy, which of course means that there are above average pygmies out there that are taller than me (I am shorter than a fucking pygmy. Some say it’s cute, I’m going to agree because otherwise what am I?), witty, makes me laugh, stable, sane, confident, just a little square, attentive to detail, and a moral person.

The appeal has always been the moral fabric rather than the genetic fluke.

And see how they run: The Film Executive, The Sergeant, OOG, Some Boy (the only constant among them is that they are not around any more. Sure some for good reasons, like having another girlfriend or for being psychotic, but others) I just wasn’t that appealing to them.

Maybe I should have been pickier and based my judgments on other factors. Like whether or not their belt matched their shoes. Maybe I shouldn’t have branded myself as an inflatable doll (I’ve been trademarked). Perhaps there was a better way of going about things to make life just a little smoother. I suppose I always thought that I would be able to count on someone who I trusted because they told me what I wanted to hear.

The latest in the series (serialized boys) has his moments. As I speak to him, moments before I tumble into sleep each night, I wonder what is so appealing about this one. And then he makes me laugh and I forget that buzzing noise and I just get to be.

It’s not what you think

Friday, February 24, 2006

So she says the topic du jour is warrant. Well, I�ve got something deep today.

(Oo it must be magic, How inside your eyes I see my destiny, Every time we kiss, I feel you breathe your love so deep inside of me, And if the moon and stars should fall, They’d be easy to replace, I would lift you up to heaven, And you would take their place, Then I saw red, When I opened up the door, I saw red, Heart just spilled on to the floor, And I didn’t need to see his face, I saw yours, I saw red then I closed the door, I don’t think I’m gonna love you anymore)

I was 11, maybe 12. Amanda (yes this is her real name) and I were best of friends. She was my first best friend. If I had known how things would go down, I don�t know that I would have made the effort. But I made the effort and there we were one day going through the junk in her room.

(Just for the record let’s get the story straight, Me and Uncle Tom were fishin’ it was gettin’, Pretty late, Out on a cypress limb above the wishin’ well, Where they say it got no, bottom say it take, You down to Hell, Over in the bushes and off to the right, Come two men talkin’ in the pale moonlight, Sheriff John Brady and Deputy Hedge, Haulin’ two limp bodies down to the water’s edge, I know a secret down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin oh yea, I know a secret that I just can’t tell)

The official parental mandate went something like: �If you don�t clean that fucking room of your I am going to kick your ass. And when your father gets home, he�s going to get you.� Clean her room we did.  We didn�t know enough to tell anyone else what was going on, her parents really did beat the shit out of her, but we thought if we cleaned, at least that night she would be safe.

(Well I heard mama late last night, She was talking to my father, Now it’s time that boy was shipping out, And I mean come hell or high water, Smokes and spits and drinks and fights, And his friends all look like trouble, Oh he sleeps all day and gone all night, Where’s that boy I used to cuddle, Ten good years and then, He must have gone insane, You’re the only hell, Your mama ever raised, She tried to tell you, But you got to do things your own way, Says you’re a good boy and, That you must be going through some phase, You’re the only hell your mama ever raised, Mama ever raised, Mama ever, Mama ever raised)

The tape was in a box with a bunch of other tapes. She didn�t even look up when I asked if I could have it. Without even thinking she said: �Sure, take whatever you want.�

(Well Suize, Oh Suzie, Come on and let me in, There’s love in the air, Love on my mind, Love in the pores of my skin, I worked real hard, all week long, Kept on singin’ the same damn song, It’s one for the money, Two for the show, Paid on Friday and I’m ready to go, And if I’m wrong or if I’m right, I don’t give a damn tonight, You bring out the worst in me, Huh, cuz you might be bad, But sure feels good to me, it sure feels good to me, Sure feels good, Sure feels good to me)

Sometime, maybe two years later, the entire family relocated to Missouri�Mound City, Missouri and my best friend�s life took a turn for the worse. She dropped out of school (the girls there would jump her in fields and then she would get in trouble for causing trouble), had three abortions, found a job at Denny�s, got pregnant again, got married, had another baby, and finally turned 18.

(Swingin’ on the front porch, Swingin’ on the lawn, Swingin’ where we want, ‘Cause there ain’t nobody home, Swingin’ to the left, And swingin’ to the right, If I think about baseball, I’ll swing all night yea, Swingin’ in the living room, Swingin’ in the kitchen, Most folks don’t ‘cause, They’re too busy bitchin’, Swingin’ in there ‘cause, She wanted me to feed her, So I mixed up the batter, And she licked the beater, I scream you scream, We all scream for her, Don’t even try ‘cause, You can’t ignore her, She’s my cherry pie, Cool drink of water, Such a sweet surprise, Tastes so good, Make a grown man cry, Sweet cherry pie oh yea, She’s my cherry pie)

The tape is long gone. I still know the words to every song, but I wouldn�t want to hear them.

(It could have rained for forty weeks dear, I’d have never known the difference, When your life is one long downpour, You don’t think you’ll go the distance, You come along with a patch of blue sky, Inside your arms I found a place that’s warm, And dry, Mister Rainmaker don’t waste your time, I found a girl who is permanent sunshine, She is the little queen of all my dreams, Carry on and find someone else to rain on)

Thanks Dr. Levitt

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

For as long as I can remember I had this growing rash that covered my face. My earliest memories of school consist of me scratching the corners of my eyes, down the side of my face, around the contours of my ears and my scalp. Of course my pediatrician prescribed a cream, an ointment that smelled like old people, which was slathered on multiple times a day.

The rash would come and go as it pleased. There was no real rhyme or reason, and no matter how many test were run, there was never any name or explanation for what it is.

The summer before I began junior high, I went to see my first general practitioner who gave me a sample tube of ointment that her office received from a pharmaceutical company and instructed me to apply. She had no idea that what she gave me was the first thing that cleared�cleared�cleared my face.

I started junior high with perfect skin.

All of the kids that I knew from first grade (most of us graduated from high school together as well, as is the way of small towns) couldn�t even remember the rash. When I referenced it in senior high, no one could recall me ever having a rash that covered parts of my face.

I guess that speaks to personality and the fact that we stop seeing things. We get to know people and become blind to disabilities and flaws.

I still have a tube with me at all times, this morning the corner of my eye looked red and was painful to the touch.  Clear advance warnings of an impending breakout. The other side affect of the cream is that the steroid compound eliminates all footholds of acne. Because I was slathering it all over my face I never had a single pimple all through high school. Now that I don�t use the cream in such quantity I will get the occasional spot where I can feel the pimple growing. Simply applying a little cream at night ensures that I don�t have to worry; the next morning all evidence of acne has ceased.

As great as that little tube of cream was, and I am beyond grateful for the results, the remedy for my skin never was able to make its way to my thoughts. To this day when someone comments on my skin or my looks, I still feel like that girl who never made eye contact with anything other than the carpet, the girl whose hair was always long enough to hide her face, the girl whose face was splotches of angry pink rash and olive skin. Some things just can�t be remedied.

even the rain is sharp like today as you sh-sh-shock me sane

Thursday, December 08, 2005

I can’t write what I am inclined to write, I don’t want to be found out to be the person I am. I don’t want to ruin the life of a very good friend. Even if I were circumspect about the entire incident there would be people who could put the sad pieces together. There are some truths that don’t need to be shared.

That’s the thing. I have always lived this way. Making these massive mistakes where I maximize carnage. Saying things that hurt. I seem to live, sustained by the hemp woven guilt noosed around my neck, to be cruel. The drive to hurt, so subtly covered and hidden by my dazzling smile, propels me forward into another poorly planned and brilliantly executed execution.

I plant my ass on a bar stool and my feet on a cross bar. Even as I wish I could be alone I put on the face that will draw them. An innate skill, displayed with ease, shown in a mirrored finish, deflecting the light. The approach only shows what’s already visible on the outer, and that is what people see in me, a reflection of themselves (as they are or as they wish to be is immaterial, they use me to feel something about themselves).

No I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want you to tell me about the most amazing night in your life. I don’t care about the time you pulled a man from a burning car. I don’t find you either fascinating or interesting even if I repeatedly tell you that I find you either fascinating or interesting (especially if I tell you: “You’re fassssscinating”).

It’s an act. I’m good at it. I’ve won awards for it. Please do not be fooled into thinking that just because you were interesting or fascinating (see above) that I ever want to see you again.

But I think to myself, as I sit there, and hear you stories, nod my head, enlargen my eyes at the appropiate points and feed into your belief that I care: “Please, stop sucking me dry.”

My mother once described the difference between my sister and myself in the following:

“Your sister has always been so smart and gifted, but it was something into which she put time and effort. Whereas she worked very hard to complete certain classes in high school, you just breezed through them. You made everything seem so effortless, because to you, these things were effortless. I can’t imagine what it is like for an older sister to have to look at her younger sister and know these things, but she does. You walk into a room and draw attention. There is just something about your personality that shines. When your sister was spending all that time working on being a good student and creating the persona of the responsible, stable person that she is today, you were focusing on the pieces of you that make you the person you are today, you were working on the shine.

She is the standard building block person who worked hard and has a very nice and stable life. You are equally as smart and gifted, but you didn’t let that define you, you didn’t want that to define you. You are defined by your personality. You are the outstanding to her standard, you are the capstone to her building block, you are the exciting to her stable. And that is why people are attracted to you, they want to be near the shine. You walk into a crowded room of strangers and leave with a room full of people who want to be your bestfriend. While you sister holds on to those new friends, you are more than willing to never see them again.”

But the shine is fake (all that glitters is not gold).

So Sally can wait, she knows it’s too late as we’re walking on by. Her soul slides away, but don’t look back in anger I hear you say.

Don’t look back in anger. Don’t look back in anger. Don’t look back in anger. At least not today.

(I knew I shouldn’t have slept with him, but I did, repeatedly.)

Difference

Thursday, December 01, 2005

He looked at me; I was casually seated on his couch. The couch would become my bed in a few hours, but for the time being, this was where we sat while he changed my world.

Me, being the blunt one that I am, flipped through the pages of a magazine meant to tell me what to do on a Wednesday night in London (if I were a gay man) and noticed: “Why the hell are there so many adverts for AIDS awareness?”

Looking back now, I can still see his eyes slide to my face and without taking a breath, he laughs: “It is world AIDS day, darling.”

Aghast I look up and oops my way back. The queen of backpedaling I mumble something about being a shallow American.

I never really had the chance to finish that half-assed apology because as I came up with the words to turn my brash insensitivity into a humorous moment, he continued: “You know I am positive, right?”

People talk about seconds seeming like a lifetime, split seconds that go on forever, and time standing still. For me, time slowed to an excruciatingly slow palpable dimension. In between the time I turned to him to ask about what he was positive and the words formulating in my mouth, I felt my heart skip. I realized he was POSITIVE.

I looked at him and looked back at the magazine. Finished flipping though as if nothing had changed. I asked him a few questions (how, when, who) but acted as if nothing had changed. Eventually we went to sleep, and the next morning as we went our separate ways in Covent Gardens I hugged and kissed him as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed. I know that all things being equal (and nothing is equal now) he will die before me. No matter how healthy he is, no matter how low the viral count is, and with the knowledge that he only (ONLY!) has HIV and not AIDS, I know that he will die before me.

His proclamation of positivity changed my worldview. I no longer can live with an idea with an “us” and “them”. Now, because of him, my world is just us.

I see him as often as I can; he is still by far one of my closest friends. When I am in London, I stay with him, when he comes to Boston, we spend as much time together as his job allows. I know that whatever happens he and I will always be the fun loving duo looking to break some hearts, but that day, he broke my heart. He also made a difference, he still does.