life documents

Of All the Girls I've Loved Before - Maggie Majeure

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 03:22:12 GMT

The following is not fiction, but memoir, as true as I can make it while at the same time attempting to make of Truth something approaching a narrative. I have changed names and have probably conflated one or two incidents into another. It's too soon to be sure, but as of this typing, I think I have done so successfully.

Nevertheless, it's long, so I've placed it beneath an lj-cut. Feel free to pass it by if you're not interested in reading a report that includes swearing and some semi-graphic sexual activity.

The quoted lyrics are, of course, from Simon and Garfunkle's beautiful song, "For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her", a piece of music that "Maggie Majeure" was instrumental in how I hear it now.

What a dream I had
Pressed in organdy
Clothed in crinoline
Of smoky burgundy
Softer than the rain

The last time I slept with Maggie was at my apartment in Ottawa, when she and I shared my double-bed with her Idiot Room-mate. That was a full two or three years after she had asked me if I wanted to "go out" with her and I had said, "Oh yes!", and nevermind that she was already involved with 2 other men.

Maggie Majeure was beautiful, was sophisticated, was smart and for a few of my teenage years I had counted her among my very closest friends.

I too was smart, but I was by no means sophisticated (it was not I who could claim to have spent a night with Kate Bush!) and I had no illusions that my appearance ranked me among the beautiful - I was short, I was chubby and I had the fashion sense of the stereotypical aspiring writing in his early 20s: essentially, none. I wasn't even nerdy, I was just sloppy, wearing more or less whatever happened to come my way.

In retrospect and from a fashion magazine or Hollywood point of view, I suppose that even Maggie was not, in "fact", beautiful, but only pretty. She was too short; her belly was soft and round, not hard and flat; her blue eyes sat a little too close together, her nose was too upturned and not quite long enough; her breasts not quite so firm nor as perky, her nipples too small, to meet the official standards of the day.

But she didn't aspire to standards. Sexy in her self, her style was bohemian/funky: no make-up; long flowing skirts, bright and multi-coloured; loose and layered tops; flat-bottomed boots, not heels. Though I think she dabbled a little in acting, she aspired to poetry, not performance. A brown-haired sprite, comfortable in her skin, but not a bomb-shell.

* * *
Three years before that night in Ottawa, I was living in Toronto, having recently returned following a disastrous year in Montreal and a surprising subsequent 16-week stint working for CBC Radio in Sudbury, where I learned to telephone strangers and interview them; to write scripts and edit tape - my first "real" job.

I'd moved back to Toronto and into a house with some friends - a decrepit old place on Stafford Street, north of King, where the roof sagged and potatoes froze in the kitchen cupboards in winter. We had thrown of a party - one of many, for we were still young then - and to my delighted surprise, Maggie had come to it.

I was 23 years old, Maggie perhaps a year or two younger. We had become friends in high school, close friends. We spent a lot of time together, even once hitching to her parents' home in Ottawa and taking a side-trip to Montreal. I loved her then, and wanted nothing more than to touch her, to kiss her, but never made a move - I was too afraid of hearing "no" to dare the chance of hearing "yes". Eventually, I did send her a long, type-written letter telling her how I felt and she had had the courage to face me over bad food at the old Fran's Restaurant on College Street to tell me that, no, her feelings for me were not of the same order as mine were for her.

And, after I knit together the broken bits of my heart, we managed to stay friends, though not quite with the same intimacy we had once shared.

And now here we were, together again.

We'd found a quiet spot in the back yard. We told each other the stories of our lives, we laughed and we drank and we smoked and we laughed some more.

And our knees bumped and our hands brushed and presently we found ourselves facing each other on the futon in my room, candles offering a warm, wavering light.

And she pulled from her purse a copy of Allen Ginsbergs collected poems and read to me his "Howl".

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night ...

Her eyes watered and her full lips trembled, and she made of that angry lament a meaningful elegy for a time neither of us had known.

And after that sublime reading from that battered and broken-backed paperback, I kissed her or she kissed me - I don't remember how it began.

But soon, she was on her back and I lay atop her. Our lips locked, our tongues met. Our hands explored the flesh beneath our suddenly-constricting clothes.

She told me that I kissed well and I, embarrassed and proud - in truth, infinitely pleased! - confessed to having had some practice and also credited a scene from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Irving's novel, Hotel New Hampshire.

We laughed at that and we kissed some more. I undid her diaphanous blouse and at some point raised her arms so I could remove it completely. Her skin was warm and smooth and soft, her breasts small, firm fleshy delights under my hands. I took her nipples in my mouth like a grateful supplicant. I was a bee set loose among the richest clover; a lost child suddenly re-united with its mother; a man in the arms of a long-lost friend whom I had once loved desperately, and who I desperately wanted to love again. And of course, I desperately wanted Maggie to love me too.

And when you ran to me
Your cheeks flushed with the night
We walked on frosted fields
Of juniper and lamplight
I held your hand

Maybe that's why it went wrong. Not so much because I wanted her to love me too, but because of loneliness, my desperation, my gratitude - all that makes for a heavy burden for a new lover to carry.

Or maybe not. Maggie never said and I can't ask her now. At last report I had of her - a decade ago now - said was said to be seeing a therapist and had followed that worthy's advice to cut all ties with people from her past.

But that night, we were together. We kissed and touched each other, and when I realized she was half-naked beneath me while I had yet to remove even my jean-jacket, I stopped for a moment the touching and the kissing and and I shrugged off that jacket and Maggie undid my shirt-buttons and we helped each other remove what remained of the rest of our clothing and we found ourselves as one in nakedness.

And we found some condoms and - oh yes! - we made love.

Once, twice, three times or four - I can no longer recall the details of the acts of love themselves, only that they happened. And maybe that's just as well. I was plunged into the moment like a zoo-trapped animal suddenly returned to its natural habitat, joyous and blissfully unaware of all but unity of her body and of mine.

And at some point we fell asleep in one another's arms and awoke entwined still, warm and happy in the sun-dappled morning.

And when we woke, that crystal light streaming through my narrow window, we kissed some more and we fucked again and then, lying wasted together, Maggie suggested breakfast.

And so, an hour or so later, we found ourselves at Mars, seated in a diner right out of the 1950s, all stainless-steel stools along the bar and padded seats with working jukeboxes at the booths.

We ordered pancakes and sausages and coffees; the sunlight came free with the coffee refills and so did our furtive smiles and tentative finger-tip touches.

And so, our plates more or less clean and our refills steaming before us, our legs stretched out beneath the table, we faced each other. Hung-over, well-fucked, well-stuffed. It was then she asked that magic question: "Do you want to go out with me?"

And it was then that I answered (as how could I not?), "Yes! Oh yes!"

"But you do know I'm already involved with two other guys ..."

It was hard to tell if that last sentenced concluded with a period or a question-mark, but my hesitation didn't last long.

"I can try that," I said, even as I wondered, Can I be a member of a harem? Can I handle that? Well, why not? I'll hate myself if I don't at least try.

"Yes," I said again and I took her hand and gently squeezed it.

But "it" didn't work out after all.

Over the subsequent weeks, I phoned her a number of times and we got together three or four, twice spending an entire night together. Yet we never again made love.

In her small and cluttered basement room, we cuddled and eventually slept while, horny and terrified at the same time, I hoped that my roaming hands might somehow reignite the passion she had felt for me that night in my room.

There was no break-up - no angry scene nor a tearful one; no acknowledgment that the relationship she had proposed had been still-born. A quarter-century down the line, I know only that at some point not very long after that wonderful, post-coitial morning, I admitted to myself that there was no relationship.

I felt some sadness and frustration, but little or no anger; the relationship had been so evanescent there was nothing to be angry about.

And presently, Maggie moved to Ottawa. A year or so later, I did too, having decided to attend university - I didn't move to The Nation's Capital to chase my dreams of Maggie Majeure.

* * *
Still, I looked her up and found she lived only a dozen blocks away. She was happy to hear from me and we met got together at a local pub and were soon friends again, much as we had been way back when, in high school. Which is to say, the sexual tension was as one-sided as it had been before: I wanted Maggie, but Maggie gave no sign she wanted me.

But there was that confusing night a couple of years into my Ottawa stay at my apartment on Catherine Street, the one Maggie's friend Maryanne (another woman for whom I felt a one-sided love, but that's an indulgence for another day) bequeathed to me when she moved back in with her parents.

Maggie and her Idiot Room-mate (so-dubbed by Maggie, after said room-mate had chosen to pay the cable rather than the electric bill) had come over for drinks and talk.

And drink and talk we did, well into the wee hours of the morning. In the late hours of that morning, we arose to the sight of any number of beer bottles and a twenty-sixer of vodka, all empty.

Somehow, all that drink had seen all three of us to my double-bed, where of necessity we cuddled close, the room-mate on the outside, Maggie in the middle and I on the inside, back against the wall, Maggie's lovely ass pressed against my crotch.

Though I had by this time in my life actually had one "real" girlfriend, I was still by no means confident or skilled when it came to expressing Desire (and this time, the added complication of a third party in my bed - and the accompanying fantasy of a threesome that party entailed - served only to make the attainment of that Desire all the more unlikely). Once again, I let my hands do my talking, such was my understanding of foreplay.

And as had happened the last time we had been together, Maggie neither resisted nor encouraged my caresses. For a time, I took No Response as a Maybe, and let my hands roam free over her flesh, wandering the steppes of her belly, exploring the startling foothills of her breasts and the shocking summits of her nipples.

All that motion, all that touch must, I thought, have been as tangibly communicative as speech, but she was dumb to my overtures.

She never moved.

She must have known I touched her, must have felt the involuntary bulge of my cock straining against its denim prison against the gap between her legs.

But she never moved, and I at last gave up my efforts and finally turned to the wall.

In the morning, I tried tactile communication one last time. While the Idiot Room-Mate measured coffee at the kitchen counter and Maggie stood in the doorway, I approached her from behind and wrapped my arms around her, covered her breasts with my hands and brushed my lips against her neck. She covered my hands with hers, squeezed them momentarily and leaned back against me, then slipped from my grasp and took a chair at the kitchen table to await her coffee.

And that was the last time I touched Maggie Majeure with more than a comradely hug. It was one of the last times I saw her at all.

We never discussed the time we "went out", never spoke of that night in my small Ottawa bed.

Not so long after, I moved back to Toronto, we lost touch, and that was it. A seven or eight year chapter of our lives had ended, without climax, without closure. A sometimes complicated friendship ran it's course and, in the end, just stopped.

And when I awoke
And felt you warm and near
I kissed your honey hair
With my grateful tears
Oh I love you, girl
Oh I love you

Cross-posted from my journal and to love_sucks.

in the sand of dreams forever

Wed, 21 Feb 2007 23:18:25 GMT

and so look at me now finally
i’ve gone so far and so fast so steadily
i’m almost sure i have forgotten you
but never did i forget the way i felt with you
as we melt together in the arms of sweet surrender
as we rushed together in the sand of dreams forever

time moved me so still
that i can't even tell what is real
i can't even tell how much i loved you
until i couldn't feel if i still do

time stood still so frequently
that i didn’t even noticed how wretched i have been
i didn't even feel how love was supposed to be
cause i was waiting for you so endlessly
cause i was standing here for you so wearily
and i was longing for you to come back to me
but you never did, you never did still
but i was waiting still, i was waiting still forever
to melt with you again in the arms of sweet surrender
to rush with you again in the sand of dreams forever

the coming of age (february 20, 2007)

Wed, 21 Feb 2007 04:50:57 GMT

exercising
the will to be forcible
for you to see me against tides
of unwanted imagery
against unexplained comedy
of you here lying motionless
touching the skin at my back

calculating
the risks already undertaken
from the moment you smelled my hair
till your arms playfully linger on my bare hip
then in unison
looking thru the frosty window
listening to the rain pouring madly at the roof
whispering carelessly to remember
long forgotten memories taken in innocence together

leaving
the bliss left under the sheets
with you holding me closely
against your bare chest
overpowering me with your able shoulders
trapped endlessly
wanting blissfully
to be here forever
without turning back
to our lives lived in secrecy

Wed, 27 Dec 2006 13:12:32 GMT

Such

Mon, 04 Dec 2006 05:37:04 GMT

So this is my first post in this or any community...I'm new to LJ. I loved the idea of this community, I hope to learn a lot here :-)

So many times I cried,
"God help me."
But I never truly
Said a prayer.

My life filled to the brim,
With no sleep.
I ended heart broken,
A lost whim.

Just the things I asked for,
Much too much.
Only the world I made,
All fallen.

I did call out each day,
"God help me."
But not even nightly,
Did I pray.

Fri, 01 Sep 2006 02:52:04 GMT

When girls are in long distance relationships, and it's finally time for a visit; the preperation process could be an Olympic event.
It takes all day. From packing, grooming and all the tiny details in between.
We never tell them how much effort goes into making those first few moments of reunion, that first night back together, close to perfection. We never tell them how hard it is to be so fantastic for them, because it would ruin the illusion that we so carefully cultivate.
I've been in several long distance relationships now, and I have the magic of those first few moments down to an art.

And we do this, because when there isn't the constant reassurance of our prescence, we want to remind them why it's worth it, even though they KNOW it's worth it, or they wouldn't do it.
But inspite of the fact, that they're looking forward to seeing us, as much as we're looking forward to seeing them...

We want to appear as these beautiful, seamless creatures who are effortlessly everything they want us to be.

But this art and preperation is often pointless and unnoticed.
Because we're already effortlessly everything they want.
But we still do it.
We still spend hours attaining something that already exists.

Collectively, I've been in one long distance relationship or another for 5 years.
And even though I know all my preperation is for naught, I still go through these rituals in anticipation.

Girls are strange and mystifying creatures.
And I say this, being one.

Co-Worker

Sat, 26 Aug 2006 00:24:20 GMT

I must admit that,
until then
I had found her indifferent
yet somewhat mysterious
But somehow
We ended at a work function together
Me, and my co-worker.

During the night,
She looked at me
And said, “Let’s get plastered.”
And I began to grin stupidly.
Things were about to get interesting,
And of course I never turn down a drink.

So she took me to a Karaoke Bar
And it suddenly hit me
This woman was extremely attractive.
She threw off her jacket revealing
A tight, black slinky top
She let down her hair:
Long, thick, waving,
shining, brown hair
That cascaded down her shoulders
almost engulfing her
Contrasting beautifully with the darkness of her top.

She was stunning
Her eyes were soft and blue,
fringed with long, silky lashes.
Her eyes danced with mischief.

And then she began to drink.
And drink
And drink
And then she began to sing
And dance,
grinding to the music as it overtook her.

She began to gyrate like Madonna on methamphetamines
And every man in the bar turned
To stare at her
Jaws dropped open.
She smiled
And I smiled,
knowing that she was with me.

My co-worker is breath-takingly stunning,
Sensual & pure.
Looking at her knocked the wind clean out of me,
turning my stomach in knots of anticipation.

I thought to myself
How had I not seen it?
Had I been so blind?
Or had she simply been a master of disguise?
I saw that she was dangerous,
complicated & intelligant,
beautifully open to the world.

And she made me remember Mexico
When I was seven years old;
And how I found
A large,
perfect conch shell
In the surf.
I picked it up
I wanted to own it
But then suddenly
A long, glistening tentacle
Snaked out of the shell
In alarm, flailing in the air.
I dropped it with a gasp
Shocked and grateful
Moved to tears
Because I had discovered that
The teeming world is rich with secret life
None of which can be owned or known,
or even categorized
Because nothing is ever what it seems

It is better.

Sun, 06 Aug 2006 13:29:19 GMT

Hi everyone,

I just joined this community hoping to find some new people to help me out with my autobiography.

This journal is public and open for anyone to add me so please feel free to do so.

Looking foward to reading about all of you on here.

-Venom lily

Gum `n` Thigh Highs

Sat, 22 Jul 2006 02:58:56 GMT

*
*
*
*
*
*
In line at lunch, I’m buying
gum & thigh high hoes
& fish nets for my evening fun.

The man behind me smiles.
I smile.
I’ve got
the freshest breath in this place &
the silkiest thighs any fingers could trace.

According to the box,
I’ll feel “elegant, bold, playful and sexy”
in the sheer, soft-black, lace-top hosiery
Hand wash only
Drip dry.

My gum is long lasting,
It will not promote tooth decay.

If I am not completely satisfied,
all I have to do is return product
to the address listed below
for a full refund.

In the car park with my bag
the wind flows over me like 90% nylon
with a scent of polyester.

& as I return my credit card to its niche
inside my wallet
I think to myself:

You can’t put a price on
being young,
being alive,
being minty-fresh;
with every avenue open to you
all eyes appreciative as you make your way
through this multi-plex,
new-and-improved land
on sure & stylish
black-clad legs.

Mon, 17 Jul 2006 19:36:15 GMT

Hi,

I'm starting to document the true stories of myself and others throughout the summer. Check it out. It will be updated frequently until I catch up to the current date. Feel free to add to friends and keep up on the action. reservationst

Follow the residents of Reservation Street and their friends as they pursue higher degrees, random hook-ups, significant others, free booze, and good times.

philosophical poll

Wed, 12 Jul 2006 03:30:27 GMT

Hi there, I'm loving this `space`...

I've just posted a philosophical poll on my live journal http://rubyslippers01.livejournal.com/ & would love it if you wouldn't mind taking a second out of your day to lend your thoughts & contribute to what should be a interesting response.

*Ruby*

Puzzle Glue

Sat, 08 Jul 2006 09:43:26 GMT

Jigsaw puzzle enthusiasts
sometimes buy a product called puzzle glue
& when they have completed
a particularly challenging endeavour
they use it to secure all the pieces together
& then they frame the thing
& hang it on the wall
& I am seduced
briefly
just as they are
by the illusion
of having something to show for your life
a product
not just a process
an object of beauty
rescued from the fragments
an enigma to struggle over
until slowly a picture can emerge
but only for an instant
and I rush to the store
looking for life glue
knowing that with every step
the pieces jostle
away from one another
away from me

here is A poem insired by A freind of someone I used to date

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 04:05:18 GMT

you said many times
that you only want your friend
to be with A sweat person

now she's dating me
and you Hate it
you said I was righteous several times

before your friend
got connected to my personality
I gues you lie

This little piggy

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 07:27:51 GMT

Hello, here is a story from my childhood. The story involves an animal death so I thought I would just provide a link instead of posting it directly in the community.

When I was in elementary school, we used to keep pigs. Actually we had a few types of animals though we were certainly far from owning a farm as such. I understood that the pigs were food and that I couldn't get attached to them but even though I knew this, I still wanted to name them and love them. So I did, and when it was time to slaughter them I cried.

Our pigs were killed and butchered by my father. He would shoot them in the head with a rifle. I don't know if you know this but pigs are pretty tough and it often takes more than one bullet to put one down—and they never go down easy. Sometimes they squeal for quite some time before they die. I was nearby when this happened many times.

One year we had a pig with whom I developed a particularly close bond. He was a smart pig and against my mother's better judgement, this pig and I shared numerous adventures. Once this pig and I stole a woman's underwear off her clothesline and then went swimming in her pool. We actually did this several times before we were caught.

The adventures continued for the summer but inevitably, the time to slaughter the pigs came. On this particular day I was playing on my swing set when I heard the shots and then the squealing. had I been paying more attention I would have realized that the squealing was getting closer. I turned around when this fact became too obvious to ignore and saw my pig pal running towards me at full speed with my father close behind trying to grab him. He had a huge bullet hole in his forehead which was gushing so much blood that it had covered his entire body.

He ran at me and knocked me over. I fell back and he dove into my lap and continued to scream. The blood was soon all over me—all over me. By the time the pig was dead, the blood was practically gushing from the bullet hole and his mouth. My dad was desperately trying to pull the pig off me but he was really heavy and his efforts were not successful. My dad finally managed to roll the pig off of me.

What happened after that was really a blur...I remember my dad apologizing; I remember my mom putting me in the shower; I remember throwing my clothes away.

Thanks for your time!

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 12:20:17 GMT

Greetings!

Of Forgetting and Celebrating

Wed, 09 Nov 2005 11:06:09 GMT

“Life goes easy on me…most of the time.”

It was way past midnight, and the voice of Damien Rice weaved soulfully across the calm of the swimming pool, singing a song of sorrow that would have made even the most macho guy weep. The sky was a sacred black, too, and coupled with such a lonely lullaby, I would have naturally grieved along to the faint soundtrack. But this was a party, a birthday bash, even an informal college reunion of sorts. On nights like this, all that will be asked of you is to celebrate.

And drink. Sure enough, there was plenty of alcohol for everyone –beer, vodka, tequila, red wine, gin- to drown each of our own miseries and tragedies, and to celebrate as if it was the last night of the world. Outside this place of refuge they call “Boyd’s Oasis”, there were indeed plenty of things over which we were bound to sulk, but after a round of Jose Cuervo, we all came to a mighty realization: Who in bloody hell plays “The Blower’s Daughter” in a pool party? Will someone do all of us a favor and play anything bubblegum?

We settled for a Gwen Stefani single, and eased into the liberating peace we might not have enjoyed if we remained in our own little cocoons. It would have been faux pas to wallow in the burden of our professions, or the strangle of our regrets, or the pain of our broken hearts. A cardinal sin it so became to talk about growing pains and unwanted adulteration. It was time to laugh, at each other and with each other. If the sight of a drunken one-legged man throwing shot glasses into the water wasn’t enough to amuse us all, at least there were other ways to find an ephemeral high.

And so the unforgiven confessions became silly punchlines. The sadness of reality and the joy of poking fun at it stopped being mutually exclusive. The statement “Where are you---I’m in love” had everyone bursting into hysterical laughter as if it was ripped from the pages of a bad movie script, because if, for that night, one was going to be a hopeless romantic –nay, even just hopeless- then he might as well not have shown up, for we were all jolly good fellows with beer in one hand and a cigarette on the other.

It was a truly refreshing experience, with the damp breeze on my cheeks, in the open air, and with the obnoxious laughs of some twenty somethings catching up on each other’s lives and drunkenness. It was somewhat of a pleasant surprise, too, given that a few hours before I arrived, I was a little pessimistic of how much fun I would have.

Which brings me to “a few hours before I arrived”, where I was strolling along Gateway Mall, looking at tailored suits and shiny leather shoes I could never afford, all while waiting for a dear friend to pick me up. As I stepped out one of those pay lounges (ten bucks to have somewhere to urinate? Come on!), I saw a familiar face in an unfamiliar territory. At first sight, I wasn’t quite sure who it was, but after a few more seconds, I lowered my baseball cap because I recognized who exactly I was looking at. And I didn’t want him to look back.

It was my shrink.

I was a little taken aback, for the surprise was more “peculiar” than “pleasant”. I suddenly found myself stepping into a girlie shop in which I had no business snooping around, sniffing perfume samples and pretending to shop for a hot date.

***

“Just like you said it should be, we’ll both forget the breeze…most of the time.”

***

Even if it were not for the sight of my psychotherapist, I might as well would have been the one oozing with pessimism as I headed to Boyd’s Oasis. Also, my agenda might as well have been what Damien Rice was preaching all along: forget the breeze. Forget fun. Forget fortitude. Forget life. Let’s immerse ourselves in our endless litany of poignant miseries.

This seemed reasonable, justified even, especially when you’re talking about someone who’s just over a month removed from the confines of a hospital after a deliberate Rivotril overdose, and whose childhood friend was shot recently to an early death.

However, as I learned that night with each passing second and each burning cigarette, Rice has gotten it all wrong. Perhaps it is easier to brush aside those things which make our lives more miserable and more painful. It is a little much wiser to forget and celebrate, than remember and regret. Even if it turns out that this course of action will take much of us to master, I cannot deny that it is worth keeping in mind.

I had an increasingly stronger conviction that if we are to meaningfully celebrate our very lives, a little alcohol helps more than absolute sobriety, a little humor more than much alcohol, a little hope more than much humor, and a little connection with those human beings we call our “friends” more than all.

So go ahead. Celebrate, and make sure that a good time shall be had by all.

Parental Ignorance Passed On

Sat, 15 Oct 2005 20:17:44 GMT

I was one of the children raised by a drunk and a drop-out and felt the collision of their worlds.

I was the child watching her mom travel in and out of many drunken relationships.

I was the teen taken advantage of and have memories that never die.

I was the teen without any bounderies that didn't have family talks about the future.

We were the young, falling in love, or was it obsession?, without a clue to where it was going.

We were young parents that lacked communication, and social skills, that put us on a long, sometimes very hard road to adulthood.

We are the parents that tried to show our children that their voice was important, and had it used against us at times.

We are the parents that tried to stay strong while supporting our young adult's overwhelmingly hard decision that was made out of a frightened frame of mind? anxiety? selfishness? lack of confidence? unaccepted reality? Ours, hers, his, all?

We are the parents that are told "It's the least you could do, as parents" and wonder if that pressure was something that all parents feel.

We are the parents that have done our best, which includes the times when we fought, gave in, gave up, forgiven, forgot.

I am the woman that knows I cannot change what has been done but am reminded every day that I should have done things differently.

I just joined...

Wed, 05 Oct 2005 23:27:21 GMT

Almost Asleep
Side by side,
arms linked
not so much in camaraderie
but in understanding,
an appreciation of time
and night and blinding, soothing, melting darkness.
Your head lolls and
your forehead kneads my shoulder
until I'm just the right amount of wax
ready to shape but so afraid to move,
to disturb the face finally free of cracks;
fault lines of forever frowns;
lips of marble remedied by softness
known only by baby blankets.
My arm, the left one you're sleeping on,
has lost feeling from elbow to fingertip.
Still, I content myself to memorizing
the abrupt arches of your eyebrows,
the warm wells of your neck
where your pulse beats out a steady staccato rhythm,
and the heady weight of our legs, still clothed,
Tangled.

Hi!

Sat, 13 Aug 2005 09:53:11 GMT

Hey, I just joined and thought Id post something that I wrote today.
I'd love to know what everyone thinks :)

A sickening feeling makes its presence known in the pit of my stomache. Almost a feeling of void, almost nautiousness. Disgust for him, and yet at the same time longing, craving, almost needing it to exist.

I bleed and you watch. Only present to mask your own fear. And only fearful of your own presence.

Your words cut deeper than my blade. I am like air. You hate me for being everywhere yet you can't live without me. Existance in that instant seems to simply boil down to one purpose.

To discover why.

A single tear rolls down leaving a path for others to aspire to. And in an instant more follow suit.

Hypocritical, contaminated, cynical, irradicated.

Illusionments of self control intertwine themselves with my pain, releasing a longing to laugh. At stupidity, at arrogance, of yours and of mine. And of the truths discovered within.

Im drowning in a sea of your contentment. Sensing only a vision of endless regret tide after tide after ride. ride..

Your words ring hollow, and I feel almost nostalgic. Hollographic.

Afriad. Afriad to close my eyes, afriad to enter an area of nothingness, knowing that when I do it will be eternal. Because when I open my eyes you will be gone.

And existance will be here. Harsh. True.

Never wanting anything more than to know that which you have given me, and yet never being naive enough to believe in its purity.

That which I seek seems so simple yet so complicated.

Illuding me is the reason. So abstract I want to scream for you to retract

everything.

words said.. tears bled.. skins shed.. intentions read..

return me to my shell. Return to me my strength. Give me back my facade and leave me with nothing more. Take my pride and steal my ignorance, but leave me with my illusions.

Fri, 12 Aug 2005 06:51:58 GMT

Nostalgia
This word confuses me
For my memory of you
Is like a self-inflicted wound
Cursed to leave the ugliest scar.

Damn. I wish I never met you.

Mon, 08 Aug 2005 09:47:41 GMT

Here's a short memoir I thought I'd share. It's about the game I love. Hehe.

It was Tuesday when the fire was extinguished.

As I heaved basketballs from beyond the three-point arc, Coach Gabby summoned me to the scorer’s table. He wished to talk to me in private –well, at least where none of my teammates would be able to eavesdrop (not that anyone would want to). A few have left for class, others were horsing around, while others still were doing push-ups.

Although I hurriedly ran up to him, I was far from eager. If I had heeded what my muted inner voice was saying, I would have taken very slow baby steps on my way to him, for I knew what was coming. But then it was modus operandi in practice to move from one spot to another as quickly as possible, so I ran, almost as if to overtake my hesitation.

He had that solemn frown on his face, much like that of a businessman after a meeting gone awry, a look which I quickly copied in solidarity with his seriousness. No time for post-practice banter now.

Continue...
http://www.livejournal.com/users/witness_street/2399.html

Nirvana

Sat, 02 Jul 2005 11:01:26 GMT

Here's a short story I wrote a few days ago...

Cars honked, pedestrians walked. Frozen stood the magnificent buildings, reaching for the clear sky, the sun majestically beaming its intense radiance upon their clear glass windows. It was three in the afternoon, and Ayala Avenue typified the heartless monotony of business and strictly that. Amidst the pile of vehicles caught in traffic, the three of us sat in a black Honda, finding ourselves waiting for the red light to turn green. We just left the office, but we were off to our destination for exactly the same reason: work.

CONTINUE...
http://www.livejournal.com/users/witness_street/1948.html