When you left me, you took the dances and the music and the ghosts.
Nobody told me you could do that.
Friday, June 27
Monday, June 23
You think you're feeling better. You think maybe you're finally starting to get over it. And then one night you're riding your bike home from Eastlake and you're happy and singing that song that always gets stuck in your head and suddenly you're choking; you overwhelmed with sadness your lungs seize up and hyperventilation kicks in and your vision is blurry from the hot tears raining from your eyes and you fall off your bike and land in a blackberry bush, where you will sit and sob like a sad sucker. And you can't believe you still feel this way after 63 days. And you don't think you'll ever feel better.
Wednesday, June 18
By Jonathan Goldstein
It inspires me. It crushes me.
Man is two. He is holy, but he is also a scumbag. He is a sentimentalist, but he is also a murderer. He is one, but he is also many. Perhaps he is not just two. He is more than two. Perhaps thirty or so. The great tragedy of life is that we only have one; one life to be this or that. Yet within us we hold many selves, all of whom want to live equally.
If only we could subdivide like an amoeba and have one half go into work while the other half wanders the streets writing poetry on park benches. One self to absent-mindedly play with a letter opener during an endless PowerPoint presentation while another self dances on the windowsill. One self that nods politely at a stranger's story on the bus about the best chicken sandwich he's ever eaten while the other self kisses the bus driver on the lips.
We are walking, talking piñatas; plump with unnourished desires and every desire is an unborn self. Pardon my saying so, but this is a kind of personal weight that you cannot rid yourself of in a gymnasium with the rigorous passing of a medicine ball.
And so we read books and go to movies and live vicariously through the people on the screen, who shine twenty feet tall in the darkness. It's why we dream at night. In dreams we are basketball stars with the power of flight. In dreams the soul paints impossible pictures of endless possible worlds. The idea of reincarnation is reassuring, this idea of unending potential selves launching into perpetuity, for while we live this life, we are doomed to forever be one lonely self.
When we were children we knew that there were many people who lived inside of us. We donned masks and put on strange clothing. We allowed these other selves to speak through us in high-pitched voices. Everything around us was more than what it seemed. The hole in the laundry room wall was a portal to a dimension full of Keebler elves and the red Smarties were pills that cured bullying. The family cat wasn't merely a cat -- we dressed it up in bonnets to bring out its inner milkmaid. And we ourselves were the seeds that would one day sprout into large, multi-petaled things.
As adults we imagine what we could have been, what we might have been, if only we had been loved a little more, breast-fed a little longer. There is, in each of us, a feeling of untapped hidden possibility; potential selves that, given the chance, could've loved more boldly, spoken the truth more plainly, and perhaps even chewed less loudly.
We hunger for new forces to enter our lives, to take hold of our hands and stop us dead in our tracks with words that recognize and explain not only who we could have been but who we still can be, as though all of our possible worlds were as plainly obvious and present as the voice on the other end of the telephone line.
Man is two. He is holy, but he is also a scumbag. He is a sentimentalist, but he is also a murderer. He is one, but he is also many. Perhaps he is not just two. He is more than two. Perhaps thirty or so. The great tragedy of life is that we only have one; one life to be this or that. Yet within us we hold many selves, all of whom want to live equally.
If only we could subdivide like an amoeba and have one half go into work while the other half wanders the streets writing poetry on park benches. One self to absent-mindedly play with a letter opener during an endless PowerPoint presentation while another self dances on the windowsill. One self that nods politely at a stranger's story on the bus about the best chicken sandwich he's ever eaten while the other self kisses the bus driver on the lips.
We are walking, talking piñatas; plump with unnourished desires and every desire is an unborn self. Pardon my saying so, but this is a kind of personal weight that you cannot rid yourself of in a gymnasium with the rigorous passing of a medicine ball.
And so we read books and go to movies and live vicariously through the people on the screen, who shine twenty feet tall in the darkness. It's why we dream at night. In dreams we are basketball stars with the power of flight. In dreams the soul paints impossible pictures of endless possible worlds. The idea of reincarnation is reassuring, this idea of unending potential selves launching into perpetuity, for while we live this life, we are doomed to forever be one lonely self.
When we were children we knew that there were many people who lived inside of us. We donned masks and put on strange clothing. We allowed these other selves to speak through us in high-pitched voices. Everything around us was more than what it seemed. The hole in the laundry room wall was a portal to a dimension full of Keebler elves and the red Smarties were pills that cured bullying. The family cat wasn't merely a cat -- we dressed it up in bonnets to bring out its inner milkmaid. And we ourselves were the seeds that would one day sprout into large, multi-petaled things.
As adults we imagine what we could have been, what we might have been, if only we had been loved a little more, breast-fed a little longer. There is, in each of us, a feeling of untapped hidden possibility; potential selves that, given the chance, could've loved more boldly, spoken the truth more plainly, and perhaps even chewed less loudly.
We hunger for new forces to enter our lives, to take hold of our hands and stop us dead in our tracks with words that recognize and explain not only who we could have been but who we still can be, as though all of our possible worlds were as plainly obvious and present as the voice on the other end of the telephone line.
Tuesday, June 17
Monday, June 16
I have no way of knowing if a friendship between us is still something you want, though I suspect not.
Another letter never sent:
You called me on Friday night, claiming in your message that the reason for your call was simply to follow up on the status of the money order you mailed. You didn't have to call me to find that out and we both know it. In strict accordance with other recent actions, your calling me was entirely self-serving and I was livid that you tried to contact me. I'm still angry with you for doing this, but after some thought I realize that I'm also glad you did.
After you broke up with me you became different; you were cold and unfeeling toward me, but publicly you cast yourself as the victim, acting under the maxim "In matters of utmost importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing."
After I poured my heart out to you, spilling drops of pathos and anguish and so many liters of tears at your feet, you had the gall to respond with "I'm sorry you feel that way. Actually, no. I'm not sorry. It's a bummer that you feel that way." Those words represent but a few of the many harsh, impenitent statements tossed my way but remain the ones I think of most. The ones that frequent my thoughts and trouble my spirit. The ones that make me doubt my own judgement, my own heart, and the relationship I had with you which I previously thought had been precious to us both. You were a completely selfish and remorseless creep.
Your keen adaptability to my heart's demise sent a chill through my heart. A chill. Your actions lead me to believe that the person I was so apt to dwell on for thirteen months was a figure of my own imagination, not you, Kevin Neff. I felt I didn't know you and, furthermore, I had no wish to.
But then you called. The fact that you called under the thinly veiled guise of making sure I got the money I was owed gave me hope that perhaps what we had was real. For both of us. And although in the end you chose what you knew would be a fleeting, sexual relationship over what could have continued to be the most important friendship of our lives, I take some solice in the knowledge that the man who never looks back looked back, however briefly, and thought of me.
I'll ask you again not to contact me anymore unless it's absolutely necessary, especially not while I'm at work (a request you've needlessly disrepected several times). I don't know if I want to know you anymore, or if I ever knew you in the first place. What I do know is that before I make a decision on the matter I need to be sure I'm healthy in every respect, and I have a lot of work to do to get myself well again. Don’t misunderstand me, Kevin. I hate your breathing guts but I love you like I've never loved anyone.
You called me on Friday night, claiming in your message that the reason for your call was simply to follow up on the status of the money order you mailed. You didn't have to call me to find that out and we both know it. In strict accordance with other recent actions, your calling me was entirely self-serving and I was livid that you tried to contact me. I'm still angry with you for doing this, but after some thought I realize that I'm also glad you did.
After you broke up with me you became different; you were cold and unfeeling toward me, but publicly you cast yourself as the victim, acting under the maxim "In matters of utmost importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing."
After I poured my heart out to you, spilling drops of pathos and anguish and so many liters of tears at your feet, you had the gall to respond with "I'm sorry you feel that way. Actually, no. I'm not sorry. It's a bummer that you feel that way." Those words represent but a few of the many harsh, impenitent statements tossed my way but remain the ones I think of most. The ones that frequent my thoughts and trouble my spirit. The ones that make me doubt my own judgement, my own heart, and the relationship I had with you which I previously thought had been precious to us both. You were a completely selfish and remorseless creep.
Your keen adaptability to my heart's demise sent a chill through my heart. A chill. Your actions lead me to believe that the person I was so apt to dwell on for thirteen months was a figure of my own imagination, not you, Kevin Neff. I felt I didn't know you and, furthermore, I had no wish to.
But then you called. The fact that you called under the thinly veiled guise of making sure I got the money I was owed gave me hope that perhaps what we had was real. For both of us. And although in the end you chose what you knew would be a fleeting, sexual relationship over what could have continued to be the most important friendship of our lives, I take some solice in the knowledge that the man who never looks back looked back, however briefly, and thought of me.
I'll ask you again not to contact me anymore unless it's absolutely necessary, especially not while I'm at work (a request you've needlessly disrepected several times). I don't know if I want to know you anymore, or if I ever knew you in the first place. What I do know is that before I make a decision on the matter I need to be sure I'm healthy in every respect, and I have a lot of work to do to get myself well again. Don’t misunderstand me, Kevin. I hate your breathing guts but I love you like I've never loved anyone.
Friday, June 6
Don't misunderstand me
I hate Kevin's breathing guts, but I love him more than I've ever loved anyone.
Thursday, June 5
The ones you love don't have to love you back
When you're young they fail to tell you
Just say that you're so smart and you're so special
They take your heart and then they break it
And they take your skull and then they shake it
But they're never gonna tell you from the start
Yes, the world is gonna break your little heart
Just say that you're so smart and you're so special
They take your heart and then they break it
And they take your skull and then they shake it
But they're never gonna tell you from the start
Yes, the world is gonna break your little heart
Tuesday, June 3
I Miss
Kisses about apple pie a la mode with the vanilla creaminess melting in the pie heat. Kisses about chocolate, when you haven't eaten chocolate in a year. Kisses about trees speeding by, trailing pink clouds when you drive down the road sizzling with champagne. Kisses about spotlights fanning the sky and the swollen sea spilling like tears all over your legs.
Hands fumbling with the camera and the faded baseball cap and the slouchy posture and the crackly voice first thing in the morning and the hands that soothed and the jangling of your keys as you moved toward me.
All that is gone. You are gone.
Hands fumbling with the camera and the faded baseball cap and the slouchy posture and the crackly voice first thing in the morning and the hands that soothed and the jangling of your keys as you moved toward me.
All that is gone. You are gone.
Monday, June 2
Friday, May 30
It's like, when I was with you my mind was a hardwood floor. Like each cortex and chemical and neuron was an individual floorboard; well cut, planed smooth and inset tightly with the others around it to create a solid, sturdy, supportive whole.
Now that you've cast me aside, now that you're with her (and why can't I stop picturing you with her?), the boards are gapped, knotted, warped, weak planks. They squeak when trod upon, stand gauchely out, and are so loose that other things, like confidence and optimism and self-worth, may be concealed beneath them like some demented time capsule.
Now that you've cast me aside, now that you're with her (and why can't I stop picturing you with her?), the boards are gapped, knotted, warped, weak planks. They squeak when trod upon, stand gauchely out, and are so loose that other things, like confidence and optimism and self-worth, may be concealed beneath them like some demented time capsule.
Thursday, May 29
You are my blood
I love you, I love you, My Secret Agent Lover Man, my wish list come true.
I will always love you more than anyone.
I will always love you more than anyone.
Wednesday, May 28
Tuesday, May 27
Monday, May 19
La vita é bella
"Natasha has just come up to the window from the courtyard and opened it wider so that the air may enter more freely into my room. I can see the bright green strip of grass beneath the wall, and the clear blue sky above the wall, and sunlight everywhere. Life is beautiful. Let the future generations cleanse it of all evil, oppression and violence, and enjoy it to the full."
-Leon Trotsky
-Leon Trotsky
Monday, May 5
Unhinged
Tessa,
Hey there. I just wanted to thank you for hanging out with me on Friday. Spending much of the night gently weeping while you looked on wasn't exactly what I had planned, but it was good to be able to talk with you about everything. I felt shittier than at any other time in my life and talking with you was really helpful. So I just want to say thanks for listening and for being a wonderful friend. I hope it goes without saying that anytime you need a place to go or someone to take your mind off things I'm there for you. Even if you just feel like hanging out!
I had lunch plans with my mom on Saturday but I couldn't even get out of bed. She came to my apartment, scooped me up in her arms, and held me while I sobbed into her chest for three hours. I know that's a weird image, and it's hard for me to admit that that's how I spent my Saturday afternoon.
I can't be friends with Nicole. Everything that's happened between her and Kevin seems so shady and suspect. Add that to the fact that she wrote me an e-mail letting me know how awful she felt for lying to me (but not for any of her other actions), and although it contained many words the three she omitted were "I am sorry." I've been thinking a lot about the way she's treating Jenna right now, too. Maybe she's just naïve. I don't know. But I've never felt so betrayed or insignificant.
I miss Kevin so much that I physically hurt, and every time I think of him I imagine how wonderful it would be to plunge my face into his neck so that I can soak in the smell of him. It's my favorite smell in the whole world. But I don't get to do that and somebody else does. It's fucking killing me.
I'm realizing that, with the help of friends, I would have coped with and recovered from this devastating break-up, but right now I feel so bitter and angry and jealous. I feel like it's poisoning me. Like my soul went from being open and full and light to muddy, grim and toxic. I'm not sleeping well, but I don't even want to fall asleep at night because I'm plagued by excruciating nightmares. I'm barely eating. I'm not taking care of myself. I need to seek professional help because I don't want to find out what might happen if I don't.
Most days I stare eternity in the face and wonder how many more nights I'll be spending alone, how many smiles and kisses and secrets they'll exchange, how many more lies I'll readily believe; questioning myself and my capacity to love; hating myself for not being able to get over this. My life is reduced to an hour by hour game of survival and I don't feel like I'll make it another fifteen minutes and I can't believe I feel this way and I can't stop crying. There isn't a single moment in the day that I look forward to.
I need help. I need help because I'm on the edge and I am holding on to that edge with my fingertips.
Hey there. I just wanted to thank you for hanging out with me on Friday. Spending much of the night gently weeping while you looked on wasn't exactly what I had planned, but it was good to be able to talk with you about everything. I felt shittier than at any other time in my life and talking with you was really helpful. So I just want to say thanks for listening and for being a wonderful friend. I hope it goes without saying that anytime you need a place to go or someone to take your mind off things I'm there for you. Even if you just feel like hanging out!
I had lunch plans with my mom on Saturday but I couldn't even get out of bed. She came to my apartment, scooped me up in her arms, and held me while I sobbed into her chest for three hours. I know that's a weird image, and it's hard for me to admit that that's how I spent my Saturday afternoon.
I can't be friends with Nicole. Everything that's happened between her and Kevin seems so shady and suspect. Add that to the fact that she wrote me an e-mail letting me know how awful she felt for lying to me (but not for any of her other actions), and although it contained many words the three she omitted were "I am sorry." I've been thinking a lot about the way she's treating Jenna right now, too. Maybe she's just naïve. I don't know. But I've never felt so betrayed or insignificant.
I miss Kevin so much that I physically hurt, and every time I think of him I imagine how wonderful it would be to plunge my face into his neck so that I can soak in the smell of him. It's my favorite smell in the whole world. But I don't get to do that and somebody else does. It's fucking killing me.
I'm realizing that, with the help of friends, I would have coped with and recovered from this devastating break-up, but right now I feel so bitter and angry and jealous. I feel like it's poisoning me. Like my soul went from being open and full and light to muddy, grim and toxic. I'm not sleeping well, but I don't even want to fall asleep at night because I'm plagued by excruciating nightmares. I'm barely eating. I'm not taking care of myself. I need to seek professional help because I don't want to find out what might happen if I don't.
Most days I stare eternity in the face and wonder how many more nights I'll be spending alone, how many smiles and kisses and secrets they'll exchange, how many more lies I'll readily believe; questioning myself and my capacity to love; hating myself for not being able to get over this. My life is reduced to an hour by hour game of survival and I don't feel like I'll make it another fifteen minutes and I can't believe I feel this way and I can't stop crying. There isn't a single moment in the day that I look forward to.
I need help. I need help because I'm on the edge and I am holding on to that edge with my fingertips.
Friday, May 2
:-|
Ever notice the way young faces from old photographs look subtly different from young faces now?
Sprint Ahead>>>
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~~~~~~~~^~~~
to those who have tried
but only did fail
shaken and bruised
by tides and travail
drop not down your anchor
nor settle with rancor,
nor idle or rest unassured.
but instead be unmoored
on the ship stay aboard,
afloat in the water and poised for the breeze
follow the wind when it blows to the seas
direction may change, change yours with ease
for what was one minute choppy and hopeless to ride
may the next be your clearest current and guide,
and though in the ocean no path leaves a trail
a boat must be untied
before it can sail
but only did fail
shaken and bruised
by tides and travail
drop not down your anchor
nor settle with rancor,
nor idle or rest unassured.
but instead be unmoored
on the ship stay aboard,
afloat in the water and poised for the breeze
follow the wind when it blows to the seas
direction may change, change yours with ease
for what was one minute choppy and hopeless to ride
may the next be your clearest current and guide,
and though in the ocean no path leaves a trail
a boat must be untied
before it can sail
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