I had a little visit from my past this evening. An old flame of mine came up to me in the cafe at Borders. He sat down for a moment to chat, and we discussed trivial things. He couldn't stay long because he was spending the evening with his mother, and she was waiting for him, so we hugged, and said we'd keep in touch and then he was gone.
Now he and I were never an item, in fact I think we only went on one date, and it was just watching a video on my living room couch. But he and I definately have a past. He was my first kiss, and let me tell you, it was an amazing first kiss. People only dream of having such good first kisses. The circumstances around the kiss weren't ideal: we weren't alone on beach, or on my doorstep saying goodnight. We were at my house on New Year's Eve, and my roommates were in the room with us.
When the clock struck midnight, he kissed me in front of my roommates. I can still hear my sister (one of my roommates at the time) screaming in the background when I remember that night. She was so grossed out. I don't blame her really, she was sitting next to me on the couch. I remember her saying, "Do you guys have to kiss so LOUD!"
The kiss itself was perfect. It wasn't a peck, and it wasn't a mouthful. It was more like the perfect kisses you see in the movies. It was lingering, but didn't last too long, and it was enough to make my head spin afterwards. It was also enough to make me write a journal entry about it that night before I went to bed. In the journal entry, I went into painful detail about the kiss because I never wanted to forget it and how it made me feel. I was going to insert an excerpt from the journal entry into this blog, but I can't find it at the moment. Too bad, because it was some juicy writing.
Pardon me, I digress. This guy and his amazing first kiss had a lasting affect on my life. I became, for whatever reason, so much more outgoing and sure of myself after that experience. I learned to love myself and have respect for myself because of him and because of something he said to me - both of which were a result of our first kiss. There is obviously a story around that one, but I'm not going into it at this time.
What I wasnted to do instead was point out the fact that seeing him tonight brought all of those feelings back from the days when we hung out. When he got up to leave, I was sad to see him go. I wanted him to stay and talk with me. I wanted to catch up more and see how he was doing. And, to be completely honest, I really wanted to kiss him again. I wanted that feeling again, the feeling that - so far - he's the only one to instill in me. And for this reason, I'm glad that he had to leave, because I don't trust myself or what I may have said or done.
So, instead, I sit here and sigh at his memory. I sip my hot chocolate and daydream of better days. I write sappy blog entries and wish my life away.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Borders Journal Archive3
11/8/06
Just write. Write anything that comes to your mind. I’m very anxious. I feel like there’s a knot in my stomach that is tightening its grip ever-so slowly. Soon it will squeeze so hard it will begin to bleed. In fact, I think it’s already bleeding. I can feel the acid in my stomach roil around as it feeds on the knot. And now for something different:
The leaves are blood-red against the sharp green of the lawn. They spray across the black-top of the parking lot. The wind blows and pushes them along the ground. It herds them like a bull man with a whip. Snapping above and beneath them and scaring them into motion. They move in jerking motions around the parking lot. Sometimes they move as one, sometimes they all move in different directions, but they always move. The wind won't let them rest. It won't leave them alone. I realize it's the first time I ever felt such menace from the wind, ever felt the leaves as being so helpless before. It makes me want to cry. As soon as I realize this, I am ashamed of myself. They are only leaves after all. And it is only the wind. But then why do I feel the wind's cold arms grab at me as if it's trying to take my soul with it? Why do I feel as if it's out for blood? Can a thing so transient and shapeless really be that harmful? That's when I remember the water from that night. I feel it's claws on my chest an neck and suddenly I can't breathe. I grasp my throat, pulling on it with my hands, hoping that it will somehow bring the oxygen back into my body. It helps a little I think, because I start to feel cool air in my lungs once more. I try to breathe deeply, remembering to count my breaths as the doctor instructed me. After a few moments, my heart rate is back to normal and I feel calm again. Yes, it's definitely possible to be harmful without having a shape, to be menacing and evil and out for blood. The water wanted to kill me. It would have succeeded too. If it weren't for him. The thought of him makes me warm from the inside. I hug myself to keep the warmth in, a gentle smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Yes, he would save me again if I were in danger, and he's nowhere around, so I must be ok. I begin to walk again at this thought. The angry wind is clutching at me still, and the blood-red leaves are screaming against the street as they pass me, but my courage has returned and I don't want to loose it before I'm out of danger. He will keep my safe. He has to.
Just write. Write anything that comes to your mind. I’m very anxious. I feel like there’s a knot in my stomach that is tightening its grip ever-so slowly. Soon it will squeeze so hard it will begin to bleed. In fact, I think it’s already bleeding. I can feel the acid in my stomach roil around as it feeds on the knot. And now for something different:
The leaves are blood-red against the sharp green of the lawn. They spray across the black-top of the parking lot. The wind blows and pushes them along the ground. It herds them like a bull man with a whip. Snapping above and beneath them and scaring them into motion. They move in jerking motions around the parking lot. Sometimes they move as one, sometimes they all move in different directions, but they always move. The wind won't let them rest. It won't leave them alone. I realize it's the first time I ever felt such menace from the wind, ever felt the leaves as being so helpless before. It makes me want to cry. As soon as I realize this, I am ashamed of myself. They are only leaves after all. And it is only the wind. But then why do I feel the wind's cold arms grab at me as if it's trying to take my soul with it? Why do I feel as if it's out for blood? Can a thing so transient and shapeless really be that harmful? That's when I remember the water from that night. I feel it's claws on my chest an neck and suddenly I can't breathe. I grasp my throat, pulling on it with my hands, hoping that it will somehow bring the oxygen back into my body. It helps a little I think, because I start to feel cool air in my lungs once more. I try to breathe deeply, remembering to count my breaths as the doctor instructed me. After a few moments, my heart rate is back to normal and I feel calm again. Yes, it's definitely possible to be harmful without having a shape, to be menacing and evil and out for blood. The water wanted to kill me. It would have succeeded too. If it weren't for him. The thought of him makes me warm from the inside. I hug myself to keep the warmth in, a gentle smile playing at the corners of my mouth. Yes, he would save me again if I were in danger, and he's nowhere around, so I must be ok. I begin to walk again at this thought. The angry wind is clutching at me still, and the blood-red leaves are screaming against the street as they pass me, but my courage has returned and I don't want to loose it before I'm out of danger. He will keep my safe. He has to.
Borders Journal Archive4
11/13/06
Tonight, my friend and I discussed the differences between our writing styles. My friend, Heidi, likes to write technically – articles and analysis papers that are very organized and are very much line-of-thought writing. She likes to write her feelings, and her thoughts on life, but she writes it logically, and with organized thought.
I am not that way.
We decided that I am more of a poetic writer. Instead of thinking about, or analyzing my emotions and then writing about them, I use the writing as a medium in which to analyze and figure out what I’m feeling. I use descriptive words, and dramatic language. I am abstract to the extreme. I write about concepts instead of ideas. My writings can almost pass off as poetry than stories or papers. I describe, describe, describe.
As we were discussing this fact, the question was inevitably posed: Which style of writing is better? Is it better to state your ideas plainly, or work out your ideas with your reader? Is it better to be straight and to the point, or to wallow in the question and enjoy the sense of asking why?
For myself, I have to say that the abstract is always better. The abstract allows you to think more and explore the world around you. The abstract is freedom. The abstract is the question, not the answer, and the question is beautiful.
For my friend, she enjoys the straight-forward approach much better. She likes to feel quickly, to analyze that feeling, and to come to a conclusion on it. She prefers the answer. The question is just a way of getting to the answer for her. She is very goal oriented, and I think that’s why. I also think that’s why I prefer the question. Because I love the experience more than the destination. I love the journey.
But that still doesn’t answer the question of which one is better. But then again, I rather like the question better when it is unanswered.
Tonight, my friend and I discussed the differences between our writing styles. My friend, Heidi, likes to write technically – articles and analysis papers that are very organized and are very much line-of-thought writing. She likes to write her feelings, and her thoughts on life, but she writes it logically, and with organized thought.
I am not that way.
We decided that I am more of a poetic writer. Instead of thinking about, or analyzing my emotions and then writing about them, I use the writing as a medium in which to analyze and figure out what I’m feeling. I use descriptive words, and dramatic language. I am abstract to the extreme. I write about concepts instead of ideas. My writings can almost pass off as poetry than stories or papers. I describe, describe, describe.
As we were discussing this fact, the question was inevitably posed: Which style of writing is better? Is it better to state your ideas plainly, or work out your ideas with your reader? Is it better to be straight and to the point, or to wallow in the question and enjoy the sense of asking why?
For myself, I have to say that the abstract is always better. The abstract allows you to think more and explore the world around you. The abstract is freedom. The abstract is the question, not the answer, and the question is beautiful.
For my friend, she enjoys the straight-forward approach much better. She likes to feel quickly, to analyze that feeling, and to come to a conclusion on it. She prefers the answer. The question is just a way of getting to the answer for her. She is very goal oriented, and I think that’s why. I also think that’s why I prefer the question. Because I love the experience more than the destination. I love the journey.
But that still doesn’t answer the question of which one is better. But then again, I rather like the question better when it is unanswered.
Borders Journal Archive2
11/06/06
It stands there on top of the hill as a monolith to my dreams. As the dark clouds roll through the massive darkness of the sky, they slowly begin to frame it with bleak precision. I can feel the wind on my face, and close my eyes to hear the soft whistle it makes as it blows across my ears. Its fingers gently move my hair across my neck and tickle my chandelier earrings. It whispers softly across my face and tells me tales of beauty as it passes. And all the while I stand perfectly still so as not to miss a moment. I’m even afraid to breathe.
I open my eyes again to watch my monolith in the fading light. Its bare arms stand against the sky and clouds like a skeleton dancing in the moonlight. I move slowly toward it – if only to be closer to it, afraid that it may pick itself up and move away at any moment. It turns to look at me. Of course it can’t see me because it has no eyes. No legs either. Just arms, waving and silent. No, silent is a bad word, because those arms sing as they move. Their rustling and crackling sound like a solemn melody that mourns in the darkness. It feels sad, but it doesn’t make me melancholy. The sadness lifts my heart, and makes me feel lighter. It makes my mouth turn upwards involuntarily. I love the sadness it makes. It makes me long to be even closer to it. As I step closer to it, I reach out my hand to touch the rough and mangled bark of its trunk. I can’t reach it, and so I continue forward. Just as I touch the prickly deep-brown surface and feel the sadness even stronger. It makes me want to reach out and envelop the monolith into my arms in comfort. I know this is foolish, for it feels no comfort in its cold hard limbs. No warmth can ever seep through its bark because it is too thick and tough. But just as the knarled bark gives off warning to all around it, the beauty of the branches invites you in.
It is at the moment when I’m wishing to comfort my tree when I realize that it is not the center of my dream. I hear laughter and turn to see its source. Behind me lies a vast expanse of beautiful solitude. A verdant meadow stands before me. Its gentle hills and vales roll in ripples across its back. I small brook is winding its way through the valley. I realize this is the laughter I heard. The brook is the life and vitality of the meadow. It breathes excitement and joy into this place as it moves quickly across its expanse. I’m almost sad to see the brook there, tossing and rearranging the solitude that my tree gives off and making it excited and unsettled. I turn back to my tree to draw peace from its unchanging shape and find that it is twisting violently in the wind. Just as I see my tree twist, I feel the culprit move across my face and through my hair. It is no longer gentle, but violent and disturbing. It screams through the branches and slaps me in the face over and over again. I lift my arm to shield my eyes from its effects. I close my eyes against the angry wind and suddenly its gone. I open my eyes to see that I am alone in my bed in my quiet room. No wind, no laughing brook. Just me and my bed and my blue night light. I can’t decide if I’m glad to leave my dream-place, or if I’m sad to let it go. It was so disturbing and so wonderful at the same time. What made it so violent in the end? Was it me, or that horrible laughing brook? Perhaps I’ll ask it the next time I come to visit.
It stands there on top of the hill as a monolith to my dreams. As the dark clouds roll through the massive darkness of the sky, they slowly begin to frame it with bleak precision. I can feel the wind on my face, and close my eyes to hear the soft whistle it makes as it blows across my ears. Its fingers gently move my hair across my neck and tickle my chandelier earrings. It whispers softly across my face and tells me tales of beauty as it passes. And all the while I stand perfectly still so as not to miss a moment. I’m even afraid to breathe.
I open my eyes again to watch my monolith in the fading light. Its bare arms stand against the sky and clouds like a skeleton dancing in the moonlight. I move slowly toward it – if only to be closer to it, afraid that it may pick itself up and move away at any moment. It turns to look at me. Of course it can’t see me because it has no eyes. No legs either. Just arms, waving and silent. No, silent is a bad word, because those arms sing as they move. Their rustling and crackling sound like a solemn melody that mourns in the darkness. It feels sad, but it doesn’t make me melancholy. The sadness lifts my heart, and makes me feel lighter. It makes my mouth turn upwards involuntarily. I love the sadness it makes. It makes me long to be even closer to it. As I step closer to it, I reach out my hand to touch the rough and mangled bark of its trunk. I can’t reach it, and so I continue forward. Just as I touch the prickly deep-brown surface and feel the sadness even stronger. It makes me want to reach out and envelop the monolith into my arms in comfort. I know this is foolish, for it feels no comfort in its cold hard limbs. No warmth can ever seep through its bark because it is too thick and tough. But just as the knarled bark gives off warning to all around it, the beauty of the branches invites you in.
It is at the moment when I’m wishing to comfort my tree when I realize that it is not the center of my dream. I hear laughter and turn to see its source. Behind me lies a vast expanse of beautiful solitude. A verdant meadow stands before me. Its gentle hills and vales roll in ripples across its back. I small brook is winding its way through the valley. I realize this is the laughter I heard. The brook is the life and vitality of the meadow. It breathes excitement and joy into this place as it moves quickly across its expanse. I’m almost sad to see the brook there, tossing and rearranging the solitude that my tree gives off and making it excited and unsettled. I turn back to my tree to draw peace from its unchanging shape and find that it is twisting violently in the wind. Just as I see my tree twist, I feel the culprit move across my face and through my hair. It is no longer gentle, but violent and disturbing. It screams through the branches and slaps me in the face over and over again. I lift my arm to shield my eyes from its effects. I close my eyes against the angry wind and suddenly its gone. I open my eyes to see that I am alone in my bed in my quiet room. No wind, no laughing brook. Just me and my bed and my blue night light. I can’t decide if I’m glad to leave my dream-place, or if I’m sad to let it go. It was so disturbing and so wonderful at the same time. What made it so violent in the end? Was it me, or that horrible laughing brook? Perhaps I’ll ask it the next time I come to visit.
Borders Journal Archive1
11/04/06
I came to Border’s tonight to read books and write about them, but there was a concert in the café when I got here. I was indecisive at first. Should I go to another bookstore, or just read somewhere else? Should I just sit in the café, and try to block the music out, or should I just browse for a while and hope for a short concert? As I contemplated this, I walked around the bookstore, looking for a book to read. The music being played was something I really liked. So I decided to sit in the café and block the concert stuff out. But as sat here looking at the singer and listening to his music, I couldn’t contemplate anything else but the sounds and images that were around me. The stack of books I brought with me just sat in my lap. My attention was wrapped up in the songs. I started to realize that this music was profoundly interesting to me. It was a man and his guitar and that was it. Over the course of the concert, I found out that the singer’s first name was Colby, but that’s all I knew. I had no idea of his stage name or if he had any CD’s published. He was cute and his music was good, and the words in his music were thoughtful and expressive. I started to think about the singer himself. He was attractive, well-groomed, good voice. All of the qualities that he had I like. I looked at his ring finger to see if he was married. No ring! Yes! He had a few fans in the audience, and they were all girls. I started to wonder if he was dating one of them. I decided that there was a good chance he wasn’t dating anyone. I started to imagine talking to him after the show. It was a small group, and I was sitting in the very front. It would be easy to talk to him when he finished. Maybe he’d even think I was cute and ask for my number. Maybe we would really hit it off. I even thought about dates we might have. I imagined him singing to me, and having romantic evenings together talking about life and music and literature. I imagined him meeting my family and getting along with them really well. I was half in love with him by the time the concert ended. As he was singing his last song, I realized how foolish I was being. I was suddenly extremely embarrassed at myself. I could feel my cheeks go red, and I had to look at my lap to compose myself. When the singer finished his song, he put his guitar down and started to walk towards me. I was so embarrassed! Could he hear my thoughts, did he really notice me, was he going to ask me out?? My thoughts were racing, and my mind was void of anything coherent to say. I was about to faint from mortification when I realized that he wasn’t walking towards me at all. He was walking towards the girl next to me. He stopped in front of her chair and started to talk to her. That’s when I realized that they were dating. He had his leg rested against hers as they talked. The look of admiration in his eyes gave him away as well. I felt a fool. I looked down at the pile of books in my lap and picked one up. I opened it and tried to read its contents, but all I could concentrate on was his conversation with his girlfriend. I picked up the next book in the pile and tried to concentrate on that. Again, my attention was caught up in their smiles and conversation. I attempted to look at the third book before I gave up. I decided I couldn’t sit there and listen to them. I got up and walked over to the other side of the room to pretend to throw something away. When the singer finally turned back to his guitar to put it away, I made my move back to my seat.
I was angry at myself. I should have gotten over my embarrassment and talked to him. Sure he had a girlfriend, but I wasn’t just interested in his looks, I was also interested in his music. I wanted to know his name and if he had any CD’s to sell. But I was so caught up in my own embarrassment that I missed my chance. He’s gone now, and I’m sitting by myself in the café and typing in my laptop. I’m alone in my thoughts, as always, and I put myself here. Another missed opportunity come and gone, only this time it’s not forgotten.
I came to Border’s tonight to read books and write about them, but there was a concert in the café when I got here. I was indecisive at first. Should I go to another bookstore, or just read somewhere else? Should I just sit in the café, and try to block the music out, or should I just browse for a while and hope for a short concert? As I contemplated this, I walked around the bookstore, looking for a book to read. The music being played was something I really liked. So I decided to sit in the café and block the concert stuff out. But as sat here looking at the singer and listening to his music, I couldn’t contemplate anything else but the sounds and images that were around me. The stack of books I brought with me just sat in my lap. My attention was wrapped up in the songs. I started to realize that this music was profoundly interesting to me. It was a man and his guitar and that was it. Over the course of the concert, I found out that the singer’s first name was Colby, but that’s all I knew. I had no idea of his stage name or if he had any CD’s published. He was cute and his music was good, and the words in his music were thoughtful and expressive. I started to think about the singer himself. He was attractive, well-groomed, good voice. All of the qualities that he had I like. I looked at his ring finger to see if he was married. No ring! Yes! He had a few fans in the audience, and they were all girls. I started to wonder if he was dating one of them. I decided that there was a good chance he wasn’t dating anyone. I started to imagine talking to him after the show. It was a small group, and I was sitting in the very front. It would be easy to talk to him when he finished. Maybe he’d even think I was cute and ask for my number. Maybe we would really hit it off. I even thought about dates we might have. I imagined him singing to me, and having romantic evenings together talking about life and music and literature. I imagined him meeting my family and getting along with them really well. I was half in love with him by the time the concert ended. As he was singing his last song, I realized how foolish I was being. I was suddenly extremely embarrassed at myself. I could feel my cheeks go red, and I had to look at my lap to compose myself. When the singer finished his song, he put his guitar down and started to walk towards me. I was so embarrassed! Could he hear my thoughts, did he really notice me, was he going to ask me out?? My thoughts were racing, and my mind was void of anything coherent to say. I was about to faint from mortification when I realized that he wasn’t walking towards me at all. He was walking towards the girl next to me. He stopped in front of her chair and started to talk to her. That’s when I realized that they were dating. He had his leg rested against hers as they talked. The look of admiration in his eyes gave him away as well. I felt a fool. I looked down at the pile of books in my lap and picked one up. I opened it and tried to read its contents, but all I could concentrate on was his conversation with his girlfriend. I picked up the next book in the pile and tried to concentrate on that. Again, my attention was caught up in their smiles and conversation. I attempted to look at the third book before I gave up. I decided I couldn’t sit there and listen to them. I got up and walked over to the other side of the room to pretend to throw something away. When the singer finally turned back to his guitar to put it away, I made my move back to my seat.
I was angry at myself. I should have gotten over my embarrassment and talked to him. Sure he had a girlfriend, but I wasn’t just interested in his looks, I was also interested in his music. I wanted to know his name and if he had any CD’s to sell. But I was so caught up in my own embarrassment that I missed my chance. He’s gone now, and I’m sitting by myself in the café and typing in my laptop. I’m alone in my thoughts, as always, and I put myself here. Another missed opportunity come and gone, only this time it’s not forgotten.
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