2010 note: you know, you'd think this would be one of the OMGCRINGE posts for me? but oddly it's not. maybe it's cuz the stuff i'm talking about is so long ago/far away that it matters less now!
--
broke up with bri. somehow this train of thought leads into the categorizing of my formative experiences with chicks. how they affected me, how they affect me. blah. then again, it's probably cuz i was having this convo with a friend of mine. two, actually.
***
earliest experiences i had with chicks as objects of worship was the incident with the porn mag. i was, what... 10-11? and i found a little porn mag in my parents' room. STRICTLY softcore, very tame, but back then it was SHOCKING. i mean, i'd had sex ed and all, but sex ed basically teaches you "the guy sticks the penis in the girl and THEN THE GIRL GETS PREGNANT THE GUY GETS AIDS AND THEY ALL DIE. the end."
not very informative.
so it wasn't until i found the porn mag that it even BEGAN dawning on me that sex was something you want to do. i couldn't even begin to describe the experience now -- the way it started unfolding to me, in pieces and parts. not all at once. it wasn't like i woke up one day and knew all about sex. i couldn't even tell you when the pieces all fell together. but that was definitely a start: staring at pics of mostly naked chicks looking all wanton in the arms of more or less faceless men, and wondering why the hell i was fascinated.
the articles helped, too. smut, to be exact. i think that's where it first occurred to me that sex was supposed to be pleasurable.
the weird thing is, when i first flipped the mag open, i literally had NO idea what i was looking at. the pics were too non-explicit. just posing. you couldn't see dick-in-pussy or anything like that. it just looked like ... weird hugs. nakedly. and yet immediately, without a doubt, i was certain this wasn't art. i just knew, instinctively, that this was taboo. it's weird how kids have an instinct for that.
***
then came the girls on the wavy channels, when i was maybe 11 or 12. you know that infamous hentai flick, La Blue Girl? well i know exactly why it's called Blue Girl. or at least, why it should be.
see, on the wavy channels -- aka playboy and spice, scrambled -- you get perfect sound. but the picture is distorted. most of the time, it's "wavy". you can't see anything, except for the insinuation of motion and the lurid color of flesh. it was infuriating, and so maddeningly compelling. i think i was turned on by the noises. i couldn't for the life of me figure out why, though. and i do remember being frustrated that the turn-on only went so far. i hadn't figured masturbation out yet.
but once in a while, the wavy channels would suddenly clear up. the picture would still be fucked up. but instead of waviness, you'd just get everything in a negative color. eyes would be gleaming white dots floating in black. mouths were black teeth in a void of white. and skin?
heh.
skin was blue.
and oh god, let me tell you. those blue girls of my early youth? goddesses beyond compare. part of the allure was the sense of taboo, and the scandal of it. the other part must've been their rarity. i remember coming home from school and leaving the TV on for HOURS between 3pm and when my parents got home, usually around 6-7pm. i'd sit there "doing homework", very distracted, while hoping for a glimpse. and when the picture resolved, it'd be like a glance into this whole other WORLD, especially with the eerie coloration. and i'd sit there rapt, hoping it'd last, literally treasuring every second -- until it flickered back to wavy.
they say you never forget your first woman. actually, mine proved rather forgettable. but really, the blue chicks? they were my first, in a way, because in all and absolute honesty, nothing could ever compared, then or since. nymphs of the wavy channels! so rare! just seen in glimpses, and heard, doing all manner of shit i'd never even imagined (and holy shit, had i just seen her put his dick in her mouth?). talk about your forbidden fruits of knowledge. when finally i got free and unlimited access to porn in college, it was too free -- too cheap. i could see it whenever i wanted. and missed that bit? go back, watch again. just flesh for sale, bare and full of imperfections, luridly pink and tan.
ugh.
***
first true sexual experience outside of wet dreams: the first time i jerked off, circa age 12 or so. if it even counted. i didn't know what the hell to do, so i think i was just grabbing and squeezing -- experimenting. well, it worked. but for the longest time i resorted only to grabbing and squeezing to incite a response. it's amazing i didn't cause permanent damage. then for an even longer time i was convinced that the moment of orgasm was just the start of what sex was supposed to feel like. i mean, it had to be, right? why else would porn stars moan like that, when i'd managed to stay quiet? it wasn't until i was 13 or so that i'd heard of orgasm (i'd heard of ejaculation, but come on -- the way sex ed taught it made it sound like it was just automatic response to insertion, and it wasn't like i could see well enough on the wavy channels to know differently. i guess i thought sexual pleasure came AFTER ejaculation).
***
first gf i ever had was when i was like. 13? 14? seventh grade, i think. end of seventh grade. i was still a kid! it hardly even counted. it was a slightly fucked up relationship. met her at my very first party, where i got smashed for the very first time, and she was like... a high school junior, like 17 years old. so i was so flattered by it all that i sorta fell for her, only i never even fell for her. i was just flattered. there was no feelings there, and i barely even knew her.
and it was pretty messed up. she was ... eh. weird. i couldn't say exactly why. it was just a creepy feeling i got. slightly pedophilic, probably. heh. i remember the first week i was so flattered i didn't care. then we went to a movie together, along with two of my friends, and i think, in retrospect, she was trying to give me a handjob or something? but her hand was squeezing somewhere in the vicinity of my thigh, so it was doing nothing for me. i had no idea wtf she was doing at the time, so i was like wtf are you doing?
it mighta been that, that tipped me off. or hell, maybe she was just shy and untutored? who knows. anyway, after that things went downhill.
the over-16 high schoolers with cars could go off-campus for lunch, so she visited me in my junior high. first week that was great. second week, post-movie-experience, i started avoiding her. so during lunch i kept dragging my best friend into various classrooms to hide from the creepy older chick who i was, quote-unquote, dating. then the week after that, one of my friends ratted me out, and then she found me. and so i told her to please stop coming around because she should hang out with her own friends in high school.
and that was that. i came out of hiding, and i figured it was over, amicably. until, of course, the NEXT day, she showed up again. and i LOST it. "in true damon style" was how i put it the first time, and in true damon style was, indeed, how it was.
you gotta remember that at the time, i was still a kid. i still was only vaguely aware that people other than me also had hopes and fears, feelings and hurts. so, when i got mad, i let loose. and in front of all my friends, i started yelling at her to get out of my sight and never come around again because i never wanted to see her again.
the sort of shocked, frozen smile on her face (she'd shown up with a smile) was the thing i remember best about her. the actual break-up i in fact forgot all about until my best friend reminded me years and years later. i felt quite bad then. but that i have no memory of it myself, or didn't until reminded, probably says something about how much that whole affair meant to me.
***
so.
before joanna, in early 7th grade, i had SUCH a crush on Amber, the bad girl. we were in the same PE class and she was SUCH a rebel. i had such a crush on her, drawn to her badness. she was dirty blonde, and already kinda heroin-chic from smoking pot and dropping acid all the time. she had a boyfriend (actually, several during the course of the few months i knew her), apparently fucked all the time too, and knew everything there was to know. or, you know, at least pretended to. she kept lecturing us on techniques and special moves and how they blew her bf's mind, or bfs' minds, and i was SO in awe. i kept hoping she'd demonstrated her reportedly mindblowing bj techniques on me, but alas, no, it was one of those later on anonymous jr high flings that got me started on that.
anyway, Amber flunked all her classes because she flouted the authority of her teachers and simply refused to work. and in PE she walked all the miles and shit. so prior to that, i was always great at PE. and after that, i was always great. but that one year, i was like, flunking PE with her because i'd walk all the miles with her (along with this other guy and this other chick, all of whom were wowed by her bad-girl-ness) and talk shit about everything. i think that year was the year i learned to cuss like a sailor.
then she got expelled. she got sent to like the special school for rebel children, and that was that. i'm sure some part of me still looks for her, though. rebel bad girls. see, the burgundy haired girl rant, somewhere in this jumbled journal.
***
first true non-solo sexual experience: after joanna, first psycho gf, came a normalish stormy-jr-high-affair. hanging out, doing homework, walking home, screaming matches. i don't think we even made it to heavy petting. the gf AFTER that, or maybe the one after that?, we indulged in experimentation. she'd had an older bf before, so she knew a few tricks that hadn't made their way into my knowledge store yet.
right around then my dad had a little red celica, a sexy little manual sports car, and we'd go sit in it (parked in the garage!) all the time so we could turn the lights on and off, flick on turn signals, stomp the brake and pretend to drive. god, we were just kids.
but of course, soon enough we figured out cars were good for other things. so one thing led to another, and then one day she blew me in the front seat. i lasted about 30 seconds, and didn't reciprocate. didn't know how! but heh, it certainly made that car unforgettable.
***
after joanna, and after the normal shortlived jr high relationships, came the jr high prom. and man, this 7th grader asked me to go, but for some bizarre reason i said no (probably thought it wasn't cool to go w/ a 7th grader) and the irony is, i really liked her. i mean, i really really liked her. i thought she was really cool. it was just... at the moment i had a brain fart, said no, and then it was too late to renege. gah! such regret.
anyway so i ended up going with this 8th grader chick who was kinda a friend of a friend. and to put things into perspective, at this point i had had a few kisses, some pawing experience, but strictly above the belt on a girl. it was just a month or two after my very first bj experience, and still like... almost 2 years before i actually lost my virginity. so i had like. VERY LITTLE IDEA of female anatomy and physiology.
despite all that, kids were pretty, er, daring. so heh. at the prom, EVERYONE was grinding up on everyone else. and during this one dance my date was grinding against my thigh, wearing this short, pretty silverish dress, and i felt a certain moistness on my leg, through my slacks? and i swear, i had no idea wtf i was feeling. my first thought was, the fuck, did she piss on me? i think i didn't figure it out until i was thinking back in like. college.
man, this is turning into a litany of sex!
***
one more purely sexual landmark and then we can pass into the realm of The Ones That Got Away, i think.
anyway: first hands-down unequivocable sexual experience: the week after i turned 16, i drove my car to my very first REAL party. even the one where i met joanna didn't really count. my parents dropped me off, and my parents picked me up -- same with everyone else. we had to hide the beer in the morning. this one? the parents were off for the weekend, there were college kids there -- it was Sodom and Gomorrah.
so i met a chick there, who was a bit older. actually i never knew her well enough to know just how old, but my guess is 17-18. a few drinks went down, we went somewhere private (my memory has it as outside against a tree -- sounds exciting, but wasn't really -- but then my memory could be alcohol-fogged, and i also remember a case in one of the bedrooms. might've been two different parties, who knows) and got it on. it wasn't my first time with a chick, if you count bj's and hj's, but it was my first time. i think most first experiences involves 10 second timespans, but mine was kinda opposite. i was so nervous (and so drunk) that i had trouble getting going. heh. but, eventually things worked out, and that was the absolute end of my innocence.
afterwards we saw each other for about a week, but we never really hit it off while sober. so soon enough that evaporated.
***
roundabout the same time -- early high school -- i developed two major crushes. one was on my french teacher, who was about 26, and was tall and sleek and, well, FRENCH. god, i had such a crush. and it wasn't fair! she was so young and hot! and word had it her hubby was like 57 years old or something.
so, our high school was too big for the cafeteria, so we ate all over the school. me and my friends sat in this circle of benches set into a hill (the hill sloped up behind the bench, but was chopped away and bulwarked with posts, against which the benches were nailed -- if that makes sense?) around a big oak tree. it was a pretty unusual place because, as high school goes, cliques associate by geography, but "the circle", as we called it, was right smack in the center of several major avenues in the school. so my friends were really a minicross-section of the school. mainly, this was because my best friend was such a social animal, and made friends with everyone.
anyway, point is, the circle was also just outside the teacher's lounge. so every day without fail (except the days i wasn't there b/c of extracurricular crap or whatever), when the 10 minute bell rang, i'd be sitting there in my corner of the bench, up on the posts, waiting for la mademoiselle Clevenger to walk out.
i had french for 3 years, so sophomore year, i was still bright eyed and bushy tailed, scrawny, and it'd be a peppy "Hi Mademoiselle!"
then by senior year i was cool, man. i'd grown up by then, had my growth spurt and all, and varsity beach volleyball had packed some muscles on. and i was always kind of a ringleader among my friends, so i was way too cool to be peppy. but not too cool not to say hi. so she'd come around, and i'd have it down: this cool-as-arctic-ice nod up of my chin, and this slurred "suuup, ma'amselle."
i wonder wtf she made of all that. heh.
(and yes, those of you who've heard me tell the story before: i KNOW i always say that!)
***
after i hit my growth spurt in sophomore year and got on the varsity team my junior year, gfs came a little easier. ironically, though, the one girl i remember best out of high school -- well, okay, one of two -- was never my gf. never even close. but i was completely in love with her.
in my sophomore year, there was a girl in my 6th period class named evangeline. this is probably why i've always liked the name, and will usually give a girl named evangeline at least a second look on account of name alone. i used to think it was such a perfect name for her -- evangeline, angel. unusual, too, not too flashy -- not one of those pop names so popular at the time.
anyway, she had some sort of health issue. neurological. she wasn't nuts, but she did have terrible headaches that caused her to miss school all the time. when she was there, she was quiet, frail, and maybe because of her difficult situation, always seemed far and above everyone else around her. dignified; so mature. i felt like there was a wisdom to her, and maybe there was. she sat across the room from me and i spent most of my 6th period trying to catch a glimpse without looking like i was gawking. i'd invent excuses to look her way: maybe i was staring at the bulletin board behind her! or looking out the window!
i don't think i ever even spoke more than two words to her. she was a senior, so she was way out of my reach even if she'd been at school more. add her health problems to that, and she was just completely unattainable. i think i remember her best from this one sunny spring afternoon. the classrooms were arranged in rows lengthwise, so that there were no windows on the shorter walls, but windows on both the longer walls. on one wall they were big windows; on the other, little windows up high. the way the classroom was set up for this class, half the chairs were in rows 4 deep against one of the longer sides, and half against the other. there were also short rows against one of the shorter sides and the other short side was the "front" of the class. our teacher usually lectured while walking around the middle open area, though, and he was an awesome lecturer. it was a literature class.
digressing.
point is, she sat on the side of the class with the big windows, which faced the west. so in the afternoon the sun would shine in. the way i remember her was from this gorgeous spring afternoon -- one of those days where the sky is shatteringly blue between these big puffy white clouds, because it had just rained. and she was sitting there in this off-white sweater, one of those with long strands of thread coming off so it looked kinda furry. she was blonde, not yellow californian blonde, but this gorgeous, layered blonde that ran the gamut from pale to honey. her hair wasn't totally straight; it had a soft natural curve to it, waves, and she wore it slightly in-curved at the tips. her skin was porcelain-pale, totally flawless, taut over her cheekbones and fine jaw, though this probably had a lot to do with the fact that she often didn't feel well. and -- god, can you imagine it? the sun hitting her from behind, through the window, just lighting her up like that, incandescent? it was unforgettable. she was luminous. she glowed. i gawked.
oddly, i don't have any memories of her past that. i'm not sure if the semester ended and she went to a different class, or maybe if she left school due to health problems. anyway, i still remember the way she looked perfectly. it's the ones that got away that stick with you, and if you look through my writing, and look at the women i'm attracted to, or the women i dream up, and you'll see plenty of luminous, achingly lovely blondes who don't say much and seem to know a lot more.
***
last formative experience. most of my real experience with women has been in college and after; somehow, it still feels like these were the ones that shaped me, more or less. anyway: kelly. that's not how she spelled it, but name changed to protect the innocent.
every school has its popular clique, right? and at the top of the popular clique, the alpha female, around whom the school orbits. i mean, yeah. everyone hates her. and yeah, her popularity was probably secured by the popularity of her boyfriends. but when push comes to shove, it's the chicks that play the popularity game, and it's the chicks that really determine the pecking order. we were just the prize bulls they fought over, most the times, though sometimes one of us, by rejecting the top chick hard enough, could cause her to fall.
kelly, though.
heh, kelly.
NEVER have i met someone else quite like her, and from what i hear from other people, nor have they. she was something else. a different beast altogether. i knew her in 7th grade -- she was already the popular girl then. but in high school, all the popular girls from their own middle schools mesh together and start reforming cliques, which then climb up through the years and, sometime around junior year, clash for supremacy. or i think that's how it usually works. how it worked with kelly: the minute she stepped in, she was under the wing of the most popular clique in the school. freshman status notwithstanding. and by sophomore year, everyone deferred to her. i don't think anyone didn't know who she was. she had this cat look to her. narrow wideset eyes. ash-blonde hair, slightly wavy. and this permanent, slight curve to her mouth, which wasn't by any means a smile. i think in Mean Girls, there was a line about the queen bee -- she always looked fierce? well, that was kelly. she always looked fierce, and she NEVER smiled. except when she wanted something, or was going in for the kill.
my god, she was a bitch. my god, we all hated her. and my god, if she'd ever given me half a chance, i wouldn't have thought twice.
alas, i never rose above the status of peripheral acquaintance with her. i was on the varsity beach volleyball team, which meant i qualified as jock and knew the jocks, but i was also in AP classes and knew the nerds. that alone probably disqualified me. plus, i wasn't on the football team, and the lucky few in her orbit were all on the football team. usually. i think she briefly had a fling with the class president, too, who wasn't on any athletic team, but was wildly adored nonetheless.
so, yeah. i brushed close enough, at least in the few brief weeks in... what was it, junior year? ...that i hung out with them in the jock area. talked to her a few times, but she always smiled more at someone else, or laughed harder at someone else's joke. grrr. and eventually i settled for one of her friends as gf, but that's a bitter pill to swallow when you'd come so close to the center of the (school's) universe. and i've never been good at staying close to what i couldn't have. it drives me nuts. so soon enough the relationship with her friend fell apart, and when that fell apart, i went back to the circle, somewhat humbled.
sometimes i think the truth of the matter is, though, that the perfect woman in my mind? the ice queen i rave about? in the end, it's just the impossible amalgamation of amber, evangeline and kelly. i mean, i can trace out roots in each of those three. the ones that got away, and all that.
ok -- tired of writing now!
Showing posts with label wimminz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wimminz. Show all posts
i've discovered something amazing about Bath and Body Works stuff. i've been ranting about it for hours already, and now i'm gonna rant here.
it smells GODAWFUL when you're just putting it on.
i mean. GOD. AWFUL.
brianna was spritzing some sorta body spray and then slathering some aromatherapy "sensuality" lotion on last night? and i was GAGGING. it smelled, quite literally, like SHIT.
was gonna BARF.
so i was sitting there laughing my ass off at her cuz it was so damn stinky, right? then like. 10 minutes later, it started smelling good. like REALLY good.
and then TODAY. sheezus. i was practically sniffing my sheets. i can smell it on my hands, too, so i've been like inhaling my hands all. friggin. day.
sheeeit.
it's like this...can't describe it. not a scent-expert. but it's light, kinda sweet scent, but not cloying, with just a HINT of spice, and kinda cooooool as a summer breeze? and then there's this second scent that's kinda heavier, a touch fruit-ish/rose-ish, and like.
just daaayum. both of them. and the mix! and just. WHOA.
can't help it! must sniff! GOD. had this friend once who got separated from his girl by his job for 6 months, and ended up buying her brand of shampoo to sniff? i thought he was nuts, but i can dig that now. something about scents, you know? touch is the most intimate you can get, but scent is right up there under it. it's like closer than sight or sound. you can call your girl or look at her picture, but nothing reminds you of her quite as much as scent.
it's somehow...i dunno, visceral. kinda primitive, hits you in an older, more carnal part of the brain, or something. you can easily dissect the way she looks, make it all brainy and stuff. you can do that with voice too fairly easily. but scent is such an elusive thing, but also so, i dunno...striking gut-instinctive-ish. it just triggers memories and reactions like that.
anyway. yeegad. SNIIIIFF.
it smells GODAWFUL when you're just putting it on.
i mean. GOD. AWFUL.
brianna was spritzing some sorta body spray and then slathering some aromatherapy "sensuality" lotion on last night? and i was GAGGING. it smelled, quite literally, like SHIT.
was gonna BARF.
so i was sitting there laughing my ass off at her cuz it was so damn stinky, right? then like. 10 minutes later, it started smelling good. like REALLY good.
and then TODAY. sheezus. i was practically sniffing my sheets. i can smell it on my hands, too, so i've been like inhaling my hands all. friggin. day.
sheeeit.
it's like this...can't describe it. not a scent-expert. but it's light, kinda sweet scent, but not cloying, with just a HINT of spice, and kinda cooooool as a summer breeze? and then there's this second scent that's kinda heavier, a touch fruit-ish/rose-ish, and like.
just daaayum. both of them. and the mix! and just. WHOA.
can't help it! must sniff! GOD. had this friend once who got separated from his girl by his job for 6 months, and ended up buying her brand of shampoo to sniff? i thought he was nuts, but i can dig that now. something about scents, you know? touch is the most intimate you can get, but scent is right up there under it. it's like closer than sight or sound. you can call your girl or look at her picture, but nothing reminds you of her quite as much as scent.
it's somehow...i dunno, visceral. kinda primitive, hits you in an older, more carnal part of the brain, or something. you can easily dissect the way she looks, make it all brainy and stuff. you can do that with voice too fairly easily. but scent is such an elusive thing, but also so, i dunno...striking gut-instinctive-ish. it just triggers memories and reactions like that.
anyway. yeegad. SNIIIIFF.
have i ever talked about brianna here? don't think i have. think i probably should, cuz. she's.
jawdroppin'.
showstoppin'.
yeah. you know what i mean. haha. okay, maybe you don't. see, this is how we met. 12:45pm or so, lunchtime, food court. lotsa yuppie-types, doctors nurses and the whole nine yards. san francisco. not too far from the once-mighty silicon valley.
girl sitting there in a booth. turned away from me right, so i could only see her profile. but dude, she was cute, really delicate, fine profile. so i'm thinking, hey. i go over to the next table, i sit down. eventually i say hi when i see her looking this way, we talk, exchange numbers, and the rest is history.
but all that comes later. what this is about, is the first 10 seconds. cuz see, while i'm setting my tray down, she turns to see who's sitting near her. she turns and faces me and i see her face and.
i swear.
i couldn't breathe for a split second. my breath just stopped dead in my chest; i was staring. i was fuckin' gawking for a second there. she was just. unbelievably.
LOVELY.
i mean, she's not a supermodel. she's not big-boobs-big-lips-come-hither-and-fuck-me-stare. she's...fine. she's slender and tall, long thin hands. graceful, quiet, a little shy. she has a very fine, lovely, foxlike sort of beauty. lovely is the word for her. her nose is thin and not overly long, kinda pert at the end, but not button. her face is oval with good cheekbones.
long hair, that sort of reddish brown, auburn. sleek, not frizzy. her eyes are grayish blue, large and always a little surprised-looking. she wears glasses. she wore glasses that day, very dainty oval glasses, and.
she's just very...slantingly, sleekly lovely. beautiful. utterly beautiful. god.
hmm...
i just reread what i wrote and somehow it came off as being very objectifying and crass. i didn't mean it that way.
i was writing it down because i wanted to remember. jess is accusing me of being negative right now, which is why i didn't write this at first (cuz it's all negative, haha), but i wanted to write down what i saw in her that first day in case someday we get in a bad fight, or break up, or hell - grow old together, and i lose sight of what i had seen in her.
then i could come back here and read my 27-year-old self ranting about her, and the way i felt when i first saw her. then i could remember that she was the girl who, of all the girls i've ever seen in all my life, sucked all the oxygen out of my lungs for a second and left me staring.
jawdroppin'.
showstoppin'.
yeah. you know what i mean. haha. okay, maybe you don't. see, this is how we met. 12:45pm or so, lunchtime, food court. lotsa yuppie-types, doctors nurses and the whole nine yards. san francisco. not too far from the once-mighty silicon valley.
girl sitting there in a booth. turned away from me right, so i could only see her profile. but dude, she was cute, really delicate, fine profile. so i'm thinking, hey. i go over to the next table, i sit down. eventually i say hi when i see her looking this way, we talk, exchange numbers, and the rest is history.
but all that comes later. what this is about, is the first 10 seconds. cuz see, while i'm setting my tray down, she turns to see who's sitting near her. she turns and faces me and i see her face and.
i swear.
i couldn't breathe for a split second. my breath just stopped dead in my chest; i was staring. i was fuckin' gawking for a second there. she was just. unbelievably.
LOVELY.
i mean, she's not a supermodel. she's not big-boobs-big-lips-come-hither-and-fuck-me-stare. she's...fine. she's slender and tall, long thin hands. graceful, quiet, a little shy. she has a very fine, lovely, foxlike sort of beauty. lovely is the word for her. her nose is thin and not overly long, kinda pert at the end, but not button. her face is oval with good cheekbones.
long hair, that sort of reddish brown, auburn. sleek, not frizzy. her eyes are grayish blue, large and always a little surprised-looking. she wears glasses. she wore glasses that day, very dainty oval glasses, and.
she's just very...slantingly, sleekly lovely. beautiful. utterly beautiful. god.
hmm...
i just reread what i wrote and somehow it came off as being very objectifying and crass. i didn't mean it that way.
i was writing it down because i wanted to remember. jess is accusing me of being negative right now, which is why i didn't write this at first (cuz it's all negative, haha), but i wanted to write down what i saw in her that first day in case someday we get in a bad fight, or break up, or hell - grow old together, and i lose sight of what i had seen in her.
then i could come back here and read my 27-year-old self ranting about her, and the way i felt when i first saw her. then i could remember that she was the girl who, of all the girls i've ever seen in all my life, sucked all the oxygen out of my lungs for a second and left me staring.
2010 note: man, now i can't even remember what she looked like *LOL* ah, young love. i'm sure she was uberhot though.
--
okay.
remember renée?
well. due to SOMEONE'S ever-so-clever advice, i took her and her fiancé out to dinner. to like. i dunno. assess my position, see if this is some passing fancy, or truly some mad, mindless lust for the unattainable.
guess which it is.
...
...
...
...ten points for those who guessed the latter!
yeah. okay. so like.
ARGHHHHHHHH.
i can't believe this. i have never. EVER. been so smitten by someone so UTTERLY out of reach. Angelina doesn't count; she's COMPLETELY out of reach. Renée is...
well see.
she's not quite completely out of reach. she's out of reach of the sane and reasonable. i.e., the only way to possibly reach her is to go to boston in july, show up at her wedding, stand up during the "speak now or forever hold your peace" line, and scream at the TOP OF MY LUNGS:
"IIIIIII
OBJEEEEEEEEECT!"
....right.
like something out of a movie. a comedy at that, after which the father of the bride (who of course will happen to be an ex-heavyweight world champion) will proceed to drag me outside and pound the shit out of me while the devastated bride screeches at me for ruining her wedding and the bridegroom stands by looking amazed and thunderstruck.
so, okay, that option's out. option 2 would be,
BREAK THE FUCKING MARRIAGE UP BEFORE SHE GETS TO THE ALTAR.
it's like something out of a SITCOM now. what am i gonna do, try to woo the girl while simultaneously screwing the guy over? superglue him to his chair and make him miss a date with her? bolt him into his office...
argh.
no.
so of course, the only remaining option is:
stand by quietly. let it happen. forget it about it.
which is what i should do. cuz like. guh. it's just a crush, just an infatuation. i mean, i'm sure i've felt like this before; it just wasn't ever this bad because it's never been in a situation in which i couldn't for the life of me act on it.
it makes it worse, so much worse, that i know who the fiance is, and he's a pretty decent guy who i KNOW loves her to death, or at least halfway to death, and like. argh.
he's just a really nice guy! and it's hard to demonize him now, and even though what i SHOULD do now is realize that it's all for the best, all i can seem to do is FIND WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM and compare it to ways in which i'm BETTER than him.
like.
ARGH.
1. i have a brighter future. dammit, i do. he's a fucking software engineer, i'm a doctor. i'm gonna run this fucking hospital one day (really, i am), and he's gonna go on churning out code for the rest of his life.
2. i'm a better conversationalist. i talked; he sat there and ate like a little idiot. okay, fine, maybe he's a good listener then, but i'm a good listener too! argh!
3. i'm not a fucking nerd!!! or well! not as nerdy as he is! he is such! a fucking! nerd! he must be thanking his lucky stars day and night that someone like renée fell on his lap, and...
....arghhh.
other narcissistic, cruel, awful things like that.
i am so. blindly. jealous. i don't remember EVER having envied another man so much.
i just can't seem to get it out of my mind. it's wrong, it's a mistake, if i just get it out of my head, i'll be fine.
if had met her earlier, it'd be fine. or later. later, when she WAS married, that'd be fine. just like.
the illusion of hope, you know? keyword being illusion.
--
okay.
remember renée?
well. due to SOMEONE'S ever-so-clever advice, i took her and her fiancé out to dinner. to like. i dunno. assess my position, see if this is some passing fancy, or truly some mad, mindless lust for the unattainable.
guess which it is.
...
...
...
...ten points for those who guessed the latter!
yeah. okay. so like.
ARGHHHHHHHH.
i can't believe this. i have never. EVER. been so smitten by someone so UTTERLY out of reach. Angelina doesn't count; she's COMPLETELY out of reach. Renée is...
well see.
she's not quite completely out of reach. she's out of reach of the sane and reasonable. i.e., the only way to possibly reach her is to go to boston in july, show up at her wedding, stand up during the "speak now or forever hold your peace" line, and scream at the TOP OF MY LUNGS:
"IIIIIII
OBJEEEEEEEEECT!"
....right.
like something out of a movie. a comedy at that, after which the father of the bride (who of course will happen to be an ex-heavyweight world champion) will proceed to drag me outside and pound the shit out of me while the devastated bride screeches at me for ruining her wedding and the bridegroom stands by looking amazed and thunderstruck.
so, okay, that option's out. option 2 would be,
BREAK THE FUCKING MARRIAGE UP BEFORE SHE GETS TO THE ALTAR.
it's like something out of a SITCOM now. what am i gonna do, try to woo the girl while simultaneously screwing the guy over? superglue him to his chair and make him miss a date with her? bolt him into his office...
argh.
no.
so of course, the only remaining option is:
stand by quietly. let it happen. forget it about it.
which is what i should do. cuz like. guh. it's just a crush, just an infatuation. i mean, i'm sure i've felt like this before; it just wasn't ever this bad because it's never been in a situation in which i couldn't for the life of me act on it.
it makes it worse, so much worse, that i know who the fiance is, and he's a pretty decent guy who i KNOW loves her to death, or at least halfway to death, and like. argh.
he's just a really nice guy! and it's hard to demonize him now, and even though what i SHOULD do now is realize that it's all for the best, all i can seem to do is FIND WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM and compare it to ways in which i'm BETTER than him.
like.
ARGH.
1. i have a brighter future. dammit, i do. he's a fucking software engineer, i'm a doctor. i'm gonna run this fucking hospital one day (really, i am), and he's gonna go on churning out code for the rest of his life.
2. i'm a better conversationalist. i talked; he sat there and ate like a little idiot. okay, fine, maybe he's a good listener then, but i'm a good listener too! argh!
3. i'm not a fucking nerd!!! or well! not as nerdy as he is! he is such! a fucking! nerd! he must be thanking his lucky stars day and night that someone like renée fell on his lap, and...
....arghhh.
other narcissistic, cruel, awful things like that.
i am so. blindly. jealous. i don't remember EVER having envied another man so much.
i just can't seem to get it out of my mind. it's wrong, it's a mistake, if i just get it out of my head, i'll be fine.
if had met her earlier, it'd be fine. or later. later, when she WAS married, that'd be fine. just like.
the illusion of hope, you know? keyword being illusion.
is it strange to love a girl who's been dead for a hundred years? maybe - probably - it's not even love. just some sorta fanciful attraction, a fantasy of a lyrical and poetic sort of love cooked up by the otherwise staid doctor-to-be in the creativity-stripped hospitals. maybe. but i do think i could love her. it's not anything i can explain, and everything about her poetry and her letters.
there's something so sheltered and imaginative about her. her letters are so polite. editors trashed her poetry as unconventional ...i'm losing my train of thought. it goes everywhere at once; there's so much i can say about this.
I know where Wells grow -
Droughtless Wells -
I think a little Well - like Mine -
Dearer to understand -
i saw this handwritten manuscript once. well, a copy, obviously. not terribly neat, but a fine hand. delicate. unbelievable - she'd created her own language. these curlicues and strange little signs, plus signs, it looked like. dots and slashes. walt whitman swaggers and boasts that he's something new, something previously untried and undone, freedom at its best! and then there's a girl in her attic who's rarely left her house, who knows the true meaning of freedom in a better, quieter, more personal way.
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times -
When Dimness - looks the Oddity -
Distinctness - easy seems -
she's just so polite. that's what gets me the most. she seems shy and quiet, so like a bird. self-deprecating in her letters to others. she referred to herself being a little ill, and i thought my heart would cave in from...tenderness? pity? a desire to shelter and protect?
i just can't believe the editors wrote her back telling her her poetry was crap. i can't think how must've made her feel, this girl locked away in her attic all her life, looking out at a world she didn't quite fit into, but understood better than most, writing about snakes and birds and death and waiting, and never quite about love. or am i wrong about that?
I shall forget the drop of Anguish
That scalds me now -
god! i just saw a page that lists facts supporting that she was a lesbian. jesus christ. what the hell is wrong with the world, that a woman who never really sought male company is immediately suspected a lesbian? the worst is how these people that write these things think of themselves as progressive and liberal, all the while furthering the old patriarchical supposition that a woman is made to breed with a man, and any woman who chooses another path is, of course, a lesbian. can't you people just leave her alone?
god, dammit!
....fume.
Now I lay thee down to Sleep -
I pray the Lord thy Dust to keep -
And if thou live before thou wake -
I pray the Lord thy Soul to make -
there's something slanted about her poetry, and i don't mean unnatural, dirty, wrong, whatever. i just mean - slanted. you have to think curved to get at the meaning, or get close to the meaning, as the case may be. you have to skew your perceptions a bit, even if you don't want you. just reading it, a line, any line, makes you think a little slanted.
what a quaint woman she must've been! and so polite, heh. i just can't get over that. there's something so fragile about her, as though she kept herself and most her poems locked away lest a stray breeze blew them all apart. i think i could've liked her, really loved her. i like to think i could've brought her out of her shell, but then again, maybe that would've just realigned her perceptions with the status quo. and then all her poetry would be lost.
I saw no Way -
The Heavens were stitched -
I felt the Columns close -
The Earth reversed her Hemispheres -
I touched the Universe -
i can't believe i'm writing this at 3:30am...
*****
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain,—
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem,—
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen,—
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
*****
And though thy sins be as scarlet,
They shall be white as snow;
Though they be red like crimson,
they shall be as wool.
Isaiah 1:18
*****
her name, in case it's not yet evident, is emily dickinson.
there's something so sheltered and imaginative about her. her letters are so polite. editors trashed her poetry as unconventional ...i'm losing my train of thought. it goes everywhere at once; there's so much i can say about this.
I know where Wells grow -
Droughtless Wells -
I think a little Well - like Mine -
Dearer to understand -
i saw this handwritten manuscript once. well, a copy, obviously. not terribly neat, but a fine hand. delicate. unbelievable - she'd created her own language. these curlicues and strange little signs, plus signs, it looked like. dots and slashes. walt whitman swaggers and boasts that he's something new, something previously untried and undone, freedom at its best! and then there's a girl in her attic who's rarely left her house, who knows the true meaning of freedom in a better, quieter, more personal way.
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times -
When Dimness - looks the Oddity -
Distinctness - easy seems -
she's just so polite. that's what gets me the most. she seems shy and quiet, so like a bird. self-deprecating in her letters to others. she referred to herself being a little ill, and i thought my heart would cave in from...tenderness? pity? a desire to shelter and protect?
i just can't believe the editors wrote her back telling her her poetry was crap. i can't think how must've made her feel, this girl locked away in her attic all her life, looking out at a world she didn't quite fit into, but understood better than most, writing about snakes and birds and death and waiting, and never quite about love. or am i wrong about that?
I shall forget the drop of Anguish
That scalds me now -
god! i just saw a page that lists facts supporting that she was a lesbian. jesus christ. what the hell is wrong with the world, that a woman who never really sought male company is immediately suspected a lesbian? the worst is how these people that write these things think of themselves as progressive and liberal, all the while furthering the old patriarchical supposition that a woman is made to breed with a man, and any woman who chooses another path is, of course, a lesbian. can't you people just leave her alone?
god, dammit!
....fume.
Now I lay thee down to Sleep -
I pray the Lord thy Dust to keep -
And if thou live before thou wake -
I pray the Lord thy Soul to make -
there's something slanted about her poetry, and i don't mean unnatural, dirty, wrong, whatever. i just mean - slanted. you have to think curved to get at the meaning, or get close to the meaning, as the case may be. you have to skew your perceptions a bit, even if you don't want you. just reading it, a line, any line, makes you think a little slanted.
what a quaint woman she must've been! and so polite, heh. i just can't get over that. there's something so fragile about her, as though she kept herself and most her poems locked away lest a stray breeze blew them all apart. i think i could've liked her, really loved her. i like to think i could've brought her out of her shell, but then again, maybe that would've just realigned her perceptions with the status quo. and then all her poetry would be lost.
I saw no Way -
The Heavens were stitched -
I felt the Columns close -
The Earth reversed her Hemispheres -
I touched the Universe -
i can't believe i'm writing this at 3:30am...
*****
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain,—
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem,—
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen,—
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
*****
And though thy sins be as scarlet,
They shall be white as snow;
Though they be red like crimson,
they shall be as wool.
Isaiah 1:18
*****
her name, in case it's not yet evident, is emily dickinson.
this will be short. i'm tired, and i need to sleep, and i'm getting up in about 5 hours.
this is about the song, firefly (faye wong). great song. in chinese, though, so be sure to get the translated lyrics. it's worth it. the song is good; the lyrics make it great.
this is about this line, to be precise:
by day you don't even see me/but by night there is only you and i
you kinda need to read it in context of the rest of the song, so i'll tack the entirety of the lyrics to the end.
is it just me, or that an incredibly evocative line? i know, i associate all the songs i love with 1) sex or 2) tragedy. but there's already been an entry on why that is, and the link between sex tragedy emotion and music.
no need to go over old topics.
but come on now. by day you don't even see me. by night there is only you and i.
fucking sad! i can't explain it, but i'm sure you know what i mean. and so...imageristic. haha, i made a new word. but like, listening to it, i can almost see it: daytime, busy-ness, big city, skyscrapers, two people; somehow related, see each other often...casual lovers, or so the guy thinks, never for a moment imagining it could be more (or maybe knowing it, but ignoring it) - the way their eyes don't ever really meet; the way her eyes seek his out, but his gloss right over her like she wasn't even there, moving on to smile at someone else.
then, night: light's gone, no moon, no stars. inside, bedroom, everything's pitch black, utterly black, and all there is, is silence and ragged/languorous....fuck i can't spell that word - you know what i mean - breathing; touching, skin on skin, and the brief green flares of light behind the eyelids sparked by the caress of a lover. nothing else in all the world. and in those moments he knows she loves him, and he knows he loves her, too, but what does it matter? the sun comes up; he forgets.
by day you don't even see me, she tells him, but he doesn't hear it. by night, there is only you and i.
ag! i can't put it into words.
another subject, just something i want to jot down before i forget again. there was a girl in my third-grade class who sat next to me a lot. in retrospect, a startlingly pretty little girl. blonde hair, slender and small...blue eyes. that's the key - her blue eyes, which were the bluest eyes i have ever seen before or after.
her name was vanessa. i shouldn't forget that.
i've spoken of the winter sky here in the bay before, i think - that's the only blue i can compare it to, though the two shades are nothing alike. hers were a deeper blue, and clearer; the sky is a hard-edged, flat/deep thing, without facets - or the whole thing is a facet too big to see the edges of. her eyes weren't like that. i know i've read it somewhere, limpid blue pools for eyes, and it's so stupid and cliche, but that's exactly how her eyes were. unbelievable, the color. even now i can close my eyes and seen them in perfect clarity (blue - not electric, not shocking - just...so vibrant, clear, but dark too, and with a large dark pupil, threads of dark interlaced among the deep, rich, full, bright hue; god, it's hard to describe), though i've forgotten the details of her face.
it's easy to blow this out of proportion. it's so easy to call her my first crush. it'd be so much more dramatic and bittersweet. but i have to be honest and say she wasn't. she didn't like me much, and i didn't particularly care about her, i don't think. it's easy for me to wax poetic on the hue of her eyes, too, but that's only because i can't put it into words, so i use a vast abundance to try to make up for it.
i'll say this much, and this will be the last on the subject of the color itself: SURREAL.
so anyway, one day, i was sitting next to her - i remember this clearly - on the floor, while our teacher, Ms. Redling, was teaching us something, or reading a story, or something. that doesn't matter much. i wasn't listening anyway.
i was looking at her eyes. god knows why. this was before puppy love, btw, so i had a healthy contempt of girls, and while i think i did understand that her eyes were beautiful, it didn't really matter. she was still a girl (ew, gross), etc...but still, i was looking at her, at her eyes.
and all of a sudden, i had this thought: so that's what blue eyes are really like. it wasn't profound, and it wasn't melodramatic. bells didn't ring in my head. it wasn't an epiphany. it was very natural, just a passing thought i happen to remember. i, very simply, honestly thought that i had never really seen blue eyes before after all. i honestly thought i had been fooled all along, and had suddenly discovered what blue eyes were REALLY like, and all that i had thought were blue before that was just another shade of gray, duller, not as real.
i thought the shade of her eyes defined blueness. there was never a doubt in my mind; her eyes were the real deal. blue. all else that had come before was only a very paltry imitation.
this is about the song, firefly (faye wong). great song. in chinese, though, so be sure to get the translated lyrics. it's worth it. the song is good; the lyrics make it great.
this is about this line, to be precise:
by day you don't even see me/but by night there is only you and i
you kinda need to read it in context of the rest of the song, so i'll tack the entirety of the lyrics to the end.
is it just me, or that an incredibly evocative line? i know, i associate all the songs i love with 1) sex or 2) tragedy. but there's already been an entry on why that is, and the link between sex tragedy emotion and music.
no need to go over old topics.
but come on now. by day you don't even see me. by night there is only you and i.
fucking sad! i can't explain it, but i'm sure you know what i mean. and so...imageristic. haha, i made a new word. but like, listening to it, i can almost see it: daytime, busy-ness, big city, skyscrapers, two people; somehow related, see each other often...casual lovers, or so the guy thinks, never for a moment imagining it could be more (or maybe knowing it, but ignoring it) - the way their eyes don't ever really meet; the way her eyes seek his out, but his gloss right over her like she wasn't even there, moving on to smile at someone else.
then, night: light's gone, no moon, no stars. inside, bedroom, everything's pitch black, utterly black, and all there is, is silence and ragged/languorous....fuck i can't spell that word - you know what i mean - breathing; touching, skin on skin, and the brief green flares of light behind the eyelids sparked by the caress of a lover. nothing else in all the world. and in those moments he knows she loves him, and he knows he loves her, too, but what does it matter? the sun comes up; he forgets.
by day you don't even see me, she tells him, but he doesn't hear it. by night, there is only you and i.
ag! i can't put it into words.
another subject, just something i want to jot down before i forget again. there was a girl in my third-grade class who sat next to me a lot. in retrospect, a startlingly pretty little girl. blonde hair, slender and small...blue eyes. that's the key - her blue eyes, which were the bluest eyes i have ever seen before or after.
her name was vanessa. i shouldn't forget that.
i've spoken of the winter sky here in the bay before, i think - that's the only blue i can compare it to, though the two shades are nothing alike. hers were a deeper blue, and clearer; the sky is a hard-edged, flat/deep thing, without facets - or the whole thing is a facet too big to see the edges of. her eyes weren't like that. i know i've read it somewhere, limpid blue pools for eyes, and it's so stupid and cliche, but that's exactly how her eyes were. unbelievable, the color. even now i can close my eyes and seen them in perfect clarity (blue - not electric, not shocking - just...so vibrant, clear, but dark too, and with a large dark pupil, threads of dark interlaced among the deep, rich, full, bright hue; god, it's hard to describe), though i've forgotten the details of her face.
it's easy to blow this out of proportion. it's so easy to call her my first crush. it'd be so much more dramatic and bittersweet. but i have to be honest and say she wasn't. she didn't like me much, and i didn't particularly care about her, i don't think. it's easy for me to wax poetic on the hue of her eyes, too, but that's only because i can't put it into words, so i use a vast abundance to try to make up for it.
i'll say this much, and this will be the last on the subject of the color itself: SURREAL.
so anyway, one day, i was sitting next to her - i remember this clearly - on the floor, while our teacher, Ms. Redling, was teaching us something, or reading a story, or something. that doesn't matter much. i wasn't listening anyway.
i was looking at her eyes. god knows why. this was before puppy love, btw, so i had a healthy contempt of girls, and while i think i did understand that her eyes were beautiful, it didn't really matter. she was still a girl (ew, gross), etc...but still, i was looking at her, at her eyes.
and all of a sudden, i had this thought: so that's what blue eyes are really like. it wasn't profound, and it wasn't melodramatic. bells didn't ring in my head. it wasn't an epiphany. it was very natural, just a passing thought i happen to remember. i, very simply, honestly thought that i had never really seen blue eyes before after all. i honestly thought i had been fooled all along, and had suddenly discovered what blue eyes were REALLY like, and all that i had thought were blue before that was just another shade of gray, duller, not as real.
i thought the shade of her eyes defined blueness. there was never a doubt in my mind; her eyes were the real deal. blue. all else that had come before was only a very paltry imitation.
I should be asleep. I have to be up in six hours or so.
I think I'm thinking of Lisa again. Or maybe Sara. In the movies, everyone always knows when they're in love, and with whom. I wish life was that simple.
I think someone once said love was like the sun. Or is that just my imagination? I don't know. It's an appropriate metaphor. Love is a blazing sun. Falling in love is vaporizing in the heat of that sun. Being in love is soaring up, up into the air, mingling and mixing with the one you love, being lifted so high that you don't think you'll ever come down again.
I think I've fallen in love a lot. I think I fall in love pretty easily. I don't know if I fall out of love easily. That probably means I don't. Heh. Either way, though, when I do come out of the sky I find I'm still separate from whoever the other had been. That's falling out of love...
I think when I find The One...if you believe in that sort of stuff about the one perfect girl and whatnot...I think then, when I come back out from the light of the sun, I'm going to find that I'm not separate from her anymore. I think that's what true love, if such a thing exists, is.
But then again, it's 12:23, and I'm writing on 4 hours' worth of sleep.
I think I'm thinking of Lisa again. Or maybe Sara. In the movies, everyone always knows when they're in love, and with whom. I wish life was that simple.
I think someone once said love was like the sun. Or is that just my imagination? I don't know. It's an appropriate metaphor. Love is a blazing sun. Falling in love is vaporizing in the heat of that sun. Being in love is soaring up, up into the air, mingling and mixing with the one you love, being lifted so high that you don't think you'll ever come down again.
I think I've fallen in love a lot. I think I fall in love pretty easily. I don't know if I fall out of love easily. That probably means I don't. Heh. Either way, though, when I do come out of the sky I find I'm still separate from whoever the other had been. That's falling out of love...
I think when I find The One...if you believe in that sort of stuff about the one perfect girl and whatnot...I think then, when I come back out from the light of the sun, I'm going to find that I'm not separate from her anymore. I think that's what true love, if such a thing exists, is.
But then again, it's 12:23, and I'm writing on 4 hours' worth of sleep.
You know, I should stop writing diary entries so late at night. I look back, and it seems like all my nice, thoughtful posts are written during the day, or the evening. And then you have these late-night posts and they're just...id.
(That was, by the way, the obligatory superego intro.)
When I'm drunk, I forgo the superego intro. But then I'm not drunk, except possibility on fatigue. and shit. i'm gonna be buttass tired tomorrow. today. less than 4 hours from now.
Late at night, tiredness is nice, though. You know what I mean. That kinda fatigue that resides low in your long bones, and loosens your muscles. The kinda tired that makes you wanna stretch out and drift off to sleep.
If I could, I'd write this from bed. I'd write it lounging in bed. Sprawling. Hell, I'd write by voice if I could. Talk and watch the letters come out. Except those are usually stupid, those programs. "My name is Damon. I live in San Jose."
Blip... My fame is Dame end. Eye live in Sand Ho Say.
You get the point.
My ear hurts, fuckit. Might be because I've been wearing headphones for way too long. Maybe I should take 'em off, but I'm too lazy to reconnect my subwoofers. Though right now, I could use a good bassline. Something to rumble through my tired bones.
--yawn--
Yesterday I had a thing for brilliant chica mathematicians whispering pi. While they...
I should censor myself, shouldn't I?
Anyway. I'm glad to say that particular fantasy has gone by. Now it's stretching. Stretching's damn sexy. I wonder why I didn't notice this before. I bet if this gets out, 50% of the female population would be afraid to stretch. The other 50% would be stretching every other minute.
Winamp. Has the crappiest equalizer. Things sound a lot better if you just turn the equalizer off.
Speaking of drifting to sleep...and I know I mentioned that long ago, but when it's 3:30am you just have to learn to ride the randomly rolling waves of my thoughts.
Okay, I've just forgotten what I was going to say.
Something about drifting to sleep. About--oh, probably afterglow. About drifting to sleep aching and tired with sweat drying off your skin.
I really. Really. Need to think about untabooed things.
That was a futile attempt from the superego's corner. I'm glad to report the id has crushed the SE entirely. HA! Pathetic SE. Super, indeed.
It's amazing what music can do. Get a compelling beat going, and next thing you know you're moving to it. Dancing in your chair. My thoughts are so disjointed. I keep writing a sentence or two, thinking it's a topic I want to pursue, but then the topic flies out of my grasp or disintegrates, or...I don't know...I can't seem to hold a straight line of thought.
I am tired; I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears
Sounds like lyrics composed under the influence of a hallucinogen to me. Smirk. Nonetheless, they're my favorite lyrics from this song.
This is was what I was talking about...when I talked about rhythms that pull you into it. Did I say that? Maybe I didn't. I said it now. That's how it is. It pulls you in. You move to it without realizing it. This song has the most compelling beat I've ever heard.
Maybe not ever. Maybe not most compelling, at least.
But it's the most hypnotic.
I mean, shit, I've ranted about it twice already. I haven't even ranted about Garbage once. Or have I? Garbage is my favorite band. Most of you reading this probably know this, because I don't anticipate anyone I don't know reading this.
Now that would be weird.
This is gonna be another of those posts I'm gonna wanna delete, but won't...
Anyone wanna dance? I wanna dance. To this song. Or..no. I wanna lounge somewhere. Arms up along the couch. Legs crossed at the ankles. Crucified by laziness. And watch someone dance for me.
That idea just came into my head, btw.
It's a good one.
Dance that one dance. The veils dance. Seven veils? The one where she drops the veils, one by one, and ends up naked. Does she end up naked? She should. Sandstorms and incense and perfumed oils and bare skin shining in firelight and undulating flesh.
My imagination is overactive...
I should've been born a storybook Gypsy. Baggy pants and open-throated shirts. Unshaven jaws and gold earrings. Bandannas around my head and a glint in my eye. Have a dark-eyed Gypsy girlfriend with beads in her hair and dark, dramatic makeup. And she'll dance for me in the dead of night when all the other Gypsies have gone to sleep. When the fire's guttering low enough that the light it gives is subversive and red, and everything's shadowy and mysterious. She'll dance, and the shadows will pool and flow in the changing hollows of her body. And I'll beat the drum for her, because all the other musicians are asleep. Just the drum. Bare hands on drumskin. Slow hypnotic rhythm. Watch her while she dances. Slow hypnotic dance.
And she'll watch me back. With a razoredged dagger held between her teeth. With a razoredged gleam in her eye.
...dangerous.
(That was, by the way, the obligatory superego intro.)
When I'm drunk, I forgo the superego intro. But then I'm not drunk, except possibility on fatigue. and shit. i'm gonna be buttass tired tomorrow. today. less than 4 hours from now.
Late at night, tiredness is nice, though. You know what I mean. That kinda fatigue that resides low in your long bones, and loosens your muscles. The kinda tired that makes you wanna stretch out and drift off to sleep.
If I could, I'd write this from bed. I'd write it lounging in bed. Sprawling. Hell, I'd write by voice if I could. Talk and watch the letters come out. Except those are usually stupid, those programs. "My name is Damon. I live in San Jose."
Blip... My fame is Dame end. Eye live in Sand Ho Say.
You get the point.
My ear hurts, fuckit. Might be because I've been wearing headphones for way too long. Maybe I should take 'em off, but I'm too lazy to reconnect my subwoofers. Though right now, I could use a good bassline. Something to rumble through my tired bones.
--yawn--
Yesterday I had a thing for brilliant chica mathematicians whispering pi. While they...
I should censor myself, shouldn't I?
Anyway. I'm glad to say that particular fantasy has gone by. Now it's stretching. Stretching's damn sexy. I wonder why I didn't notice this before. I bet if this gets out, 50% of the female population would be afraid to stretch. The other 50% would be stretching every other minute.
Winamp. Has the crappiest equalizer. Things sound a lot better if you just turn the equalizer off.
Speaking of drifting to sleep...and I know I mentioned that long ago, but when it's 3:30am you just have to learn to ride the randomly rolling waves of my thoughts.
Okay, I've just forgotten what I was going to say.
Something about drifting to sleep. About--oh, probably afterglow. About drifting to sleep aching and tired with sweat drying off your skin.
I really. Really. Need to think about untabooed things.
That was a futile attempt from the superego's corner. I'm glad to report the id has crushed the SE entirely. HA! Pathetic SE. Super, indeed.
It's amazing what music can do. Get a compelling beat going, and next thing you know you're moving to it. Dancing in your chair. My thoughts are so disjointed. I keep writing a sentence or two, thinking it's a topic I want to pursue, but then the topic flies out of my grasp or disintegrates, or...I don't know...I can't seem to hold a straight line of thought.
I am tired; I am weary
I could sleep for a thousand years
A thousand dreams that would awake me
Different colors made of tears
Sounds like lyrics composed under the influence of a hallucinogen to me. Smirk. Nonetheless, they're my favorite lyrics from this song.
This is was what I was talking about...when I talked about rhythms that pull you into it. Did I say that? Maybe I didn't. I said it now. That's how it is. It pulls you in. You move to it without realizing it. This song has the most compelling beat I've ever heard.
Maybe not ever. Maybe not most compelling, at least.
But it's the most hypnotic.
I mean, shit, I've ranted about it twice already. I haven't even ranted about Garbage once. Or have I? Garbage is my favorite band. Most of you reading this probably know this, because I don't anticipate anyone I don't know reading this.
Now that would be weird.
This is gonna be another of those posts I'm gonna wanna delete, but won't...
Anyone wanna dance? I wanna dance. To this song. Or..no. I wanna lounge somewhere. Arms up along the couch. Legs crossed at the ankles. Crucified by laziness. And watch someone dance for me.
That idea just came into my head, btw.
It's a good one.
Dance that one dance. The veils dance. Seven veils? The one where she drops the veils, one by one, and ends up naked. Does she end up naked? She should. Sandstorms and incense and perfumed oils and bare skin shining in firelight and undulating flesh.
My imagination is overactive...
I should've been born a storybook Gypsy. Baggy pants and open-throated shirts. Unshaven jaws and gold earrings. Bandannas around my head and a glint in my eye. Have a dark-eyed Gypsy girlfriend with beads in her hair and dark, dramatic makeup. And she'll dance for me in the dead of night when all the other Gypsies have gone to sleep. When the fire's guttering low enough that the light it gives is subversive and red, and everything's shadowy and mysterious. She'll dance, and the shadows will pool and flow in the changing hollows of her body. And I'll beat the drum for her, because all the other musicians are asleep. Just the drum. Bare hands on drumskin. Slow hypnotic rhythm. Watch her while she dances. Slow hypnotic dance.
And she'll watch me back. With a razoredged dagger held between her teeth. With a razoredged gleam in her eye.
...dangerous.
I titled this drunken philosophy, but only half the title is accurate.
The drunken half.
I can hardly type without making typos. The caps make things harder, too. So I think I'm not gonna use caps anymore as...of...
...now.
poof.
it's done.
i'm free of caps.
i'm free to rant.
lessee, then. where do i start? let's talk about what i'm listening to. shivaree. goodnight moon. it's a great song. it's sexy. she has a sexy voice. in a disturbingly precocious way. it's very goth. porcelain vampire doll. except the song and the band is countryish. so it's gothic country.
porcelain vampire cowgirl doll.
the allure of the song lies in her voice. she has an awfully provocative voice, at least in my state. it's breathy, but has substance behind it.
ooo, she just started that spoken-whispered bit. i could shiver.
but it's not just the way her voice sounds, which is lilting and sweet and pouty. it's a big part the way her voice rides the rhythm of the song so easily. it's not a very smooth rhythm, either, kinda syncopated. makes you wonder what else she can ride so nicely--
okay. let's talk about something else.
smirk.
next song. painted on my heart, by the cult. from the gone in 60 seconds soundtrack.
it's a good song. has a very tormented-howl feel to it. all dramatic and stuff. it's like a thunderstorm of a breakup song. the best breakup song in the world is you look so fine. but then again, considering the breakup in question involves Angelina Jolie, i suppose i'd be in a thunderstorm of grief, too.
that woman. is sexy.
i mean, really sexy. because she settles back in her own body and wears sensuality like a second skin. and. stuff like that.
yum.
more smirking.
more ranting.
oh wow. it's moved on to girl you'll be a woman soon already. in fact, that song's ending. hmm. i didn't even hear it. i'll replay it.
i really like this song, too. it has neat beat. samba or something. vaguely spanish. latin. i couldn't dance to this song, though...wouldn't know what to do with my feet. heh. but it's a great song to listen to. drive to.
you know who makes great roadtrip songs? Tom Petty. his songs are ALL about roadtrips with the sun beating into your eyes. dust and heathaze and the highway. the freeway. his songs are about california. about the central valley. and about LA. not Santa Monica, surf and sand--LA. the grittier, less wholesome side. all-american, but not redblooded.
we digress.
this is a sad song. damn. all my songs are kinda sad tonight. well. some, at least. i'm in an odd mood. heh. the slightest provocation makes me laugh, and yet when i write, it comes down being kinda dulled and humorless. i wonder why?
i've been obsessed with that Velvet Underground song all day. it's a great song. it's a very strange song. i mention this because it's come on again. it sounds vaguely middle-eastern.
ooo, deja vu. i think i've said this before.
actually, i'm pretty sure i have. heh.
but it does! it's that single note held under all the rest. and the percussion. i keep thinking of some shah's bedchamber with his harem lounging all over silk cushions, veiled and dressed in almost see-through gossamer and wreathed in incense smoke with smoky hooded kohl-stroked eyes and...hmm...
...i've really got a one-track mind.
well, the other alternative is what this song probably was made from and for...getting shitfaced...
i love that. "getting shitfaced". so much for euphemisms.
ramble on, damon, ramble on.
i wish i could say something intelligent. or reach for some elusive fiber of life that just happens to float through your field of vision so for a moment you have a glimpse of one thread in the tapestry of the universe and you wanna catch it but can't. i wish i could write down what it feels like to grasp for it and miss and know you've missed and know you'll never ever capture it (you probably have no clue what i'm talking about right now) but i'm having trouble steering my mind into metaphysical philosophy and the meaning of life. i just wanna lounge. i just wanna
(fuck)
...okay. we won't go there.
who's reading my diary again? this is an entry i should delete in the morning. this is not an entry that should get out. this is not a respectable, responsible M.D. entry. then again, i never do delete the entries i should delete. i forget. i think there was another one i swore i'd delete. probably more than one. since i haven't deleted any at all, i suppose they're still there.
venus in furs.
what a compelling name.
who thinks venus is a blonde? show of hands? i thought she was a blonde. it seems proper, somehow. maybe it's because the world has this vision of her as the goddess of love and beauty and all, but it's inherently a lighthearted, lightheaded, airheaded vision. like, you know, that aphrodite on xena.
i have it on good authority that xena's a man, by the way.
i digress again.
isn't that weird, though? aphrodite is blonde. even though she's the goddess of lust, and i don't really associate lust with blondeness. (yeah yeah. crucify me tomorrow.) but she CAN'T be a brunette. she's just...blonde.
oh, and no goddess can be a redhead. sorry.
(crucify me TOMORROW, i said.)
now, while aphrodite can't possibly be anything but blonde, venus can. venus somehow sounds...lower. not lower as in baser, but lower as in the tone is lower. you'd speak aphrodite in a higher tone. you'd breathe venus, low and husky. as in she holds herself closer to the earth. and in that, i mean, she's serpentine. wow, what a leap of logic. but that's what i mean. serpents, isis, slithering lowslung prowl.
venus in furs, now...
...rowrrrr.
i think i'm certifiable now. someone go find me a straitjacket, yeah?
still talking about venus in furs (seeing as how it's now on permanent repeat): i bet this song's good to dance to. slow, but not slow-dancing. you know? not, like, slow 'n tender swaying. slow, like lascivious-slow. like dim lights and eye contact and liplicking and arms round neck and hands on moving hips. this song's allll about moving hips, if you were dancing. even if you weren't dancing, it's about closing your eyes and moving loose-jointed to it.
i think i can rant forever about this song. you know why i'm ranting like this? because SOMEone went to bed, and i can't rant at her anymore.
i was lying. the song's all about having sex. while high. or just having sex. in the sauna. or somewhere smoky. or hot and humid. or...whatever.
i think almost all my favorite songs remind me of sex. there's a reason. it's because you feel good songs deep in your blood and bones. and you definitely feel good sex deep in your blood and bones. the ones that don't remind me of sex are always really, really sad. not soap opera weepy sad, but stirring, deep-in-your-blood-and-bones sad.
there's a connection.
i think...it's time for me to shut up.
end rant.
The drunken half.
I can hardly type without making typos. The caps make things harder, too. So I think I'm not gonna use caps anymore as...of...
...now.
poof.
it's done.
i'm free of caps.
i'm free to rant.
lessee, then. where do i start? let's talk about what i'm listening to. shivaree. goodnight moon. it's a great song. it's sexy. she has a sexy voice. in a disturbingly precocious way. it's very goth. porcelain vampire doll. except the song and the band is countryish. so it's gothic country.
porcelain vampire cowgirl doll.
the allure of the song lies in her voice. she has an awfully provocative voice, at least in my state. it's breathy, but has substance behind it.
ooo, she just started that spoken-whispered bit. i could shiver.
but it's not just the way her voice sounds, which is lilting and sweet and pouty. it's a big part the way her voice rides the rhythm of the song so easily. it's not a very smooth rhythm, either, kinda syncopated. makes you wonder what else she can ride so nicely--
okay. let's talk about something else.
smirk.
next song. painted on my heart, by the cult. from the gone in 60 seconds soundtrack.
it's a good song. has a very tormented-howl feel to it. all dramatic and stuff. it's like a thunderstorm of a breakup song. the best breakup song in the world is you look so fine. but then again, considering the breakup in question involves Angelina Jolie, i suppose i'd be in a thunderstorm of grief, too.
that woman. is sexy.
i mean, really sexy. because she settles back in her own body and wears sensuality like a second skin. and. stuff like that.
yum.
more smirking.
more ranting.
oh wow. it's moved on to girl you'll be a woman soon already. in fact, that song's ending. hmm. i didn't even hear it. i'll replay it.
i really like this song, too. it has neat beat. samba or something. vaguely spanish. latin. i couldn't dance to this song, though...wouldn't know what to do with my feet. heh. but it's a great song to listen to. drive to.
you know who makes great roadtrip songs? Tom Petty. his songs are ALL about roadtrips with the sun beating into your eyes. dust and heathaze and the highway. the freeway. his songs are about california. about the central valley. and about LA. not Santa Monica, surf and sand--LA. the grittier, less wholesome side. all-american, but not redblooded.
we digress.
this is a sad song. damn. all my songs are kinda sad tonight. well. some, at least. i'm in an odd mood. heh. the slightest provocation makes me laugh, and yet when i write, it comes down being kinda dulled and humorless. i wonder why?
i've been obsessed with that Velvet Underground song all day. it's a great song. it's a very strange song. i mention this because it's come on again. it sounds vaguely middle-eastern.
ooo, deja vu. i think i've said this before.
actually, i'm pretty sure i have. heh.
but it does! it's that single note held under all the rest. and the percussion. i keep thinking of some shah's bedchamber with his harem lounging all over silk cushions, veiled and dressed in almost see-through gossamer and wreathed in incense smoke with smoky hooded kohl-stroked eyes and...hmm...
...i've really got a one-track mind.
well, the other alternative is what this song probably was made from and for...getting shitfaced...
i love that. "getting shitfaced". so much for euphemisms.
ramble on, damon, ramble on.
i wish i could say something intelligent. or reach for some elusive fiber of life that just happens to float through your field of vision so for a moment you have a glimpse of one thread in the tapestry of the universe and you wanna catch it but can't. i wish i could write down what it feels like to grasp for it and miss and know you've missed and know you'll never ever capture it (you probably have no clue what i'm talking about right now) but i'm having trouble steering my mind into metaphysical philosophy and the meaning of life. i just wanna lounge. i just wanna
(fuck)
...okay. we won't go there.
who's reading my diary again? this is an entry i should delete in the morning. this is not an entry that should get out. this is not a respectable, responsible M.D. entry. then again, i never do delete the entries i should delete. i forget. i think there was another one i swore i'd delete. probably more than one. since i haven't deleted any at all, i suppose they're still there.
venus in furs.
what a compelling name.
who thinks venus is a blonde? show of hands? i thought she was a blonde. it seems proper, somehow. maybe it's because the world has this vision of her as the goddess of love and beauty and all, but it's inherently a lighthearted, lightheaded, airheaded vision. like, you know, that aphrodite on xena.
i have it on good authority that xena's a man, by the way.
i digress again.
isn't that weird, though? aphrodite is blonde. even though she's the goddess of lust, and i don't really associate lust with blondeness. (yeah yeah. crucify me tomorrow.) but she CAN'T be a brunette. she's just...blonde.
oh, and no goddess can be a redhead. sorry.
(crucify me TOMORROW, i said.)
now, while aphrodite can't possibly be anything but blonde, venus can. venus somehow sounds...lower. not lower as in baser, but lower as in the tone is lower. you'd speak aphrodite in a higher tone. you'd breathe venus, low and husky. as in she holds herself closer to the earth. and in that, i mean, she's serpentine. wow, what a leap of logic. but that's what i mean. serpents, isis, slithering lowslung prowl.
venus in furs, now...
...rowrrrr.
i think i'm certifiable now. someone go find me a straitjacket, yeah?
still talking about venus in furs (seeing as how it's now on permanent repeat): i bet this song's good to dance to. slow, but not slow-dancing. you know? not, like, slow 'n tender swaying. slow, like lascivious-slow. like dim lights and eye contact and liplicking and arms round neck and hands on moving hips. this song's allll about moving hips, if you were dancing. even if you weren't dancing, it's about closing your eyes and moving loose-jointed to it.
i think i can rant forever about this song. you know why i'm ranting like this? because SOMEone went to bed, and i can't rant at her anymore.
i was lying. the song's all about having sex. while high. or just having sex. in the sauna. or somewhere smoky. or hot and humid. or...whatever.
i think almost all my favorite songs remind me of sex. there's a reason. it's because you feel good songs deep in your blood and bones. and you definitely feel good sex deep in your blood and bones. the ones that don't remind me of sex are always really, really sad. not soap opera weepy sad, but stirring, deep-in-your-blood-and-bones sad.
there's a connection.
i think...it's time for me to shut up.
end rant.
I lied.
I didn't go to sleep. I downloaded a few mp3s and then came here. Now I'm writing a diary entry. It's 1:57am right now. I should be in bed. I should be asleep. I'm going to wake up in about 4 hours.
I don't wanna sleep.
I don't wanna wake up in 4 hours.
I wanna run away. Pack all the necessary gear into one huge duffel bag--necessary gear being, of course, 3 katanas (we'll pretend for the sake of argument I already have the 2 that are currently en route here), 1 ninja-to, 1 knife, 1 subwoofer and 2 tweeters, 1 laptop computer, about 250 CDs, my skis, my blackbook, a huge bottle of advil, and my cats. And...yeah, that's all I can think of right now.
That's all that matters to me at 2am, apparently.
Oh, and I'd bring my pager along. And my credit cards, bank cards, phone cards, safeway card, blockbuster card, health insurance card. But only because I'd put it behind the rear wheel of my car and back out of the parking space in a very precise, very straight line so as to run over the pager not once, but twice.
I think it'll be quite dead after the first time, but just to be sure, I'll crush it a second time.
The demise of the credit cards will come later.
Then I'll roar down the road with my only possessions thrown into the backseat and my cats wandering around the spacious (yeah right) interior of my car, yowling and puking because they're carsick. I'll stop by Sara's apartment and honk until the lights come on in at least 10 different windows and then I'll jump out of the car and leave the engine running, pound up the stairs and hammer down her door.
She'll be sleepy and beautiful. She say, "What the fuck, Damon?"
And I'll say, "I'm going away, far away, and I'm never coming back. Are you coming with me?"
And she'll say, "This is insane."
And I'll say, "Are you coming with me?"
And she won't say a word. She'll put her hand in mine and we'll leave and we won't even shut the door behind us. Down the stairs and into the car, where we'll share a single steamy wordless conspiratorial kiss over yowling cats and the stick shift and the handbrake and the artful sprawl of little plastic cards on the ground.
I'll back out of the drive, then, all the way backwards until I back into the street. My fender will scrape the asphalt and sparks would fly, and then we'd zoom off. I'd take the 101 north and I'd pop a CD into the stereo and we'd blast tunes all the way to San Francisco, where I'd take my last look at the greatest city in the world.
Then we'd take the 80 east to I-5, and swing south from there. The sun'll come up with us in the middle of the Central Valley, and we'll stop somewhere and rob an Arco gas station, just take the money and three bottles of mountain dew and run, run for the border. By nightfall we'll be crossing into Mexico, no problem. We'll go past Tijuana and then stop at some seedy motel where the owner has a wandering that won't look you straight in yours. We'll get their best room, which isn't much better than a room outta motel-6, and I'd kick off my shoes and she'd slip into something more comfortable while I dug a good Mexican tequila out of the icebox.
"Wanna tell me what all this is about?" she'll ask me.
"No," I'll tell her.
Pour her a shot. Pour me a shot.
Slam it down. Slam the glasses down. Take out my 2 billion and 1 plastic cards, testament to my past life where just about everything I did, everything I bought or rented or sold, was encoded in a compact magnetic bar. Take 'em out and build a house of cards.
Set fire to it.
Watch it burn slow and sickly and purple.
Watch it burn for a minute and then meet her eyes through the curling collapsing frame of the cardhouse. And we'll go to bed. We won't say a word. We'll make a hell lotta noise.
Next morning we'd head north again. Rob all along the border. Rob and run. Rob and run. Leave a trail of crime behind us as long as our 5 o' clock shadows across the desert sand. Get filthy rich. Light a cigar with a rolled-up hundred dollar bill. Drink out of a $2000 Gucci slipper.
Get caught one day, of course. Get caught in some bank holdup somewhere, 'cause the FBI's been on our tails for 16 months now and our luck finally runs out.
Won't go down easy. Pull a gun. Start shooting. Get shot. Get shot down. Get shot dead. Watch it all fade away. Gunsmoke and slanting afternoon sunlight. Blistering desert heat and dust devils dancing with the tumbleweeds. Lover/partner in crime/slick looking goth that'll get off with 10 years, get married and settle down to a respectable life, but won't ever forget her 18 months on the run with me. And that's the last I'll see. And I wouldn't regret a thing.
Not a thing.
And then?
And now, actually?
I realize it's 2:20, and I've got about 3hrs 40min left to sleep.
This was one hell of a weird diary entry. I meant to write about living the idyllic life on the coast of Baja California. Man, goo-goo juice does weird shit to your head.
Time for bed.
I didn't go to sleep. I downloaded a few mp3s and then came here. Now I'm writing a diary entry. It's 1:57am right now. I should be in bed. I should be asleep. I'm going to wake up in about 4 hours.
I don't wanna sleep.
I don't wanna wake up in 4 hours.
I wanna run away. Pack all the necessary gear into one huge duffel bag--necessary gear being, of course, 3 katanas (we'll pretend for the sake of argument I already have the 2 that are currently en route here), 1 ninja-to, 1 knife, 1 subwoofer and 2 tweeters, 1 laptop computer, about 250 CDs, my skis, my blackbook, a huge bottle of advil, and my cats. And...yeah, that's all I can think of right now.
That's all that matters to me at 2am, apparently.
Oh, and I'd bring my pager along. And my credit cards, bank cards, phone cards, safeway card, blockbuster card, health insurance card. But only because I'd put it behind the rear wheel of my car and back out of the parking space in a very precise, very straight line so as to run over the pager not once, but twice.
I think it'll be quite dead after the first time, but just to be sure, I'll crush it a second time.
The demise of the credit cards will come later.
Then I'll roar down the road with my only possessions thrown into the backseat and my cats wandering around the spacious (yeah right) interior of my car, yowling and puking because they're carsick. I'll stop by Sara's apartment and honk until the lights come on in at least 10 different windows and then I'll jump out of the car and leave the engine running, pound up the stairs and hammer down her door.
She'll be sleepy and beautiful. She say, "What the fuck, Damon?"
And I'll say, "I'm going away, far away, and I'm never coming back. Are you coming with me?"
And she'll say, "This is insane."
And I'll say, "Are you coming with me?"
And she won't say a word. She'll put her hand in mine and we'll leave and we won't even shut the door behind us. Down the stairs and into the car, where we'll share a single steamy wordless conspiratorial kiss over yowling cats and the stick shift and the handbrake and the artful sprawl of little plastic cards on the ground.
I'll back out of the drive, then, all the way backwards until I back into the street. My fender will scrape the asphalt and sparks would fly, and then we'd zoom off. I'd take the 101 north and I'd pop a CD into the stereo and we'd blast tunes all the way to San Francisco, where I'd take my last look at the greatest city in the world.
Then we'd take the 80 east to I-5, and swing south from there. The sun'll come up with us in the middle of the Central Valley, and we'll stop somewhere and rob an Arco gas station, just take the money and three bottles of mountain dew and run, run for the border. By nightfall we'll be crossing into Mexico, no problem. We'll go past Tijuana and then stop at some seedy motel where the owner has a wandering that won't look you straight in yours. We'll get their best room, which isn't much better than a room outta motel-6, and I'd kick off my shoes and she'd slip into something more comfortable while I dug a good Mexican tequila out of the icebox.
"Wanna tell me what all this is about?" she'll ask me.
"No," I'll tell her.
Pour her a shot. Pour me a shot.
Slam it down. Slam the glasses down. Take out my 2 billion and 1 plastic cards, testament to my past life where just about everything I did, everything I bought or rented or sold, was encoded in a compact magnetic bar. Take 'em out and build a house of cards.
Set fire to it.
Watch it burn slow and sickly and purple.
Watch it burn for a minute and then meet her eyes through the curling collapsing frame of the cardhouse. And we'll go to bed. We won't say a word. We'll make a hell lotta noise.
Next morning we'd head north again. Rob all along the border. Rob and run. Rob and run. Leave a trail of crime behind us as long as our 5 o' clock shadows across the desert sand. Get filthy rich. Light a cigar with a rolled-up hundred dollar bill. Drink out of a $2000 Gucci slipper.
Get caught one day, of course. Get caught in some bank holdup somewhere, 'cause the FBI's been on our tails for 16 months now and our luck finally runs out.
Won't go down easy. Pull a gun. Start shooting. Get shot. Get shot down. Get shot dead. Watch it all fade away. Gunsmoke and slanting afternoon sunlight. Blistering desert heat and dust devils dancing with the tumbleweeds. Lover/partner in crime/slick looking goth that'll get off with 10 years, get married and settle down to a respectable life, but won't ever forget her 18 months on the run with me. And that's the last I'll see. And I wouldn't regret a thing.
Not a thing.
And then?
And now, actually?
I realize it's 2:20, and I've got about 3hrs 40min left to sleep.
This was one hell of a weird diary entry. I meant to write about living the idyllic life on the coast of Baja California. Man, goo-goo juice does weird shit to your head.
Time for bed.
I know this girl.
I wanna tell you about her.
I've never seen her with my eyes, or heard her voice, or touched even a hair on her head.
But I know her.
She lives up in my head. I thought her up, I suppose, but that doesn't mean I own her or even understand her. She grew out of a random lustful fantasy. She grew out of a stereotype. Dominatrix, almost. But not quite. Not the kind you see on TV and hear on 1-900 numbers. Cooler. Reserved. Vicious and perfect.
She's got burgundy hair, you see. This dark, dark burgundy, darker than blood, dark as wine. Streaked with crimson highlights. Worn straight, parted in the middle, cut short in the back, falling loose to an inch, two inches, below the chin at the front.
Maybe it falls forward into her eyes sometimes. Like a curtain of beads. I don't know what color her eyes are.
I know her, though.
She's got the body of a cat, a weasel. Sleek. Lithe. She can shoot a fly off a cow's ass from thirty yards away; she can snap the flame off a candle with a whip. She can use her own body like a whip.
She wears leather. Black leather. And when we make love--but we never really do--she's the one in control.
That's how she started out. That was all. A framework, a snapshot, a coin with just one side.
That's not how she stayed.
Lemme tell you about this girl I know...
Here's the weird part. She doesn't fit in with anyone I've really known and loved, you know. She's not someone I'd have a real relationship with. She's too different. She wouldn't fit in my life. In fact, the only thing she's congruent with...
...is everything else I dream about.
So this is what I figured. She's not a stereotype. Maybe she's an archetype. I'm not too sure what that means. But what I do know--she's an embodiment of the random things my brain cooks up when I'm up too late. Worlds with three moons and a dying red sun. Rivers that flow upstream. But it's not as if these things were somehow in her. It's like, she's in them. She's the core, the spirit. She's somehow all the things I'm not, and yet created by something in my own head. A summation, a distillation, of all I imagine. Or the root of all that I imagine.
So which came first, the chicken or the egg?
I wanna show you this girl...
This is something that came to me a little earlier, while I was talking online. And I don't know if I can top the first telling, so I'll just tell it the way it was told, the first time around.
And this is how it goes:
picture some little town in the southwest
arizona, new mexico. somewhere like that.
hot as hell.
dustdevils and tumbleweeds.
i'm driving out of the east. i'm driving straight into the sun.
air conditioning's broken in my car.
and i'm getting sick of my cds, getting sick of the road. i'm sweaty, windblown, there's dust everywhere in my car. i need a shower. i need a bed, actually, because it's late afternoon and i've been driving all day and i'm tired--of the road, of driving, just plain old tired.
i run out of gas
long straight road
mirage makes it seems to split and waver and float above itself, far down the road
the sun's setting the horizon on fire
there's a single little gas station
dirty as the rest of this world
old.
gas pumps are 1970s or so, big huge numbers, unattractive.
the windows are cloudy with dirt.
the storekeeper's unshaven, in a wifebeater and worn jeans, has a cigarette and a nasty attitude
takes my money and gives me a suspicious glare
me, i could care less. i just want some gas and a stinkin' motel-6
there's an overhead fan inside, and some food and drinks. i take a turn, decide i'm better off not eating anything that's got dust on it
flies are buzzing
i go back out
i open the gas door and start pumping gas, but i do it slowly, kinda lethargic, because the sooner i finish the sooner i hafta keep driving. but then it's not like i wanna stay here, either.
gas starts going, really, really slow.
i try to sit on the hood but it's too friggin' hot
so i sit on the back, which is also hot, but not as bad.
and so i'm there. weary and dusty and hot and squinting down the road the way i came, trying to tell myself dammit, i came a long way already, not much further to go, gotta be a motel around here somewhere
and then i notice this flickering on the road. like a sun off a mirror.
and there's been nothing, absolutely nothing, on the road thus far, so this catches my attention
i watch it.
it gets closer. a little bigger. it's the sun gleaming off a windshield.
i have nothing better to do, and anyway i'm getting a little interested. so i keep watching. and it gets closer.
it's one of those big american sportsters from the 60s. mustang, firebird, something before the world decided to make sleek-looking cars. this one's just classic. and it's not one of those museum pieces, not one of those gleaming perfect ones that some middle-aged upper-middle class man has in his driveway to remind him of the youth he never had. this one's real; it's seen use. it's dusty and roadbeaten, dented.
convertible? i don't know. no, actually...or if it is, the top is up.
so i can't see anything except the sunlight flashing off the windshield until it's very close
and then it passes, not tearing down the road, but not going slow either. just cruising.
and there's my burgundy-haired girl inside...
one wrist on the wheel
the other elbow resting out the window, the fingers splayed on the cusp of the door
and i'm squinting to get a better look, and she doesn't see me at first. i don't know if she has music going; maybe she does, but she's too cool to move to it.
she kinda glances over, then
this lazy, unaffected sideglance, like she couldn't care less if she was looking at a tumbleweed.
and her lashes are long, low, swept low because her eyes are narrowed against the searing light--not quite squinting, but almost
it's a glance that inadvertently smoulders. sets fires. and then she's passing, and i don't know if this is my imagination, or if it really happened, but i could swear, just swear, that right before she looked back at the road--still unaffected--her lips (and we all know whose lips they look like...) twitched a little, like they were considering smiling, but didn't deem the cause worthy of it.
and then she's past the gas station and still cruising down that road in her car, and i'm just watching, just staring, until she's a dot on the road, and then gone, flinging up a trail of slow-settling dust behind her.
...I know this girl.
She's not someone you ever forget.
I wanna tell you about her.
I've never seen her with my eyes, or heard her voice, or touched even a hair on her head.
But I know her.
She lives up in my head. I thought her up, I suppose, but that doesn't mean I own her or even understand her. She grew out of a random lustful fantasy. She grew out of a stereotype. Dominatrix, almost. But not quite. Not the kind you see on TV and hear on 1-900 numbers. Cooler. Reserved. Vicious and perfect.
She's got burgundy hair, you see. This dark, dark burgundy, darker than blood, dark as wine. Streaked with crimson highlights. Worn straight, parted in the middle, cut short in the back, falling loose to an inch, two inches, below the chin at the front.
Maybe it falls forward into her eyes sometimes. Like a curtain of beads. I don't know what color her eyes are.
I know her, though.
She's got the body of a cat, a weasel. Sleek. Lithe. She can shoot a fly off a cow's ass from thirty yards away; she can snap the flame off a candle with a whip. She can use her own body like a whip.
She wears leather. Black leather. And when we make love--but we never really do--she's the one in control.
That's how she started out. That was all. A framework, a snapshot, a coin with just one side.
That's not how she stayed.
Lemme tell you about this girl I know...
Here's the weird part. She doesn't fit in with anyone I've really known and loved, you know. She's not someone I'd have a real relationship with. She's too different. She wouldn't fit in my life. In fact, the only thing she's congruent with...
...is everything else I dream about.
So this is what I figured. She's not a stereotype. Maybe she's an archetype. I'm not too sure what that means. But what I do know--she's an embodiment of the random things my brain cooks up when I'm up too late. Worlds with three moons and a dying red sun. Rivers that flow upstream. But it's not as if these things were somehow in her. It's like, she's in them. She's the core, the spirit. She's somehow all the things I'm not, and yet created by something in my own head. A summation, a distillation, of all I imagine. Or the root of all that I imagine.
So which came first, the chicken or the egg?
I wanna show you this girl...
This is something that came to me a little earlier, while I was talking online. And I don't know if I can top the first telling, so I'll just tell it the way it was told, the first time around.
And this is how it goes:
picture some little town in the southwest
arizona, new mexico. somewhere like that.
hot as hell.
dustdevils and tumbleweeds.
i'm driving out of the east. i'm driving straight into the sun.
air conditioning's broken in my car.
and i'm getting sick of my cds, getting sick of the road. i'm sweaty, windblown, there's dust everywhere in my car. i need a shower. i need a bed, actually, because it's late afternoon and i've been driving all day and i'm tired--of the road, of driving, just plain old tired.
i run out of gas
long straight road
mirage makes it seems to split and waver and float above itself, far down the road
the sun's setting the horizon on fire
there's a single little gas station
dirty as the rest of this world
old.
gas pumps are 1970s or so, big huge numbers, unattractive.
the windows are cloudy with dirt.
the storekeeper's unshaven, in a wifebeater and worn jeans, has a cigarette and a nasty attitude
takes my money and gives me a suspicious glare
me, i could care less. i just want some gas and a stinkin' motel-6
there's an overhead fan inside, and some food and drinks. i take a turn, decide i'm better off not eating anything that's got dust on it
flies are buzzing
i go back out
i open the gas door and start pumping gas, but i do it slowly, kinda lethargic, because the sooner i finish the sooner i hafta keep driving. but then it's not like i wanna stay here, either.
gas starts going, really, really slow.
i try to sit on the hood but it's too friggin' hot
so i sit on the back, which is also hot, but not as bad.
and so i'm there. weary and dusty and hot and squinting down the road the way i came, trying to tell myself dammit, i came a long way already, not much further to go, gotta be a motel around here somewhere
and then i notice this flickering on the road. like a sun off a mirror.
and there's been nothing, absolutely nothing, on the road thus far, so this catches my attention
i watch it.
it gets closer. a little bigger. it's the sun gleaming off a windshield.
i have nothing better to do, and anyway i'm getting a little interested. so i keep watching. and it gets closer.
it's one of those big american sportsters from the 60s. mustang, firebird, something before the world decided to make sleek-looking cars. this one's just classic. and it's not one of those museum pieces, not one of those gleaming perfect ones that some middle-aged upper-middle class man has in his driveway to remind him of the youth he never had. this one's real; it's seen use. it's dusty and roadbeaten, dented.
convertible? i don't know. no, actually...or if it is, the top is up.
so i can't see anything except the sunlight flashing off the windshield until it's very close
and then it passes, not tearing down the road, but not going slow either. just cruising.
and there's my burgundy-haired girl inside...
one wrist on the wheel
the other elbow resting out the window, the fingers splayed on the cusp of the door
and i'm squinting to get a better look, and she doesn't see me at first. i don't know if she has music going; maybe she does, but she's too cool to move to it.
she kinda glances over, then
this lazy, unaffected sideglance, like she couldn't care less if she was looking at a tumbleweed.
and her lashes are long, low, swept low because her eyes are narrowed against the searing light--not quite squinting, but almost
it's a glance that inadvertently smoulders. sets fires. and then she's passing, and i don't know if this is my imagination, or if it really happened, but i could swear, just swear, that right before she looked back at the road--still unaffected--her lips (and we all know whose lips they look like...) twitched a little, like they were considering smiling, but didn't deem the cause worthy of it.
and then she's past the gas station and still cruising down that road in her car, and i'm just watching, just staring, until she's a dot on the road, and then gone, flinging up a trail of slow-settling dust behind her.
...I know this girl.
She's not someone you ever forget.
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