I Wrote A Song, I Wrote It To You, I Knew It Was Wrong, It's Just Something I Do, And You Should Listen To It, And The Words That I Say

--"I Wrote A Song", Pascal Pinon

There Are No Words

for creativity. It
exists invisibly like

pollution and
soundlessly like
sewing machines

operated by underpaid
earners. You might
explain it to me

through a sonata
or in a painting replete
with muted tones, but

you couldn't define it
in a poem because
no words exist.

dw

----

I read a lot of poems. In my free time, for school--most of my waking day is spent listening to other people's voices. While that does provide some semblance of guidance as to where my lyrical journeys should ultimately be headed, it does provide the impetus for undertaking the journey in the first place. Why do we do what we do? It certainly isn't to make a fortune or, for most of us, fame beyond comprehension. It's a path devoid of vistas or milestones or even company that we who pick up the pen find ourselves on. Seeing how someone else copes isn't the same thing as coping yourself.

Also, with poetry there isn't a set diagram as to how it is done. You can't teach being a poet much like you can't teach being a woman. It's something you are from birth. Because of that it's hard to explain to others the writing process because it so individual to the writer. What works for me doesn't work for anyone else, I can tell you that much. Different strokes, and all that. That's why I find the whole business of reading other poets inspiration, but ultimately empty. I can recognize the greatness and appreciate the triumph of creativity over emptiness, but it doesn't lay out for me any kind blueprint for my future success in the same endeavor.

Every poet wants to be read. That's the ultimate goal, but unlike other mediums I don't believe imitation in poetry is the sincerest form of flattery. I can ape a million styles, study at the foot of a thousand poets, but I can't write Auden Toby-Style nor compose a book of faux-Bukowskis. No one's waiting for the next best Emily Dickinson.

They're waiting for the best Toby Frisson. She's not going to be found reading page after page of wonderful poems written by brilliant poets. You could spend your entire life reading anthology after anthology and still be no closer to writing a good poem. That person can only be found by writing volumes of awful trash masquerading as verses that no one would want to read. That person can only be found by indulging every silly litany, every misguided epiphany, that ever occurs to you. Then, and only then, you might find (maybe) a couple of dozen pieces that some of society might actually like.

dw

And Then One Day, You Put Me On The Highway, You Said That Gravity Was Gonna Do Me In

--"Gravity", Rilo Kiley

Gravity Always Wins, Or So I've Been Told

Gravity always wins,
or so I've been told
by those it has bested.
It pulls down
the beads of sweat
which forms on the furrows of brows
long used to its tug.
Can't fight it.
Can't hide from it.
Gravity always wins
even in the best
of scenarios where
such sweet flight
would be a
flitting blessing;
a disaster, interrupted,
by the accident of
rediscovering
one's own bliss.
Gravity fights like
the dirtiest of cocks
in a chalk ring
of infinite size.
It takes no pleasure,
feels no pain,
and dispenses no justice
beneath its beveled robes of
black and black.
It just wins because its
nature is to do just that.
And only that.
Yet when Gravity
threatens to slam me
to the ground,
violently swiping my
equilibrium,
I shall fight back.

dw

My Heroes Had The Heart, To Lose Their Lives Out On A Limb, And All I Remember, Is Thinking, I Want To Be Like Them

--"Crazy", Gnarls Barkley

It's no secret that my favorite actress is Sarah Polley. If you've been paying attention long enough--with my rants on Avonlea, all things Canadian, and my affinity for individuals who show undeniable talent at a young age--you would know that she appeals to me across a broad spectrum of interests. Not only do I think she is one of our generation's finest actresses and an up-and-coming director, but I have always thought of her as someone who isn't afraid to be an individual. Especially in the area of acting, it's a rare commodity to be thought of as someone who truly goes her own way.

From standing up to Disney to turning down roles in movies like Almost Famous and The Bourne Identity, you know becoming famous isn't exactly at the top of her list of reasons why she performs. True, she started out on a show that was a pretty big hit back in Canada and wasn't exactly unknown on American shores. Since then, though, she routinely alternates roles between smaller fare to an occasional "mainstream" picture. Also, much has been written about her political activism in her youth, about how she had two of her back teeth knocked out during a protest against the Provincial Progressive Conservative government of Mike Harris. While I've always thought that was an interesting facet about her, it isn't the real reason I think of her as more than just some silly celebrity idol. It isn't the real reason why I tend to think of her more as a complete person than other famous crushes--like Jenny Lewis or Melody Kay--I've had in the past.

I think the real reason why Sarah Polley remains my favorite actress-slash-director-slash-human being is her ability to mature and change as the years go by.


I think you're crazy
just like me

I admit it--when I first started liking Sarah Polley it was because I thought she looked purdy. That, and the fact she was Canadian, is what made me stop on The Disney Channel that fateful day in 1992. But as soon as I started watching more episodes of Avonlea to see more of her, I found out what an awesome actress she is. Even at the age of ten or eleven she had the best emoting I'd ever seen for someone so young. One thing I can't stand is when kid actors fake their way through a crying scene. Covering the eyes with their hands, over-emphasizing their sobs, and changing the pitch of their voice unrealistically--it all bothers me. Sarah's gift, and what I've always liked from day one, is that she genuinely looks like what she's portraying. When she cries, it's very understated, yet memorable. She doesn't have to make the tears or the sobbing the focus of the scene. For me, I tend to care more about what she's saying and, in turn, what she's going through, than what she looks like when she's trying to be sad.

There's a famous story about her crying ten minutes after a scene ended on the show, so wrapped up in her performance she was. I believe it. Some of her best scenes on the show were when she was called on to be sad and stoic at the same time.

However, as time went and my admiration moved away from just loving her on the show. I found out she had all these pursuits that were far outside of the range of typical adolescent celebrities. From the authors she read, to the music she listened to, to the plain views she espoused politically and socially--she wasn't just some personality replete with politically correct sound bites. She didn't come prepackaged. She spoke her mind and did what she wanted because she felt it was right.

From supposedly dating Stephen Rea, thirty years her senior, to taking up with other men who were less than Entertainment Tonight material to living on her own at the age of fourteen, she could have been just another typical child actor out of control story. The only difference was her life choices were never reported as being destructive. They did not include tales of drinking, drugs, or wanton acts of violence. Nope, aside from the dating issue and the political protest stories, her choices always seemed more odd than scandalous. What they seemed like was a person who chose to do her own thing no matter what she was expected to do.

If anything, it was an example of an individual trying to find her own direction in the world, making the mistakes we all make and learning to make the best of the consequences. In the end, she came out better because of the experiences.

----

The Sarah Polley of today hardly resembles the rabblerouser of her youth. By her own admission, she's more mellow. The process by which she became this confident and talented woman who is gearing up for her next movie might seem puzzling on the outside. Yet it's what's kept me interested in her career all these years. Rather than roll my eyes at the same plain quotes or photo ops that every other actress or singer seems more than willing to give these days, every time I read a story about Sarah Polley I felt like I learned more about her, about who she really is. And the more I learned about her, the less I admired about her obvious talents and the more I admired her for the courage of her convictions and the will just to attack life head-on.

And, no, it isn't the same picture of her I get all the time. The "Sara Stanley" image may have been the one that sparked my interest in her, but she Sarah I admire these days is the artistic auteur behind an awe-inspiring film like Away From Her and the balls-to-the-wall performer who can almost pull off a crazy plot like Splice with her performance. These days it puts a smile on my face to hear her talk about getting excited for her next opportunity instead of sticking it to some big, faceless corporation like Disney or Becel--though she still does that on occasion.

Right now I'm more interested in the well-adjusted woman she is now than the too-wise-for-words ingenue and hellion she was for much of the nineties and early part of this century.

I mean--we're all entitled to the craziness of our youth and the never-ending battle of our college years. However, there comes a point where people should be praised less for the ardor of their fighting spirit and more for the ability to both hold onto the courage of their character and work to make society better rather than work against those who would make it worse. As I've grown, as I've changed my philosophies on life, I think Sarah's been there to provide a mirror image to my own journey of setting aside my own willingness to anger in order to learn some kind of temperance, of turning my swords into plowshares, as they say.

Sarah's living proof that you don't have to give up your beliefs. You just don't have to feel the need to fight for them twenty-four, seven. There is a happy medium between letting your beliefs go and pushing them to the forefront of who you are as a person. Sarah's my idol not only because she can act, but because she can--I don't know how else to put it--live. She's my idol because she seems to have a life that encompasses knowing herself and allowing that image of herself to change and blossom.

And she's still my idol because no one still can do a crying scene like she can. No one.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

She's Tryin' Hard, To Fit In In Some City, But Her Home Is 'Neath That Big, Blue Sky, And The Northern Plains And Those Other Wide Open Spaces

--"How 'Bout Them Cowgirls", George Strait

A strange personality trait of mine is the fact I feel more at ease with people who talk with accents, especially Southern accents. Chalk it up to growing up with a best friend from Georgia or from working national call centers for the last ten years, whenever I get on the phone with someone with a thick drawl and spouting forth all sorts of down-home expressions I just get a huge smile on my face. I instantly feel at ease. They could be hollering at me for my incompetence or insulting the intelligence of my dog, but as long as they do it with the affectation of a Southern gentleman or lady it would be alright with me.

Maybe it's because I've always felt at home with my boot-scoot and boogeying side, but I think people just know how to talk in that part of the country. They still show a love of the language, of using some wit to spice up the way they converse. I mean--in most parts of the country people speak in a relatively conventional and dry fashion. Most people, including me, get right to the point. But in parts where they still take life slow it's like they've learned to speak slower and more ceremoniously. Listening to someone who's got the patter down and who is steeped in the language is like listening to music rather than just mere words. It's just fun to hear the turns of phrases, the expressions, and the way the language paints the whole world in big, bold colors. Not only that, but people who are from the South just seem to have fun with each and every sentence they say.

I'm not exactly known for my colorful way of speaking, but I have gotten a few comments over the years that I do slip into somewhat of a countryfied manner of expressing myself. I don't do the accent. However, every now and then a borrowed expression manages to work its way into my conversations. Or, more noticeably, I'll use words that simply aren't the norm in this part of the country like "ain't" and "y'all." Indeed, I caught myself telling one of my customers today that I'd "give him a holler when tomorrow comes," which isn't heard all that often in California, let alone in the Los Angeles area.

I don't know--perhaps I'm just a redneck at heart, that, like my cousin says, I was born in the wrong part of the country. Perhaps that's why hearing that distinct regional dialect can elicit such feelings of warmth from me. But it's no more than I adore Canadian speech patterns and phrases. There's just something in me that identifies with living somewhere other than here that I can so deeply be enamored of these far-off places for their language, food, and culture. I believe it's merely my wanderlust talking when I subconsciously mimic people from the places I'd like to be from. I believe it's merely my way of expressing my jealousy of their hailing from a place that seems so magical and larger-than-life for me.

Or maybe it is as simple as one of my other friends put it. I have warm feelings for Lucy. Lucy speaks in a identifiable manner. Ergo, when I hear somebody speak something that resembles that manner I immediately develop warm feelings instinctively like Pavlov's dogs. As they see it, it's no different than hearing a song which was playing during a happy moment in your life and instantly having your mood lift--except in this case the music is the language itself.

Who knows? It could be as corn pone simple as that. At any rate, it doesn't really matter why hearing someone speak with a Southern accent can bring a bit of joy into my life. It's just nice to know that it does. When the whole world around me is speaking flatly and without a bit of energy, it's good to count on one voice playing through the drone to put a smile on my face.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Tell Her Not To Get Upset, Second-Guessing Everything You Said And Done, And Then When She Gets Upsets Tell Her How You Never Meant To Hurt No One

--"Call Your Girlfriend", Robyn

Smile

when you cry
you're alone,
tiny
in the space
between thoughts--
nothing;
when you smile
graveyards burn
to ash
and ashes
spread across
the earth.

dw

----

I was barely here, less than a whisper, when I found someone real. Finding someone real was never my goal, you see, because finding someone amidst the crashing waves of students and wannabe scholars is as easy as finding music in the city. But I did find someone despite the darkness. For a time there it felt like the next quarter of my life was ready to get underway whether or not I was ready for it. She was real, which made me real and not just someone content to play the observer, letting her heart skip a beat whenever it was presented with decisions far above her clearance level. She opened me up like a hard-boiled egg when I didn't even know I was a hard-boiled egg. My face did light up every time I saw her, I can tell you that much.

I smiled because of the surprise of it all, not because I was secretly looking forward to developments. I smiled because my state of being at the time dictated at the time that a smile was appropriate. Gosh, who am I kidding? At the time I smiled because there was joy in my life, a bliss incomparable to anything I had ever felt at home. When I wanted to stay up late listening to Woloch and Bukowski, she would watch the tapes right along with me. When I wanted to go walking against the cold of night, she would go walking with me till two in the morning, even if it meant just circling the dorm. And when I wanted to sleep, I'd find her asleep on the couch next to me.

It was the perfect distraction from the distraction I'd been feeling all along. That was the most important distinction. What we did wasn't the point; what she took me away from was the point. Nobody else I've met her could lay claim to the same distinction. I've been more than cordial, better than warm, but my aim was never to solidify connections to the point of having to change my priorities. Yet because I had no time for friendship, friendship came and found me.

We were in rhythm. We were rhythm. Everyone else was noise.


say it's not her fault
but you just met somebody new

But now that's fading and I'm feeling the fade immensely. I would never admit to it, but a certain part of me has felt the pangs of fear that my future is wrapped up in myself. Not by happenstance, but by choice, since I choose my happenstances very carefully. She's found someone new to occupy her time, to give her more of the college experience, and now I'm relegated to the choir of the drama we had been starring into together. I'm not sad because she's still around. It only feels like I'm talking to a ghost since she probably doesn't notice the fade at all. To her it's like the difference between sunshine and lamplight, to me it's like the difference between rain and a waterfall.

When she came to me and told me she'd met somebody, at first I thought she meant me. But she didn't mean me. I'd already been met. I suppose the fact she came to me at all says something about the strength of all convinced. While it doesn't completely feel like a loss, it's definitely not a win. It leaves the distinct impression of being a draw.

And I know I should be happy for her, which is the reason I smile because I've always been able to hide behind its beauty. Yet inside I feel like the song has ended and it'll be a long time in rotation before it's ever heard again. And I know that pain is temporary and that memories last forever, but there's something very temporary about it all that I would have never bothered to reflect upon before. So I'll smile because she still elicits that response. And I'll smile because sometimes that's all it takes to forget what you've lost and remember what you had in the first place.

dw

When I'm Walking By The Water, Come Up Through My Toes, To My Ankles, To My Head, To My Soul, And I'm Blown Away

--"Lie In Our Graves", Dave Matthews Band

I've taken a lot of guff over the years about my childhood belief that God looks like a pre-surgery Kenny Rogers. Folks have shared a laugh or two at my expense, asking if God does requests and if the Bible is merely a thinly veiled collection of Mr. Rogers' oeuvre. The only defense I can give is, hey, it's what I was told as a child by my daddy. I was told that God looked an older-looking man, with a white beard and soft eyes, and who had a voice that millions of people wanted to listen to. Some people jump to their granddaddies, I just happened to jump to a best-selling Country artist.

That's the thing about childhood beliefs, they always seem to make sense at the time you first conceive of them. And even when they're dispelled by the onset of maturity, because you believed them so heartily in your youth there's a part of you that wants to believe in them even into adulthood. Even if you get laughed at, even if it defies all logic, the truths we dreamt up in your youth often trumps the truth that science and the universe can conjure up.

For instance, when I was around seven my cousin Shelly told me that the people who choose to get their car washed while they're still in the car get washed as well. She told me that while the outside of the car was being scrubbed down the car wash attendants were simultaneously filling the inside of the car with water and soap as well. Shelly told me that the people inside of the cars were doing it as a way to save time in the day by bathing at the same time as their car was. Hell's bells, I didn't know any better. All I knew was that when my mother gave me my bath she filled the tub with water. Car, tub--it was the same difference. This lead to me for the longest time asking my folks repeatedly to go through the car wash with me inside of the car instead of waiting outside of it. I reckoned one of those days my mother would tell me to get my bathing suit on and say, "Honey, we're going to car wash!"


dreaming of things that
we might have been

Speaking of water, it was at around the same age that my friends and I first started talking about sex. Well, one of the topics that came up was the idea of wetness. I was forever hearing women in movies speaking about how "wet" they were and how thinking about a certain beau hunk was making them "wet". That's when Torry, Fawn, Hanna, and I came to the conclusion that splashing yourself down there was like a woman's way of signaling to a man that she wanted to make love to him. It didn't take long for the older kids to dispel this particular myth, but I remember a few months there where in private we would spill water on ourselves to see if we felt any more mature, you know?

Also, very wickedly, I happened to this same rumor on to Katie when she was six or seven as well.

But I think the truth I had the hardest time wrapping my head around was pregnancy. Like some other people I have talked to, when I was a kid I reckoned that doctors got women pregnant. I imagined that was part of their job as much as giving physicals or giving people shots. All I ever heard from aunts and uncles, friends' folks', or in books was women going to the doctor to get pregnant or to find out if they were pregnant. It didn't take me long to put two and two together. A doctor was where you went to get a baby as well as have a baby. There was a sense of logic there. Like my dad always says, "if you help to make dinner then it's only right you get to eat and enjoy it too," except in his case he was talking about being the sole breadwinner in the family. At any rate, I reckoned that a doctor was responsible for getting the women pregnant so it was only natural that he'd want to be there when she delivered too.

Perhaps I was a naive little 'ole gal. Breanne doesn't think--she just goes, after all. However, I suppose we're all naive at that age, before it's explained to us how everything little 'ole thing works. There just ain't enough time to learn everything in your first few years of life and perhaps our brains aren't sophisticated enough to let it all sink in even if everything were explained to us. That's why we have to rely on our imagination so much to fill in the blanks. It ain't because we want to know everything for its own sake, it's because we want to know what everyone else knows, what our parents know, what the "old" people know.

It's no fun being out of the loop about something. I was forever complaining that with all the secrets my folks withheld from me I could probably take over the world. That's why I invented my reasons, fooled around with my own way of seeing the world work, because then I felt like I was a part of the world. It was only then that I felt like people could treat me seriously because I knew about car washes and Kenny Rogers and doctors making babies.

The more I thought I knew, the more I felt comfortable in my own skin. I guess in a sense, making up the rules to the way the universe functioned gave me permission to carve out my little 'ole piece of it rather than be afraid of it.

Breanne

Love Was When I Loved You, One True Time I Hold To, In My Life We'll Always Go On

--"My Heart Will Go On", Celine Dion

There's an episode of Friends where Phoebe is mad at Ross for something he did in a dream she had. It's funny because she gets all worked up over something that never really happened and there's nothing he can do or say to make up for it until she admits that it wasn't anything he did in reality, but something he did in a dream.

I go through the same dilemma sometimes. Sometimes it more what I perceived an individual did to slight me than the slight itself. I mean--it's all perspective when it comes down to it. What a person does isn't nearly as important as how we react to it, right? For instance, a friend could insult me today and I could laugh it off whereas some days (most days) I could really be stung by it. A lot of different factors can enter into the complex equation of how a moment will affect us. More importantly, seemingly random stimuli can alter whether or not a given memory actually stays with us. Chance encounters, snippets of conversation, &c... are all fair game to be retained if the stars align in a particular way.

That message seems to lie at the heart of the book I recently finished, Jonathan Tropper's This Is Where I Leave You. It tells the story of three brothers, their sister, and their mom, coming together to sit shiva for seven days after their father dies. They're all in the thirties and forties. Most of them are married. Some of them have kids. But they all haven't seen each other in years, even decades. Normally, this would be a recipe for some great angsty family drama. While the novel does have it fair share of drama, it also mines weaknesses of the human condition for some pretty gutsy (and hilarious) moments of humor. It's the kind of book you feel embarrassed to read in public simply because it has the audacity to both make you laugh and make you cry.

Our guide through the seven-day journey through hell in a hand basket is Judd. His wife recently left him for his boss, following a pretty devastating miscarriage. And just to ratchet up the hilarity is the fact his wife Jen tells him she's pregnant near the beginning of the book. As aforementioned, such details don't exactly spell out comedy gold, but Tropper has a gift for seeing the drunk leprechaun at the end of every thunderstorm.

One of Judd's key personality traits is, much like Phoebe, he likes to daydream about people he sees in the street, on the road, or even in Church and imagining what their life is like. More specifically he likes to imagine about women he sees and what their life would be like if they were to start dating, get married, have kids, &c... What's great is that for every relationship he imagines working out, he has one that ends in disaster for whatever reason his imagination can surmise. What's also great is that he proceeds, still much like Phoebe, to base his behavior around them on these daydreams as if he absolutely knows for certain that this will be their future together. While I wouldn't go so far as to sat these visions take up the bulk of his day Walter Mitty-like, it is a key trait to unlocking what makes Judd tick.

A lot of us, if our husbands or wives, boyfriends or girlfriends, were to leave us right before our dad died would probably be imagining a better life being out there, right? And this better life for a lot of us would probably include an upgrade in the significant other category.


near, far, wherever you are
I believe the heart does go on

Another major motif in the book which I like and which ties into Judd's personality is the fact a lot of the characters make decisions in the book based on prior histories with other characters. Old flames have one last fling with one another after not seeing each other in twenty years. Brothers hold grudges over events that happened in high school. Hell, a relationship develops out of nowhere simply because two of the characters have been neighbors. It's amazing how many people make what looks like to be the wrong choice because of nostalgia, because of a memory of how things used to be. More specifically a lot of the characters make decisions because they want to bring back the old days when everything seemed to work out in the end, to replace present day where almost everything is fucked up in one way or another.

That also goes to the point that sometimes the decisions we make in our lives are mercurial and aren't based on reason. I hate to give her credit, but Breanne had it right when she told me all those years ago when she said that more than fifty percent of the decisions we make aren't based on logic. She said that more than fifty percent of our decisions are based on emotion, on instinct, on what our gut is telling us to do. And this book seems to postulate--indeed, its main focus seems to be--that memory is directly tied up in everything we do. The characters may not remember everything as it happened. Some of the characters even have conflicting versions of the actual account of the way things went down. Yet they sure all remember how it made them feel and they sure all know how it apparently affected the course of their life to come. Every one of them harbors a decision or two that followed wherever they went, a decision that at the time was made in the heat of the moment and ended up closing certain avenues while opening other ones.

Deep in the heart of the all--in Judd's mental wanderings, in the last flings of high school sweethearts, in the blossoming of new romances--is that love is tied up also in memory. Tropper seems to throw out there that love, like memory, might be subjective, that it isn't a genuine article at all. He puts forth that love may be flimsy at best, subject to the same twists of circumstance that makes some memories permanent and others fade away. More than anything he says that everybody is capable of love; that it relies on instinct and going with the flow of fate more than anything else. And because of that people are capable of being in love with more than one person at a time, that there isn't anything wrong with loving your husband AND still being in love with the guy with whom you had all your firsts with. He seems to be saying it's okay to still love your wife even after she's cheated on you with your boss because, hey, you fell in love with her once. He wants to say if you're capable of loving someone in the best of times, you should be capable of loving someone in the worst of times too.

Love and memory. They're all tied in together. For just because your father dies doesn't mean you stop loving him. Or just because your family has grown up and apart, and aren't the family you once shared the dinner table with, doesn't mean you get to ever stop loving them. Or, finally, just because you stop being that person you used to be with that certain person he or she used to be doesn't mean the feelings you once felt for another are no longer real or go away.

People are entitled to how they feel forever. Loving the memory of someone is just a good a reason as any to continue loving them now, I say.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But I Would Walk 500 Miles, And I Would Walk 500 More, Just To Be The Man Who Walks A Thousand Miles, To Fall Down At Your Door

--"I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)", The Proclaimers

I've been thinking about buying a new pair of cowboy boots.

I know--cowboy boots aren't exactly everyone's cup of tea. Plus, wearing them in California isn't exactly a common occurrence, but ever since I had my first pair gifted to me about seven years ago I've thought, somehow in some way, they work for me. I mean--I'm not exactly known for my overwhelming love of shoes. I don't rush out and buy a new pair every year. Overall, I'd much rather have a good pair of shoes that goes with everything, or at least what I normally wear, and lasts a long time. I don't need to know what everyone else is wearing. Hell, I don't even need to know what goes with what. I like what I like and I don't necessarily feel the need to have seventeen pairs of shoes for seventeen different occasions.

Cowboy boots fit the bill.

Mostly I'm just looking for something to reward myself with after getting this new job. For almost a year now I've had to curtail my impulsive purchasing. Rather than buy everything I wanted when I wanted, I only did it half the time, which is my version of self-control. And high on the list of things I wanted to buy this year were cowboy boots. Before it always seemed like a splurge rather than a necessity since the chief reason I want them is to proclaim my desire to be somewhat different than the teeming masses who go out in the world. Yet somehow I felt wanting to be different was not truly a worthwhile reason to spend northwards of $150 on a pair of shoes. There are other ways to verify my uniqueness, ways that don't require me to spend a day's wages on a single item.


and when I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream
I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you

I don't know what it is about me that equates being different with being myself, but I feel like there's a part of me that's forever stretching to display all these different sides of me in order to get someone to notice me. I've never thought of myself as someone who gravitated towards the spotlight. However, deep down, while most of us don't need fame exactly, we're all searching for some type of recognition. Like Radiohead said, we want someone to notice when we're not around. We want to make an impression on the people around us, good or bad, just to assure ourselves that somehow we matter. And it can be showcasing our talents, or befriending a thousand people, or even something as simple as wearing a specific type of footwear, but we're all searching for that next best thing that will get the world to see us for who we want to be.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And We Know It's Never Simple, Never Easy, Never A Clean Break, No One Here To Save Me, You're The Only Thing I Know Like The Back Of My Hand

--"Breathe", Taylor Swift featuring Colbie Caillat

When I was younger I used to wonder why it was okay for someone to get married after their first husband died, but not okay for someone to take two husbands. It used to bother me that anyone would ever even consider getting married because I thought of it as a betrayal of everything they ever promised when they first got married. I was of the belief that when you married, you married for life, you know? Everything else was breaking the rules.

I reckon my folks set the bar for this. Though they've had their share of problems and their share of fights, never once did it ever cross my mind that those two would ever get a divorce. Hell's bells, it was unheard of that those two would even separate for a spell. That's how strong everyone, including myself, considered their relationship. If marriages were foundations for the rest of your life, theirs would be Gibraltar. Whenever I needed inspiration for what I hoped my married life to be like it's always to them I would look. Every other couple--my aunts and uncles, my friends' folks, even my cousins who were older than me--seemed to have it together, but not a single one of them ever quite measured up to the example set in my household every day when I was growing up.

As the years rushed by and I witnessed more and more people I knew having their parents' marriages break up or otherwise fall apart, I started to see that perhaps that my folks were the exception and not the rule. My perception of marriage began to grow shakier than an orange tree in a Miami hurricane. I began to understand that love, while noble, isn't necessarily permanent--that it could falter just as easily as God's creatures themselves. While I never lost hope that my marriage, whenever it happened, could beat the odds, a bit of doubt had managed to skulk its way into my mindset.

Yet never did I think that a marriage could fall apart at the seams so easily.

When I cheated on Greg it was the result of many years of working so hard at a relationship that didn't seem to be bringing any tangible results. For awhile there it was as if we were both paddling the same rowboat, only in different directions, as my daddy would say. Nothing we did mattered, except to aggravate the problems even more. Every day I woke up slightly worried at the prospect of igniting the next inevitable scuffle or, worse yet, blowing up at my husband for something that wasn't even entirely his fault.

That's the thing about fighting once you get to be grown-up. You can be mad at your husband for staying at the office late or missing dinner for the fifth time, but your anger can choose to manifest itself instead at the moment he's five minutes to pick you up at the airport or something else that petty. You don't ever fight the battle at hand, what you're fighting is the battle you should have had weeks or even months prior. I don't know any other creature on the planet which has the capability to procrastinate like humans do. We're so adept at it, that we even procrastinate our anger. We're forever putting off saying something to the people who matter to us, excusing ourselves with the thought that it ain't no big deal, that it can wait for a better time. The only thing is there is no better time to point out your annoyance or your hurt feelings than at the point of impact, there's only a worse time to bring it up.

Even someone like little 'ole me, who prides herself at being outspoken, goes through the same turmoil of trying to preserve Greg's feelings more than I should. When we were fighting like the Hatfields and the McCoys there were many days where I literally had to keep my mouth shut for stretches at a time because everything little 'ole word he said or choice he made could have set me off on expressing my frustration with him. Looking back, I should have let more of those thoughts out, despite it leading to a fight because it may have prevented later turmoil. Looking back, I should have been a little less careful and more deliberate like my instincts were telling me to be.

Maybe then Greg and I wouldn't have separated for a time nor would we have gone to almost a year of counseling to fix the problems.

Sometimes I think the problem was that he felt too familiar to me. I grew too comfortable with him too soon. When something feels easy from the get-go it's usually a sign that there will be problems much later. And when I first met him I felt like I knew Greg like the back of my hand. It was easy to predict what he would say in any given moment or what he would decide in every given instance. I don't know if that's the way he felt about me, but I reckoned I had him figured out from the start. What that usually means is that one person is sublimating his personality for another. And I reckon that's what happened in our case. Greg, who's normally the gentlest, sweetest guy on Earth, just allowed me to run the show in the early years. He saw that I was naturally a take-charge kind of gal and, hell's bells, did he allow me to take charge. I was like a one-woman wrecking ball, blindly deconstructing everything he ever was before he met me only to put him back together in a fashion I saw fit.

The trouble with that was that's not who he was, who he is; that wasn't what was going to make him happy. He was so busy trying to be the man I wanted him to be that kind of forgot how to be the man he wanted to be. And once he figured that out we started to clash more and more. I thought the changes I had made had done him some good, while he finally saw me for the controlling shrew he says he should've seen all along.

Finally there came a point where the only quiet we could afford for ourselves was when we were apart. It seemed like whenever we were together there was only the cacophony of two people who just weren't in the same place any more. That's when we decided a few weeks of being apart from one another might do us some good. I moved in with my parents at first, and then later moved down to Fanny's place for the last few weeks. I didn't see Greg except for our counseling sessions and, even there, I talked to him even less. It was what I called isolating myself from the problem. In other words, it was my adult version of running away from the problem just like I'd ran away from my problems when I was a little 'ole child.

For awhile there it worked wonders. I felt happier. I felt free. I felt like I didn't have to take care of anyone any more. While it was true that Greg did a lot of changing for me, it also felt like I had changed a lot of who I was for him as well. With him gone I went back to being more headstrong and less inclined to second guess myself. With Greg it's like I had to take into consideration another voice who was always so much more timid than me. I had to be more patient. I had to be more careful. I may be a lot of things, but patient and careful have never been adjectives used all that much to describe me. I started going out more. I started drinking with my girlfriends again. It felt like I started living life again, doing all those things that being married had forced me to miss.

Say what you will, but getting married at twenty-two is still rather young. Maybe there are those like my parents who have the patience to go through their young adulthood being locked into a marriage, but for me it might have been better if I'd waited till I was a bit older. I feel like if I'd waited till I was twenty-five or twenty-six instead of getting married right after graduating college I would have been better prepared. I basically went from living with my folks, to living in a dorm, to living with Greg with no break in-between. What I needed was some alone time to figure out who Breanne the woman was without parents, without school, and without a husband having their say on her. What I needed was some alone time to function on my own and to prove to myself that I could hack it. Without that I was forever under the impression that I only got so far because of the support and direction of others. With my personality, that's not a good feeling to possess.

Something in me can't function if I'm forever beholden unto others, even if it's only an imaginary debt I feel I owe them. You're either driving or being driven, as my daddy says, and it took being separated from Greg to realize that I like driving myself. More than that, there's a part of me that sincerely likes driving alone every once in awhile.

Yes, it all worked out in the end. Greg and I fixed our problems by figuring who we were as individuals and not just who we are as a couple. Yet there's a part of me that now understands the fragility of a marriage and how easily it can all disappear when even one person isn't happy. Now I understand more fully that when you're married it means that being together adds more to who you are as people than it takes away. Being married isn't just about making each other laugh. It isn't just about having a great sex life or having a nice, big house. It's also about doing your best not to make each other cry, when it sometimes feels like that's the easiest thing to do in the world. It's about kissing and cuddling even when your day hasn't been perfect. It's about sharing your heart with someone as easily as you share a house with them, even if that means saying things that aren't complimentary in nature. Being married is about staying true to who you are as much as it is finding out what you have to offer somebody else.

Most of all it's about getting to know someone for who they are, rather than trying to manipulate them to be someone you think is perfect. Marriage isn't about being perfect or living out your years in ignorant bliss. It's about signing up for the long haul despite the bumps and dips along the way because you both feel like the journey's worth it in the end. It's about knowing someone and letting them get to know you because you want to and not because you feel you have to.

And, yes, for me it's still about loving someone not just for the rest of his life... but for the rest of mine.

Breanne

You Know I Know How, To Make 'Em Stop And Stare As I Zone Out

--"Club Can't Even Handle Me", Flo Rida Featuring David Guetta

Women Who Stare Out Windows

who are these women,
sitting in big, comfy chairs
meant for paying customers,
wearing purple scarves
(and even more purple faces),
and staring out windows
at the echoes
of their former lives?

who are these women
never buying a single
book or
cup of coffee,
while others more impatient
and not particular proud
of their own achievements,
stand idly by and
fume at the
inconvenience?

dw

The Handshake, Seals The Contract, From The Contract, There's No Turning Back, The Turning Point, Of A Career

--"Everything Counts", Depeche Mode

Come Monday I shall be back among the gainfully employed. I was recently offered employment through DSS with Honda for a long-term assignment. I'll be doing what I basically did at my last job with Eclipse/Fujitsu Ten. As a Credit Analyst I'll be in charge of maintaining different businesses' credit lines, collecting on overdue accounts, and staying on top of any potential problems that may arise. The pay's more than good and while the long-term designation as opposed to permanent designation is somewhat worrisome, even that isn't enough to detract from my excitement at being back to work again.

The only aspect of going to work on Monday that might diminish my enthusiasm is the idea of losing all that free time. I wouldn't recommend being out of work for a year, but my "sabbatical," as Miss Flib called it, did me some good when it came to recharging my batteries. I didn't have to worry about who I would have to haggle with or contend with the next day. I didn't have to come home stressed out about that day's worth of work. And I didn't have to make sure to stay rested and refreshed just do it all over again the next day.

I do need structure in my life just to keep me sane. But there's something to be said of living your life unfettered for extensive stretches of time. I'm just sad that this stretch is quickly coming to an end.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

She Looks Like The Real Thing, She Tastes Like The Real Thing, My Fake Plastic Love

--"Fake Plastic Trees (cover)", Molly Tuttle

When it comes to music one might say I possess eclectic tastes. From country to j-pop to alternative, there isn't a style of music I haven't at least given a fair shake of trying to get into. And while I haven't embraced every genre of music equally, I can safely say that when it comes to a musical library that spans all eras and all types my library is one to be reckoned with. I don't say this with any ounce of arrogance. I know I'm not the musical gourmet; I don't claim to have the best taste in music. But I am rather proud that no matter who I'm with I know I can at least get along with whatever they're listening to--be it classical, christian, or hip hop.

That being said, a guilty pleasure of mine has always been a good cover of an already established hit, especially when that cover is being done by a relative unknown. I adore discovering somebody just getting their foot in the door by tackling a song that some would claim to have already been done to perfection by the original artist. While it's true that a good cover would have never been born without the original recording, I'm of the opinion that, yes, sometimes the copy can be better than the original. I mean--when I first heard "Silver Springs" being done by Stacee Dupree, I would have been hard-pressed to give you definitive answer as to which version I thought was better. Or when I first stumbled across Mary Lou Lord's version of "I Don't Want To Get Over You" by The Magnetic Fields I actually thought it was her song. It wasn't until later that I heard the irrepressible original. Indeed, some of Mary Lou Lord's best work have been covers and she still manages to be my overall favorite female singer/songwriter.

When it comes to a lot of different areas I'm not one to stand on ceremony. To me it really doesn't matter who did it first. I just want to know who does it the best. Sometimes innovation isn't as important as refinement.

That brings me to Molly Tuttle, a teenager from the Bay Area of California with a background in bluegrass and folk music, and her awesome rendition of "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead. It's no big secret that I love bluegrass music and the musicians who perform it. It's also no secret that I hold a special place in my heart for individuals who show a talent for the arts at an early age. Molly Tuttle fits both of these criteria. Not only can she play the banjo and the guitar, but she has an uncanny singing voice that is almost pitch perfect. What may come as a surprise is that I've never been a huge fan of Radiohead. I've never disliked them per se, but it has never been an all-encompassing need to delve further into their back catalog. One could say that admiration for them pretty much began and ended with "Creep".

You can imagine my surprise when I instantly became enamored with this version of their "Fake Plastic Trees" the other day. Not only did it make me feel like I had missed out on an absolutely great song when it was first released, but it gave me a new appreciation for what makes Radiohead, well, Radiohead. Yes, part of the intrigue to this version of the song was that the voice behind it is a tad more pleasant to the ear that Thomas Yorke (That's another thing, I'm a big fan of female singers as opposed to male singers. I always have been.). And, yes, this song is more clearly defined than some of the others in their repertoire. But I think the real reason I feel remiss that I never appreciated this song in its time is expressly because I've been playing this cover version of it with great frequency in the last few days.

That's what I like best about covers. They can point you back to the inspiration behind them while at the same time stand on their own as a work of art. A good deal of people will tell you that a cover will never be as good as the original because it lacks the authenticity of its first performer or of its creator. I say, however, that there is an authenticity to taking something that holds true as something monumental and making it your own... as long as you completely make it your own. I don't abide people who change one facet and claim that they redid it with their own shine; those works can be truly qualified as being pale imitations. But when someone of genuine talent takes a monumental work and pays homage to it by applying their unique gifts and perspective to it, then I believe something as great, if not greater than the original, can arise from the combination. After all, to borrow my friend Casey's remark when we had this discussion tonight, "just because you're the person who invented French Toast doesn't mean you're the only one who can perfect the recipe."

"Fake Plastic Trees" may have been a song that didn't need perfecting when it was first recorded by Radiohead, but like anyone who ever made a great cover, Molly Tuttle perfected it anyway.

Enjoy the song.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And I'm In Pieces, Baby, Fix Me, And Just Shake Me Till You Wake Me From This Bad Dream, And I'm Going Down, Down, Down, Down

--"Baby", Justin Bieber

I went into watching Country Strong expecting a feel-good movie. Usually when one purchases a ticket for a movie set in the heartland or in the South one can expect a plot involving the triumph of the human spirit or some other uplifting message. While Country Strong does have its moments of inspiration one will certainly walk away feeling very much shaken by what transpires.

I shan't give away all the plot turns that lead me to say that, but I will speak on one aspect that especially affected me. Tim McGraw's character, the husband of Gwyneth Paltrow's character, Kelly Canter is a man whose been let down one too many times by his wife. I don't know if it's the proper aspect to be admiring, but he does a remarkable job of portraying a man whose disappointment and frank distrust of his wife's ability to recover ultimately lead to a tragic choice. On one hand, you want to hate the guy because while he still wants to be her manager and friend, he has basically frozen her out of ever being his wife again--at least how she used to be his wife. But on the other hand, Kelly's mistake is a huge mistake marriage-wise and you kind of sympathize with him for being so distant from somebody he used to love deeply. It's a delicate balance to maintain and he manages to carry it off well. You feel him emotionally starving his wife, but you also feel why he does it in every scene in the film.


and I just can't believe my first love won't be around

That got me thinking all the way through dinner with my friends and on the way home afterwards. Sometimes couples grow apart because it's the natural order of things. Other times it's one incident that changes the relationship forever. One fight, one wrong choice--and you can instantly fall out of love with someone. I mean--the romantic idealist in me doesn't want to believe it, but I have to admit that given the same set of circumstances encountered in the film I might have been led down the same road that Tim McGraw's character was.

That's what makes Paltrow's arc so convincing. You feel the helplessness of a person whose life fell apart in the matter of one moment. You feel her struggling to get her life together even while almost everyone around her doesn't believe she has it in her any longer. Most of all, you feel that she honestly could survive her journey back if her husband would simply back her play. When he doesn't time and time again you begin to understand that however this film ends it's not going to be pretty. More than that, you begin to understand that sometimes strength isn't the courage to overcome adversity.

Sometimes courage is the strength to recognize that there are some obstacles that can't be overcame, some challenges you can't win, and to press on regardless.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Would Go Through All This Pain, Take A Bullet Straight Through My Brain, Yes, I Would Die For Ya Baby, But You Won't Do The Same

--"Grenade", Bruno Mars

Quality

saw you smiling tin-like
brimming with joy
at the shape of your life to come

later relaxed,
exhausted, by the depth of your desires
fulfilled, but not unaware
of the oblivious wandering
lost around you

today it dawns
on me
you are a woman of quality

merits of distinction:

accurate words pronounced
pronouncements in a timely fashion

twenty years plus perfecting
your character despite adversity
never once worse than
my own best days

there is no sacrifice too great for you

what is your secret

dw

----

Perfection is an illusion. It occurs to me those who seek its company are the softest collection of fools. I would much rather delight in the imperceptible bliss of the journey to discover perfection in oneself than hopelessly pursue that quality in another. It isn't that I choose to disbelieve in the prospect of discovering joy in another's company. It's that I choose to believe that that joy derives, much like juice from the proverbial fruit, from finding that joy within and transferring it to another. Then, that person having drunk from the font of your spirits, will be in a much better position to return the favor. I simply don't comprehend the blind loyalty or devotion some will show at their first brush with the mildest of passions. It will take much more than chemical reactions to prompt any sort of sacrifice from me, I can tell you that much. Gosh. I'd much rather believe in time being the great judge of a person's value to me when it comes to laying down my self-respect, let alone any portion of my life.

dw

It's Over And Done, But The Heartache Lives On Inside, And Who Is The One You're Clinging To, Instead Of Me Tonight

--"Emotion", The Bee Gees

continued from "It Turns Out Freedom Ain't Nothing But Missing You, Wishing I'd Realized What I Had When You Were Mine, I'd Go Back To December"...

When I was younger, as some of you may know, I was a "hellion sent from heaven," as one of my teachers said to my mother one. I was by turns caring and sweet, as well as vain and mischievous. These personality traits, aside from the obvious headaches caused by never being able to predict what I'd do next, also leant itself to some fairly horrendous behavior to people who happened to travel in my sphere in influence. Now, I always hitched my wagon to the idea that I was considerate and kind foremost and that everything else I was was a secondary impulse. Yet there was some credence that the need to do what was right for myself overrode any need to be thought of as graceful.

While I could never have been termed a bully, there were plenty of instances where the devil inside me couldn't help but coming out. I remember there was one kid in my fourth grade class named Max that Torry and I used to tease incessantly. He was terribly awkward. As my daddy says, "that boy was two sandwiches short of a picnic." But he was sweet in his own way. He was earnest and polite. I don't think he ever had a cross word for anyone who crossed his path. Yet Torry and I took it upon ourselves more than once to take advantage of his good nature. We would tease him by asking all sorts of personal questions (what kind of underwear he was wearing, if he had ever kissed a girl, if there was a girl he liked in our class, &c...), which flustered him to no end. To us, it was a hoot-and-a-half, since no other boy in our class was so easily taken in by our ruse of asking innocent questions. To him I can only imagine the nightmare it must have been.

This went on for awhile--a few months, at the very least--till Torry and I were moved away from him in class for excessive talking. At the time I didn't think much about it. We had had our fun and now it was over. That was the extent of my feelings on the matter. It wasn't like we had tanned his backside emotionally. I reckon what we did to him had been altogether harmless. At the time I thought he had gotten something out of the exchanges since he seemed to enjoy the attention of the two admitted prettiest girls in the class.

Yet the more I think about it, the more we might have pushed the boundaries of simple teasing somewhat. I never thought of myself as a bully, but I might have twisted that boy's knots too far.

The next year his family moved away from the area I hear up to Alabama. I never got to ascertain what damage, if any, my gentle mocking had done. While I don't reckon I scarred him for a life, there's a little 'ole part of me that wishes I could see him and apologize some for what I had put him through. At the very least I wish I could explain to him that it was in good fun and that I had never meant to make him believe I disliked him for one reason or other. I was a kid and that's what kids did. I never once held it my duty to torment those I saw beneath me. I only wish I could see for myself if he understood that or if he held me contemptible for anything I'd ever said.

That's the thing with actions or words. You always believe that you'll get a chance to clarify them at some point. You always believe that you'll get to the point where misunderstandings might be cleared up. But sometimes, circumstances being what they are, those opportunities just fade away. Whether it's because people move away or time just goes by, the things we do sometimes are left hanging out there in the universe without any follow-up. That's when we have to ask God if all the decisions we've made were the right decisions, and if all the words we said to others were words they would have liked to heard. Because, as I see it, you never know when you'll lose the chance to put things right with someone. You never know when the last words you say to someone really will be the last words you say to someone.

----

By the time December came around I'd almost forgotten what I was fighting for. I remember why the fight had started between Patrick and I. I had just forgotten why it was so important for me to stay mad at him. My mother calls grudges the anger that becomes a thing of itself. You just go on being angry at a person, so much so that fairly soon you're angry at the person for keeping you in this continuous state of anger. That's what our fight had felt like at that moment, an anger that existed because it had always existed.

Much like I had never thought of myself as a bully, I had never thought of myself as someone who delights in being angry. Hell's bells, I do have my moments, but on the whole I have never taken pleasure at keeping ire stoked in my soul for all the world to see. I would much rather be on good terms with the people in my life than consider myself irate with any one person. But, Patrick, by his lack of attendance at my wedding had let me down in a way that I never considered possible. Here was one person I thought would be by my side whenever I called, both for the worst of reasons and, of course, the best of reasons. By his not showing up, it exposed a side to our friendship I hadn't seen before. It showed me that even the best of friends can let you down in a way that can be devastating.

I spent a couple of months hating him for ruining what should have been my perfect day. There I was at my own wedding, getting married to the man I love, and my closest friend in the world, not to mention my oldest friend in the world, wasn't there to see it? Who does that, you know? It's one can of beans to not agree with the choices I made in my life, but to abandon me altogether is a whole other headache. Not only did I consider it bad manners, but I considered it the hugest mistake Patrick's ever made in the course of my knowing him. It took me a long time to look past the injury I had suffered. Even then to this day it's still a sore subject with me--as well it should be.

But by December, a full five months after the wedding, most of the ire I felt towards him had faded. I can't begin to tell you that I understood why he did what he did, but by that point it didn't matter so much to me. It wasn't like it was the first time he had done something to upset me or cause me to spew forth a litany of epithets. It wasn't like it was the first time I had stopped speaking to him in the name of preserving my sense of self-respect. And it wasn't like it was the first time I had professed to everyone within earshot how much I hated him. It was, however, the first time we had gone that long without any semblance of communication at all. It was the first time where I felt there was a decent chance that the friendship we had forged in the fires of nine years' time was on the verge of breaking. That was a thought I didn't cling to at all. I've thought of Eeyore in a lot of ways over the years--friend, big brother, boyfriend--but one way I hadn't thought of him up until that point is gone. Not really. Not ever in a million years.

There was one December morning, not around Christmas but a few weeks before, where I was sitting around with Greg at breakfast. I don't know how he knew. I suppose he could tell by the altogether unpleasant countenance on my face, but he asked me what was wrong. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was thinking about the whole mess with Patrick. After all, he'd been up with me the nights where I cursed Patrick's name. He had heard the vows of erasing Patrick from my phone, my computer, my address book, and from my life. He had heard all the times where I had forcefully hung up the phone inexplicably in those first few months. To admit that a little 'ole piece of my mind was changing now would be humbling. I just didn't have the heart to tell him that I might have been wrong, especially if it meant that I was considering inviting the one person who had instigated this whole mess in the first place back into my life. I couldn't do that to him.

Yet there was that part of me that clearly did not want to believe that our friendship had run its course. The lesson with Max came roaring its way back into my head. If our friendship did have to end I began to think that I didn't want it to end with those words being the last words we said to one another. More than that, I didn't want his last thought of me being that I would hate him for the rest of my life. If we truly weren't going to speak again, I at least wanted him to know that I had set aside my personal feelings on the matter and had forgiven him somewhat, if not completely.

There's too much hatred in the world already. A part of me has always believed that if you have love in your life, real love, then it's your duty to keep it strong and healthy for as long as possible.

That's why I never once closed the door to our friendship despite the advice I had been given to do just that. Even if I was too stubborn to make the call at that point, I knew that the next time Patrick called I wouldn't be hanging up the phone. I've gone through the pain of missing people immensely from my life. Torry. Shelly. Even Max, to a lesser degree. I've learned the hard way that there is nothing worse than the debilitating feeling of wanting someone back in your life and not being able to bring them back into the fold. I dare say that's a worse fate than having someone you don't want in your life and not being able to get rid of them. It's like I always say, "you can't unbake a cake." Sometimes you can't get back a friendship once it's gone either.

It may have taken two more months for Eeyore to gather up the nerve to call me. At that point, though, there's a fair assumption that it wouldn't have taken another two months for me to have done the same thing if he hadn't stepped up. And even though the first words out of his mouth may have come in the form of an apology, part of me believes that even if he had chosen to drag the same old chestnut out that had started the fight in the first place I would have still been glad to hear from him. The words in that case may have been difficult to hear, but the fact I was hearing them at all would have given me an immense sense of bliss that their meaning could never have diminished.

Our friendship may have taken many forms over the years, but it pleases me to no end to see that it still lives and breathes as long as we continue to do the same.

Breanne

It Turns Out Freedom Ain't Nothing But Missing You, Wishing I'd Realized What I Had When You Were Mine, I'd Go Back To December

--"Back to December", Taylor Swift

A tradition Lucy and I share is the idea of a "present-to-be-named-later". I don't know about anyone else, but I have a real problem with patience when it comes to waiting for gifts. I can't tell you how many times I've asked for something from my family or friends only to be driven mad with anticipation. Conversely, I can't tell you how many times somebody I know has wanted to surprise me for one of my birthdays or Christmas with a gift they think I will appreciate, only to discover I've already purchased it for myself weeks prior. I never much saw the point in waiting for an artificial day upon which to show somebody you care. If you think somebody will like a little trinket I would think it would be okay to send it to them, in honor of their birthday or what have you, immediately even if their birthday is still weeks or months away.

Tired of bumping heads over the issue we came up with the system where birthday gifts can be sent as early or as late as one wished, as long as we were both sure that the effort (and delay) would be appreciated. Rather than guess blindly at what she might or might not have picked up for herself, and rather than hint around the question, Breanne knows she can basically cash in her birthday or Christmas gift "to be named later" and tell me exactly something she has just seen that she wants me to get for her, and vice-versa.

That's how come I'm getting my brand-spanking new copy of De Volgari Eloquentia as my Christmas gift from her only this week. Hell, I didn't even know I wanted it until January 2nd. Rather than flit around searching for something I didn't have or try to deduce something I might like it was a lot easier for her for me to tell her much I wanted this game and how she could count it as my end-of-the-year gift. Another nice thing about this arrangement is the fact I could have held out for a couple of months, holding my virtual coupon for the same duration, until the perfect gift showed up on my radar.

I know--some may complain that it defeats the whole purpose of demonstrating how well you know a person by being able to suss out their perfect gift without their consent. My theory is, though, that we've both done a lot of the head-scratching to come up with that impossibly flawless present for one another. We've spent years playing along with the scenario. More to the point, we've missed as many times as we've hit with our selections. It's not as if I mind the mild disappointment in her voice; none of us our perfect in our assertions of another human being. What I've found is that by waiting a few weeks or even jumping the gun a few weeks it all but eliminates the disappointment of a bad gift. As long as she doesn't mind it isn't spontaneous, I don't mind it either. And it's all worth it when the present arrives and each of us knows it's something the other truly clamored for without hesitation. It's worth it knowing that there's absolutely no chance the other will be disappointed upon its arrival on their doorstep.

I'll trade that moment of pre-arranged joy for the romance of an impulse buy any day.

----

I remember once upon a time when I had delusions that the hope of something better was my prevailing train of thought. It was December of 2002, a few months after Breanne and Greg had gotten married, and about six months into what would turn out to be eight months of not speaking to her. I don't know--even though it wasn't that long ago considering, it feels like it was ages ago. We were both stubbornly refusing to make the first move at reconciliation, each believing we were in the right. At the moment, now that the anger has passed, she probably had more right to dislike me than I did her. Ditching your best friend's wedding isn't something I'd be eager to forgive and forget so easily either.

I remember thinking how it was the first time in a long time that I wouldn't have to get Breanne a present and what a good feeling that was. I mean--I'm not much a gift giver in the first place. Most years I only buy gifts for my parents, my brother, and her. Some years that list expands to include friends like Brandy, Casey, and, of course, Toby), but those four people have been the heart of my Christmas list for decades now. Taking her off the list was empowering. It afforded me the sensation that I had the control in the situation. I had the courage in the situation. If she didn't want to be my friend any more then there was no need to waste any more time in trying to make her happy any longer. I don't know--I reveled in my newfound independence from the one person who I had to account for it seems like every moment of every day.

Never once did it occur to me to use the opportunity as an excuse for re-establishing communications. Never once did it occur to me that the holidays provided the perfect alibi to re-building our friendship back up from the ground up.

I was very spiteful at that moment in time. I admit that. She was very spiteful too, though, if I do say so myself.

This behavior went on for the weeks leading up to Christmas. I was resolute in my vow to not give Mrs. Holins-Meier one thought during the holidays. It was still a few days from New Year's Eve, but that truly became my resolution. I wanted to start the new year with the notion that Breanne would not be a part of it or the years following. I wanted to be okay with my decision as quickly as possible. I needed to be okay with it as quickly as possible because I knew, given the option, I could dwell upon it for weeks and months if I allowed myself to wallow just so.

I told myself she was an anchor. With her gone I could finally find somebody better upon which to spend my energy. Without her sucking away my time, there was at least the possibility of finding somebody much more suited to me who wouldn't put me in that position of feeling abandoned for half of a year.

It was the aforementioned conundrum of knowing what you're getting for Christmas before it arrives or being surprised completely. I knew what I was getting with Lucy because I knew what she had brought to me in the years prior. There was no mystery in what she brought to the table nor mystery in what I had to give up in return. But in 2002 I had hope that I could forge some other type of relationship with somebody new. I had hope that there was a new relationship out there that would not cost me so much in return and one that could reap even more benefits to my well-being.

However, it was around Christmas or at least the days leading up to Christmas where I just started to miss her. As she likes to say, I started to miss her something fierce. The novelty of not having her in my life began to wear off. All that was left in its wake was the sense of isolation and abandonment that had been bobbing there the whole time, hidden by my false sense of bravado. In fact, the novelty of the situation became its own worst enemy. Frankly, it stings to know what it's like to have somebody of Breanne's import in my life and to go without it for a year. It's like losing out on Christmas altogether for a year, as if the entire holiday just vanished from the face of the planet. I never told her at the time because we had other more vital things to discuss when we finally started talking again, but that Christmas was probably one of the saddest I've ever been through.

At least on two different occasions I almost called her.

One time it was just before midnight on Christmas Day. I know it's not exactly tradition to wish somebody Merry Christmas going into December 26th, but I was determined not to talk to her on the actual day if I had to talk to her at all. I didn't even know if she'd be up, but my rationale would be at least she wouldn't be with her family at that point. I wouldn't have to go through the embarrassment of talking to her daddy or mother. Sure, I might have had to deal with Greg answering the phone, but I still only felt the bitterness and anger of a jealous man towards him so it didn't matter so much to me if I woke him up. I chickened out, though, because my misery didn't exactly seem the right tone to launch into asking her for her forgiveness.

The other time was just after New Year's--around the fourth and fifth--where I had convinced myself that I was in a happier mood. I told myself I was in a better place, where I didn't sound desperate to get her back and where I could effectively give the impression that I was actually contrite. But this too fell through because I lacked the conviction of a man who thinks he is doing something for the right reason. I knew the only reason I was even considering calling her was for my own selfish interests. For all I knew she was better off without me fucking her life up and to ask her to take me back in would probably set her back a few steps (even while it would have set me upright once again).

By that point I came to the realization that holding out for something better was foolish. If something better comes along it's going to find you regardless of what your current situation is. I didn't need to sever ties with something that, up until recently, had been the most positive influence in my life to establish a position for something even more positive to find me. I knew what I had with Breanne. I knew the risks. I also knew the rewards. There was no sense in forgoing that on the belief that my "true" love would come along to replace all of that. It's not as if I was in a horrible pit of despair being friends with Breanne. How I felt even on the worst days going toe-to-toe with Little Miss Chipper doesn't even compare to the worst days with the likes of Tara and DeAnn.

I believe that's what clinched it for me and why I ended up patching things up with Breanne a few months later. I knew what I wanted by then. Rather than feeling embarrassed for offering up my need for her so nakedly to her, I felt the conviction I've always felt when asking her for something that was sure to bring me no end of joy. When you know what you want and when you know the one person who can give it to you without hesitation, it's not wrong to be forthright in expressing your desires. People like Breanne like to know they're appreciated and that they can make you feel better about yourself.

Yes, it's good to be surprised by people entering in your life that you had no idea they would be coming. I mean--everyone's a stranger to you at some point. But my feeling at the moment is that it's even better to recognize the people in your life that you always want in it, and to let them know at every possible that all you want for Christmas, your birthday, &c... is anything and everything they are willing to offer you.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

They Said, I Bet, They'll Never Make It, But Just Look At Us Holding On, We're Still Together, Still Going Strong

--"You're Still The One", Shania Twain

I'm not one to usually make resolutions. I don't believe in them and I probably never have. I don't much see the point of making a promise to yourself that is nigh impossible to fulfill, only to beat yourself up later about it. As I learned from Jim Carrey's Yes Man, "When you break a promise to yourself, things can get a little dicey." I never want to be put into that position. I want to, more or less, be able to say that I only make promises I believe I can make good on.

Granted, my track record for finishing endeavors I've begun in good faith isn't exactly exemplary. My novel is still three-fourths of the way from being completed. I never did take up those curling lessons I've always meant to do. And I still have yet to go on my cross country road trip. However, the one project I've always prided myself on keeping on schedule is this blog. I've always maintained that, if nothing else, I would continue to put effort into keeping this project going on a fairly consistent schedule. Whether it's getting off my butt and putting up a new post, or motivating the girls to keep up their end of the bargain, I've always kept resolute about maintaining california is a recipe for a black hole for as long as possible.

A good measure of my adhering to this vow was the pace at which new posts would be posted here. In the first few years we had an absolutely amazing pace. I believe that new posts were being written at a rate of four to five new posts a week. Indeed, in the first two years of existence we crossed the two hundred posts a year barrier quite easily. I don't know what it was--perhaps we had a plethora of stories to tell that y'all hadn't heard before. Or maybe it was just the initial excitement of a undertaking just getting off the ground. Whatever it was, I believe I speak for us all when I say it was just easier to hop onto my computer to jot a few paragraphs down. And occasionally, should the need arise, it was even easy to plop down a fifteen to twenty page story.

Eventually, though, that pace became slower and slower. Even with the addition of Marion to the rotation, around the third and fourth years we were only writing around four posts a week. While we still approached two hundred posts a year, I don't think we broke the barrier in either of those years. At least for Breanne and I, it became obvious that all our best stories had already been written up here. Personally, I'm a person who relies on letting people getting to know me with the same few dozen of anecdotes I'd stored up. With those already disseminated, I quite frankly did not have enough new anecdotes to relay here.

Besides, I never liked this becoming a blog that acted more like a diary than a journal. I'm a much bigger fan of writing my life in hindsight rather than as a current event.

Which brings me to the current era this site finds itself in. As you can probably tell, the posting here has become more and more sparse. Currently we are posting maybe three posts a week, if that. Again, I speak for all of us when I say that notion just makes me feel terrible. It's as if we all spent time raising this kid and then just neglected it in its formative years, just as it was beginning to come into its own. That's no way to nurture anything or anyone you supposedly love. Remaining true to anything or anyone requires more dedication than that, if history has taught me anything.

That being said, I had originally meant to write this announcement up yesterday, but found myself unavoidably occupied (yet again). What I wanted to say yesterday was that I was making my first resolution in years. More precisely, I was making a resolution for myself, Lucy, and Marion. I want to make 2011 the year we get back to writing five posts a week or, at the very least, four. I want this a place readers come to almost every day to find something new waiting for them.

Therefore, in best resolution format, I am making a resolution to see two hundred fifty new posts in the calendar year of 2011.

I don't care who does it. I don't even care the length or depth of them. I've never said any of our posts have to be a certain length or involve certain topics. I just want it back to the old days where we all wrote something every time we thought, "hey, that would make a good idea for a post." Instead of leaving it for later, I want the three of us to go back to that semblance of focus where we wrote our ideas and memories down as we were reflecting on them in real time.

As Barbara Kingsolver once wrote, "There is no perfect time to write. There's just now." Well, 2011 might not be the perfect year to write, but it is now. As of today, there have been 1,085 posts written here. By December 31st, 2011, it will read 1,335 if I have to fly down to Macon and South Bend myself to get those gals motivated... or, heaven forbid, they have to fly down to Long Beach to get me off my sorry ass. This site is too important to let it linger in apathy.

That's my resolution and I happen to think it's a good one.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers