J'aime Les Papillons

I've known for awhile that I have a tendency to begin my writing with an active tilt.
I like to use verbs as my introduction to assure the reader's inclusion in the forward motion of my recounting.

This time I've chosen to begin with the less common although equally popular "I..." statement to allow the person reading inside my life/head/opinion.

Regardless of my starting point, it's really the continuation that matters.
Speaking of which, this morning, as I was sitting outside, enjoying a cup of coffee and murdering my lungs with yet another cigarette, I caught a glimpse of a lovely Monarch floating with aimless intention through the leafy masterpiece framed by the archway of the porch.

Every time I see a butterfly I think of that moment with Jewelia in the white beat up grand am. Our smoke traveled skyward as that tiny royalty wove its way through the slender veins of burnt tobacco.

And to think of where I am now as opposed to then offers me a keener understanding of just how grateful I am to be...where I am, who I am, how I am...all of them.

Signs of metamorphosis never seemed so chance and beautiful.
To me.

Digging My Own Comfortable Grave

Of my own accord, I neglected to go to bed before 4:30 am for the last two nights.
Needless to say I've been somewhat torpid the whole day as a result.

I can't say that I wish I would have slept more even though it would doubtless translate into an increase in energy right now.
I look to my time spent in the last 48 hours as being not only fulfilling but also adventurous.
Lord knows I'm constantly in search of a new and wondrous adventure.

With today marking the 1-week countdown to the imminent move to the house that God built (aka: Clinton Manor) I feel a little twinge of anticipatory stress as I realize that I will have to pack, move, unload, and organize yet again.

I'm so tired of this vanishing act.
I feel like the moves I've made in the last year of my life have been excessively draining and yet I know that the result of those moves has been decisively gratifying in a very comprehensive way with each relocation.

I've found newer better spaces, an increased sense of entitlement and empowerment, and an expanded knowledge of the city in which I reside.

It's a glorious life.

Hotcakes and Beer Cans

I'm only just now returning from a night of completely unpredicted fun and frolic.
I worked for more than 12 hours and felt a keen sense of defeat in that I spent my day doing precisely jack squat.

That is, until the evening began.
I can honestly say that with the Sun's setting came the true start of my day.

Andie and I biked to my house where we deposited our personal items in order that we might attend a nearby party.
By nearby I mean a mere 3 blocks away.

We went, sat on a sloping grassy hillside, drank canned beer from a once ice-filled kiddie pool and kicked it with PDX's finest.

Afterwards, recognizing an unquenchable hunger, we biked to Original Hotcake House.
But not before Kyle had the opportunity to grace with a special little present in the form of a spoke card reading, "Kid-Tested, Mother Fuckin' Approved."

I felt pretty sweet.
And my shoddy-ass bike looked all the better for the addition.

I cannot wait to get a new bike.

Anyway, we went and ate artery-clogging goodness, talked about periods, incest, and Cholula, and had an all around smashing time.

We then went our separate ways home and now I am writing this.
Granted, I'm tired as Hell and completely beat.

The Strangest of Places

It seems to me that my life has once again become quite lucky.

I am led to believe that this is due to my outlook, my decision to see the world as I see it and react accordingly.

So much of what I experience is like a lush fern: bursting with vibrant green life and full in shape and exposure, and even on the underside there is complexity, pattern, intention.

Having only just returned from a late night rendezvous which was, to borrow the colloquialism, a pleasant surprise, I feel reassured that life is meant to be lived in such a way that it's detail is not understood but respected.

I embrace the experiences I have had and look forward to those I will have in a way that I shall call beautifully inevitable.

Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.

And in a final flair of timeless glory...


...never do with your right what you may with your left.

Damsel and Knight

Once again repelling the social stereotype of polarized masculinity/femininity where ability and helplessness are concerned, I succeeded this evening in proving my self-diagnosed schizophrenia.

I was both damsel and knight.
No, really.

Let me start this at the beginning (a very good place to start).

Picture me: a meek, demure, kind-hearted, virginal, and incredibly understated lad.
Picture the rest of the world: harsh, uncaring, obtuse, cruel, barren, hateful.
(Perhaps this is a bit generous in its caricature.)

Alright, allow me a new beginning, it's all Elizabeth Taylor ever asked for.
God knows my eyes are almost purple and my drug use is almost as crippling.

I worked this evening.
Not for a terribly lengthy period, only opening through happy hour.
After clocking off I was in sore need of a Red Velvet Cupcake from Cupcake Jones, (my favorite local cupcakery...yes, I coined that term for myself just now. Please hold your applause for later, more deserving accomplishment).

Riding my bicycle over to the shoppe (Yes, I chose the classic spelling to add depth and sophistication to my story, please take note.) it occurred to me to that I had the opportunity to donate a new sense of hope to some tragic soul by providing them with a cupcake of their own.

Now, I don't know how familiar you may or may not happen to be with Portland, but it's something of a cornucopia for tragic souls. It's like they congregate here to
a) find happiness and renewal,
b) seek out hip, young scenesters who drink coffee, smoke too much, listen to "really deep" music, get a lot of tattoos and say words like "Kantian" to compare themselves to and say "wow, I'm not so bad", or
c) gather with numerous other tragic souls and listen to Elliott Smith while bemoaning life's hateful injustice and cruel irony. They smoke, too.

Typically c (or some combination of both b and c) is the most popular choice.
The important part is really the smoking.

The tragic soul I carefully selected is irrelevant.
The salient point is that they work with me therefore requiring a hasty return to my place of employment.

After purchasing and quickly consuming my cupcake, I bought a second and had it wrapped to go. I then pedaled back to the restaurant, all the while smiling and considering just how marvelous and wonderful I was for being so thoughtful as to grace someone with my sugary cadeau. I felt like a bike-mounted, cupcake-bearing Mother Teresa. (Incidentally, this feeling is much better than drugs and should be explored by those who choose to embrace choice b from above.)

I arrived at my destination, cupcake in hand. Venturing only a momentary visit, I neglected to go through the hassle of locking my bike and prepared to experience the effulgent glory of selflessness. As I strode toward to door I was halted by a smiling brunette with a flattering and cheerful bob haircut. She asked to take my photograph.
"Your outfit is just fabulous," she broadcast. I'm quite sure neighboring tables couldn't help but hear her complimentary effusion. This made my narcissism entirely complete and I posed boorishly, cupcake on the pedestal of my upturned palm, and a look of asinine pride smeared across my admittedly smug face.

After I finished channeling Christy Turlington, I walked inside, delivered my uplifting confection, and performed a stoic exit, the gravitas of my goodness weighing heavily upon my now-sainted shoulders.

My bike was missing.

"Shit,"

I thought to myself, envisioning the unused bike lock inside the bag on my back.
Disappointment began sliding its black fingers around my kidneys and through my intestines.

Suddenly Elliott Smith sounded very tempting.

Just then, I stole a longing and somewhat despondent glance down the sidewalk and to my surprise saw my bike riding off without me.

Queen Latifah's voice reverberated off of the walls of my skull,
"Aw, HEY-AL NO!"

Without so much as a second thought my legs began to carry me in a tackle-happy tilt toward the fiend who had absconded with my vehicle of choice.

Everything around me blurred into a 45-second tour of impressionism as I felt an surge of adrenaline coursing through my every fiber. With my bike and its rapist steadily gaining speed, I increased my own velocity and realized with a new sense of championship that I was actually gaining on the bastard.

He approached the end of the block and made a left, slowing a little to execute the turn.
I bent my head down, cutting violently through the light breeze as if it were a menacing headwind and continued to draw closer and closer.
I rounded the block myself only shortly after the bike and its miscreant rider and flew past a small number of unwitting passers by, ignoring their incredulous gasps as I robbed them of their boring evening. (They really should thank me for giving them just a bit of excitement...apparently I was in a giving mood all around this evening.)

Reaching the end of the current side of the block, I observed the kidnapper and my baby making their way once again to the left. By this point my incredible athleticism had made my victory all but imminent thus I craftily slowed just enough so that he wouldn't catch sight of me in his peripheral vision as he turned yet a second left in his journey of flaming sin.

As I rounded the turn myself I noted that the upcoming sidewalk played home to a number of small cafe tables outside of a petite bar, effectively adding a minor set of obstacles to further slow the idiot who dared upset the recently-titled "most selfless person in Portland."

I saw the faces of the patrons sitting at the outdoor tables go from casual to quizzical as they first saw the bike approach and then realized the talk, dark, and ridiculously handsome Mother Teresa cum gazelle careening after, his jaw set in unwaivering determination.

Mind you, I'm still running faster than Prefontaine, inwardly contemplating my first meeting with the vicious captor. I had several scenarios occur to me in my haste:
1. "The name is Buck, Noah Buck. I believe that is my bike."
2. "You spineless little bottom-dweller. Return my bicycle this instant!"
3. *blunt elbow to the side of the face*

I really, really wanted to do 3.

I felt myself get to that point of pre-orgasmic anticipation approaching climax as I came within an arm's length of the bike-stealing douche and with one final burst of speed came up alongside him and went into captive action.

Slamming my hand down on his fetal back, I gripped a handful of shirt, yanked him to a disciplinary and ramshackle stop, and shouted,
"Get the Fuck off of my ride, dude!"

With the desperation of a crazed mongoose, his beady, sub-human eyes grew large as a bull's testicles as he came to a harsh realization: he was as screwed as a nympho's date.

"I'm- I mean- I was- um-" he stuttered in shameful recoil.
"I don't care, ass hat. Get off of my bike," I replied in a tone reminiscent of scolding a pooping dog.
A very, very bad, thieving, pooping dog who stole my bike.

He seemed too drunk/stoned/tweaked to really come to grips with the full consequence of his present demise and yet somehow managed to muster enough cognizance to coherently utter,
"I was just bringing it back. I swear, I was just riding around-"
"Save it," I flatly replied while reassuming my proper place as resident navigator of my own vehicle.
Seeing as how I was slightly winded while simultaneously feeling a sense of victorious euphoria, I decided not to paint the sidewalk with his useless entrails and left him to slither back to the trailer park he thought he would escape in stolen-bike induced freedom.

As I rounded the, yes, third corner of the sizable block around which the hot pursuit had taken place, I heard the vomit pile behind me call out,
"Wait, come and talk to me."

I continued to pedal and blatantly ignored the innocuous blather of the newly-orphaned gutter snipe behind me.

"I'll give you a hundred dollars!" His voice sounded pained and slightly hurt as he gave his position one further attempt at credibility.

"For what, loser,"
I retorted in final farewell as I settled back into my familiar relationship with the freedom between my thighs.
(God, I hope I'm never separated from it again.
The bike, that is.)

If there's one thing to be learned from my harrowing and timeless ordeal it is that with hard work and determination, a person can do anything!
Unless they're a tragic soul...in which case I could recommend some great cigarettes and coffee shops.
Or perhaps a cupcake.

In an age of laziness...

Having read a short segment of Steinbeck's East of Eden recently as a favor to a fellow literary fanatic, I felt something of an admonishing guilt rise from my interpretation of the author's message concerning the intrinsic qualitative nature of mankind.

Steinbeck wrote of a preternatural predisposition toward goodness, badness, or a combination of the two traits as the three existing possibilities for human character.

His exploration of these aspects came from a frustration with the insipidity of post-industrialism creativity (or a lack thereof) and I equate that problem with my lack-luster infrequency when it comes to writing these days.

I miss it.
I genuinely do.

I need to go back to the "one page a day minimum" standard again.

We seek to be so disconnected, so airborne at all times in order that we might float with a knowing downward gaze at all of the common people below.

And yet it's in our Earth-bound plummets that we find ourselves rocketing into one another in a way that can only be called violent in order that those collisions might produce long-lasting scars of friendship and love.

Learning to write all over again

I'm feeling like something of a lazy dunce.

I haven't written anything of true substance in such a very, very long time.
It's as if I've turned away from a part of myself with whom I find little in common at the moment.

I do not like this.
I do not want this.
And yet here I am, in this very place I neither enjoy nor desire.

I'm so tired of being in such places.
I used to find them in cars, en route to parents' houses, in bars near whiny juke boxes, and on tables, in front of people who do not understand the needful dissolving of classism.

I feel faint at the thought of just how much I have yet to record and yet perhaps all of that possibility will act as fuel for a continued future effort.

I have so much to say and so much to hide.
And yet I wish to tear away the curtain.

What is it he's seeing?

Psychology is interesting...really, it is.
But right now I'm bored mindless.
It all seems so evident and clear, like reading the book will delineate something I already understood.

No, I'm not surreptitiously stroking my own ego, I'm just bored and rambling.

My stomach is growling at the most inopportune times and I'm growing less and less invested in the idea of sitting still, much less paying attention.

I guess this would be a good time to try and start catching myself back up on the life that I have set on the shelf for the last several months.
I shouldn't be terribly surprised, my writing consistency has never been stellar exactly.

I've spent such a great deal of time and energy working at overcoming the weather, the gray malaise surrounding so many of the corners I keep banishing myself into on a regular basis.

All of this gray and ugly weather is making me feel more and more like nothing matters more than sleep.
All I want to do is have a lot of money, little to no responsibility, a million books, a fire and a big plush bed with a handsome "reading partner."

This scene would be appropriately detailed with accessories such as Cabernet Sauvignon, a Toblerone, dozens and dozens of loaves of French Bread, Coffee, those little malty sugar mints that make weddings worth attending (right up there with open bar), and finally, down comforters, chenille blankets, and mountains of pillows.

Daydreaming seems to be the only lasting method of self-medication at this point due to the fact that reality is painfully slapping me in the face with every disappointing glance towards a charcoal-lit window.

I just want some Sun.
Damn it.

One Last Time

Having spent yesterday's counseling sessions recounting much of the topical material from the preceding 14 weeks, I felt as if I were in the last episode of an entire season's serial show.

It was that whole "best moments" program where a somewhat mundane conversation spawns a number of flashbacks to salient instances from previous episodes.

In this case, Rose hearkened back to numerous different conversations we'd had about my self-concept and stasis.
It made me feel well-heard, intentionally paid attention to, important.

I read her a completed piece from the last couple of months and gave her a copy of one of my favorite poems.

It was like paper leaves left behind by my changing foliage.

And now, here and now, in this moment,
I am.

I simply am.

Celebrating The Holiday

4/20: a day when a lot of people who already justify a portion of their lives justify a little more

And here's how it sounded...

Growth is what I aim for
wants
Growth is what we aim for

Recollections of a Familiar Past

1/9/07 - NH 59 - Early PM

My stomach won't release whatever tightness it seems to have so friendly with in the last several days.
I have no doubt that the bowl of cinnamon Puffins & milk along with the reheated (and let it be known overly large) portion of last night's lemon, cilantro, tofu shell pasta have some part to play in the present exacerbation of this discomfort.

Damn appetite.

But the altruism in me tells me that if pain and my stomach have become amiable I really have no place telling them to stop being friends.
I would hate to be told not to continue a new friendship. I feel like a parent and my stomach is my child.
The pain is that little boy with the dirty hands and the mismatching shoelaces who eats more than one cookie without asking or saying thank you.

But my child is homeschooled, afraid of people I don't introduce to him and cannot continue a friendship with pain away from me.

I kind of have to be friends with pain, too.

Pain left & now my stomach is mine again. It seems almost Oedipal, our relationship.
Perhaps that's why stomach has seedy friends from time to time; to keep me from being too completely attached. To make friends with other stomachs.

Smote In the Darkness

It had been days, weeks, months since the peasant boy had seen anything other than bleak hilltops hemmed in by cracked and dry valley floors.

Little comfort, little attention, little solution.
He felt little in so many, many ways.

Thus his whole person gave way to a frailty matched only by the withering plant life sparsely peppering the deathly landscape.

He was wilting away much like the now prostrate ferns once so lush and mysterious.

No crown, no royalty, no little blue flame in the palm of his hand.
Only the memories of these.
Memories seeming now torturous at their present lacking.

His whole being ached of loneliness even though he was so close to many sets of eyes and ears.
Those with whom he occasionally found his path combining held him up while his bloodied soles drank in a temporary relief.
But what of when he was alone?

His pace grew slower and more demanding while his thoughts grew heavier and heavier, weighing his head down until it bobbed consistently upon the flat of his chest, his chin bruising his bony ribcage.

Finally he stopped to rest and for a second caught the briefest whiff of the life he had led prior to the Downfall.
And then it was gone, the taunting reminiscence dancing from shoulder to shoulder until his head grew tired of turning and trying to follow it.

He knew he couldn't stay motionless and yet for that time he felt it the only way he could even partially collect himself.

If only the blue flame would come back again.
If only he could be a prince again.

In considering the dawn

Waking this morning I felt something of a blithe reticence to leave my bed.
It wasn't anything about getting more sleep or languishing in a cuddling lethargy, I felt it more like a pull, a gravity toward the state in which I found myself at that waking moment.

As I silently considered the reason for my slow-to-rise presence I realized that this was a sacred moment, a carefully constructed time for me to dance on the hem of the skirts of meditation.

I allowed the seconds to pass, each considered a gift.
I held to a sense of appreciation for the beginning of an all new day.

Aslan's insistent and annoyed scratching at the door offered opportunity for me to turn my newly wonted peace into action as I waited for his patience to halt his noise. Once he came to a quiet rest (sitting rigidly, staring at first me then the still closed door as if to say, "no, really, take your sweet time. It's simply peachy having no opposable thumbs,") I shuffled off my red boucle blanket and opened the wooden door, allowing his feline pride a sense of satisfaction and reiteration that he did, in fact, control everything, including me.

At that point I decided to appease Newton and stay in motion. I followed Aslan, further opening the wooden door, smiling to myself as it's reverberating creaking once again reminded me of the chuckle of an old gypsy hag. Once in the kitchen I set to grinding the Stumptown beans and filling the pot.
With the coffee brewing I started the shower water and sought a fresh towel. Seeing as how I had neglected to do my laundry the night before I was forced to reuse the bright yellow picnic blanket-sized terry Mum had gotten for me before I left for school the first time.
It always had a way of comforting me with more than its absorbency.

Throughout this whole series of actions I somehow managed to maintain my calm inner flow. My zen, if you will.

And this brought about an unexpected, although much appreciated opportunity for me to once again deliberate to keep myself from judging.
As silently as before I said to myself, "today I will not judge, today I will not judge."

It's no Buddhist chant but it seems to work for me.

And now I'm into my full-fledged day, looking forward to my next interaction, my next moment, my next treasure.

A Sinking and Swilling

Expectations make me sick to my stomach.

And I do mean quite literally.

When there is some sort of a perceived external requirement for me I become far too worrisome and end up losing what little focus I might have had to accomplish in the first place.

The sad truth is that I tend to over-inflate, if not fabricate altogether those perceptions all on my own. I make them, project them onto others and then they return to pile up on my shoulders and head.

I just want to find status quo.

I'm Too Tired For This

I am in the middle of one of those times where nothing seems inspiring enough to write about.

Even as I write those words I know them to be untrue.
Only a couple of days ago I saw a woman get on my bus and a little girl excitedly ran to the window and reached through its open space to touch the hand of the woman in a jubilant final contact.
Additionally, I watched a little girl at Bijou, Cafe with s tiny dress, a tiny set of brown leggings and a tiny pair of shoes climb on and off of her bench.
She had a single band aid on the back of her left foot and I wanted to know why.

I've been seeing James again, slightly.
He kissed me.
I kissed back.
We went to the movies.
We went to dinner.
We talked.
We walked.
We kissed a little more and cuddled for awhile while talking of former mistakes and modern misgivings.

And yet I'm left with this torturous ambivalence.

Who even knows?

If and When the Daisies Blossom

Holding to a firm understanding of the fact that I still need to accept and learn from the trouble and tribulation that this time of my life has offered, I must say that I am quite relieved to know that I have a job...in the nominal sense.

I look forward to seeing how the job market changes in my favor now.

I'm finally crying

I feel alone.
I feel somewhat worthless.
I feel incredibly helpless.

I'm a burden in so many ways...even to myself.

Everything in me just wants to shut down, to crawl beneath the covers as it were.

I can't stand this horrible existential state.
I want to make decisions to change but it seems like so much is out of my control.

Fuck you, Karma.

Two Months of My Life

Thus ends the saga.
I finally pushed it too far...and now I've lost him.

The pain I am now feeling is different and the same all at the same time.
It's like I was broken a little and then I was set to rights only to break myself a little again.
Only now the bruise is deeper and the throb more persistent.

I hate what I've done.
I do not hate myself. I am smarter than that.

But I do hate how I have made this whole drama to play out in such obvious and predictable explosion. I should have known.
Had I only paid more attention to the overall than the now, now, now.
But alas, that's the fall of one who plays too hard at something only meant to be done in tandem with another.

Love cannot occur alone.
It is meant to be an exercise of unity.
Not always untrying of sanity.

I've fallen, fallen, and fallen again.

Only now will I be able to rise from the little puddle of Noah I let my self-serving sympathy melt my heart into forming.

This is the beginning of something uncomfortable in its newness but necessary in its existence.

I hate heartache.
I genuinely hate it.

It's a hungry pain that makes me sick.
And to think my own actions precipitated this dull pressure.

I'm disgusted with the whole thing.

A Night of Random Gladness

Having just spent the evening with Melissa Mary Springer, Tiffany, Gayle, and a lovely musician named Jon Garcia, I must say that I am feeling rather refreshed.

That's a marvelous word for today: refreshing.

Although I did miss my morning class because I was doing its assignment and I finished only to find that it was released early, I was able to spend a peaceful time in the park blocks just sitting, daydreaming, listening to music and smoking.

Yes, I call smoking peaceful.

I made the spontaneous choice to go and see the Degas exhibit at the Portland Art Museum this morning. It was fabulous.
I was so impressed by the display of various beautiful pieces.

I think that I've found a new couple of favorite artists.
I was so excited by the style of Forain as well.
And while I don't remember his full name (I know there was a hyphenated double last name beginning with "Toulousse") I really enjoyed the third featured artist as well.

I proceeded to spend the evening with Melissa during which we went to Edgefield, listened to soothing live music, I had a Manhattan, and the evening was complete with tots.

I'm tired now and going to bed.

Why Do I Think of You

I just had a memory of Chris and I running along the waterfront; him getting frustrated and grumpy because I ran more quickly and with more perseverance while I just tried to accommodate by slowing down, taking shorter strides.

What the Hell makes me couch this whole memory in an "I'm so good, he's so lame" fit?
I'm not contented with being the child looking back on something and thinking of themselves as innocent.

I'm not innocent.

I haven't been innocent.

Perhaps of his betrayal...but then again that's over.
Why do I not embrace that it's truly done?

One Bad Apple

Brian Cartinella is a truly heinous individual.

Writing it out seems slightly more cathartic than I had originally anticipated.
Something that I'll never be able to fully wrap my head around is the ability some people have to forget about others.
When a relationship with someone forms there's a tattooing of connection, commonality, combination.

These things may change over time but the originals will always organically and immortally exist as the precursors to everything else.

People like Brian (and I have encountered more than just this spineless, ego-centric, pathetic hypocrite) have such a brilliant ability to demonstrate their truly soulless, inhuman disconnection from veritable feeling.

I don't care for him or for his opinion...I think more than anything I just want to inflict physical pain upon him.

Not that I ever would.

I would be reducing myself to his level and I will never allow myself that kind of degradation.
Brian hates life, his job and himself.

At least I only hate one of those three.

Indescribable

There's something going on inside of me that I cannot really describe.

I'm having a difficulty with Peace.
I feel such an anger, a discomfort, an indignant boiling.

I feel tight and ready to blow only there's something holding all of this hot, hot air within and it's causing my skin to feel like it's the only thing keeping mask on a very ferocious beast.

I cannot feel this for much longer.
I don't feel capable of holding this.
It's unwieldy in a way that should only be called unhealthy.

I don't know if it's because of one or many things.
I'll list.

-So many people at my house when I intended on going to sleep
-Seeing Chris and Jenny
-Seeing Anna (and having her want me only for my alcohol and cigarettes)

Wait.
That's it.

It's Anna.
She deposits in me the keenest unhappiness.
I'm feeling used.

That's IT!

I'm feeling used and it's removing my comfortable and established order.
My control is in question.

I need to let myself realize that I was used.
I was used and I must square with that.

Sadly I now know that Anna must be told of how I feel.
This will be painful for both of us but the outcome, I am sure, will be far better for me than for her.

This feels wrong and yet I know it must be done.
I know the feeling of wrong comes only from my auto-pilot comfort-others mode.

I still feel all tied up inside but it's beginning to lessen somewhat.

Short Stories vs. Chapter Books

I like short stories because you can feel a sincere opening and a sincere closure all in the time it would normally take you to get a single piece of a complex plot from a larger, longer written work.

Not to speak against those lengthier options, it's just that sometimes I need to experience the overall much more quickly in order that I be reminded that it's alright to feel.
To be.

Just to feel and be
and be and feel.

Never to do with my right what I may with my left.

Swimming In The Wake Of A Doubtful Schooner

I can't seem to separate myself from this feeling of foreboding about John.

I don't really care all that much about trying to debunk the idea that this isn't going to work which is of concern to me.

I feel like I'm so taken with him, I'm so invested.
But then a part of me doesn't feel that same emotion returning from him.
I know he takes time to think about things, especially when I tell him flat out that I think he's beautiful, that he makes me happy just for being.

But I want to hear it back.

I want to be fed.

I feel a little starved of late.

I feel like this is something of a problem that I have.
As if I should be seeing things differently or behaving with a more carefully constricted reactivity.

I just want to be wanted like I want.

"I want,"... "I want,"... perhaps that's the whole issue here.
It keeps coming back to what it is that I want, that in some manner I feel like I deserve.

I don't really know how to properly react to this feeling.
Or should I say, these feelings.

I was so excited, I anticipated so much.
Right now I am experiencing an excruciating standstill.

I want to keep moving.
I want to move with John.
I want John to move with me.

There I go again with the "I wants," perhaps it's that I don't actually know what I want so I just indiscriminately throw things about which I think I want.

There's my frustration.

A Final Cut

Having finally reached the point at which I deleted both my Myspace and my Facebook accounts, I have to say that I feel a tension-ridden expectation, an anticipation of just how this whole idea of cutting off is going to be for me in the long run.

I hope for the best.
I really do.

But sometimes I guess I feel like he still has some sort of "one up" on me.

Lord knows he's just as hurt and lost as the rest of us.

Whenever It Seemed Right, It Was

I'm really growing quite tired of being disappointed by Christopher.
It's like he's repeatedly (and successfully) attempting to place as much purposed distance between us as possible.

I'm at a point where I'm frustrated with his behavior last night with regard to leaving Jina with Rod.

Thanks for the trustworthiness.

Now I just want to be through with he, Jenny, and that whole mess of a past.
I've never fully understood the whole "be careful not to cut off all of your old friends 'cause when the new ones leave you'll be all alone" concept, but right now I think I'm starting to see why it is that some choose not to heed such warnings.

Maybe I just need to lose myself in what I'm doing.
Work a lot.
Get prepared for school.
Spend what time I may with John.

And others.

We'll see how everything pans out and I'm glad to know that at least I'll have Sammy back.
It's comical to me how the situation between Sammy and I has hinged upon whether or not Chris and I were friends.

Actually it's somewhat lame.

But as Joel and I agreed on the phone Chris is by necessity a thing of the past.

We'll see whether or not Jenny and I can salvage anything but I'm sure that guttersnipe, bottom-dwelling trollop of a child formerly known as my boyfriend has already planted seeds of dissent amongst the impressionable troughs of her questionably fertile mind.

A little verbal refuse, if you will.

Anyway, About My Darling Boy

Anyway, about my darling boy...

His name is John Broderick-Kartye and he's absolutely incredible. I know I've already been saying that but it's only because whenever I'm around him I cannot help but have it solidly reaffirmed that he is indeed such an astounding individual.

He works at Blue Hour (a somewhat...no, make that a VERY pretentiously sophisticated upper-end restaurant in the Pearl District of downtown Portland) and he and I met one random Friday (November 30th, to be precise) while I was on break from my job serving at P. F. Chang's. I had wandered across the street to Whole Foods where I typically spend my 30 minutes of free time eating, listening to music and writing about the people I quietly observe.

Sitting there with my Odwalla juice and croissant, journal pages in front of me just begging for ink, I was listening to a song called "Snowflake Vectors" (which is a lovely synth instrumental piece that is very mellow and "soundtrack to life"-esque) gazing lazily over the crowded interior of the store.

The people around me were eating, some checking out, some organizing their backpacks for the bike trips they would embark on after leaving through the automatic doors.
Then my eyes fell upon this tall figure wearing a deep aubergine scarf tucked neatly into the collar of a black wool coat with epaulets and square pockets. His slender limbs painted a subtle, heathered navy by denim disappearing into weathered brown, square-toed boots.
I was spellbound by his calm, innocent face, his graceful poise and elegant, liquid gate as he walked through the register line.
While it is my custom to watch from an objective and demure distance, my would-be glance quickly developed into a hypnotized stare as I found myself completely lost in just seeing him. Just drinking in his organic beauty.
His golden brown hair, coiffed in a pleasant disorder, contrasted with the starry blue of his mysterious eyes and his lips resembled vibrant ginger adding a natural, lush sweetness to the poetic composition of his angelic face.

I was transfixed.

He settled into a chair and began reading as he consumed his recently purchased meal. I could not see the title of his book but I observed his pupils traveling from side to side in a wave-like rhythm as he slowly followed each sentence on the page. It was like his eyes were dancing with the words he read.

In this moment I felt myself come to as if I had been sleeping and dreamt of falling to a point of rousing impact. My focus turned to the open journal in front of me and to the pen in my hand resting patiently next to the leather bound tome.
I began to write about the wonder I had for this character in the momentous theater of real life to which I found myself playing audience. I posed the question of where he was from, what he had been through, who he was inside. I couldn’t persuade my mind from its sprite like flitting around and about this unknown person and felt compelled to approach him.
It was like I was a flower in the presence of fresh and warming sunshine and I was so dazzled I couldn’t bring myself to bloom.

I finally wrote my name and number on a napkin followed by a short message, “I find you fascinating. Call if you would like to have coffee sometime.”

It felt so mundane. So uncreative.
So blandly solid next to his mottled and colorful aura.

I set my small work in front of me and proceeded to wrestle with the thought of actually giving it to him, my reason equivocating mercilessly between the rationale of the path of least resistance being to just follow my urge versus avoid the quite possibly awkward exchange.
Just then, the girl sitting next to me slid off of her stool unexpectedly, her shoulder grazing mine causing me to put new effort into my balanced perch on my seat.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said with an embarrassed smile and genuine tone of regret.
In order that she not feel by any means vilified for her unintentional clumsiness I quickly responded by saying, “No worries, honestly it’s fine,” smiling jovially and returning her imploring eye contact.
Her expression changed to one of relief and then relaxation as she then said, “By the way, I love your hair.”
“Why thank you,” I said with a grateful warmth.
“It’s really, really beautiful,” she continued with an unguarded glance at my tussled dark curls.
“Well I really appreciate that,” I replied, “what a sweet compliment.”
After a briefly extended conversation she and her dining partner across the table rose to leave and I began gathering up my things, once again looking in the direction of the beautiful boy.
He still sat, reading and eating.

Then I made a decision to myself. If a girl next to me can step into my little bubble long enough to repair what very well could have been an uncomfortable situation I should have no qualms about following suit in my instance; namely, giving my brown paper napkin to this person.

I felt my blood flowing more rapidly as I slid my journal and pen into my black work apron. My fingers trembled quietly, almost indiscernibly, as I wrapped my headphones around my iPod and placed it with the other item in my pockets. Then my feet began to carry me over to the far end of the seating area where I knew the quietly stationed figure could not help but notice my direct approach from his peripheral vantage point.
I squared my form to be carefully in front of him as I prepared myself to actually go through with what only moments ago had been a defeated plan.
“I know this may seem somewhat forward,” I started, displaying the same nervous half-smile the girl had given me just prior, “but that’s just the kind of person I am,” I finished almost apologetically.
“Oh,” he said in a curious tone with a hint of amusement. He had begun to look at me just as I had begun to speak and at the end of my presentation he accepted the napkin, using two fingers to slide it toward him across the tabletop.
“My name is Noah,” I said, trying to fill the potential silence before either one of us was able to begin feeling that sickening tightness of social invasion.
“I’m John,” he replied with a smile.
“Hello John, it’s nice to meet you,” I said while inwardly regretting the fact that I had just said the most stereotypically Boy Scout response imaginable.
I felt I looked and sounded trite and ridiculous.
Even so, I came back to the moment in order that in talking a bit I might be able to salvage my first impression.
“You seem really familiar. I think I might have seen you somewhere before,” I stated with a playful tilt of my head and a jocular squint.
“Yeah,” he said with a tone of moderate seriousness, “possibly around campus.”
Suddenly feeling like I was actually being taken with some semblance of gravity my whole body relaxed slightly as I grew more composed and confident.
“Do you go to PSU?”
“Yeah- well- I’m taking a break right now.”
“What are you studying?”
“Environmental studies. But I just needed to take some time to myself.”
In that instant I realized that we were actually having a conversation and I was actually caring about what he was saying and asking genuinely interested questions.
“Oh believe me, I understand that need,” I said with a muted guffaw, “I took a spring term off last year and then subsequently went into summer so I had a long time away but it was definitely refreshing.”
“Yeah,” he agreed again with a cheerful seriousness, “I’m hoping it will be for me, too.”
“Well, I need to get going back to work. My break is almost over,“ I ruefully informed him as I stepped back from the table, “but it was definitely great talking to you. And seriously, if you ever want to do coffee…” I finished in what I hoped was a smooth and casual open diminuendo, gesturing toward my napkin now in his possession.
“I’d enjoy that, thank you,” he quickly said, not breaking eye contact, ”I’ll definitely call you.”

With that we said our good byes and I walked back across the street, oddly elated at having actualized my intentions.

Upon returning to the restaurant, I was in such a giddy mood that I had to show the hostesses what I had written about this “man with the bright violet scarf and brown leather boots” and proceeded to read directly from my journal relaying the whole experience along with my undisguised excitement.

The Louder The Sight, The Blinder The Man

I have a strong feeling that whatever it is I choose will somehow end up being wrong.
Whoever I settle on...myself, himself...will be turned into some form of dreaded mistake.

I'm truly confused as to why I was so quickly thrown into this state of disrepair.
If I were to trace a catalyst it would have to be somewhere in the vicinity of Jemme, or possibly Terrie, or possibly Allena...then again, the likely surmise would be to say that all three combined played some cooperative role.

And now I sit here staring blandly at a computer screen while this boy who really and truly wants to know, to make more reason to like me, is laying in my bed getting so close to slumber.
And yet I still feel on edge.

Perhaps I really am pushing myself to know something or decide something prematurely.

If so, I have the faithful knowledge of premature babies who survived and thrived.
Will I survive?
If so, will I also thrive?

Or is that too much to ask?

Naked Truth

I feel like my heart is half-in, half-out of the water right now.
It can't decided to swim or stay dry.
I hate this indecision.

I feel like I am stuck on these feelings of "maybe something better will come along," just because Jarod isn't the stereotypical "steamy, sexy gay man" that I've become so accustomed to in recent bouts with my digital fucks.

I can't see myself deserving to be liked by anyone, but then I'm giving myself these ridiculous ideas of what I should and shouldn't be "settling for" when it comes to standards of beauty.

I fucking hate my surface level, vain, shallow self sometimes.

Looking and Looking

I feel like I'm not letting myself be satisfied.
Then again, aren't I supposed to be hard to please?
Isn't there some maxim that goes "never settle, never be satisfied" or something like that?

I'm really torn between feeling like I want to find something to calmly, relaxedly grow comfortable with and used to...and thus be contented.

It's evident that Jarod likes me.
I'm flattered by that.

I feel like some moments I like him while at others I am getting this painful sense of dissatisfaction. Like once again I'm getting into someone only because they showed signs of affection first and I feel the flattery of a longing touch.

During French class a couple of days ago I was attempting to capture some of the residual feelings from my reactions to the previous night (Jarod and my first date) and wrote something I find to be prosaic but very true.

"I feel inept in attempting to write down what it is that I experienced last night. I feel as if I stepped into a scene I thought I had memorized only to find I was in a completely different play." - Tues. Nov. 27, 2007

I guess I owe it to my literary honesty to explain what that previous section was referring to.

On Monday night Jarod picked me up to go find me something to eat after having a long day of class, work, then class again.
I was looking forward to spending time with him in person because we had had a really great phone conversation the night before.

We talked for a little over an hour and it was very smooth and involved. We both had meaningful input and laughed and I felt like I had a very clear, witty command of my verbiage.

I felt like a live and in person date would go much the same way and, in serving my hope of gaining trust and openness, I was very unguarded in my topics of conversation and personal disclosure.
I thought that if I made the point of being open and figuratively naked in front of Jarod he would experience the anticipated relief of knowing that I wasn't afraid of him knowing the intimate details of my own life thereby feeling liberated to exercise candor in his own self-disclosure.

This was dead wrong.

I found that after I broached the subject of past relationships and sexual mistakes Jarod began to visually shrink down and close off as seen by his self-contained retreating body language.
I immediately halted and he began informing me that he just wasn't ready to talk about such personal information.

I was a little flabbergasted.

This method that I had come up with- yes, it was a tried and true method- had failed me.
It was like I had gotten so deftly used to playing the part of the "first date mold-breaker", the "guy you could instantly be comfortable and open with," someone "everyone can easily and dependably trust."

All of these hoped for, and in essence, assured results were all but actualized by the time I was finished wolfing down my chicken sandwich.

As Jarod told me of his discomfort I felt the blood drain from my face. It was like my stomach just decided that it wanted to eat me from the inside out.

Everything was going wrong.
I was ruining a perfectly good opportunity.
I was burning a bridge before I had even crossed it.

Day 2 or 3

Something of a painful thick surrounds my body.
Inside and out.

Every motion feels like I'm pulling my appendages through gelatin. Nothing is easy, simple, or untroubled.
Everything about me just wants to curl up and let the tension pulse around me until it's through chewing on my bones.

I'm looking ahead right now.
Michelle is coming to pick me up and we're going to Rose's on 23rd.
I almost thought too far ahead and lost the excitement just from knowing that it would end at some point in the eventual future.
I had to mentally back up from the edge, thoughtstep by thoughtstep.

If only I knew some secret pathway where I could guide myself along its mulchy, soft, limited snaking wanderway.

I feel left out in the misty cold with no one to blanket me other than myself.
This will pass.
Perhaps.

Stabbed In The Kidney With A Blunt Object

It simply must be allowed for one to love his setting.
To embrace the lives he has constructed so carefully and finitely.

Yes, I'm materialistic.
Yes, I'm vain.
Yes, my idealism is filtered by a healthy amount of skepticism (sometimes I am seen as too imaginative, too faithful, too hopeful).

Yet I am happy with it.

I'm going to eat my processed foods.
I'm going to text message.
I'm going to check my Myspace and (God forbid) Facebook.

This is the life I have chosen and I am through with feeling the need to compete, repent, or silently, cruelly ridicule.

Be aware of your present self in order to revisit this point of reference once you have gained a better sense of maturity...yes, maturity.

Wisdom follows experience when combined with analytical thinking and comparative logic.
This is a concept of irreducible complexity.

The Point Of Willful Return

There's so much going on.
We're all just being together.

Do I want to be with them?
Do I will myself to just be and not be with?

They feel what I cannot feel and yet I find myself in a place where I do not want to feel with them.

With is so strong.
I remember telling Lance on the balcony in Anchorage that "with you" was one of the most powerful two-word utterances possible.

I continue to learn, more and more, day by day, what that really means.
Maybe I've come around to that place where I am beginning to see what, who, where I should and should not want to be "with you".

I have been so constantly searching for any and all ways I could be "with you" and now I am beginning carefully, thoughtfully filter.

I just want to go home.

Here's the Frank and Honest Truth

How can I be confronted all at once by two people with so much perturbation?
It's like that one-

(your sense of humor makes me want to scoff and gripe to others about your face and voice)

-coaxial moment where two people both hit their stride in a walk away from a house in exchange for a bar.

This is going to be the most interesting situation seeing as how I've brought together very oddly same and different people.

I need to make myself take a break.
I feel like everything is crowding in on me and beginning to fall inward on my head.
Even my arms get scratched up and dirtied by the debris as I try to protect myself.

I'm having this incredibly Woolf-esque moment of wanting to be alone to "write my first line."

I think that missing my writer's event this evening has soured me...quite a bit.

Collections Agencies Call Too Often

This is to every dinner interrupted by that annoying ring of impending awkwardness.
To every unidentified cell phone call answered out of curiosity immediately followed by an unmatched regret.
To every sinking, hungry feeling in the pit of a hostess' stomach when their table assignments turn out to be a large, potentially party-spoiling mistake.

I don't care a fig for your product, your perspective, your attempt at convincing me that my life is incomplete without you.

I want to curl up in a corner padded with 5 pillows and a little, too-tiny afghan.
I want to read the books I keep telling myself I'm going to delve into with unwaivering focus.
I want it to be just a little too cold so my form reserves all of its energies for the betterment of my sustenance.

You pompous, touting idealist.
Don't make me sick to my already disquieted stomach.
Be frank about your points and don't dress up your unnecessary thoughts.
They're extra to me, they're not wanted.
I already said so.

Get some Ritalin and leave my head and my hands alone.
Make everything about your posture submissive and original, you imposing bastard.

(I feel this odd sense of triumph as I spill these words with a decisive poise...like I've been waiting all these weeks for the moment of expounding and it has, indeed, arrived)

Your obliging nature is cut short by your disagreeable taste.

Peeling Back the Veneer

I'm really quite frustrated right now.
Granted, missing the writer's event this evening didn't HAVE to happen but I felt this odd condescension from Chris, as if he was saying, "what's the problem with you? Just go."

I didn't like it and I know I probably (most likely) projected it onto him.
But now I'm just being lame.

Traci is just now coming into Portland and needed someone to smoke with.
I'm looking forward to seeing her.

I'm also very happy that Anna is here.
I know this whole social mess is of my own construction but I kind of feel overwhelmed by all of it.

I think this financial aid money is going to provide me with a temporary but much needed sense of release.

I just need to tell myself to stop actually spending it.

I'm glad I'm writing.

Saxophones and Empty Fountains

As I set out, once again, on the all-too-familiar route to the place I call work I found myself wanting to pull away from everything.
To pull my veins back into my own body and let my lifeblood recirculate in some cheap, not-as-real warmth.

I just wanted to stay where I was so I wouldn't sink any lower.

I saw a man playing a ramshackle ballad on his saxophone, standing on a dry platform in the middle of a dry fountain.
He seemed almost as unsatisfied with his art as I feel with mine these days.
He kept halting to frown, shake his head at himself, then start again with another unpredictable, sad trill.

A woman with her child paused at the top level of the dry fountain, listening to this sad swan. It was as if she found someone who was just a little sadder than she and that made her just a little happier.
She was searching so intently for understanding, for companionship, that she was almost desperate in her want for this, her child, to understand. To feel. With her.

I wanted to stop, to take part in the feeling.
To once again reunite with the flaming leaves on the fall-kissed tree branches.

But on I walked.
Steady on to that foul restaurant.

Steady on to yet another evening of genuiness wasted on random, temporary nobodies.

I just want a somebody but I feel guilty.
I feel like I want to want nobody. I want to frown at myself, shake my head, and keep trying to play an original set of notes.

Heal Over

I can't understand this onset of downward motion I seem to experience to readily these days.
I don't get it.
I feel like I can't get it.

I don't look forward to anything.

I don't look forward to anyone.

I feel like so much is losing its luster.

It's not even money. I have money for now.

It's just that something about life is so disappointing right now.
I feel like I'm disappointingly boring.
Life is boring.

Maybe I'm just tired.

What To Do About David

Quickening,
still and slow
rapidly drawing
a subtle breath.

How was I to know?

How was he
to know
his palette calls
for something unfamiliar,
strange,
and yet so craved.

Pulling back my hair and exposing the skin of my forehead,
I see the scars and dents of time and thought.

Can he possibly see them?
Want them?

What calls from me
to him?
Body to body?

Body to body.

He asks for what I do not want to give
to him.

But I want to give
to him.

To tell the truth
means lying
to his face
and his heart.

It's such a painful honesty.
An openness only
comparable to dissection.

Cutting in and seeing
the bloody depths of
real and awful self.

He calls for a piece of flesh
or is it a piece of beating
fluttering
honesty?

There seem to be so many questions.
So many unknowns and yet
they call.
Body to body.

I want to be called and
I let myself.

I call a returned want.
A desire is not mine
and is made mine.

Is it really mine?

Questions,
posed
and delivered
and left.

He told me without his words
but with his mouth.

What will my mouth say
without words?

Considering The Rose's Thorn

I see what is happening with Nick and Tony as it pertains to Chris and it saddens me.

It makes me feel rotten inside especially because I knew it was going to happen and now I just wish I were wrong.
Wrong for everyone's sake.

Chris is slowly but surely (and possibly unwittingly) coming between Nick and his happiness with Tony. I doubt it if Tony knows the full extent of Nick's care for Chris.
Then again, I sensed it at the beginning.

I probably ought to be telling myself, "quit worrying about something that is none of your business," but I'm still allowing myself to be upset.

No, I don't have any right.
I don't give a twig for whether or not it's my business.
I still sense the pain in an overwhelming way.

The seeming remedy would be to stop associating with the situation as whole until it either blows over or someone brings me into it.

*sigh*

I think I need to pull out of a lot of concerns much like this one.
Concerns based in wanting to feel for others when my empathy is completely unwelcome.
I think that's a large part of why I end up getting so intensely emotionally offended.

I must focus on myself in a non-selfish way.
I need to be self-ful.

Perhaps it's just one of those "times of trial" you read about in the Bible and epic poetry.

The cruelty of fate's irony.

A Little Link

I spent the evening with Michelle and Julia this evening and really went into detail about my intense level of observation.
I think I may have given them a bit of a scare when they realized just how much I saw...not only in them but in all things.

Hmmm...I wonder how I am supposed to be using this descriptive ability.

Maybe I'm writing to be read again.
I don't like that.

If this journal becomes another town crier when it's supposed to be the candlelit scribblings of a malcontented sister then I will be officially angry.


Part of me wonders if I'm wanting to draw closer to those two girls because it will make me feel slightly closer to Drew...even though he's so far removed. So gone.

He kept coming up in conversation and the girls were showing pictures of old, good times with him. I just still feel so attached.
And that attachment has now become something I see as being against my better judgment.

I'm feeling like I am in the midst of having it proven to me, once again, that everything was just momentary and poisoned with passion. Like the things he said were just to fulfill the script in his head for the "perfect evening".

But I ache to think that that's actually the case.
I want him to have been as thrilled as I was.
As excited.
As peaceful yet crazed.

I'm not getting any messages of reply.
I'm not getting any phone calls.
I'm feeling accessory.

But then again, I sort of am.

Settling Into Diligence

Once again I find myself ready to sacrifice all eternals and buckle down.
To let go of the possible momentary excitements in exchange for an assurance of my own successes, both academically and emotionally.

I hope this pays off...and I am hoping I am not going to pull another "excited beginning into a half-assed follow through"

A Letter To Drew

I just spent a very pleasant couple of hours with our dear Michelle.
We reminisced about the past and recounted classic tales of our former renegade activities and joyful romps across the old Canadian campus.

Then, of course, the topic turned to you.
We spoke of missing you and how nonsensical it seemed to be that we were all brought into each others' lives at such odd times.
There's an order to everything when reduced to mere function and I think that the pragmatism of relationships tends to be an illusive study.

That being said I thought I would write you the first of my promised correspondences.
Life here turns toward a somber note as the trees begin shedding first their verdigris for a fiery bronze and then lose their sheets of pressed metal.
Sidewalks begin to resemble the littered floors of an art room post-class; clippings strewn about in an effortless shift and sway according to the wind's direction...or lack thereof.

That selfsame wind carries with it a voice, a whisper of pending gray.

We can only hope the gray will produce just a little white.

Of that, among many thing, I am quite jealous of your current location.
You'll have snow, oh so much snow.

Coming back around to the gray of the coming days, I look forward to spending brisk walks bundled inside the trappings of my winter's preparation. Evenings spent on the couch with a cup of coffee, a good book, a friend, and a conversation.

Michelle and I are already staking out certain sections of our break for movie nights, dinner parties, and cloves on my balcony.

Julia, she and I are planning on attending Cabaret this coming Tuesday night.
I'm really hoping we can get in.
If not I'll be purchasing tickets for the last week of the recently augmented run. A few of my work friends are going as well and look forward to brights lights and lap dances.

I grin to think of what is to come this season.
More academics, more talks of the finer points of life, existence, and our role in this massive social construction.

I left you a phone message asking this same question but I figure repetition ensures clarity:
What will be your new mailing address?
I have something I'm intending on sending you in the near future.
This of course implies that I'll have somewhere to send it.

Having just humored my random love of childhood cereals, I have a mostly-empty bowl which formerly contained a heaping mass of Cookie Crisp.
That's another thing I look forward to about this Fall into Winter season: breakfasts of sugar cereal and toast as the Sun comes up over the ridge.

How has life at your famed Soho bakery come along?
I hope you're enjoying it immensely and looking forward to your now unlimited access to pastries and croissants.
I know I would be.

Wednesday fast approaches.
For what it's worth, know that I'm thinking of you and hoping for only your best.

Michelle and I talked about your upcoming meeting with this director and were mutually giddy with the expectation of your charm and wit winning them over.

We're rooting for you.
It's like I told you in the truck right before slipping from the side door and descending to venture city-ward, "you'll always have people here who love you."

You're finding your feet.
You're doing what you love.
Never lose that, my dear boy.

I hope to hear from you soon,
With Best Regards,


-Noah C. Buck

Having Been Far Too Long

I'm sitting in the newfound relief of being told that I do not have to work this evening.
Not to say that money wouldn't be useful but I am so tired all of the sudden (again).

I want to take a nap and then do some homework and then possibly go to a movie.
All of this hinges upon just how fast I get my work done, of course.

I spent the evening last night with Allena and Evie.
Evie was absolutely wonderful.
I was incredibly attracted to her not only as a person but in a very sincere sexual manner.
Odd.

After the two of those lovely girls, I spent the rest of the evening with Michael Newman.
I know, blast from the past.
But the truth of the matter is that I really enjoyed myself.
We ended up staying up far too late (something close to 3am) talking and taking random pictures of cell phone keys and hookah smoke.

By the time we went to sleep I was beyond delirious and awoke in a cloud of dazed exhaustion.
I still made breakfast (because apparently Michael is not in the habit of eating in the morning) and then went to church.
I saw my sister and Ted there for a few minutes and that was a welcome episode considering the fact that it has become something of a normal thing to encounter one or the two of them.
I'm happy about that.

I also saw the Leisure family at Imago Dei and that was random.
It was lovely to get a hug from Diane.
I've always liked her.
Chelsae was there as well and she looked lovely.
Although she did mention that she's with Mode and I made a pointed effort to let her know about the inconsistencies of the agency and reps.

We'll see if she heeds my words.

I'm really tired right now.
As I previously mentioned.

I'm tired for many reasons.
I feel like I am in need of written output and yet I don't have my usual knack for it.
It's almost as if I have it until I really need it and then it's gone.

And I don't even know for sure if this illusive "it" is talent, ability to copy, natural and organic output...I just don't know.

I want to write all about Drew.
I want to write about Aleks working into the concept of Drew.
I want to write about me.

I feel like I can't.
Like I really am unable.

I think I just need sleep.

Waiting For 15 Minutes

Having spent the last 48 hours wanting nothing more than just a voice, just a word or two, I feel the most pathetic I've felt in ages.

This pathetic weight has been resting on my shoulders for the last little while and yet I wish I had had it for a long, long while.

These are the times when I fully embrace wishful regret.
I wish I had met Drew months ago, I wish that I had had more time with him.
I wish that I had had more of a chance to be with him and know him and just lay next to him...knowing him. Breathing the same air and stirring in the same midnight chills.

Waking in a cold, damp sweat and being happy to be in such discomfort because I would have known that it was due to his proximity, his closeness.

Now I am having to rest with the knowledge of his departure.
Having to hold to this hopeless romance which is necessarily temporary.

He's right. It will be easier for him than for me.

I'll be adjusted in the cupboard to find my place behind the cereal boxes and soup cans.
I'll be that cardboard corner poking out from behind the bag of sugar, just wanting to be seen, let along brought out. Opened, tasted.

I want him.
I want to be near him.

I just want this pain to stop and I want him to be the band-aid.

I'm going to have to let this heal in an open manner and I will scar.

Sipping A Cigarette

I just spent the last 10 minutes on my balcony, in the wind, accompanied by a cup of coffee with floating bits of cinnamon and a lone cigarette, listening to the haunting strands of desperate songs coming out from the warmth and safety of an empty apartment.

In that time I allowed my unchecked imagination to hope for the possibility of a romance like you see in the movies.
I would fly out, I would pick up and move.
I would continue to work, to finish what I've started while beginning something brand new.

In those moments of caffeine and nicotine my body responds to the lick of the passing gusts in a manner not unlike an infant to his mother's caress. Wanting to find comfort in the touch of a chilled hand. Wanting to slip into a sleep so deep that the dreams feel like the most brilliant reality.

It's in this momentary lapse of judgment that I find a truly awakening sense of freedom.
Perhaps I should hold myself away from this dangerous flame of passion, looking only to the solid, blocky corners of the set constructed on this stage of my life.
Platforms and framing nails are my strength and power.

My control is in the knowledge of my supporting places.
I am holding to a fastidious discipline of reality.

Throw me to this wind.
Let me sail about like a half-burnt fall leaf riding alongside the fiery brilliance of the butterflies I see inside myself.

Burst forth with new passion and embrace the bleak of now as the hard, flat road leading to the golden mountains on the horizon.

An Utter Separation

I am feeling that same sense of loneliness I remember having felt and forgotten...


...felt and forgotten.

...felt and forgotten.


And now I've come to a place of decision: sink into the depression so easily succumbed to or make the painful effort of learning from what I am in the midst of right now.

It's like Jenny tells me oh so often, meditate and be outside of the moment so that you might see the whole picture. Observe and take from it what you can.

A Quickly Developing Romance

I really like Aleks.

Granted I only just met him and only today actually had anything of a lengthy interaction with him.
After he picked me up from work the other night I had an inkling of how much I felt I was going to enjoy his company.
However it wasn't until I actually had brunch with him and then walked about the blustery, wet leaf-ridden boardwalks of the pearl today that I began to come into full realization of just how drawn I was to him.
It's so compelling, his presence.
It's so comfortable and appreciated and I just want to be close to him in the innocent and unassuming manner.
I want to cuddle up next to him with a book, blanket and fireplace.

The book will no doubt be forgotten as he grins over my shoulder with his teacup resting on the cushioned worn leather arm of the couch. I'll simply nuzzle into him and find a place of safety. A haven. A respite.

Rest.

Rest for me...and my name means rest.


I fear the distance and the timing and yet I will not let the fear continue.
I think he likes me.
I told him I like him...a lot.

I told him that I think he's adorable.
I actually used that word.

I feel like I'm being too sudden, too direct.
And yet that thrills me.

I want him to hold me close.
And closer and closer.

I'm sighing to myself as I write these words.
I hope so sincerely.

The Cycle Goes Up And Down

Having now realized just how much I am willing to trust Chris despite the jealousies and pains I still hold I come into a new sense of emptiness.

Perhaps it's because I've scraped clean the insides of my innermost chambers in order that I make him see that he's inflicting pain.
Perhaps it's because I need someone to know who won't think I'm crazy.
Perhaps it's because I ought to be committed and I'm looking for someone who will send me on my merry way to a small room where I can sit and ponder why I didn't ask my mum to cook me breakfast more often.

These are the rolling and colliding questions which make me willing to lie to myself.
I am deceived by the confidence of a fast-paced day.
The smooth rhetoric of a happily encouraged friend or colleague.
The clever smile of a lover in my future as he glances at the time to make it look as if he has some reason to stop looking at me other than sheer embarrassment at his inability to tear away his attentions.

Having come to a very firm place of decision a short while back about my intentions to seek a deeper and more meaningful understanding of myself I am constantly battling the distractions of poorly formed old habits and trial-ridden new tradition.

It's like there's some sort of cutoff between my hope and my reality and yet the two operate so effortlessly synonymously when I merely close my eyes.

I have to keep listening.
I have to keep wanting to love.

The moment I stop wanting it is the moment I begin to glance longingly at the bladed edge of a wine key next to a half-empty bottle of blood-red Cabernet Sauvignon.

Feeling Me Out

You wanted to stay, Chris, and you wanted to stay alone.

It was like you were pushing Jenny out because she was in your special way.
Perhaps what I am writing is dripping with pain, annoyance, jealousy, but that's why I have this journal.

I know now, more than ever, that I cannot stand when people act two-faced.
I know why this is.
It's because I've seen it in myself.

Call it projection, call it unfair, it's still the truth.

I would like you to be happy.
However I would not like you to have your cake and eat it too.

I think that when I said I wanted you and I to stay close, to be a part of one another's lives, I was meaning in a way where we were still of some sort of paramount importance.
I feel like I am being slowly slid down some notch of measurement.
Like I am losing my appeal and/or importance to these new friends you're so eager to meet...on mother fucking Myspace.

Yes, I lied.
I don't respect it.
I find it tragic, pathetic.

Yes, I have met ONE person via that website and yes, we're still friends, but it's not as if it's this all-consuming passtime.
It seems to me, in my upset and looking-for-reasons attitude that this whole myspace canvassing for males (check), gay (check) 18-25 (check), within (10) miles of (97201) has become a regular thing.

What ever happened to really meeting people.
In daily life, at work, through people you already know...that's how organic relationships work.

Yes, I am being judgmental.
It's because I am spewing it all out right now.
I'm purging, in the emotional sense.

Since it seems that in these types of situations I am the common denominator that I am part of the problem.
I'm too attached to the consistency of a single person.
When it's gone, I'm thrown off balance.

When I choose to let it go I am able to ready myself but when it's all stored up and then dropped on me I feel kind of floored, exhausted, and excluded.

Exclusion still lies in the circle of my largest, most over-developed fears.

I need to practice more meditation, more centering, less object-referral.

I need to be okay with this and not snap.

Rid the Self of Hate

Having come to a point where I'm actually making a concerted effort to be a more fulfilled and peaceful person, I'm somewhat simplifying my life.

I say that with a little bit of a chuckle because it comes across as if I'm just another one of those wannabes who found the "fountain of youth" and are under the impression that it's brand new and just for them.

I know I have an incessant need to clarify myself in order that I not be taken the wrong way...then again...

(there's been something of a break in this)

I think I'm just on the constant verge of frustration for a bit.
It's like PMS.

Pulling a Dried Scab

Jeremi is seemingly asleep on the couch in my living room as I sit here in the dark, peering somewhat painfully at the stark screen of this plastic prison for my thoughts, feelings, habits, and communications.
I really don't know what to think about me lately.
I've been sexually active in ways which I would call irresponsible.

First, I did not allow for a clean break between Chris and myself.
Unwise.
The fact that I allowed myself to sleep with him even after we had fought and separated tells me that while I may be over he and I in the permanent relationship sense, I am still very attached to the idea of someone knowing me...just knowing.

Second, James was a person who was little more than a quick physical attraction which I attempted to culture into something more for the sake of it "making sense" not to mention my goddamned need to fix other people's problems and make them happy at my expense.
I can't even find my own happiness.
What business is it of mine to try and force my ideas of happiness upon them?

Third, Tony.
I fell hard.
I couldn't really venture a realistic guess as to why but for right now I still have the unerring feeling that it was a true and untainted attraction and hope for something more.
As with James, nothing more than kissing occurred.
And yet emotionally I was so sexually invested.
Yes, I do see the two as inextricably intertwined within myself.
I can understand how others would pull the meaning of one from the other and hold them at arms length from one another, much like the crucifix.
And again, like the crucifix, there is a deadness, a cold.

I'm far too sanguine to fall into such a diffidence.

Fourth comes with the title of Jesse.
He is someone I don't even know and I have had something of a latent attraction to ever since meeting him the night we all went to see 300. Nothing to the point that I couldn't help thinking about him, merely a light pleasure at his recollection.
The joking, flirting, banter, etc. was always an option.
A Safety.
A Cruel, Selfish Knowledge.
If I needed anything, there was an availability right there.

I refuse to even attempt a lie to myself in stating that I'm interested in dating him.
I guess he was right.
He doesn't do second dates.
Undateable.

Then a brief reconvening with Chris.
I felt so passionate but once again, it was due to the fact that I was in the midst of being known.
Perhaps now the biblical reference makes more sense. Hits more keenly.
Adam and Eve were in fact the only two of their species and they knew one another.
They were all that there was to know of anything other than their tasks.

And finally, I just fucked Jeremi.

I cannot write any other description because that's really all it was.
We both understood that.
We find some odd, latent attraction in each other.
We were at the "right place at the right time" and then it occurred.

It wasn't because we loved each other.
It wasn't because we were overwhelmed with passion.
It was just because it felt inevitable.
Like there would be no avoiding it so why not just get it out of the way now...no question makr because it was no question.

I feel like I should feel.
I see all of these things as typically invoking of some sort of emotion: regret, excitement, sadness, thrill, a dirty guilt

Not so.

I just go on feeling the same mediocre I have been feeling.
Where did my reactivity go?
How did I reduce to this?

It's a seeming battle to stay random and diverse and yet I want it so badly so I fight harder and harder.
When will I give out?

How long will it take me?

I don't want to be like this, this wanton thing.

I feel like my sexuality has become nothing more than an exercise.
It's so devoid of reality.
The romance once saturating my physical thirst for another's body is now robbed of me by a culprit with a face much like my own...except there is no fire in his eyes. No curl in his hair. Not even a sneer of victory.
Only a blankness.
A deadness.
A Cold.

When Thinking of Change

I talked to Chris today.
Finally.
It took me nearly a week to convince him that it was worth his effort to spend a single conversation with me.
The conversation took place at the Starbucks next to the old house.
I met him there and felt a stirring sense of panic in the pit of my stomach as I took more and more strides down the heated concrete.
I began to gnaw determinedly on the dry skin at the tips of my already hideously misshapen fingernails and it was then that I realized how fully nervous I was.

The truth of the matter is that I never know quite what I'm going to utter verbally when I make a point of having a planned conversation. I simply hold to the repeatedly proven fact that I will be profound and my thoughts will come out in a new way which will in turn improve my perspective causing me to learn new things about myself. About my ability to be happy. About my life.

These things could be said to be the sole drives for what it is that fuels my daily reason to get up and tackle yet another morning routine before yet another afternoon routine into yet another evening routine.
Can a person be afraid of doing the same arbitrary thing twice?

I guess I have no idea about people in general, only myself.
Even then I don't always trust what I have to draw from.

I have realized that a large part of what causes me this overall sense of insatiable craving for something more from life stems from my inability to find contentment in anything over which I do not hold any power or command any level of respect.

It's as if there's a certain amount of harnessed surety I need in order to embrace the fullness of everyday.
I need to know everyday will be everyday.

Chris is a constant reminder of my lack of ability in this area.
I cannot always know.
I cannot always hold it in my lanky, warm fingers.

I cannot always know him.
I cannot always hold him in my lanky, warm arms.

And yet now I seem to have found an increased confusion.
I can't see what's right...only what my lying emotions tell me "feels" right.

I don't want to make Chris another quote-unquote.

I don't want to love him and I don't want to want him and yet I cannot help the fact that I do.
Oh, so sincerely.

I don't feel safe with anyone.
I want to feel safe.
I want to make someone feel safe.

The Luck Of Me

I'm lucky.
I can accept that.
I cannot assure it and I'm getting scared that it's going to run out.
Should I have to be afraid of good fortune?

I love it and I hate it.
It makes me comfortable while making others frustrated and sometimes jealous.
I just want to live.

I got signed with the International Modeling Agency a few days ago.
It's official, I am a model...well, on paper anyway.
I just want it to come to some huge point of fruition.

I want to make a lot of money right away and pay off my credit care bills and get everything back to zero.
I want to go from zero.
Actually, I want to go from far above zero.
I want to go from raving success.

I'm betraying the selfish side of me which is always so carefully hidden or glossed over.
I just want to make a royal SHITload of money and not have to worry about finances for awhile.

One More Secret

This is the space usually occupied by angry, embittered outpourings of jealousy and hurt.

Not anymore, that is...not like it used to be.

Christopher and I are engaged.

Engaged!

It's the strangest, most surreal feeling to think of our now-solidified committment.
I just want to get going on the rest of our lives together right now.

I'll admit that right now I am feeling a slight amount of jealousy at he and the rest of everyone's probable activities for the evening.
I mean, I was going to eat the magical mushrooms as well...yay Charlie!

But it wasn't to be for now.
I am going to try and get some here anyway.

But overall, the wistful semi-jealousy I had felt is now more of an "oh, well" feeling.

This is much better.

He Has Become

Words are so powerful.

MY words are so powerful.

I have gone from utter silence to a deafening roar of blatant evil.
Looking over the writing pouring from me into my hemlock has shown me just how twisted and terrible I am...and most likely always shall be.

I am vengeful.
Hateful.
Malicious.

I will to bring pain...and I succeed.

Being Right Never Hurt This Much

Having held onto the possibility of something truly heartbreaking, truly without explanation and thus having created a worsening where...where...

Oh, screw this elevated language and writing.
I hate this feeling, like I HAVE to put everything so eloquently.

Chris cheated on my with Lee.

It happened quite some time ago, but even then I had an idea.
This hurts a lot more than I wanted to let it.

I guess it sort of goes hand in hand with the concerns I had about Scott seeing as how I put all of my worry into one situation when the true basis came out of a previous occurrence.

I hate Lee so much right now, I think of him as a little devil sinking his claws into my boy.
I want nothing more than to strike out at him with all of the force I can muster and then to scream with all of the pent up jealousy and anger I possess.



I forgive Chris, I forgave him back when I knew it had happened.
But having now heard the reality of his own confession, I am a shell.

Funny how the compilation so carefully crafted for Scott's emotional/intellectual state now applies so directly to my own.
I listened to it as I walked in the rain last evening prior to talking to Chris.

I promised him that I would not talk of it again, would not use it to hurt him in any way, would not bring it up to anyone else.
I am realizing that I do not know whether or not I can truly do that.
I have a huge desire to talk to someone about the whole series of events as they stand in order that I might vent, regret, cry, I don't know.

I couldn't contain my frustrations last night as I began to feel an emotional melt-down occurring. However, I held back many, many tears and I am sure that I have caused something of an unhealthy compacting of healthy feeling and output.

I don't know what I should do about all of this besides pray and wish.

Chris needs a break and I respect that.
I just feel that I am going to lose him.
That he is going to slowly slip away from me.

I love him and this is so painful for so many reasons.
But I love him.

Forgive Me Father for I Have Sinned, It Has Been Two Weeks Since My Last Confession

There is something going on inside of my head and my heart.
In honesty, when is it that there is not something taking place in those regions.

Scott is amazing.
I have to admit that to myself.
He is attractive in so many ways and I am sincerely drawn to him.

Again, I must be honest in saying that I really do want something to happen between us.
I guess in truth I have to say that "something" already is happening.
Why do I not feel that accute sense of stomach-lurching sickness so typical of me in a situation where I feel like I could very well be cheating?

It's because I know that Chris is in the midst of the same thing.
He likes Scott.
And why shouldn't he?

Scott is more mature, more down to earth, more receptive, more masculine, and most importantly, more like-minded.

It feels as if I have finally gotten to see what it is about me that Chris is feeling I lack and he desires and suddenly there is this person that fits the bill.

Can I hold it against Scott?
Absolutely not.
He is who is and that is not blameworthy.

It is the same reason that I cannot let myself feel a sense of blame for who I am.
More specifically the person I am that is not what Chris wants.

And it's not even as if I believe Scott can do no wrong, it's more that I feel like the "wrong" he may do is lesser than my own offending points which may drive Chris away.

I am hurting inside at knowing that Chris' attentions are waivering.
It's similar to how I felt when Jeremi was in the picture at the beginning of the summer.
However this time the feeling is so much more threatening because, unlike Jeremi, Scott is a person who could genuinely hold Chris' attentions and fulfill what it is that he is looking for in someone.

I don't know how Chris feels.
He seems to be so much stronger than I.
At the same time I do not completely understand whether or not he takes this as seriously as I do.
I guess the accutest of pains comes in the moments when I realize that Chris would rather talk to Scott than me.

I just want to keep discovering Christopher.
I want to hold onto the beautiful boy who I love so much and yet at a threat of loss I feel the need to strike out by showing that I too can be desirable to others.
In this case the same person who Chris finds to be so fascinating.

I just want to talk to Chris. I just want to be transparent to him and him to me so that I can feel that same sense of love and "need" that he is seemingly so adverse to showing.
It's that same feeling I would get at the beginning of summer when I received his notes, his messages, and more importantly his weakness.

I am trying to pray about all of this and understand what it is that I am supposed to feel, how it is I am supposed to react.

If I were to force myself into a choice my choice would be Chris.
I have felt so much of an investment that I cannot imagine pulling out for a maybe.
Actually it's not even a myabe, it's an impossibility.

Face it, nothing can actually happen between Scott and myself. Or even Scott and Chris.
There is no room for anything other than an emotional/intellectual connection.
Perhaps this is one instance in which distance will be my saving grace.

I have to fight for Chris.
I did it before and I know I will do it again.

But now I feel as if even though nothing will be physically manifested in a manner so pointedly hurtful, there is still an opportunity for some kind of support if not enhancing of a notion of the lacking where Chris and my relationship is concerned.

Will it make being apart less worth working at, worth fighting for, worth bleeding over?

I cannot say for certain but it is merely a concept which I consider in an attempt to bring myself to readiness for what terrifies me.

I do not want to lose him.
I do genuinely love him.

I proved that once again to myself when I would not give into my desire to kiss Scott.
It reminded me of that time last Christmas when Chris told me of how he nearly let himself go with Jeremi...the only difference in this case was the fact that there was no spell.
No blinding magic.

I knew what I wanted, what I truly and deeply wanted.
My desire to be true to the boy I love rose above my desire to feel physically close to Scott.

As much as I think of myself as a physically driven (and sometimes weak) person, I was able to abstain from something that would have been so easy.

Chris, please, please know that I choose you.

How can I let you know without just saying it?
Please let me know.


In so many, many things with you, all I want is for you to let me know.

Why can't I just be happy?

Calling upon the insidious point of always...break loose.

I know I am profoundly attached to far too many things.

I am a jealous person and I have this stupid suspicion that Lee and Chris may have done something of which I am not supposed to know.

I don't know, I just wane at the lacking of that romantic attention.

Once Again, The Sinking Empty

Once again, it seems like I am constantly unsure of Chris and I.
I hate this feeling.
This is reminding me of that month few weeks leading up to our original break and I cannot let myself think that that is going to happen again.

But I am frightened. I am scared to think that I'm going to drive in some kind of wedge with my actions. I cannot let myself hold this fear.

I need to talk to you, Chris.
I need to ask you my stupid questions and I need to hear that you love you.
Just say it.

Where Do I Go With This?

I am in the middle of deciding whether or not to tell anyone else about Christopher and I.
I know that it's a call that should be made by the two of us in tandem, it just seems like there's no time to confer.

I just want it to be an average thing.
We can walk anywhere together, holding hands or not.

We can sit anywhere together, his head on my shoulder.

I just need to have more self-assurance so I don't feel a need to feel external approval.

Come Clean

I admitted that I read the book.
I was less hard than I had expected.
I love Christopher.

Too much to tell

In the last several weeks my eyes have been opened to the possibilities of love.

That sounds so prosaic, so loose, so ideal.
And yet, that truly is how I feel at this point.

Chris and I have a chance.
It seems so small sometimes, but it's still a chance.

We love each other, we have both claimed it, both affirmed it, both lived it.

Something is different.
There's less of the weight of proof on my own shoulders now.
I feel like Chris has taken on some of what he left to me for fear of, well, fear.

I have to admit a strong sense of triumph over the forces of Jeremi.
He tried to get a hold on Chris' heart via victimization and vulnerability...and yet while I smile cruelly at his romantic demise in my favor, I recognize that I am not completely above reproach on that same level.

I have to admit that I put myself up against impossible odds in order to be saved by my Christopher and this is not an effort of honesty so much as an ideal proof of love.

Sometimes I really confuse myself with how much I process internally.

Chris got a little pointed (in a very polite way) about sharing our food today.

I felt kind of dumb for not thinking about the fact that I was sharing what was both of ours.

But hey, it's a chance for me to exercise NOT flipping out over being corrected.

I got a single hug today.

It was just right.

This Story Finds Binding

When will I ever be able to tear myself away from Chris?

I find in my heart such an unconditional love for him...even though previous posts would tell of some deep-rooted hurt, it is now obvious that those were only feelings of the brief moment.

I have spent much time with him lately.
I have spent many nights with him.
I have held him close.
I have kissed him.

I have been held.
I have been kissed.

Please God, let it be real, let it stay.
I want nothing more right now.

I don't want to be afraid to know what I want.

Several Days...Severe Daze

I am sitting in front of dear Mable wishing against wishing that Chris could find it in his heart to try again.

I know, I know...we are one and the same where affirmation is concerned and I can only imagine his level of contempt for feelings of insufficiency or lacklustre acceptance from those he cares about.

But it just seems as if everything is so real, so tangible when we're together.

I love him still, I love him so much.

Cole made a really definite point in saying how I need to tone down and she's right...God I hate it but she's right. There's no way I can go on flirting with attention-getters when I know that calming down into realism will be my only true salvation.

Then there's the issue of Jeremi, I get suh bitterness towards him when I think of his affections for the man I love...the boy I adore...but then again, as tonight seems to confirm...Chris is not interested in that.

The fact that Chris would prefer to call me after they were through talking shows me a lot about how much of an established comfort there truly is between the two of us.
The fears I had about something happening in my absence are beginning to aleviate and I hope they continue to be confirmed to that end.

Listening to Sting sing along with Chris Botti's sedcutive Jazz trumpet carries me to a level of serene contentment which I can only describe with words such as "shallow ideal" but conceptually this feels so genuine.

*sigh* on with my show.

insufficient

sometimes I really feel like less,
almost as if I am hopelessly below what is required or expected.

Tonight was one of those times.
I could not hardly even get an erection...Jeremi tried...Chris tried...it was no use.

I hate it, I mean I enjoyed myself, sure...but overall it's like I couldn't go through with it.

I am pretty sure that the main reason has something to do with me still being head over heels for Chris.