Swat

He sat upright in the bed he had made with the intention of impressing company. His eyes, once boring holes in the door his heart willed open, now lazily sank into their sockets. It was past 2.  She had said she would arrive at 1. He was in need of sleep, yet found the respite he sought would only come with her. She often swat in him in the middle of the night, but he did not mind. He liked to think it was her subconsciously lurching for his attention. It calmed him to think that she was not aware she always had it.

 Those assurances had long since left him as he sat alone in his dark room. His mind fit together scenario after scenario of the cause of her absence. Somehow, it always left him with the image of her in another bed. swatting another figure.

(This is a beginning in need of a middle.)
(...an end would be useful as well.)

Confident, Oh Confidant

Ode to muse and the idea of you:

You are a figment of my imagination.
Sorry that had to come out, but someone
really had to tell you before things got weird.
You're not real.
I conjured you from ideas of how people should act
and speak
and appear
before my very eyes and under my eyelids
I stole you.
You're a ripoff of all the warmth and energy
a human can exhibit.
(but at least I get to keep you.)
The dialogue we have is but
perversions of memories of those departed
and departing
(mostly by train, but some bus too.)
often hurried, though there were enough who
took the time to say good bye.
You're potential.
The realization of bad dreams and day dreams,
you walk across my synapses and then crash land
onto the stage before me.
I, your director, edit your speech and demeanor in real time.
There are several takes,
you almost never get it right
but I appreciate your flexibility, obedience
(as if you had the choice.)

You do manage to get me in trouble sometimes --
leading me down rabbit holes I
can't escape without tracking dirt on my soles.
No one really appreciates the airing of dirty laundry,
even if that's what it takes to become clean.
But it's never really that easy, is it?
I rehearse with you, tweaking and shifting,
creating nuance until you are completely
and utterly unrecognizable.
(and mine.)

Kindred

I wish I had lived on your freshman hall.
everyone abuzz with the promise of a new friend,
bedmate, study buddy, adderall hookup
signal loneliness with an open door
as night owls we'd flock together,
and by that I mean
I would find myself in the common space to be
privy to your late night delirium,
your existential crisis/es,
your drunken stumble,
whether you needed me or
not
I would take comfort knowing that someone found my jokes laughable,
my problems relatable,
my dreams worthwhile,
to the public, we would be almost-misanthropes but alone
we would drown ourselves in idealism and insist
our goals were substantive
Though we'd dwell in the sarcasm reserved for
those whose anger simmered, never quelled,
our kindred impulsivity would be the kind that
requires a certain kind of optimism.
We would
document our many firsts together,
as freshmen are wont to do and
the pictures would instill memories that could
triumph the limits of space and time.
you would tell me it was I who could keep you on track
to making the world something less farcical
and I would
take this perceived influence as a badge of pride
We'd match our yearning for understanding with
the right book,
as if that could keep us connected when
more than a hallway separated our minds.
Our geographic proximity would be replaced by
the active desire to seek each other out
when life got hard, or someone was easy.
Or, convenience could triumph.

I never had a muse until I met you.

Big Kids

1: Can we have sex when you're done?

2: (closes laptop) I'm done.
(Places laptop on coffee table. He stands up slowly, straightens pant leg, and walks over to the couch where she is sitting.)

1: Oh. Well I didn't mean to --
(She is cut off. He scoops her up in one swift movement and proceeds towards the doorway, leading to their shared bedroom. Upon reaching the unmade queen-sized bed, he places her down gently. She looks up at him, still standing, expectantly.)

2: (He sits down and turns to her.) Have we really reached the point where you have to ask me if we can have sex?

1: I didn't want to interrupt. You've been so busy lately. (She looks down in her lap.)

2: (Dwells on her statement and then offers) What are we going to do?

1: (Appears defeated) I don't know. I want this to work. I'm trying to make this work.

2: (Sighs.) And I haven't been. I'm sorry.

1: Are you going to try?

2: I want to say that I will. But there are going to be many more 70-hour work weeks. Many more nights when I'll come home with a report and an excuse.

1: I can understand that. I guess we're just different (looks up, focusing intently on his face) because when I'm exhausted after a rough day at the office, I just want to spend time with you. (She surveys the damage.)

2: (Pained.) I promise that it's not that I don't want to, or that I don't care. I do. I'm not sure how to convince you of that.

1: I know that you care. I just wish it was as much as you care about your job.

2: Oh, come on. Don't say that to me.

1: It's not that it's wrong, or that I fault you for it. It's just how it is. I accept it.

2: How long do you think that will hold out?

1: Long enough, maybe.

2: This shouldn't be this hard.

1: But shouldn't it? We want to have...everything. How could we have expected everything to just magically come together?

2: It's what we were promised.



(To be fixed/continued/fixed)

Friday Night Lights

 There were very few, if ever, truly romantic moments in my life. I've had plenty lustful and spontaneous, to be certain, however "romantic"(idyllic) has an altogether different quality that is rarely, if ever, spurred by the consumption of alcohol and a throbbing pulse of the latest club hit.

I take you to one of the most vivid of my memory: the state game.

I was 15 and hopeless. Desperate to attend the game he said he would be at (I never confirmed this to be an invitation, but that would not stop me), I got two friends equally dizzy with the thought of an entire stadium of well-bred, (hopefully) Catholic boys to go with me. This was this stuff of miracles.

We arrived and I immediately sought out the object of my desire. I don't recall the approach, but I imagine it was awkward and forcefully "accidental". My friends made friends with his friends. We stood near them, in seemingly-staunch loyalty to the side we had chosen, and I imagine that was enough for a while. 

The chatter is indistinct, though I do recall the moment when he put his varsity jacket on my shoulders. Ah, the perfect touch of chivalry. It mattered not that he answered I was a "friend" to an inquiring eye. At some point, his arms were wrapped around me, probably with the hope of sharing body heat as I greedily indulged in his warmth.

We stood there, his arms firmly around my waist, as we watched the final minutes of the game. 

A win.

Somehow, it's snowing. The crowd is dispersing. We're standing there, huddled for heat, facing the field. The flurries gently covered the stadium, ushering the remaining fans out except for us.

I turn and gaze up at his hat, which has just enough snow-covering as to not be obtrusive. Some have fallen about his brows. With little reflection or intention, I happened to look up at the same moment he looked down. Our lips meet. The snow, the echoing remains of fanfare, and us. 

We stood embraced in the cold, without a care for the dripping noses or sore throats we would surely have later. This continued for some time, until one of us remembered our ride(s) home.

Romance is the indulgence in the accidental.

(One should note this was written some months ago -- I do not want to give undeserved credit to my 5am self.)

A Nostalgia Shop

I want to create the universe in which my goals are actualized and it's as easy as getting into the right car at the right time. (Midnight.)

I revise history in my mind. I imagine the present as if I could write the screen play while playing the part. (It tends to involve a lot of monologues.) My hyperactive imagination considers the dialogue to be a crucial element in constructing realistic scenes - it requires more than a few takes to get it just right. This tends to keep the mind occupied til the wee hours -- time better spent dreaming about living those dreams.

One of my favorite remarks to make about this tricky, tricky time involves having a squeaky-clean mind. (As you see, mine is quite dirty.) I stole the premise from a Liar, except instead of erasing the memories of a person, I would erase the past 1.5 years of my life. "In an instant", I add emphatically, and whoever is sitting across me, earnestly trying to relate, nods vigorously.

Like Icarus seeking eternal sunshine, I too may be making a dreadful mistake by trying to escape with such cheap machinery. I realize this now.

For although I say I can save the "good" parts - souvenirs of the almost overwhelming kindness and compassion I have encountered throughout this ridiculous test of strength, what would I save? A hospital band attached to a "get-well-soon" dancing frog doll? A half-eaten sleeve of the Saltines I practically lived off of? A borrowed t-shirt to sleep in? A train ticket to Connecticut in the middle of the week?

But what of words? hugs? An understanding about "calling anytime"? Cupcakes and cab rides? The juice. 10 different juices. "I admire you."

No context. I have a midterm tomorrow in a course that attempts to emphasize the importance of it.

Written accounts of exploits and a handful of letters left up to scholars to translate have had piles and piles of commentary attempting to reinterpret the interpretation -- and I'm trying to work off some receipts and recyclables.

Happiness is all about the baseline. And if these many months have made the ability to walk a block without wheezing something to rejoice over, then I suppose I should leave them be. I am quite fine being excited over the ordinary.


(I'll fix this later.)

Tuesday's Grey (And Wednesday Too!)

Romance.
Lying out, nerd-ily mapping out the stars atop a half-unzipped sleeping bag, all while forgetting we're in a public park and there is some sketchy dog walker lurking around the bend.
Sharing a first kiss after the big football win as snowflakes gently fall around us, on us.
Furtively holding hands during the gooiest of songs at an outdoor concert, stealing knowing glances with each slight grip.

These are isolated events. And although our mating rituals now revolve completely around the local watering hole (devoid of all things warm and tingly, replaced with hot and sticky), we should take into account the importance of the ever-elusive "romance". The word itself is laughable, much like the varied attempts at it. I suppose it's because the "right" result is accidental. Or rather, feels accidental (enough). This is unfortunate, because not trying (i.e. waiting for the 'accident') is poor form. I refer, of course, to the "moment". The "gesture", of course, does require effort -- it is the effort.
(I'll finish this later.)

Romance is the umbrella term for the moments, gestures, and (often subsequent) feelings associated with the big L. (As opposed to the little l, which has its own, deceptively similar shenanigans to manage.)
(This too.)

Many have suggested that the feelings are there simply to cause problems. Easily tricked and confused with related conditions, such as a stomach ache or an anxiety attack. Is it lust? love? like? Some combination of these? I love your sense of style - want to rip off your shirt -- I think you're okay sometimes?
(...aaaand this.)

One of the Big 3 (religions) wisely suggested that one's life mate should stimulate the mind, eye, and heart. One of the most renowned sex educators of our time had a similar take: the relationship should have intellectual, emotional, and physical intimacy. But what if one branch is picking up the others' slack? What if the best possible score is simply a 2 out of 3?

I'm looking for inspiration. Triple-inspiration.
(Just don't be boring.)




(As an aside aside, you should probably know my absence is partially caused by my cheating on you with tumblr. I can't help it; it has pictures. Pretty ones.)