foggy thought-ed but relevant

Keane ‘Hamburg Song’

There is not enough Zoloft and Xanex in the world. My cure when it wears off is simple, and there’s only one in the entire world, but unlimited doses. He is beautiful in the most masculine and quirky way, and were I to die tomorrow I believe his world would stop turning. Through all the bullshit a woman endures trying to find love I realize it is nowhere and everywhere. You can’t give it without giving it back, and when you finally can, it is all the comfort and security a daddy-less girl will ever need. There is no replacement for my love, no generic, no one else.

I love you. Three words that may be very hard to say but will always mean the utmost.

out of stock

I am drowsy, but not ready for bed. You called me and you made me cry. I’m not sad. Well, that’s a lie. I am angry mostly and a little sad that I still feel like a failure no matter how much of an asshole everyone concurs on. Regardless, you asked me what I wanted. An ultimatum. Italian was right, you’d pop up eventually and now? Really? It’s late Friday night and you’ve just got to know if I’m ever rushing back to your drunken arms and detached emotions but deceiving smile.

It’s just not enough. I had C, and I will live the rest of my life remembering and feeling that sadness that I lost the only one who’d really loved and sheltered me that far in my life. The rest were a blur, and then you. You held onto me at arms length, and I am not the person to do that to. I crave an absent affection and security, stability that a strong man can provide. I am a typical woman, but without ill intent unlike most. Heh. What am I supposed to say? If I were single of course I would be up for more abuse. And for you to say you want me to admit it, and I do, and for you to reciprocate…………..to what point and purpose? To build that enmity I feel? No, to get to me. Just stop. I know you can’t see this but fuck…really? REALLY??!!! I was content being a polite acquittance, an eventual distant friend, the kind real adults have later in life that still pine for the wife of some guy at the office but remember how much they hurt her…..some storybook bullshit that would allow me to not be mean and allow you to control yourself. Yes, I loved you. Past. I have someone with stronger arms who won’t let go. If I fall asleep against him I won’t wake alone unless he’s making me coffee and when I put my heart in my hand he takes it, but I will return with his.

Don’t you dare ask me again. I did tell you this. I am happy and I love. It may be ordinary to you. It may not be messy and complicated and filled with my own unrequited romantic notions and your silence, but it is far, far from it, and far better.

You broke my heart, don’t you get that? Enough is enough, everyone understands that at some point. Come around, but not back at my door so to speak. I couldn’t even replace it, I found someone to give me a new heart and a new will. Mine was scarred, so forgive me. Forgive me for not wanting to be held by empty arms, words that mean nothing. Likewise, they mean nothing to me either, now.

holding out, holding on

Jimmy Eat World ‘Always Be’

So I was watching a talk show on mute the other day at the doctors office. It made me think of Incubus (‘Talk Show On Mute’) and that transitioned into other songs like ‘Wish You Were Here’ and goddammit I just want to sit on the beach. Who doesn’t? How immature of me.

My Father excitedly offered an olive branch and simultaneous silent apology in suggesting I move to North Carolina with him. The streets roll up on Sundays and it’s three hours from at least that many beaches. It’s beautiful and it’s a chance to slow down in a way, and catch up with a man I hardly know. Would I leave Italian Boy asks, and leave him behind? No. I would stay. It is what I do. I could have left and taken a job in New York, written to the side and dreamed of being published in some format while I let my soul be devoured by my ulcer-inducing surroundings. I would love it and hate it, but I would be somewhere I wanted to be. Heading South is somewhere I want to be, but I’ll turn it down. I’m not ready, and I’m not free. When I am ready, I will stay, and wait and wait. I don’t see me going anywhere even after I push through my circumstance and jump clear to the fresh air.

My sister told me once I am glue. It could explain my attachment to what’s worst for me, and it definitely explains my high demand and high pressure to keep the rest of the family from eating each other alive.

Here I am. I don’t want to talk about things that can’t be solved. I’ll start school again in the Fall, and I’ll eventually waste gasoline driving around to clear my head since walking isn’t safe that late. I smile and nod, and that is my charm. Stick me on your dash and don’t ask me any questions.

I’m so tired of the never ending questions. The ‘are you okay?’s and the ‘please tell me the truth’s and the ‘why won’t you stay?’s. Sometimes I want to be quiet and still be my own person without full disclosure. Perhaps I am more like my father than I’ve always thought. He enjoys sitting alone in a quiet room, and when spoken to, is one of few words. He has an occasional lapse where you see his happiness or hope–as almost everything he loves is so far away.

I am lucky in that sense, and could appreciate everyone who loves me and most importantly needs me more if all the love and needs weren’t forced down my throat. Pause for reaction…and yes, of course I’ll gag. Don’t be insulted, it’s who I am and I’ve never lied about it. It’s a natural reflex, I’d love to say. Oh, and while I can imagine the faux confusion and scornful look, might I add it is also a double standard.

standing on my own two feet (tip toes on a ledge)

Breaking Benjamin ‘You Fight Me’

I’m like Carrie huh? No, I only wish I was. Who wants to be lonely and frustrated and fucked up? No one.

Then again I don’t want to fold jeans and tee shirts anymore, I don’t want to read verbatim disclaimers and push people through a CT machine and tell them to hold still. I don’t want to help people. I want money, I want security, and I want to wear scrubs. Hell, they look comfortable, and moreso because I always use two dryer sheets instead of one.

This must be why men say women just don’t want to be happy. Maybe it’s true, maybe I don’t want to be happy or even content. Maybe I want to feel confused and fucked up, lonely, unable to channel my energy into productive, useful material. It’s why New York has it’s draw. No one knows your name.

Furiously writing plans, trashing them, redoing them over and over, I regret this move. I look around at everything that’s mine, and realize how scary and wonderful it is all at the same time. On one hand, there’s no one to catch me if I fall and all these bills just keep coming back in a vicious cycle, of course. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for buying things for yourself. It’s my life, and in this empty apartment the quiet never bothers me. The echoes follow me and it’s comforting knowing whenever I need it, I’m right here for me. Even if I hate it, at least I feel something and I don’t forget how.

salt in the wound

Why is it we hold back? It’s human nature and mother’s wisdom to look before you leap now, but I wonder.

If someone loved you and you loved them in return, why wouldn’t you say anything? To avoid being hurt? I have been battered and bruised in that sense like an aging boxer. The sweat drips and the blood runs, but heart thumping I remember why it is there, and I struggle back to my feet again.

It’s loved not love. And that doesn’t hurt any less. Forgive me. It’s more disturbing than painful.

Taylor Swift ‘White Horse’

a brief chronicle: last night

I would make the best wife she whispered. Boy B slept beside her, and did not hear her, or the barely audible self-reassurance. It had been just over a year, and instead of a silent movie like with Boy A, it was an action adventure. Everything was on fast forward, and planning the night before, it comforted her knowing soon she may be in the perfect position to receive a very important question. They were young, and they were still in the marveling newborn freeze of their love for each other and life together, but she could hope, couldn’t she?

Was it selfish? She didn’t know, and she wouldn’t tell a soul. She loved making those endless lists of everything she needed and crossing things off as she went. The one she hadn’t crossed off yet was security. She had a good job, was acquiring the things she needed for her flat, and was planning her new career. It was romantic security she wanted, and though she felt safe in his arms, the thought something could happen, and she’d be back where she was last time she was this in love frightened her. She didn’t want to be left behind and all alone.

So she whispered to him how much she needed him, how much she wanted to keep that fast pace, even as guilty a pleasure it was fantasizing about the one day all women dream about. If she could do that in the dark with the quiet hum of the air conditioner behind her, imagine what she ponders when she finally falls asleep.

addressing the alter ego, and a silent appeal

When Boy A still persisted, it distressed her, it distressed her new Italian Boy, and it hurt. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been–don’t you watch the movies? The older woman passes her old love in the street, and though she’s married and established her family for years, there is something troubling, waves on an otherwise calm surface. So that is how it was. It hurt her more, her failure insisting how wonderful she was and how much he missed this time or that time. She had to keep him quiet, she had to keep him down.

And she said:

I realize now you are not who I hoped for, not strong enough, willing enough, to let the soul beneath shine through. Staying quiet, is a way to keep you from being forced into my life, a way for me to silently keep you as close as I can. I am not even at your arm’s length though, and there is nothing I could do to prevent that, that wouldn’t make you resentful. You will not speak, you will stay overwhelmed, trapped in a mindset that keeps you miserable. I saw through all your complications and expected you to follow through to be that one person who wouldn’t let me down, and I have not escaped my past to let you be you, and let you be.

pointless chronicles: the end all

Ray LaMontagne ‘Trouble’
Dave Matthews Band ‘The Space Between’

It’s not that I can’t live without him. I just don’t want to she said. She felt ridiculous, dramatic, and judging by his reaction, vindicated. It was nothing short of heart wrenching, watching him walk away. Not that she didn’t love Boy B, but Boy A was in such a state. She had shared drinks and laughs, saliva and long hours without sleep. She’d shed so many tears and even if though she’d used up his share of emotional distress and then some, there was a soft spot hidden somewhere that resurfaced at that instant and made her whisper wait.

She remembered Boy A all at once then, with a tainted fondness. It’s like watching a silent movie in your head she thought; in silence, with poor quality and with all the actions of the characters put on fast forward…It made sense how recalling him speak she realized nothing really came out of his mouth. Even though it wasn’t her fault, and not only Boy A but the rest of the goddamn world had told her, she guessed her real attachment to the whole sordid and shameful situation came down to one thing: it was the only thing she’d ever really failed at.

She made good grades in school, had a good job, a great guy…now (finally). She ended up on top of, well, maybe not on top, but at least on the surface of the pile of shit we all call life. She had succeeded in overcoming all her obstacles save one. Save him. Someone had to, and for the longest time she thought it had to be her. She knew what it was like to be abandoned, and she swore she wouldn’t turn her back on Boy A.

It was that first night, watching him crack a wry, sideways smile and flick his cigarette. She felt lucky, special, aware of his awkward confidence and odd charisma. No one else seemed to notice, but she discovered a gem and found it priceless from the start. It was included, common, without sparkle, but she hadn’t see that, not quite yet.

She reveled, giddy and glad to be out in crisp spring morning air, goofing off, and with him. The old leaves that’d survived winter heaped up around her, stuck in her hair and sweater and she squinted at the camera. Snap. It was the only shot he ever took of her, and consequently, but mirrored of the situation, it didn’t turn out well. For the meantime, she savoured a four-day weekend with him, and without going home between. There were a few more drinks, and many laughs. Most of them stilted, conversation let out in small intervals as if on tenuous terms and of a delicate nature. It was something she could never quite put her finger on–why couldn’t she be completely herself? It wasn’t until later that all the walking on eggshells was simple insecurity. Even when he gazed at her as though the world had stopped, glassy eyed and gentle, she was most suppressed and aware she was not his, and he that he was certainly not hers.

“I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!“

There was nothing different about her. The tide had turned, and it was, consequently, red tide. Everything was dead. She knew better than to go back, so she took cover alone and stayed far from the poison. A safer, high tide reached back out to her and she was swept away.

She drowned. That is all. Now back from the silent movie of an awkward stint of life with him. Reality. She told him no more. He was walking away. Yes, perfect. She whispered wait, and watching him stop, hope in his eyes, ready to run back to her with more apologies, more lies, kisses, whatever it took. It was her cue. She turned her back on him and let him crumble alone and confused. It was wrong, and hurt her to hurt anyone else, but it was right, in a vengeful, Old Testament way. Now he knew just how she had felt. It took almost two years, and not the usual two months for someone to walk away, and though he beat her to the punch the first time, he was hers for once he swore and she cared more for herself.

She still hated the way she’d been, used up, squeezed out to the very end, but there was a redemption waiting.

pointless chronicles: what I thought to be a brief interlude

One Republic ‘Come Home’

She knew Boy M for years. He used to wave to her on his way to and from a friend’s house while she was on her way home from school. He didn’t go to school with her, he attended the Adventist school close by.

Fast forward four years, and she’s standing behind the counter, plugging away on the cash register. She glanced up and see Boy M with his best friend. Her face lit up and when she’d gotten the line of people out the door, he came around the counter and embraced her. He smelled like Old Spice and cold sun. It was almost March and still so chilly outside. He introduced his friend to her, and her face turned scarlet. Boy A was shy, and polite, genteel, like her long-lost. In five minutes she had a date with Boy A. Now Boy M was smiling and laughing, but something in him flinched when she agreed to the date. She quickly forgot it.

A few dates in with Boy A, and there was nothing more to say. She was reeling. She continued to when two months later he left her for a past flame. Even moreso when he came back to her (for once), but changed, afflicted. In that space between–in fact, in the same season in which they’d been introduced–she remembered that slight bother that showed on Boy M’s face. She called him up and reminded him. He sighed with relief and told her everything. Many times throughout the night the line broke up, but his voice remained constant. He was in the Army, half a world away. She panicked. Here she was in the same position. Oh no. He sang to her, and she held to his voice as if the only thing she had. In fact, she secretly hoped this was it: she would end up the same way she would have when she was seventeen. She would be a doting army wife. There’s where she went wrong. He was not hers to begin with, but she was mislead, and furthermore, he was not her C, it was not the right summer.

But in July, she traveled alone given the chance to see Boy M twelve hours drive away. She stranded herself in North Carolina, lost and overheated, but eventually she made it there. It was a quiet determination she could not shake. It felt right, and all the pomp and circumstance, all the sweat and uniforms were fondly received. She felt like she was home. She was taken into his arms, and when they woke the next morning and packed up to leave, she realized she was not at home, she was a fool. Still, pulling away from him, watching a tear wiped from his own face, and glancing back as he watched her from the barracks windows, she tried to believe. Three weeks after his three week training when he couldn’t speak to her, and now he wouldn’t, she stopped believing anything. She was too tired.

Instead, Boy A called, and she answered. She hated everything she’d ever done and become. Instead of rejecting his apology and offer, she swallowed her pride, and left the house. It was already ten o’clock. This was a relapse she realized, but at the time, she thought it was a means to an end. He should have been the way paved for her and Boy M, and traveling around. Instead of being an Army wife, she was a call-girl. She couldn’t sugar coat it anymore when she had such a bitter after-taste in her mouth.

pointless chronicles: volumes three and four are really only pages

Eve 6 ‘Here’s To The Night’

She had been feeling better, much better, lately. Boy Z still called her to show his faux regret and affections, but she scoffed at them, ignored his long distance advances.

She headed to the pharmacy, caffeine in hand. She paid for her scripts and as she slid them off the counter, a piece of paper fell to the ground. She picked it up, turned it over, and smiled. The pharmacy boy’s number was on the back. A week later she called Boy Rx (hmm-hmm), and they rendezvoused at the drug counter for a quiet evening.

That was it. After two months of sitting in Boy R’s parent’s house watching television she started to wonder. He put an end to her silent questions, and any romantic notions. She pleaded that if he ever changed his mind, she would be right there for him. He never did, and remained cold. She remained stupid for a time, thinking he would come back, or it was a stroke of bad luck. It was not. No one wanted her. Most days now she wouldn’t watch the tele by herself. She was bored, so she went to the bookstore…

Caffeine in hand again, she sorted through the historial documentaries when a hand reached over to expose the one she was looking for. Is this what you had in mind? he asked. She glanced up, noticing he was a few years older, thinning hair already, and the slight paunch. It was not what she had in mind, but he was polite, funny, energetic. He was everything she was not at the time, and he lived an hour away. Perfect. Her heart had frozen over, as Boy Z pointed out months ago, calling her the ice queen. She called him a faggot and the whole argument was over. But with this one, Boy O, she didn’t need to feel needy, or loved by him. She just needed to feel something, and a few times a week, she did. Then came the trying to stay over, and the flowers, and the who cares I’m eight years older than you…

She was overwhelmed, thinking back to what seemed, for a good girl, a string of men, when to anyone else it was the icing on the cake. Well she thought, this is not how I started out. It’s not that she didn’t want to be loved, but she didn’t want him. Simple. She was trying to replace someone else, comparing everyone else and how off base it all was. She bid Boy O ado. He did what she had always done, called, cried, begged, and swore he would change for her. She did what the rest of them had done to her: it’s not you it’s me. This time, she knew it wasn’t another line, it was true. She would be content with watching tele alone, and she was.