“Have you ever seen that movie, Before Sunset?” Asked John. Seth turned his head from where it had been placed against the glass, facing out the window at the passing highway and coast. He looked over to where John sat in the driver’s seat. It had been a remarkably quiet drive for one that included someone who was normally as talkative as John, and Seth was somewhat worried at how serious and seemingly “deep-in-thought” John had been for the past few hours. John did, actually, act this way often, but he usually balanced his contemplative demeanor with some kind of intellectual or philosophical discussion promptly. Sporadic small talk had peppered the drive, but Seth, being as introverted as he was, hadn’t managed to coax John out of his momentary shell. He was relieved that John’s pent-up well of conversation had finally sprung.
“Um…” He pondered for a moment. “Does it have…? No. Who’s in it?”
They were driving South. To where, they weren’t sure, but weeks of boredom prompted the four friends—John, Seth, Derek, and Derek (a.k.a. Jones)—to make a road trip from Seattle to Los Angeles—or wherever they could find along the way. It was something like an 18 hour drive, and they were on their second day of the journey. They had insofar traveled a few hundred miles, and spent the night at a dilapidated hotel somewhere either at the bottom of Colorado or the top of California, they couldn’t exactly remember. Now, the two Dereks slept in the back seat of Seth’s SUV while John drove.
“It has Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy.” John responded. “It was directed by Richard Linklater? Came out in 2004… Actually, it’s a sequel to the movie Before Sunrise, which was made like, eight or nine years earlier I think, but has the same actors and characters and everything. It’s like the same movie actually just, like, nine years later.” He changed lanes and let a faster driver pass him on the left side. “I’ll never get used to California traffic.” Seth nodded.
“I think I might have seen that one. Well, I think I saw one of them. Was he the same guy that did Waking Life?”
“Yeah, definitely!” John responded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, it’s like a very similar type of movie, I really love his stuff. Like in Waking Life, how the main dude just like, goes around and talks to people for like two hours, and that’s the whole movie? But they have like the most amazing conversations, right? That’s what Before Sunrise and Before Sunset are like also.”
“Yeah, I might have seen one of them…” pondered Seth. “Or maybe some of it. Wasn’t Ethan Hawke in Waking Life too? I remember reading this thing on some IMDB message board or something about those movies, like, Waking Life took parts of one of those movies, or made a new scene or something strange. I don’t remember what they were saying about it.”
“Yes, I know what you’re talking about. Yeah, in Waking Life, there is a scene that would have taken place between Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, but it never really happened—like, in the context of those two movies, the scene couldn’t have happened because they never met up. I mean, like, it has the same characters as in those movies, but it’s like, a fictitious situation. Oh, well, you wouldn’t get it yet, I would have to explain the whole premise of the two movies, it would take forever.”
“We have something like eight or nine more hours until we get to LA, man.” Seth sighed and attempted to stretch his feet as he spoke. “I have plenty of time to talk about decent films and Richard Licklater and stuff.”
“Linklater. And yeah, we have time, so I’ll get into it later, anyways, I was just saying that he’s a great director. So anyways, the movie, Before Sunset. Well, what I was going to say is from before that. Well. Anyway, let me start at the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” Interrupted Seth.
“Of, like, what happened to me the other day, this like, realization I made or something? Or like, I don’t know, I like wanted to—well, I wanted to talk about something, and there is this whole like, story attached to it. I’m sorry; it’s totally rude, right? I mean, well, like, I’ve been thinking a lot recently.”
“You always think a lot. You think too much.” And in response to the look that subsequently formed on John’s face, he added: “But not in a bad way. Like, in a cool way, like contemplative, mature way. You’re like the most fun person I know to talk to, because you don’t just talk a lot, you actually say things. You know?”
“Thanks, man.” John couldn’t help but beam at the gracious compliment.
“Well, I mean it. So,” and Seth switched into a God-like, expansive, overdramatic voice.
”‘In the beginning… Jonathan Lee was born.’”
“Ah, shut up. So anyways. Man, I’m so bad at making a like, segue from and to different points in my head. It’s like all of my thoughts are interconnected, like this huge matrix like on that—you know that car insurance commercial, with ‘the matrix’? “ Seth nodded, in acknowledgement—‘I know the one’, he seemed to be saying. “But like, when they come out of my mouth, all the little, strands of yarn connecting them are lost and so I’m stuck trying to put the pieces together again. So, anyway, I’ll try my best to make it intelligible.”
“You always seem to”.
“Thanks. Anyway—“
“No, I mean,” Seth interrupted again, “you always seem to try to, but rarely do you ever succeed in making any sense.”
“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious. So the other night I was driving, like down A street or something, I don’t know where or when. It was nighttime though, not too many cars out, I know that. It must have been late. So I’m driving, and it’s raining a little bit. And this song comes on the radio. And I don’t know what station I was listening to, but it was like, one of the University stations around here. Like U Dub or Puget Sound or U Seattle, I have no idea, because I can’t remember where I was driving.”
“How’d you get home then?” interjected Seth under his breath, half-teasing.
“Shut up. I don’t know. I wasn’t lost, I just don’t remember where I was at the moment, and anyway that’s not important. Anyway. So, I’m listening, and you know how every station is playing Christmas carols right now, and that’s all you hear on any mainstream station, but I was expecting the indie station, the college station, to perhaps play something different, but lo and behold, it’s Christmas carols—except, it was different. They were playing these amazing, slow, melodic, instrumental versions of Christmas carols. It almost seemed like some kind of like, Bright Eyes interpretation of each Carol, only without the words.”
“Nice Bright Eyes reference, you dork. Are you trying to upstage me or something?”
“Anyways,” continued John, clearly pretending to ignore Seth’s comment, “it was just really, really great music. And then, and here’s the poignant part, I looked around, and I had taken off my slippers because they were soaked—“ And in response to the peculiar half-grin on Seth’s face, he added, “and I don’t know why I was wearing my slippers, I just was, for some reason, and they were soaking wet.” Seth gave him a quizzical look. John attempted, once again, to continue as if nothing had happened. “And so I remember that I had turned on the heater in the car to low, and just on to feet and defrost mode, you know, and so it was blowing warm air at my feet, but really softly. And the rain was like this perfect rain, like, not too arduous, you know? Like the windshield wipers were probably only set to like, the third level, and there are like eight levels or something, you know? So it was like the perfect rain, like only 3/8 of rainstorm level, like, that’s a good, comfortable level. And I had warm air on my feet and soothing music in my ears and the view of the rain and the night and everything, and I was like, wow.”
“It seems as though you spent a very special evening with yourself, there, John”.
“That’s not it, hold on.” And upon realizing that he was being teased, he added: “And shut up. So I was just chillin’, like, enjoying it, when on to the radio comes the song ‘The First Noel’. And I don’t know any of the words to the song, it’s just like,” and he began to imitate the tune of the song. “Duh-duh duh, duh-da-duh duh, doo-dee-dah duh duh-duh… here is the ki-ing of Is-ra-el, blah blah, but there are no words, just like, the music part. But it got me thinking, about like, what Pastor Mike talked about in church last week.” Seth gave him a frown instead of a smile this time, as though to say, ‘don’t even start’. “Don’t tell me not to start. Just hear me out. So in church Pastor Mike was talking about the different names for God. Like, Abba, and King of Kings, and Savior, Messiah, Christ, El Shaddah, or something, etc. Anyway, so we learned that the ‘el’ part of Noel means God. And Like, I was thinking of that when I heard the song, like, ‘I wonder what the ‘No’ part means’, you know? And then afterward came on some other really, expansive, glorious song, that song that just like, melts into your entire body through your ears? It was just so beautiful, and I was thinking about all of the things that I love in the world. I love rain, and I love warmth on my feet, and I love music, and I love God, and it was like all my passions and hope and joy in the world were there in that car with me at the same time, and I was just, for the briefest of moments, entirely content. I read this book, called The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and the main character describes a similar experience, except different, but anyway, he describes it as feeling ‘infinite’. And I swear, at that moment in that car with the heat and rain and God and music, I swear I felt infinite.” Seth simply smiled, and they sat for a moment and contemplated that.
“We get that so rarely, don’t we?” Responded Seth after a while. “Like, a moment to just sit back and feel content. I always expect that I’ll feel that way at Christmas or Thanksgiving or something, you know? Like when you’re in a situation with family and friends, and gifts and food and all the things in the world that you have to feel happy about. But for some reason you don’t, you just don’t feel happy, or content or whatever. And it takes a late-night car ride and a perfect song to feel that way.” John nodded. “You know what’s weird? I can’t even remember the last time I felt that way? Like, I feel happy pretty often, you know, when good stuff happens, but contentedness is so, so hard to come by.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I want to like, write it down or something so that I’ll remember. Like, that’s part of the reason that I’m telling you about it, because you know, if I just have it happen, and then the feeling goes away, and I forget and nobody else ever knows, then it’s like it never happened.” He sighed and looked out his window for just a moment. “I hate that about the past, about memories, about experiences that you have alone. I can’t trust my brain to recall all the amazing memories I’ve experienced, or beauty or anything. It’s like, full of all the horrible times, the bad memories. My brain is so predisposed to focus on that stuff instead of the good stuff that it should be focusing on.”
“Yeah really.” Agreed Seth. “Like, ‘it’s not my fault I’m depressed’! I just can’t remember any of the good times. I only remember the bad times. Maybe that’s why we take pictures, you know? Have photo albums, yearbooks, like, if you think about it, those are the fakest things in this world, and yet we rely on them. Because nobody takes pictures of bad times, nobody writes down about their pain so they can remember it later. So we throw a bunch of photos of smiling people in a book to help jog our memories because all our brains seem to remember are the bad times. We need the photos to remind us that, yes, we were at one time happy. We did do fun things once. It wasn’t always this way.”
“Right. So that’s what I started thinking, sort of. Well, I mean, the other day, when I was in the car. You know what? I actually started thinking of Natalie.”
“John—“ began Seth.
“No, no, no, don’t start that with me. I know how unhealthy everything is, I know that her name, to you, is associated with all that causes me pain and suffering in this world, I know all that so shut up. I didn’t control it. I just thought of her. Listen to this, you’ll like this. So I thought of my contentedness, and having the things I loved in the car. Well, I didn’t really think of my family, and I love them, but I think that’s because they are more of a given.” He crinkled his eyebrows together and thought about that for a short moment. “I mean, they weren’t in the car because they are a given love, of course I love them.” He paused again. “Anyway, so I thought of Natalie, Natalie Choi like,” and he made a sweeping hand motion toward his face that took his hands off of the wheel for just a moment, which caused Seth to gasp. This time, however, John didn’t notice. “Entered my brain. She just entered, and I realized, at that moment, that I was OK before she came.”
“I’m so proud of you! Finally…” congratulated Seth.
“No, listen. So I was like, I’m OK before she is there. And I realized that I didn’t need her there, to be content. To be happy. And I realized that if she was there, if she added like, a fifth point to those four points of joy, that that would be OK too—she would be like an added bonus, an extra credit. That I didn’t need her to ace the class, but having her sure helps and stuff. That’s a bad analogy.”
“Yes, it is.” Agreed Seth. “It’s especially bad because you compared Natalie Choi to some school assignment when she is more like a Garbage Duty that we used to get in junior high.”
“You know that I don’t like it when you put her down.”
“I don’t care whatsoever. She tore you apart. She completely owned you, there is no way I am going to treat her with respect, ever. I don’t have to, just because you dated her for so long and whatever. There is no obligation.”
“OK, whatever.”
“But I’m still proud that you realized you don’t need her. It took you a while. We had been telling you that forever.”
“You won’t be proud of me for too long. So that feeling, that contentedness, it lasted like five minutes, you know? Long enough for me to pray, and then it was gone basically. So then I started thinking about that movie, Before Sunset.”
“Ah, here’s the segue. You didn’t do half bad.”
“Thanks, scullion.”
“I still don’t know what that means,” responded Seth with a skeptical countenance.
“Good. So in Before Sunset, it’s these two people and they are meeting for the second time every in nine years, like this chance occurrence. They had fallen in love in one night nine years ago and never saw each other again and nine years later, here they are in Paris. And this movie is like not a good example of this at all, but they have all these intelligent, amazing conversations, like Linklater likes do you, you know?”
“Then why isn’t it a good example?” Seth asked.
“Just hold on.” John responded. “That’s not what I meant. So, there’s a scene where they are sitting in her flat in Paris, and she plays him a waltz on her guitar. And he is sitting there and she makes tea and he puts on a Nina Simone record, and she is talking about what Nina Simone is like in concert, and she like imitates her and kind of dances around the living room or whatever, and he is sitting on the couch watching her, and I realized something. I realized just how comfortable those two people are with each other. That she can dance around in front of him without trepidation. And it made me think about comfort, and how related to contentedness that is. You know? And I thought about how much I missed having that level of comfort with one other person, you know? And Seth, you’re basically my best friend, but I even have reservations with you, when I talk, or do things, or whatever.” Seth closed his eyes halfway and studied John earnestly. It was easy because John had to keep his eyes on the road, and Seth could study him without him noticing. John continued talking. “But when I was with Natalie, there was nothing. And I never realized when we were together that this feeling wasn’t reciprocated, but there was no fear in me when I was with her. I had no fear of offending her, I had no fear of embarrassment, and I had no fear, I mean. I mean; I would do an impersonation of Nina Simone in front of her, you know? I mean, we had sex, I mean, how can you be embarrassed about anything when you have stood entirely bare in front of that person, you know? And to give her credit, she also bared her entire body to me, but I felt like I gave her my entire soul with it as well. Like for me, sex wasn’t sex, it was making love, you know? Like, with that act, not just that part of my body went inside her, it was like my entire body, my entire being went into her. I gave her like, my entire heart, everything about me.” He paused as another, related, thought came into his head. “This guy came to Leadership class one time and talked about how we are like these big circles, and inside, in the center is a smaller circle: our most private, perfect selves, and when we find our soul mate it’s when our big outer circle just barely gets inside of someone else’s inner circle, and their outer circle just barely reaches inside of your inner circle. And I know for a fact that she had complete, unfettered access to my inner circle, but I never once even got to peer over the wall into hers, no matter how often I knocked or tried to batter down that freaking wall.” Seth just listened. He was silent, he knew that saying anything would hinder, rather than help. “And I was watching this movie and I see couples and I see my parents and they are just utterly, completely comfortable with each other. In the movie Julie Delpy’s character talks about how some couples get bored of each other because they already know each other’s mannerisms or something, like they know exactly how the other person will react in any given situation. But she says that at that moment that she knew her lover’s exact reaction to any given situation, she wouldn’t be bored, it would be when she knew that she was truly in love. And I couldn’t predict Natalie’s behaviour, but I’m entirely sure she could have predicted mine, I mean, I told her my entire life, my fears, my soul. I showed so much to her, it doesn’t even make sense. And we were just so comfortable, and the last time I remember feeling content like I felt in the car the other night, was like, the last time that I slept with her. Not had sex, because, whatever, but I mean, when I slept with her. She was just barely falling asleep, and she had the perfect look on her face…” Seth could look over and see a slight grin, and then a full on smile, forming on John’s face as he remembered, for once, a good memory. “That look that you can only really appreciate from two inches away. It looked like she was content as well, just relaxed, whatever, just tired, and she looked like a perfect example of beauty. You know? I mean, she has some acne, and she has a scar on her forehead, and I mean, whatever, wispy hair, dry lips, whatever you want to say about her but when I looked at her from that close up she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my lifetime. And I was just staring at her and smiling at the realization that I was the luckiest person in the entire world because I had fallen in love with the most beautiful person on this planet, and she asked me what I was thinking about. You know, that typical pillow-talk question, you know? When the silence just gets a little bit too awkward. So she asked me, and I swear, I remember exactly what I answered, and it sounds like a line from a movie, but it wasn’t and I didn’t think of it before to say it, and I meant every word, and it came out like a quote, but I really just said exactly what was on my heart, you know?”
“What did you say?” asked Seth.
“I told her, ‘Everything I have ever needed in life is laying right here in my arms’. And she did one of those happy sighs, but she looked somewhat sad. I think it was because she would never be able to sincerely tell me the same thing. And she responded, and it means so much now when you think about it, but she told me ‘One day, I’ll be able to see your love.’ And I knew exactly what that meant, and I knew that we were going to be broken up soon after, and we were, soon after. And it isn’t sad because of that, those are just facts, you can’t be sad about facts—you can just accept them or be wrecked by them.
“That’s why I’m not mad at her, she followed her heart and did what she felt, but eventually she realized that she couldn’t any longer feel it. She wasn’t comfortable like I was. She couldn’t feel my love like I could feel it. That’s all it comes down to, you know? So how can I be angry? She did give it her all, it just didn’t work out. I can’t blame her one iota. Some times things just don’t work out?
“That’s kind of, like, mature thinking, my friend.” Seth commented. “I don’t think I could ever say something like that about someone that broke my heart.”
“Well, I learned from it. You know, in some ways I’m pretty happy that she never gave me her heart,that she never really fell in love with me. Because then, I mean, now, she doesn’t have a broken heart, you know? Like she’ll never have to feel, at least because of me, how I feel right now. I don’t want her to ever feel like this. I don’t want anyone to, you know? I can be content with that, at least, knowing that she isn’t heartbroken.” Seth looked at him.
“You’re a rare breed, you know that? Life is going to be hard for you, I know it. But when you find the right girl, you are going to treat her so well, and she is going to be so perfect for you, that it’s going to put everyone else to shame. You know that, right?
“I think in some ways, I know that, but it still sucks waiting, right?” He laughed.
“Yeah. So anyway, tell me about Before Sunrise, why should I see this movie? And will I even need to after you tell me the entire plot?” Asked Seth.
“Don’t worry about it, there isn’t really even a plot. Hey, can we wake up Jones and Derek or something? I’m getting tired of driving. Aren’t we even in San Francisco yet?” John started complaining.
“Just tell me, does the movie let you know the secret of what happens in the meadow at dusk? Is that how good it is?” Seth joked.
“Shut up, you scullion! OK, So it’s a really long story, but it isn’t really. It’s all about one night. OK, so I’ll start at the beginning, there is this American guy, and he’s on the Eurorail going to Vienna…”
Thursday, December 29
Tuesday, December 20
A Short Story About
by Elliott Jones
It was smoky, because they had been smoking—and dim, because they had dimmed the lights. The unpleasant atmosphere in Derek’s basement was, according to him, “grown-up”—the second-rate card table with its legs duct-taped to keep them together; an old TV that couldn’t get cable and as a result solely played old-school Nintendo games; a record player that had been bought dirt-cheap at a garage sale and sat on the floor for lack of a more suitable space; Derek’s tattered, years-old couch over to one side of the room across from the television, and especially the bottles of Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola that were hidden strategically underneath it. Derek’s mother had been planning to throw the couch out, but he had salvaged it by throwing an equally threadbare, green and orange, equally trash-worthy quilt over its back and forcing her to relinquish it into his care and subsequently into his ‘chill spot,’ which is what seventeen-year-old creativity comes up with as a nickname for the basement space where Derek, and three of his best friends, now frequented during boring summer nights.
Derek McAllister, John Lee, Seth McLaughlin, and Derek Jones were seated on two sides of the room—Derek and John were playing Texas Hold ‘Em at the card table, Seth was seated on the couch playing Mario Bros. on the Nintendo and the other Derek was next to him, watching.
The room was a stereotypical Seattle basement—concrete walls surrounded them on four sides, and there was a large water heater in one corner underneath the wobbly, banister-less wooden stairs that lead up into the kitchen of Derek’s home. The boys had done what they could to turn the room into a ‘bachelor pad’ of sorts—posters adorned all of the walls, and everyone had put a little bit of themselves into the decorations.
From Derek came images of Terrell Owens or Michael Jordan. John put up one of their favourite posters—an at least three foot tall shot of Hyo Ri Lee. In it, she looked provocatively over her shoulder, clad entirely in white spandex, with an innocent, mocking smile that none of the guys could get over—and when they drank, it was a pose which none of them could resist imitating. John had actually convinced the rest of the guys (for a few weeks, anyway) that Hyo Ri was in fact his cousin—they were both Korean, similar aged, and shared the same surname—and that was enough for almost any American to believe that they were related. He also had decided to attach to the walls posters of Tila Tequila, Lucy Liu, and various other token Asian sex symbols.
Seth, who considered himself a music “guru” (it was his idea to buy the turntable—even though none of them owned records) had brought in a bunch of posters from decidedly indie pop and rock bands—Rogue Wave, Death Cab for Cutie (though he took that one down with a feigned tear as they signed to Atlantic Records, a major label, in 2005), The Faint, Broken Social Scene, Beam, and Sunny Day Real Estate. Derek Jones, or just Jones, as they called him, to prevent confusion, hadn’t put anything on the walls. He had, however, brought the alcohol (and he always did), so he added to the atmosphere in his own way, and the rest of the group didn’t have any complaints.
They had also, maybe at the same garage sale, found a cheap beanbag chair, and positioned it in another corner. Its red exterior, extremely soft with over-use and covered sporadically with silver bits of the duct tape that kept it together, had a reputation. It is debatable how many members of the female sex had actually ever sat, or done anything else, in that bean bag chair, but the number of times one of boys had claimed to have “hooked up” with someone from their school, in that chair, was enormous—and grossly exaggerated. The rest of the room was pretty much empty—there wasn’t sufficient space for much else save a rug on the ground to soften the concrete floor, and they might have put up a dart board had they been interested, as there was another blank space on the wall where it might have fit.
So, as they were spending their summer in preparation for being high school seniors, being “grown-up” was on all of their minds. College acceptances and rejections floated around in all of their minds despite their best efforts. Most of them were going to spend the next four years nearby, in Washington, but the lure of California, Oregon, and even farther whet their appetites as well. Jones and John, who were a few steps above the others in terms of SAT scores and the like, also had their eyes and hearts set on schools on the east coast, or even abroad. For now, however, all of the guys pushed thoughts of the future from their minds and consoled themselves with underground poker games, Jack and Coke’s, and old-school Nintendo games.
“Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?” John asked Derek, as he dealt the cards for their second game of the night. Derek glanced at him, somewhat aloof, before looking again at his cards.
“What?” He asked. He focused, pleased, on the two Kings that smiled warmly up at him, having had lost three dollars from John in the previous game, and sipped at his drink.
“You heard me. An out-of-body experience.” John responded. He stared at Derek’s face intently, in his own unnerving, condescending way. Maybe it was because they were playing poker, but he looked disarmingly serious. Derek actually looked up at him this time, focused on his earnest expression, and considered the question.
“I have no idea what that is.” He responded as he made his first bets. “Out-of-body? What is that supposed to mean?”
“You seriously don’t know what that is? I hope that by the time you finally have sex, the government has instituted mandatory contraception to prevent idiots like yourself from polluting the world with offspring.”
“Well you’re fucking gay, how about that? What’s your bet?” He retorted. John stared at him with a look that screamed ‘pity’, but Derek was too intent on his pocket kings and winning the hand that he didn’t notice. Jones and Seth looked over from their game upon hearing the outburst, but as John didn’t seem too upset, and no fight was deemed impending, they both turned back to stare like robots at the pixels flashing over their screen.
“That doesn’t even follow the rules. You’re not only idiotic, you’re horrible at insults. I feel sorry for you”. He finally responded. Derek looked up, this time a confused frown on his face.
“Can you deal the cards?” He asked impatiently, and then he thought for moment. “Rules? There are no rules to insulting people. What are you talking about? I can say whatever the fuck I want, you faggot. Is there a rule against me telling Jonesy and Seth that you’re out of the closet now? Is there a rule against dealing the cards so slow that it’s an insult to me? How about that?” The two other guys looked back again towards the table upon hearing their names.
“First of all, I’m not gay.” He shot a glance at the others, and upon receiving his gaze; they again looked back at the television screen. “Secondly, of course there are rules to insults. To intelligent insults, at least, I mean, if you want to get the full effect out of them. An intelligent insult tells the person that you really thought hard enough to say something that would seriously offend them. It tells them that you really, really do feel strongly about the fact that they aren’t that great of a person. If performed correctly, an insult can be beautiful.” John stared at him and slowly, and the little smiling faces in his hand seemed less important than the startling topic matter at hand.
“How can an insult be beautiful? I thought—“ and John interrupted.
“You weren’t doing much thinking, obviously, if you gave me that excuse for an insult earlier.” He looked at him warmly. “There are two types of insults—pragmatic and cathartic.” He put up one finger after another to illustrate. ”Pragmatic insults are well thought-out, they are deliberate, and they pay close attention to the victim. Cathartic insults, on the other hand, stem from emotion, and usually, lack of creativity. Yours, of course, was cathartic. Are you going to call or bet?” He motioned down at the table at the three, seven, and king lying on the table. Derek motioned to call without looking, and John continued to deal. “You see, a pragmatic insult can do many things to harm its victim—it can humiliate, it can provoke, it can dominate, it can offend—your insult actually did none of those things. If you had thrown it at someone with a lesser grip on their sexuality, like maybe Seth over there, then it might have had some kind of effect.” Derek stared at his hand and at the ‘river’, which now showed two threes, a king, and two other face cards.
“Hold on, you’re confusing me. Did we bet yet?” He asked.
“We’re on the final bet. I’m checking, how about you?”
“Shit. I totally lost track with your stupid rant.” He peered down at the table and thought for a moment, realizing, finally, that he had a very good hand. “Ten dollars.” He pushed almost all of his chips out toward the center and looked over at John’s face, where a smirk had formed.
“I fold then”.
“Fuck you!” He exploded, realizing that he had been hoodwinked. “You knew that your fucking ‘rules of insults’ shit was going to confuse me. I had a fucking full house!”
“All’s fair in love and poker, my friend. You allowed yourself to be played.” He chuckled. “Next hand?
“Fuck you, you fucking, Korean motherfucker. I quit this game, you Asian, fucking, cheater! How’s that for an insult? If I knew more about Asians I would insult you better. Is that prag-fucking, whatever? Matic? You small-dick, rice rocket bastard?” John noticed that Derek’s drink was empty, and grinned, and Jones and Seth laughed from the couch.
“That was pretty good actually, I’m impressed.” He responded evenly. Derek cooled down as he got up from the card table, knocking over his chair, and plopped down on the couch just in time to watch Seth lose his last life in the video game. John eased over to the beanbag and slowly finished his drink.
“Watch out, man, Seth splooged on that bag last night.” Warned Jones. John feigned concern and felt around on the bag with an exaggerated grimace on his face. Jones and Derek laughed. “Who was it with this time, Seth? Was it Kelly Templeton?” Continued Jones. “Or Hyori and your right hand, like last time? Fap, fap, fap!” He imitated Seth’s bedroom behaviour extravagantly; sound effects and all, until he reached a deafening, cartoonish climax and slumped again on the couch, breathing heavily. Seth tried to look disinterested.
“Shut up, fuckers. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You mean the yoga worked? You got flexible enough to kiss it yourself?” Joked Jones. The other boys erupted in laughter.
“Fuck you.” Seth murmured.
“See, Derek, that was a pretty good insult.” Remarked John.
“What were you talking about with that whole rules stuff?” Seth changed the subject. “I didn’t really listen; I was trying to save myself a princess from a giant turtle. What did you say?”
“Yeah, that shit was actually kind of interesting.” Said Jones.
“Wait—have you ever thought about that?” Interjected Derek. “Like, how hot must Princess Peach be for Mario to keep rescuing her? I mean; she’s obviously a fucking dimwit bimbo if she keeps getting captured all the time. How many Mario games have been made? She’s been kidnapped like fifty times. And it’s not like Bowser is smart or anything, he’s a fatass turtle. …She is blonde, so I understand, and I mean,” he motioned to Seth, “I hate to speak badly about your people, Seth, but I mean, they aren’t usually so developed in the brain, if you know what I mean…”
“Shut up. You’re right, she must be hot though. They must fuck like nobody’s business. Seriously, why would any guy go through freaking fireballs and lava pits and freaking, goombas and stuff just to save a chick?” said Seth.
“I don’t know, love maybe?” offered John. Everyone stared at him, and silently agreed that, other than sex, love would be the best reason. A semi-awkward silence enveloped them for a few moments until Derek, slightly inebriated and unaware of the moment he was ruining, spoke up.
“I think that that’s bull.” He offered, and nobody really listened, but it broke them of their trance. John sat forward in the beanbag chair.
“So, about the insult thing. It’s this movement I decided I’m going to start that promotes the use of intelligent put-downs. If you didn’t know, they used really good insults back in the day. People like Shakespeare were excellent at creating really harsh, smart insults, I mean, he even used iambic pentameter while he was insulting someone! They had such a sophisticated vocabulary back then. Like, if I called you a freaking, um, like, scullion, it wouldn’t mean anything to you, right?” They all nodded in concurrence. John sighed and looked to the ceiling, seemingly at the patient loss of an art. “Nobody uses cool words like scullion or miscreant. Now all anyone can say is ‘faggot’ or ‘bitch’ or something unintelligent like that. Anyway, I would like, make a club at school about it or something. I can’t think of a name for it though.”
“The fucking, elitist, um, insulters that think they are smarter than everyone!” Shouted Derek from where he had laid, up until that moment seemingly comatose, on the couch. He was promptly ignored.
“What would you guys even do?” Asked Seth. “I would kinda want to be a part of that, I think.”
“Yeah, me too.” Said Jones. “I bet the school would pass it. It’s somewhat academic, I mean, it advocates reading and vocabulary building and stuff like that, right?”
“There still isn’t really a purpose, though.” Seth commented. “What really would you guys do?”
“That’s the thing, I don’t know! But so, here’s the like, premise. It’s basically just that we’re dissatisfied with all of the stupid insults going around. Like I said, people don’t even have any vocabulary anymore, they just say “fuck you” and think that’s enough. If I could come up with something personal, if I could comment on something you’re wearing, something you believe in, something that you stand for or something like that; whatever as long as it is really important to you—if I could say some extremely unfavorable thing about that particular something, that’s so much more effective. And the more personal that something is, the more that something means to you, the more effective the insult is too. I mean, if I insult your hat, whatever, you know, like, you didn’t make the hat, it’s not important to you really unless you paid some exorbitant amount of money for it or something. But if I say something about your mom, or your girlfriend, like, “Kelly Templeton is a whore”, then it hurts a lot more, because that person is close to you.” Derek looked up groggily from the couch.
“What did you say about Kelly?”
“She’s not even your girlfriend, bro, calm down”. Jones offered.
“She’s not—she’s not a whore, man. She’s a virgin. We talked about it.” Derek stammered. He had obviously had more alcohol than the rest of them, which wasn’t saying much—sixteen year-olds don’t typically have high tolerances. “We—we had a major heart-to-heart.” He was visibly upset again.
“Anyway, see how upset it made him? He even felt the need to defend her. Imagine if she was his girlfriend, he might be seething.” A faint knock was heard on the door. Instantly, the boys covered the beverages and hid them under a fold in the couch as Derek’s mother slowly waddled in.
John, your mother called, she’s wondering when you’ll be home or if you’re spending the night. That goes for all of you boys, I’m sure your parents are worried.” Without saying anything to the effect, her tone and the look on her face as she used it told them all that spending the night wasn’t an option this night.
“I’ll call her soon, Mrs. McAllister. Thank you very much!” Jones responded politely, and the boys got up and prepared to leave.
“We’ve seriously got to get this going.” Seth commented to John as they walked up the stairs, Jones following slowly behind. “Derek, are you fucking drunk, or what? Are you even awake?” Derek murmured a response, his face buried in the folds of the tattered quilt that covered the couch. “Suit yourself, buddy. We’ll call you tomorrow. You should drink some water.” He rolled over, but didn’t make any noise.
The boys all exited and walked to their respective homes, dreams about insults, Shakespeare, Princess Peach, and Poker dancing through their heads. The realization of John’s proposition would have to wait for another night, but the seed had been planted—and the water was soon to come. John, however, wasn’t thinking about any of those things—he was thinking about what he had said about Mario and Princess Peach. Was that for real? “Love”, he thought. He pondered it all the way home.
It was smoky, because they had been smoking—and dim, because they had dimmed the lights. The unpleasant atmosphere in Derek’s basement was, according to him, “grown-up”—the second-rate card table with its legs duct-taped to keep them together; an old TV that couldn’t get cable and as a result solely played old-school Nintendo games; a record player that had been bought dirt-cheap at a garage sale and sat on the floor for lack of a more suitable space; Derek’s tattered, years-old couch over to one side of the room across from the television, and especially the bottles of Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola that were hidden strategically underneath it. Derek’s mother had been planning to throw the couch out, but he had salvaged it by throwing an equally threadbare, green and orange, equally trash-worthy quilt over its back and forcing her to relinquish it into his care and subsequently into his ‘chill spot,’ which is what seventeen-year-old creativity comes up with as a nickname for the basement space where Derek, and three of his best friends, now frequented during boring summer nights.
Derek McAllister, John Lee, Seth McLaughlin, and Derek Jones were seated on two sides of the room—Derek and John were playing Texas Hold ‘Em at the card table, Seth was seated on the couch playing Mario Bros. on the Nintendo and the other Derek was next to him, watching.
The room was a stereotypical Seattle basement—concrete walls surrounded them on four sides, and there was a large water heater in one corner underneath the wobbly, banister-less wooden stairs that lead up into the kitchen of Derek’s home. The boys had done what they could to turn the room into a ‘bachelor pad’ of sorts—posters adorned all of the walls, and everyone had put a little bit of themselves into the decorations.
From Derek came images of Terrell Owens or Michael Jordan. John put up one of their favourite posters—an at least three foot tall shot of Hyo Ri Lee. In it, she looked provocatively over her shoulder, clad entirely in white spandex, with an innocent, mocking smile that none of the guys could get over—and when they drank, it was a pose which none of them could resist imitating. John had actually convinced the rest of the guys (for a few weeks, anyway) that Hyo Ri was in fact his cousin—they were both Korean, similar aged, and shared the same surname—and that was enough for almost any American to believe that they were related. He also had decided to attach to the walls posters of Tila Tequila, Lucy Liu, and various other token Asian sex symbols.
Seth, who considered himself a music “guru” (it was his idea to buy the turntable—even though none of them owned records) had brought in a bunch of posters from decidedly indie pop and rock bands—Rogue Wave, Death Cab for Cutie (though he took that one down with a feigned tear as they signed to Atlantic Records, a major label, in 2005), The Faint, Broken Social Scene, Beam, and Sunny Day Real Estate. Derek Jones, or just Jones, as they called him, to prevent confusion, hadn’t put anything on the walls. He had, however, brought the alcohol (and he always did), so he added to the atmosphere in his own way, and the rest of the group didn’t have any complaints.
They had also, maybe at the same garage sale, found a cheap beanbag chair, and positioned it in another corner. Its red exterior, extremely soft with over-use and covered sporadically with silver bits of the duct tape that kept it together, had a reputation. It is debatable how many members of the female sex had actually ever sat, or done anything else, in that bean bag chair, but the number of times one of boys had claimed to have “hooked up” with someone from their school, in that chair, was enormous—and grossly exaggerated. The rest of the room was pretty much empty—there wasn’t sufficient space for much else save a rug on the ground to soften the concrete floor, and they might have put up a dart board had they been interested, as there was another blank space on the wall where it might have fit.
So, as they were spending their summer in preparation for being high school seniors, being “grown-up” was on all of their minds. College acceptances and rejections floated around in all of their minds despite their best efforts. Most of them were going to spend the next four years nearby, in Washington, but the lure of California, Oregon, and even farther whet their appetites as well. Jones and John, who were a few steps above the others in terms of SAT scores and the like, also had their eyes and hearts set on schools on the east coast, or even abroad. For now, however, all of the guys pushed thoughts of the future from their minds and consoled themselves with underground poker games, Jack and Coke’s, and old-school Nintendo games.
“Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?” John asked Derek, as he dealt the cards for their second game of the night. Derek glanced at him, somewhat aloof, before looking again at his cards.
“What?” He asked. He focused, pleased, on the two Kings that smiled warmly up at him, having had lost three dollars from John in the previous game, and sipped at his drink.
“You heard me. An out-of-body experience.” John responded. He stared at Derek’s face intently, in his own unnerving, condescending way. Maybe it was because they were playing poker, but he looked disarmingly serious. Derek actually looked up at him this time, focused on his earnest expression, and considered the question.
“I have no idea what that is.” He responded as he made his first bets. “Out-of-body? What is that supposed to mean?”
“You seriously don’t know what that is? I hope that by the time you finally have sex, the government has instituted mandatory contraception to prevent idiots like yourself from polluting the world with offspring.”
“Well you’re fucking gay, how about that? What’s your bet?” He retorted. John stared at him with a look that screamed ‘pity’, but Derek was too intent on his pocket kings and winning the hand that he didn’t notice. Jones and Seth looked over from their game upon hearing the outburst, but as John didn’t seem too upset, and no fight was deemed impending, they both turned back to stare like robots at the pixels flashing over their screen.
“That doesn’t even follow the rules. You’re not only idiotic, you’re horrible at insults. I feel sorry for you”. He finally responded. Derek looked up, this time a confused frown on his face.
“Can you deal the cards?” He asked impatiently, and then he thought for moment. “Rules? There are no rules to insulting people. What are you talking about? I can say whatever the fuck I want, you faggot. Is there a rule against me telling Jonesy and Seth that you’re out of the closet now? Is there a rule against dealing the cards so slow that it’s an insult to me? How about that?” The two other guys looked back again towards the table upon hearing their names.
“First of all, I’m not gay.” He shot a glance at the others, and upon receiving his gaze; they again looked back at the television screen. “Secondly, of course there are rules to insults. To intelligent insults, at least, I mean, if you want to get the full effect out of them. An intelligent insult tells the person that you really thought hard enough to say something that would seriously offend them. It tells them that you really, really do feel strongly about the fact that they aren’t that great of a person. If performed correctly, an insult can be beautiful.” John stared at him and slowly, and the little smiling faces in his hand seemed less important than the startling topic matter at hand.
“How can an insult be beautiful? I thought—“ and John interrupted.
“You weren’t doing much thinking, obviously, if you gave me that excuse for an insult earlier.” He looked at him warmly. “There are two types of insults—pragmatic and cathartic.” He put up one finger after another to illustrate. ”Pragmatic insults are well thought-out, they are deliberate, and they pay close attention to the victim. Cathartic insults, on the other hand, stem from emotion, and usually, lack of creativity. Yours, of course, was cathartic. Are you going to call or bet?” He motioned down at the table at the three, seven, and king lying on the table. Derek motioned to call without looking, and John continued to deal. “You see, a pragmatic insult can do many things to harm its victim—it can humiliate, it can provoke, it can dominate, it can offend—your insult actually did none of those things. If you had thrown it at someone with a lesser grip on their sexuality, like maybe Seth over there, then it might have had some kind of effect.” Derek stared at his hand and at the ‘river’, which now showed two threes, a king, and two other face cards.
“Hold on, you’re confusing me. Did we bet yet?” He asked.
“We’re on the final bet. I’m checking, how about you?”
“Shit. I totally lost track with your stupid rant.” He peered down at the table and thought for a moment, realizing, finally, that he had a very good hand. “Ten dollars.” He pushed almost all of his chips out toward the center and looked over at John’s face, where a smirk had formed.
“I fold then”.
“Fuck you!” He exploded, realizing that he had been hoodwinked. “You knew that your fucking ‘rules of insults’ shit was going to confuse me. I had a fucking full house!”
“All’s fair in love and poker, my friend. You allowed yourself to be played.” He chuckled. “Next hand?
“Fuck you, you fucking, Korean motherfucker. I quit this game, you Asian, fucking, cheater! How’s that for an insult? If I knew more about Asians I would insult you better. Is that prag-fucking, whatever? Matic? You small-dick, rice rocket bastard?” John noticed that Derek’s drink was empty, and grinned, and Jones and Seth laughed from the couch.
“That was pretty good actually, I’m impressed.” He responded evenly. Derek cooled down as he got up from the card table, knocking over his chair, and plopped down on the couch just in time to watch Seth lose his last life in the video game. John eased over to the beanbag and slowly finished his drink.
“Watch out, man, Seth splooged on that bag last night.” Warned Jones. John feigned concern and felt around on the bag with an exaggerated grimace on his face. Jones and Derek laughed. “Who was it with this time, Seth? Was it Kelly Templeton?” Continued Jones. “Or Hyori and your right hand, like last time? Fap, fap, fap!” He imitated Seth’s bedroom behaviour extravagantly; sound effects and all, until he reached a deafening, cartoonish climax and slumped again on the couch, breathing heavily. Seth tried to look disinterested.
“Shut up, fuckers. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You mean the yoga worked? You got flexible enough to kiss it yourself?” Joked Jones. The other boys erupted in laughter.
“Fuck you.” Seth murmured.
“See, Derek, that was a pretty good insult.” Remarked John.
“What were you talking about with that whole rules stuff?” Seth changed the subject. “I didn’t really listen; I was trying to save myself a princess from a giant turtle. What did you say?”
“Yeah, that shit was actually kind of interesting.” Said Jones.
“Wait—have you ever thought about that?” Interjected Derek. “Like, how hot must Princess Peach be for Mario to keep rescuing her? I mean; she’s obviously a fucking dimwit bimbo if she keeps getting captured all the time. How many Mario games have been made? She’s been kidnapped like fifty times. And it’s not like Bowser is smart or anything, he’s a fatass turtle. …She is blonde, so I understand, and I mean,” he motioned to Seth, “I hate to speak badly about your people, Seth, but I mean, they aren’t usually so developed in the brain, if you know what I mean…”
“Shut up. You’re right, she must be hot though. They must fuck like nobody’s business. Seriously, why would any guy go through freaking fireballs and lava pits and freaking, goombas and stuff just to save a chick?” said Seth.
“I don’t know, love maybe?” offered John. Everyone stared at him, and silently agreed that, other than sex, love would be the best reason. A semi-awkward silence enveloped them for a few moments until Derek, slightly inebriated and unaware of the moment he was ruining, spoke up.
“I think that that’s bull.” He offered, and nobody really listened, but it broke them of their trance. John sat forward in the beanbag chair.
“So, about the insult thing. It’s this movement I decided I’m going to start that promotes the use of intelligent put-downs. If you didn’t know, they used really good insults back in the day. People like Shakespeare were excellent at creating really harsh, smart insults, I mean, he even used iambic pentameter while he was insulting someone! They had such a sophisticated vocabulary back then. Like, if I called you a freaking, um, like, scullion, it wouldn’t mean anything to you, right?” They all nodded in concurrence. John sighed and looked to the ceiling, seemingly at the patient loss of an art. “Nobody uses cool words like scullion or miscreant. Now all anyone can say is ‘faggot’ or ‘bitch’ or something unintelligent like that. Anyway, I would like, make a club at school about it or something. I can’t think of a name for it though.”
“The fucking, elitist, um, insulters that think they are smarter than everyone!” Shouted Derek from where he had laid, up until that moment seemingly comatose, on the couch. He was promptly ignored.
“What would you guys even do?” Asked Seth. “I would kinda want to be a part of that, I think.”
“Yeah, me too.” Said Jones. “I bet the school would pass it. It’s somewhat academic, I mean, it advocates reading and vocabulary building and stuff like that, right?”
“There still isn’t really a purpose, though.” Seth commented. “What really would you guys do?”
“That’s the thing, I don’t know! But so, here’s the like, premise. It’s basically just that we’re dissatisfied with all of the stupid insults going around. Like I said, people don’t even have any vocabulary anymore, they just say “fuck you” and think that’s enough. If I could come up with something personal, if I could comment on something you’re wearing, something you believe in, something that you stand for or something like that; whatever as long as it is really important to you—if I could say some extremely unfavorable thing about that particular something, that’s so much more effective. And the more personal that something is, the more that something means to you, the more effective the insult is too. I mean, if I insult your hat, whatever, you know, like, you didn’t make the hat, it’s not important to you really unless you paid some exorbitant amount of money for it or something. But if I say something about your mom, or your girlfriend, like, “Kelly Templeton is a whore”, then it hurts a lot more, because that person is close to you.” Derek looked up groggily from the couch.
“What did you say about Kelly?”
“She’s not even your girlfriend, bro, calm down”. Jones offered.
“She’s not—she’s not a whore, man. She’s a virgin. We talked about it.” Derek stammered. He had obviously had more alcohol than the rest of them, which wasn’t saying much—sixteen year-olds don’t typically have high tolerances. “We—we had a major heart-to-heart.” He was visibly upset again.
“Anyway, see how upset it made him? He even felt the need to defend her. Imagine if she was his girlfriend, he might be seething.” A faint knock was heard on the door. Instantly, the boys covered the beverages and hid them under a fold in the couch as Derek’s mother slowly waddled in.
John, your mother called, she’s wondering when you’ll be home or if you’re spending the night. That goes for all of you boys, I’m sure your parents are worried.” Without saying anything to the effect, her tone and the look on her face as she used it told them all that spending the night wasn’t an option this night.
“I’ll call her soon, Mrs. McAllister. Thank you very much!” Jones responded politely, and the boys got up and prepared to leave.
“We’ve seriously got to get this going.” Seth commented to John as they walked up the stairs, Jones following slowly behind. “Derek, are you fucking drunk, or what? Are you even awake?” Derek murmured a response, his face buried in the folds of the tattered quilt that covered the couch. “Suit yourself, buddy. We’ll call you tomorrow. You should drink some water.” He rolled over, but didn’t make any noise.
The boys all exited and walked to their respective homes, dreams about insults, Shakespeare, Princess Peach, and Poker dancing through their heads. The realization of John’s proposition would have to wait for another night, but the seed had been planted—and the water was soon to come. John, however, wasn’t thinking about any of those things—he was thinking about what he had said about Mario and Princess Peach. Was that for real? “Love”, he thought. He pondered it all the way home.
Army (Cuz it's inspired by Ben Folds anyway)
It's hard for me to accept
that she is movin' on.
It's hard for me to know
that soon she'll be gone.
She's got her plans all ahead of her,
and I'm staying behind.
She'll be Lieutenant soon;
I'm struggling to try.
She's got on her new coat and boots
and away she will fly.
she can't stop even to think
how much it hurts just to miss,
But she knows her priorities,
and I'm not at the top of the list.
so she joined the army
for the Red, White and Blue.
She's stomping and marching,
like she always wanted to
ain't got time for a boy
so into the future she will move.
I miss her so, every day.
I can't get over it.
Sometimes I hope those ROTC guys
will treat her like shit.
Yeah she really joined the army,
had nothing to do with me.
So I'll transfer far away,
see what God's got for me to see.
And maybe someday,
in our respective futures,
again we will meet.
Please.
that she is movin' on.
It's hard for me to know
that soon she'll be gone.
She's got her plans all ahead of her,
and I'm staying behind.
She'll be Lieutenant soon;
I'm struggling to try.
She's got on her new coat and boots
and away she will fly.
she can't stop even to think
how much it hurts just to miss,
But she knows her priorities,
and I'm not at the top of the list.
so she joined the army
for the Red, White and Blue.
She's stomping and marching,
like she always wanted to
ain't got time for a boy
so into the future she will move.
I miss her so, every day.
I can't get over it.
Sometimes I hope those ROTC guys
will treat her like shit.
Yeah she really joined the army,
had nothing to do with me.
So I'll transfer far away,
see what God's got for me to see.
And maybe someday,
in our respective futures,
again we will meet.
Please.
Monday, December 19
I console myself with poetry
So I console myself with poetry.
Not rum, or another meal.
Or Ketel one, which taunts me
with its conveniently unbroken seal.
I console myself with poetry
and art on the side, with a heavy beat
some elitist pride will surely heal me,
some elitist stomping of the feet.
I console myself with poetry
but words only seem to disguise the pain.
And cause me to feel quite dull inside
when I'm this emotionally drained.
I console myself with poetry.
Inebriated naps just can't cut it.
A cut does, however, seem a must; I'll
add to the scars there on my wrist.
I console myself with poetry,
with my veins, to write my heart-
because to see a friend, a lover lost;
witness a finish without a start...
I tried to console myself with poetry
but it just plain didn't work.
These words now scrawled have been my last...
my vision's begun to blur.
Not rum, or another meal.
Or Ketel one, which taunts me
with its conveniently unbroken seal.
I console myself with poetry
and art on the side, with a heavy beat
some elitist pride will surely heal me,
some elitist stomping of the feet.
I console myself with poetry
but words only seem to disguise the pain.
And cause me to feel quite dull inside
when I'm this emotionally drained.
I console myself with poetry.
Inebriated naps just can't cut it.
A cut does, however, seem a must; I'll
add to the scars there on my wrist.
I console myself with poetry,
with my veins, to write my heart-
because to see a friend, a lover lost;
witness a finish without a start...
I tried to console myself with poetry
but it just plain didn't work.
These words now scrawled have been my last...
my vision's begun to blur.
Tuesday, December 13
i miss.
i miss you.
i miss us.
i miss long nights
and good dreams;
car rides
and your head on my shoulder.
i miss the fights
and the pain
and the love
and the hate
and the fear and the loneliness cured.
i miss your eyes
and your bangs
that i couldn't stop touching
and those hands on those hips
and those cherry blossom lips.
i miss your taste
in my mouth
and your pressure
and your smile
and those times when we wouldn't
say anything at all.
remember those times? how few
and far between, but
how comfortable.
i miss being comfortable.
i miss us.
i miss you.
i miss us.
i miss long nights
and good dreams;
car rides
and your head on my shoulder.
i miss the fights
and the pain
and the love
and the hate
and the fear and the loneliness cured.
i miss your eyes
and your bangs
that i couldn't stop touching
and those hands on those hips
and those cherry blossom lips.
i miss your taste
in my mouth
and your pressure
and your smile
and those times when we wouldn't
say anything at all.
remember those times? how few
and far between, but
how comfortable.
i miss being comfortable.
i miss us.
i miss you.
Friday, December 9
With Purpose
I've spent the last few weeks attempting to do
what it is I had, according to history,
done best: forgetting.
In fact, it wasn't something
that needed much effort-
Nature won out over nurture this time.
To forget comes naturally to a mess like me.
It isn't even what I had intended;
for utter absence of that memory isn't something
I'll ever fully be able to accomplish anyway.
Rather, to separate emotion from experience-
that is my aim.
And every aim has a purpose, and mine is
both simple and solitary,
as any should be:
I just don't want to feel for you
what I felt for you then-
because it isn't acceptable any more.
This way will no doubt be better for both of us.
Above all else, my goal is to allow you happiness-
and this may be my only chance
to make that up to you.
He's waiting for you, and your heart is as well-
waiting for you to move on.
I'm also attempting to...
but I can't do it alone.
Friends? It seems absurd.
But from this point,
absurd is something I can deal with.
And something I can be happy with,
if you can be.
I'll keep my heart and eyes attuned
to you, like always
but I'll watch from the sidelines this time.
I'm pretty comfortable here anyways.
what it is I had, according to history,
done best: forgetting.
In fact, it wasn't something
that needed much effort-
Nature won out over nurture this time.
To forget comes naturally to a mess like me.
It isn't even what I had intended;
for utter absence of that memory isn't something
I'll ever fully be able to accomplish anyway.
Rather, to separate emotion from experience-
that is my aim.
And every aim has a purpose, and mine is
both simple and solitary,
as any should be:
I just don't want to feel for you
what I felt for you then-
because it isn't acceptable any more.
This way will no doubt be better for both of us.
Above all else, my goal is to allow you happiness-
and this may be my only chance
to make that up to you.
He's waiting for you, and your heart is as well-
waiting for you to move on.
I'm also attempting to...
but I can't do it alone.
Friends? It seems absurd.
But from this point,
absurd is something I can deal with.
And something I can be happy with,
if you can be.
I'll keep my heart and eyes attuned
to you, like always
but I'll watch from the sidelines this time.
I'm pretty comfortable here anyways.
Tuesday, December 6
be still, my heart
Be still, my heart.
You're beating far too loud.
That tactless sound
may escape from my mouth.
Be still, my mind.
You're sprinting far too fast.
One vain, unhealthy,
love that didn't last.
Be still, my eyes.
Ah, spending time alone...
The lights entice,
and the fragile, falling snow.
And the brightest little firefly
escapes its jar on Christmas day.
And the brightest wish on Santa's list
will never see the light of day.
Be still, my heart.
Please, please calm down.
We can't have that strong an emotion
in this quiet little town.
Be still, my mind.
She's yours no longer, son.
Console yourself--
Shut down, refuel, you're done.
Be still, my eyes.
The one with the linked arm,
the newly chosen one--
He isn't causing any harm.
And the brightest little firefly
escapes its jar on Christmas day.
And the brightest wish on Santa's list
will never see the light of day.
You're beating far too loud.
That tactless sound
may escape from my mouth.
Be still, my mind.
You're sprinting far too fast.
One vain, unhealthy,
love that didn't last.
Be still, my eyes.
Ah, spending time alone...
The lights entice,
and the fragile, falling snow.
And the brightest little firefly
escapes its jar on Christmas day.
And the brightest wish on Santa's list
will never see the light of day.
Be still, my heart.
Please, please calm down.
We can't have that strong an emotion
in this quiet little town.
Be still, my mind.
She's yours no longer, son.
Console yourself--
Shut down, refuel, you're done.
Be still, my eyes.
The one with the linked arm,
the newly chosen one--
He isn't causing any harm.
And the brightest little firefly
escapes its jar on Christmas day.
And the brightest wish on Santa's list
will never see the light of day.
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