post script notes:
there was a graveyard forum at the NaNoWriMo site, where you could properly bury the characters you created and killed. So this is not part of the book, but nonetheless a chance to say goodbye to some of the people who had a place in my head and my heart for the past month.
wow. Too bad I didn't know about this thread already. I won't list them all (there were thirty total), only the main characters who ended up losing their lives at the end of the book. Written here by Detective Jacobs, who had to survive and feel the after effects of these horrific murders in order for my story to reach a conclusion.
Detective John Sanders, you were not exactly a partner nor were you exactly a friend. In our line of work we rarely hold on to either, as a rule, and in that respect you were more than both to me. You were a fine officer and your life was taken in the line of duty while rescuing another officer. There is no finer way to go, in my book, and I believe i speak for all the officers here today when I say so. Our city and our department have lost a valuable person now, and, on a personal ending,. I will miss seeing the tower of Styrofoam coffee cups that you built on your desk every day. Thank you, John, for giving us the ultimate sacrifice.
Christopher Dunn, a civilian and a gentleman who died while trying to save a young lady's life. Twenty-six is far too young to be taken from this world, when the career is just beginning to flourish and the family life starting to take wing and grow beyond the confines of your mother and father. You died in a battle of good and evil that you never knowingly went looking for. I look out at the members of the community here at your funeral, a host of friends and family along side the prominent members of our local businesses and government offices, and I see just how far your impact stretched throughout our city. My hope is that you are remembered for what you hoped to accomplish as much as what you did accomplish in your short time among us.
Arthur Goode. I pause because it gets a little bit tricky here. The idea of Arthur Goode was a good idea, I still believe that. You were not supposed to become the monster, merely the narrator of our collective story here in our city. Somehow you changed though, through the course of events that unfolded over the month of November. Something happened to flip you around, and we may never fully understand what that was, although I do intend to follow through with the exploration. Your writings, what you chose to share with the world, tended to be caring and open, and a celebration of the lives around us. yet your actions were the complete opposite. You tortured and maimed and not only took the lives of several dozen people but also caused harm to those of us left behind. Where you could have made a real connection through that common soul of humanity, to quote from your own ever so eloquent prose, you instead decided to sever the connection in some of the most inhumane ways possible. I feel a special connection to you, of course I would, and that scares me a bit. I am one of those people deeply changed by your thoughts and by your actions. I only hope it leads me into some spiritual plane rather than the dark hell that you descended into. No, I do not feel sorry for killing you at all, and I do not feel remorse at wondering if you could have been developed, changed, into a moral creature of this earth. Goodbye to you, Mr. Goode.
Finally, I get to our dearest Brooke. Brooke Adams, at nineteen years old, perhaps suffered the most this month. You came into my life out of nowhere. There is nobody in my life that you remind me of being, no basis of some other person to compare with who you turned out to be. You were a completely independent thought that developed into a woman of your own. You surprised me even in the end, not facing your death as if it didn't matter, but also not treating it as unavoidable. You fought to the end and were the last soul to be taken by our serial killer. Things could have ended differently with a simple stroke of the keyboard. You might have wrestled the gun from his hands or you may have come with a loaded weapon yourself, knowing you would be facing him. You spent most of your life not exactly lost but not exactly connected either, and I understand that deeply. You could have grown up to be bitter and angry and quite possibly the woman that your killer envisioned, or you could have lived a long and fruitful life, facing your demons and finding your spiritual center. Instead you left us exactly the way you came into our lives, unexpected and sudden and leaving a trail across our souls the way a comet leaves a trail in the night sky. I will always miss you yet I feel I cannot grieve for the loss of your body. You would not allow that, if you were here. You died as you lived, with your head held high and your eyes full of peace, despite the demons and the angels inside of you fighting for superiority. Neither one of those sides won out in the end, and that mattered to you more than the rest of everything else that occurred. Because of that, I will respect your final wishes, turn and walk away from you now and let you remain who you always were destined to be. Goodbye, Brooke.
November 29, 2009
November 1, 2009
NaNoWriMo
You'll have to read this all the way through please.
I posted a link yesterday to NaNoWriMo. This stands for the National November Writing Month. First off this is a non-profit organization worth checking out. I think it's in it's tenth or eleventh year. The contest is as follows:
Write a 50,000 word novel, starting November 1st and finished by November 30th. This is a quantity not quality attempt. Per one quote on the website "December is for revisions." Don't get bogged down in editing. Just force yourself to write.
I know several of my friends here can relate to that. I've been in the process of writing three -count them - three greatest american novels for at least four years. Sort of a GOYA (get off your ass) contest.
You win by posting your story and having the word count reach 50,000 words. You lose if you post 49,999 words. that's it. No prizes, no judging. Nobody even reads the story at the office. They just count the words. Technically you could type anything, repeat the word THE 50,000 times. It's an honor system. You can't use anything already written (Outlines and sources aside). Again it's all honor system. This is mostly just a personal challenge with a bit of competition and bragging rights across regions. There are about 43 people signed up from Savannah.
I first came across this contest three years ago. I think years earlier as well, but didn't pay it attention then. I always discover it right around the end of October. I always discover it while I don't have a single idea in my head to write about. I always have a thousand good reasons not to do it. I always want to sign up and never do. I always wish I had signed up come the end of November and forget about it again come December, until the following year I repeat the cycle.
On a quick side note, I am also testing right now how well I am at getting a word count going just by typing. Hence the long note here, although when I blog I do tend to ramble. Quite a bit. Although i have severely decreased the amount of ...'s I use.
So to get to the point in a rather long about way, I was veiwing onee of my YouTube subscriptions (HaleyGHoover, she rocks) two short days ago and she signed up for this contest. She also informed us that she's entered four times and one twice.
She's 19.
I am 44 and still sitting on my ass as my stomach grows wider. So I signed up. On October 30th. With not a single idea in my head. Without a hope of finishing this project. With a thousand different things on my plate to finish. Add that to the fact that I am pretty much anti-social anyway, and locking me into a room with a typewriter for 30 days is not quite on my list of healthy behaviors, and you have a definite recipe for disaster.
I have not been this excited since I began reading Wikipedia.
Yeah, another unfinished project there. I wanted to read Wikipedia front to back. Long story (really long blog!) and I discovered I have just under 9000 words into it. From two years ago.
I also am attempting an actual novel. Characters and story arcs and conflicts and resolutions and all. Honestly, it's just one of those things I started channeling. I don't take a lot of credit for it, and I also have not gotten into the meat of the story either. Just the introductions and character development.
I have 12000 plus words in that one though. And that's only a year-long project so far.
I can do the word count. I can very likely do it within a month. But can I do it in an actual novel? Can I do it in something that isn't just a stretched out drawn out watered down version of a fifth step, as is pretty much all of my writing? Yeah, if I get your help with it.
Let me go through my technical difficulties first.
I killed my computer last year. I did manage to save the hard drive, and pretty much all my writings, thank you HP. I also bought a laptop from a friend (on the installment plan. I have yet to pay off that small amount of money, but we talked the other day, and my only real deadline is before I shoot up the work place. Which, as much as I may talk about and seriously enjoy doing, won't be happening). But this laptop has MS Office 2007. The trial version. Which is used up and locked up so I have no actual word processor to write with anymore. My writing will be happenning online, at MySpace (a link will follow if you actually want to read along and hopefully input. Just bear in mind it's a quantity not wuality project).
But I do have a laptop. And those are great for writers. In theory we can go anywhere and write. We can stop on the side of the road and add a note, or meet up with some of the other 42 Wrimos (our collective nickname) at Borders or Gallery Espresso (but not the Metro, damn them for closing!). My problem there is that my battery doesn't charge. So to take it with me requires the use of my power cord. Small difficulty I know, dragging the cord with me and finding an outlet. But let's just say I somehow broke the keyboard on my laptop already. And let's also assume that I have a USB keyboard attached that I also need to drag around with me. And let's finally consider that I am telling the truth because I am, and the stares as I haul all of this into the Starbucks and ask someone who's sitting near the only outlet next to a table (because a laptop is okay on your lap, hence the name, but a laptop and a keyboard are a bit more difficult) become a bit embarrassing.
Wait there's one more thing. Because I cleaned out this keyboard a while back (it was attached to the now dead desktop that I killed last year), and put the N key and the M key on backwards. So if you go back even in this post, and count the M's and the N's, and just assume about a third of them were typos because I generally still look down at the keys when I type, and you get a sense of what difficulties lie in wait for me. And I know that I could take it apart and actually fix it correctly. Buit comon, this is me you're talking about. I like my personal hells. I don't want a challenge I want my head beaten against the wall thank you very much. Besides, for the most part I have gotten used to it.
My biggest saving grace, if I wish to balance the scales here a bit, is that I type with three fingers. Sometimes even four.
We are almost done wandering the neighborhood here by the way. Bear with me because now is where I ask for help. And it doesn't involve any of the previous technical issues. It involves plot. I don't have one. Well, I didn't anyway. Not until I spent 7 and a half hours amongst the walking dead in the Urgent care office today and came up with one. And somewhat of an outline as well. But it needs a lot of work.
Fifty thousand words. thirty days. That's a steady pace of about 1670 words a day. Every day. Even the weekends as I keep Connor entertained. Even on Thanksgiving. Even between cub scouts and meetings and dating and... well, that last part isn't quite happenning yet. But I was ready and God threw this into my lap. Fifty. Thousand. Words. And no plot this morning at all. I would love to finish my novel that's already started. To not count the words written already and add another 50000 to it (do you see all those zeros by the way!). That would be bending the rules. This is supposed to be a start to finish novel. I would love to just do a long winded blog. But again, that's not really a novel.
So I am stealing. That's not really out of the rules. I got to thinking about meeting up with some of these fellow writers (Wrimos) this month, as we plug away and encourage and beat down each others work. I got to thinking about the diverse people involved and the differences and the conflicts and the shyness and the outspokenness and y'all do understand that I am not a people person, so I almost immediately decided to have one of the characters kill them all off. Which actually may happen, but not in my current plan. Because then I remembered a movie. And I realized this was already written.
The Breakfast Club.
If you haven't seen it find it. And I know as the starting gun for this project looms in minutes and I need to write, I still might stay up and watch the movie again.
You have the characters. the jock. The nerd. The weird (goth) one. The princess. And the criminal (or rebel). You have their parents (who, although not seen in the movie except in the beginning and end, play a major role in the conflicts) and the authority figure and the janitor.
You have the conflicts, the bonding then the understanding and the resolution and finally the growth. It's a story that writes itself if I let it, and really, can I even consider myself even a hack writer if I can't do this? So we have what I think of as "The Writer's Breakfast Club". No that's not a title I just want you to start thinking.
Think about the characters. Not so much as the grown up jock or the princess ten years later. Just that there will be a group of five people very diverse in their beliefs coming together and having issues with each other because of their issues away from the group. Give me the conflicts. Share with me something of your own. Your issues with your parents or spouses, current or ex. Brainstorm with me here. Help me write a novel that might actually go somewhere.
See I have my characters. But the authority figure is kind of a stumper for me right now. And I think my nerd (the wanna-be writer probably, since he becomes the narrator) and the criminal (I don't know who yet, but I just understand he is running or hiding something from his past) might be the same person, which leaves me a character short.
I have some conflicts sketched out (imagine a Scad student, new to town, trying to hold a political conversation with someone who really wants to be the next Paula Dean; Imagine a shallow character, barely holding it all together, whose car and house and girl give him meaning learning about the benefits of service from some retired school teacher). It's all right there. It's all ready to be hashed out.
But I don't even have close to 50000 words on my own. And to quote myself from a note I made today: "It's hard to write about characters the reader wants to care about, when you really don't care about people." Yes I do care about people. People I know, people who need help, people as individuals. But I only learn that from you all. I only have that when I stay close to those of you who teach me. All of you.
So you're in? Great! Let's get going. It just turned one o'clock on November first. Even better is that the clocks go back tonight, so it just turned Midnight November first. i can officially write for this contest. Push me Prod me. Laugh and cry with me. I am so ready to go. Come along with me. Give me your ideas and know that nothing is taboo, nothing is sacred and nothing too small or too grand to put down in these comments.
And to let you really understand what's in store, this post was a mere 2067 words.
I posted a link yesterday to NaNoWriMo. This stands for the National November Writing Month. First off this is a non-profit organization worth checking out. I think it's in it's tenth or eleventh year. The contest is as follows:
Write a 50,000 word novel, starting November 1st and finished by November 30th. This is a quantity not quality attempt. Per one quote on the website "December is for revisions." Don't get bogged down in editing. Just force yourself to write.
I know several of my friends here can relate to that. I've been in the process of writing three -count them - three greatest american novels for at least four years. Sort of a GOYA (get off your ass) contest.
You win by posting your story and having the word count reach 50,000 words. You lose if you post 49,999 words. that's it. No prizes, no judging. Nobody even reads the story at the office. They just count the words. Technically you could type anything, repeat the word THE 50,000 times. It's an honor system. You can't use anything already written (Outlines and sources aside). Again it's all honor system. This is mostly just a personal challenge with a bit of competition and bragging rights across regions. There are about 43 people signed up from Savannah.
I first came across this contest three years ago. I think years earlier as well, but didn't pay it attention then. I always discover it right around the end of October. I always discover it while I don't have a single idea in my head to write about. I always have a thousand good reasons not to do it. I always want to sign up and never do. I always wish I had signed up come the end of November and forget about it again come December, until the following year I repeat the cycle.
On a quick side note, I am also testing right now how well I am at getting a word count going just by typing. Hence the long note here, although when I blog I do tend to ramble. Quite a bit. Although i have severely decreased the amount of ...'s I use.
So to get to the point in a rather long about way, I was veiwing onee of my YouTube subscriptions (HaleyGHoover, she rocks) two short days ago and she signed up for this contest. She also informed us that she's entered four times and one twice.
She's 19.
I am 44 and still sitting on my ass as my stomach grows wider. So I signed up. On October 30th. With not a single idea in my head. Without a hope of finishing this project. With a thousand different things on my plate to finish. Add that to the fact that I am pretty much anti-social anyway, and locking me into a room with a typewriter for 30 days is not quite on my list of healthy behaviors, and you have a definite recipe for disaster.
I have not been this excited since I began reading Wikipedia.
Yeah, another unfinished project there. I wanted to read Wikipedia front to back. Long story (really long blog!) and I discovered I have just under 9000 words into it. From two years ago.
I also am attempting an actual novel. Characters and story arcs and conflicts and resolutions and all. Honestly, it's just one of those things I started channeling. I don't take a lot of credit for it, and I also have not gotten into the meat of the story either. Just the introductions and character development.
I have 12000 plus words in that one though. And that's only a year-long project so far.
I can do the word count. I can very likely do it within a month. But can I do it in an actual novel? Can I do it in something that isn't just a stretched out drawn out watered down version of a fifth step, as is pretty much all of my writing? Yeah, if I get your help with it.
Let me go through my technical difficulties first.
I killed my computer last year. I did manage to save the hard drive, and pretty much all my writings, thank you HP. I also bought a laptop from a friend (on the installment plan. I have yet to pay off that small amount of money, but we talked the other day, and my only real deadline is before I shoot up the work place. Which, as much as I may talk about and seriously enjoy doing, won't be happening). But this laptop has MS Office 2007. The trial version. Which is used up and locked up so I have no actual word processor to write with anymore. My writing will be happenning online, at MySpace (a link will follow if you actually want to read along and hopefully input. Just bear in mind it's a quantity not wuality project).
But I do have a laptop. And those are great for writers. In theory we can go anywhere and write. We can stop on the side of the road and add a note, or meet up with some of the other 42 Wrimos (our collective nickname) at Borders or Gallery Espresso (but not the Metro, damn them for closing!). My problem there is that my battery doesn't charge. So to take it with me requires the use of my power cord. Small difficulty I know, dragging the cord with me and finding an outlet. But let's just say I somehow broke the keyboard on my laptop already. And let's also assume that I have a USB keyboard attached that I also need to drag around with me. And let's finally consider that I am telling the truth because I am, and the stares as I haul all of this into the Starbucks and ask someone who's sitting near the only outlet next to a table (because a laptop is okay on your lap, hence the name, but a laptop and a keyboard are a bit more difficult) become a bit embarrassing.
Wait there's one more thing. Because I cleaned out this keyboard a while back (it was attached to the now dead desktop that I killed last year), and put the N key and the M key on backwards. So if you go back even in this post, and count the M's and the N's, and just assume about a third of them were typos because I generally still look down at the keys when I type, and you get a sense of what difficulties lie in wait for me. And I know that I could take it apart and actually fix it correctly. Buit comon, this is me you're talking about. I like my personal hells. I don't want a challenge I want my head beaten against the wall thank you very much. Besides, for the most part I have gotten used to it.
My biggest saving grace, if I wish to balance the scales here a bit, is that I type with three fingers. Sometimes even four.
We are almost done wandering the neighborhood here by the way. Bear with me because now is where I ask for help. And it doesn't involve any of the previous technical issues. It involves plot. I don't have one. Well, I didn't anyway. Not until I spent 7 and a half hours amongst the walking dead in the Urgent care office today and came up with one. And somewhat of an outline as well. But it needs a lot of work.
Fifty thousand words. thirty days. That's a steady pace of about 1670 words a day. Every day. Even the weekends as I keep Connor entertained. Even on Thanksgiving. Even between cub scouts and meetings and dating and... well, that last part isn't quite happenning yet. But I was ready and God threw this into my lap. Fifty. Thousand. Words. And no plot this morning at all. I would love to finish my novel that's already started. To not count the words written already and add another 50000 to it (do you see all those zeros by the way!). That would be bending the rules. This is supposed to be a start to finish novel. I would love to just do a long winded blog. But again, that's not really a novel.
So I am stealing. That's not really out of the rules. I got to thinking about meeting up with some of these fellow writers (Wrimos) this month, as we plug away and encourage and beat down each others work. I got to thinking about the diverse people involved and the differences and the conflicts and the shyness and the outspokenness and y'all do understand that I am not a people person, so I almost immediately decided to have one of the characters kill them all off. Which actually may happen, but not in my current plan. Because then I remembered a movie. And I realized this was already written.
The Breakfast Club.
If you haven't seen it find it. And I know as the starting gun for this project looms in minutes and I need to write, I still might stay up and watch the movie again.
You have the characters. the jock. The nerd. The weird (goth) one. The princess. And the criminal (or rebel). You have their parents (who, although not seen in the movie except in the beginning and end, play a major role in the conflicts) and the authority figure and the janitor.
You have the conflicts, the bonding then the understanding and the resolution and finally the growth. It's a story that writes itself if I let it, and really, can I even consider myself even a hack writer if I can't do this? So we have what I think of as "The Writer's Breakfast Club". No that's not a title I just want you to start thinking.
Think about the characters. Not so much as the grown up jock or the princess ten years later. Just that there will be a group of five people very diverse in their beliefs coming together and having issues with each other because of their issues away from the group. Give me the conflicts. Share with me something of your own. Your issues with your parents or spouses, current or ex. Brainstorm with me here. Help me write a novel that might actually go somewhere.
See I have my characters. But the authority figure is kind of a stumper for me right now. And I think my nerd (the wanna-be writer probably, since he becomes the narrator) and the criminal (I don't know who yet, but I just understand he is running or hiding something from his past) might be the same person, which leaves me a character short.
I have some conflicts sketched out (imagine a Scad student, new to town, trying to hold a political conversation with someone who really wants to be the next Paula Dean; Imagine a shallow character, barely holding it all together, whose car and house and girl give him meaning learning about the benefits of service from some retired school teacher). It's all right there. It's all ready to be hashed out.
But I don't even have close to 50000 words on my own. And to quote myself from a note I made today: "It's hard to write about characters the reader wants to care about, when you really don't care about people." Yes I do care about people. People I know, people who need help, people as individuals. But I only learn that from you all. I only have that when I stay close to those of you who teach me. All of you.
So you're in? Great! Let's get going. It just turned one o'clock on November first. Even better is that the clocks go back tonight, so it just turned Midnight November first. i can officially write for this contest. Push me Prod me. Laugh and cry with me. I am so ready to go. Come along with me. Give me your ideas and know that nothing is taboo, nothing is sacred and nothing too small or too grand to put down in these comments.
And to let you really understand what's in store, this post was a mere 2067 words.
October 20, 2009
Kiss Me (a *Dew prompt)
OK, I will admit it to y'all upfront. Sometimes it sucks to be a guy. Not in the "I wanna carry a child around for nine months then give birth to it only to have it tell me to fuck off as a teenager" kind of way, of course. Guys have it easy, and I've just about got it down to a science now.
But there are times when we just can't react the way we want to need to are supposed to react. We aren't wired for it. We are the hunters, the warmongers, the rock you need to support you, and the shoulder you turn to in one hour for it's strength and the next for it's gentle kindness. We can give you answers when you want them, and we can sit there and listen while you come up with your own. We adjust, we change track, we go in circles sometimes trying to figure out what you are really asking of us.
And that's great. We were built for it the way we were built to drive fast and tear each other up during the holiday touch football game. If we really understood the female mind; if we really acted exactly the way we were supposed to every waking minute I think that society would fall apart. Women wouldn't want us to be perfect. Where is there room to grow together that way anyway?
We struggle. We cope. We secretly love it when you spend way too much money on a dress you get to wear only one time to impress people we don't really care about impressing because, let's face it, you DO look stunning in that dress and we can't wait to get home to tear off the thirty dollar panties because we love you in the walmart shorts and t-shirt just as much.
We sit in recliners. We watch golf on tv. We sometimes forget to do dishes and we sometimes get up early and make breakfast and even put fresh cut flowers on the table while you sleep. We wine and we dine and we impress by washing the car those first few dates even though we know, we really do understand, that what impresses you most is the honest smile, the one that comes from the soul and reflects through the eyes. We know, we really do understand that what you like isn't the title of our job but that we support our child or visit our parents or even hold the door open for strangers in the rain and still we feel the need to iron our shirts before going out to the movies.
It's what we do. We are guys.
What we don't do is wait for those words from her. Kiss me. We take it on the doorstep as we say goodnight. Or we take your hand and drag you across the crowded Christmas party into a quiet corner, against the wall while you receive it in a state of shock. We play it cool because we are shy and we play it shy because we know it's already ours. The question might be when but the act is ours. We own it. We have struggled with it since we stopped dragging you into caves with our club in the other hand. We wonder does she want me to. We ask ourselves should it be now. We think that any moment is the perfect one but have also learned that you already have an idea of where and when and we better get it straight or at l;east close to what you had in mind.
Kiss me. That's our line. We have called you a day before the other guy who's interested in you. We go behind his back. We openly war with him. We sometimes draw straws or back off for a friend. We play wingman for each other. We have propped up and destroyed empires over that kiss. We've earned that right and we take it. Sometimes gently just below the ear and sometimes with a bite on the lower lip. We go across country to get it. We wait patiently for the opportunity and we rush into relationships for it.
Kiss me.
Two words I find myself still waiting to hear from her. The one act of submission that tortures my soul more than anything else is her willingness to utter those two little words to me. I have taken another's virginity. I have changed another's life. I gave a child to one. I've even taken a woman's soul and added it to my collection of emotional trophies. Things I have made amends for and things I will never be able to make right. And now I find myself unable to take that kiss from her; unwilling to steal from her the one thing she will never be able to give me.
Kiss me.
I could have taken it when I had the chance. I could have forced the issue three years earlier. I could have charmed and cajoled and batted the baby blue eyes and wrote the love letters that make you mine and it would have been a question of when not a question of if. Because she is gone now and they are words I never needed in my life until I realized they were never there and I missed them.
Kiss me.
When we talked about that first kiss and we talked about the possibilities and the potentials and the butterflies and the excitement and the caressing that follows what was in my mind was always a single thought. Because I knew we would have a first kiss. The first kiss is wonderful. It opens doors and opens hearts and you are completely in the moment and there is no other feeling in the world. But what I realized, what always crossed my mind, was that there would never be another first kiss for me. That would be the last one and the second one would be sweet and the third even sweeter and the thought of a million kisses with her was rejuvinating and the thought now, not of the first kiss but of that last kiss before my last breath of air is truly amazing to me and what I really want in this world.
Kiss me.
And she will never say that to me. I understand that and I know it and I crave it no less than I did almost four years ago. So I've spent too many months now waiting to hear it from somebody anybody else and it isn't coming and it won't be what I am seeking and so I am back to being a guy which means I am wining and dining and charming and cajoling and washing my car and ironing my shirts and doing what guys do. And I've got it easy, and I have it basically down to a science now.
Except I am extraordinary. And this is only a passing fad. And if you ever wonder, ladies and gentlemen, if it ever crosses your mind, you might try uttering those words to somebody and seeing what magic occurs. Life is fleeting and people move on.
Kiss me.
But there are times when we just can't react the way we want to need to are supposed to react. We aren't wired for it. We are the hunters, the warmongers, the rock you need to support you, and the shoulder you turn to in one hour for it's strength and the next for it's gentle kindness. We can give you answers when you want them, and we can sit there and listen while you come up with your own. We adjust, we change track, we go in circles sometimes trying to figure out what you are really asking of us.
And that's great. We were built for it the way we were built to drive fast and tear each other up during the holiday touch football game. If we really understood the female mind; if we really acted exactly the way we were supposed to every waking minute I think that society would fall apart. Women wouldn't want us to be perfect. Where is there room to grow together that way anyway?
We struggle. We cope. We secretly love it when you spend way too much money on a dress you get to wear only one time to impress people we don't really care about impressing because, let's face it, you DO look stunning in that dress and we can't wait to get home to tear off the thirty dollar panties because we love you in the walmart shorts and t-shirt just as much.
We sit in recliners. We watch golf on tv. We sometimes forget to do dishes and we sometimes get up early and make breakfast and even put fresh cut flowers on the table while you sleep. We wine and we dine and we impress by washing the car those first few dates even though we know, we really do understand, that what impresses you most is the honest smile, the one that comes from the soul and reflects through the eyes. We know, we really do understand that what you like isn't the title of our job but that we support our child or visit our parents or even hold the door open for strangers in the rain and still we feel the need to iron our shirts before going out to the movies.
It's what we do. We are guys.
What we don't do is wait for those words from her. Kiss me. We take it on the doorstep as we say goodnight. Or we take your hand and drag you across the crowded Christmas party into a quiet corner, against the wall while you receive it in a state of shock. We play it cool because we are shy and we play it shy because we know it's already ours. The question might be when but the act is ours. We own it. We have struggled with it since we stopped dragging you into caves with our club in the other hand. We wonder does she want me to. We ask ourselves should it be now. We think that any moment is the perfect one but have also learned that you already have an idea of where and when and we better get it straight or at l;east close to what you had in mind.
Kiss me. That's our line. We have called you a day before the other guy who's interested in you. We go behind his back. We openly war with him. We sometimes draw straws or back off for a friend. We play wingman for each other. We have propped up and destroyed empires over that kiss. We've earned that right and we take it. Sometimes gently just below the ear and sometimes with a bite on the lower lip. We go across country to get it. We wait patiently for the opportunity and we rush into relationships for it.
Kiss me.
Two words I find myself still waiting to hear from her. The one act of submission that tortures my soul more than anything else is her willingness to utter those two little words to me. I have taken another's virginity. I have changed another's life. I gave a child to one. I've even taken a woman's soul and added it to my collection of emotional trophies. Things I have made amends for and things I will never be able to make right. And now I find myself unable to take that kiss from her; unwilling to steal from her the one thing she will never be able to give me.
Kiss me.
I could have taken it when I had the chance. I could have forced the issue three years earlier. I could have charmed and cajoled and batted the baby blue eyes and wrote the love letters that make you mine and it would have been a question of when not a question of if. Because she is gone now and they are words I never needed in my life until I realized they were never there and I missed them.
Kiss me.
When we talked about that first kiss and we talked about the possibilities and the potentials and the butterflies and the excitement and the caressing that follows what was in my mind was always a single thought. Because I knew we would have a first kiss. The first kiss is wonderful. It opens doors and opens hearts and you are completely in the moment and there is no other feeling in the world. But what I realized, what always crossed my mind, was that there would never be another first kiss for me. That would be the last one and the second one would be sweet and the third even sweeter and the thought of a million kisses with her was rejuvinating and the thought now, not of the first kiss but of that last kiss before my last breath of air is truly amazing to me and what I really want in this world.
Kiss me.
And she will never say that to me. I understand that and I know it and I crave it no less than I did almost four years ago. So I've spent too many months now waiting to hear it from somebody anybody else and it isn't coming and it won't be what I am seeking and so I am back to being a guy which means I am wining and dining and charming and cajoling and washing my car and ironing my shirts and doing what guys do. And I've got it easy, and I have it basically down to a science now.
Except I am extraordinary. And this is only a passing fad. And if you ever wonder, ladies and gentlemen, if it ever crosses your mind, you might try uttering those words to somebody and seeing what magic occurs. Life is fleeting and people move on.
Kiss me.
September 29, 2009
exposing myself
So I did a fifth step this past month. "Admitted to god, to ourselves, and another human being the exact nature of our wrongs". It was an incredible weekend. I cleansed my soul. I opened my heart. I had new power flow through. I began again to have a spiritual experience.
The good thing about it was that I didn't have to list every nasty little detail in here for you to read.
The bad thing was I went immediately into isolation mode. I stayed home Monday. I had people over Tuesday, and it helped. By Wednesday i stopped isolating.
What am I afraid of?
This inventory started out due to a relationship. It went well beyond that of course. We tried to end on setting my ideals for my sex life. I started making a list, somewhat related to this, somewhat just exploratory. I am still not sure where it's going, but here is the list so far.
Note: If you really do not want to know me, don't keep reading! And if you are going to read something about someone, and not keep it to yourself, go ahead and hit the x button now please.
1. with Connor's mom I was selfish. I set out running away, and set out with completely selfish motives
2. with Peggy I was hurtful. I set out to hurt her from the beginning.
3. with Tricia I was mostly helpful? Self kept returning. I learned much about "setting her free". This was before and after Erin.
4. with Erin I must've been selfish. It was to keep busy while waiting for tricia. Also, whle looking back at writings from when we started dating I think I was preoccupied with "make this the one"
5. On one hand, I won't settle. i want the magical "forever after". on the other,, I also really believe that there isn't "one person". That several people could be "the one". If you work on your inside you can make almost any relationship be wonderful. the movie "Ratatoullie" anyone can cook. Meaning not everyone is capable of cooking, but the unexpected (the mouse) could end up being the cook. Be open minded!
6. back to Erin. Yeah I love her but I never felt it would be forever.
7. Back to Tricia. I am still holding on (forcing?) to her being 'the one'. Still waiting. But getting better.
8. Which means any relationship next is still 'in between'. Hence I am 'not a keeper'. And I know I can't go into a relationship that way, even telling the person.
9. So what do I do in between? How do I be single? Long term I mean. No, just be out there.
10. all my single time so far has been 'in between'. I always know I would be in another relationship again so I was just having fun in between. A year on, a year off. repeatedly.
11. Is that wrong or unhealthy? Is it better if I am looking for a relationship?
12. I like being in love. I like dating with that possibility of more. I don't date just to have sex. But I do date just to date. Date=dinner and conversation, nothing more. Except that I don't want to turn off feelings either. I am not afraid of being in love. And I don't think I seek it?
13. But I find I am afraid of being in love with the wrong one. And if we go back a few sentences, anybody could be the right one. If I go in through god's eyes, not mine.
14. I am about to be 44. My ideals really haven't changed And they also are more about who I want to be in a relationship rather than who she should be.
15. My trouble stems from following through-from quitting the things that work.
16. that equals fear-but of what? where is the root of that fear?
17. I said last weekend to be a boy scout. Now, since my kid is in cub scouts I have a role model - the troop leader. I hope to talk to him about things.
18. On a side note anybody who gets into a relationship with me will have to understand it plays out in public. In meetings, on faceboook, etc. I am sitting here typing this while in a video chatroom. No, not the naked kind. That's just part of who I have become. I like being exposed and god doesn't seem to mind.
19. I think if I made a list now of "who I'd like to fuck" we could actually get down to the real nitty gritty of my so called 'ideals'! here baby, let me "be helpful" with those jeans.
20. Okay that really was a tangent. But since we are heading that direction let's take a look at what's attractive to me.
21. I like the messed up ones. Maybe that's why Prozac made my resentment list. More than once.
22. I like the intelligent ones. not the intelligent look... sarah palin really turns me off.
23.I like to be needed. But I think that's all about me controlling the relationship
24. I like the independent ones. But that might be so that I can walk away.
25. In a nutshell, I am still clueless and lost. But I am also pretty comfortable with myself.
More (always!) later.
thank you my readers.
The good thing about it was that I didn't have to list every nasty little detail in here for you to read.
The bad thing was I went immediately into isolation mode. I stayed home Monday. I had people over Tuesday, and it helped. By Wednesday i stopped isolating.
What am I afraid of?
This inventory started out due to a relationship. It went well beyond that of course. We tried to end on setting my ideals for my sex life. I started making a list, somewhat related to this, somewhat just exploratory. I am still not sure where it's going, but here is the list so far.
Note: If you really do not want to know me, don't keep reading! And if you are going to read something about someone, and not keep it to yourself, go ahead and hit the x button now please.
1. with Connor's mom I was selfish. I set out running away, and set out with completely selfish motives
2. with Peggy I was hurtful. I set out to hurt her from the beginning.
3. with Tricia I was mostly helpful? Self kept returning. I learned much about "setting her free". This was before and after Erin.
4. with Erin I must've been selfish. It was to keep busy while waiting for tricia. Also, whle looking back at writings from when we started dating I think I was preoccupied with "make this the one"
5. On one hand, I won't settle. i want the magical "forever after". on the other,, I also really believe that there isn't "one person". That several people could be "the one". If you work on your inside you can make almost any relationship be wonderful. the movie "Ratatoullie" anyone can cook. Meaning not everyone is capable of cooking, but the unexpected (the mouse) could end up being the cook. Be open minded!
6. back to Erin. Yeah I love her but I never felt it would be forever.
7. Back to Tricia. I am still holding on (forcing?) to her being 'the one'. Still waiting. But getting better.
8. Which means any relationship next is still 'in between'. Hence I am 'not a keeper'. And I know I can't go into a relationship that way, even telling the person.
9. So what do I do in between? How do I be single? Long term I mean. No, just be out there.
10. all my single time so far has been 'in between'. I always know I would be in another relationship again so I was just having fun in between. A year on, a year off. repeatedly.
11. Is that wrong or unhealthy? Is it better if I am looking for a relationship?
12. I like being in love. I like dating with that possibility of more. I don't date just to have sex. But I do date just to date. Date=dinner and conversation, nothing more. Except that I don't want to turn off feelings either. I am not afraid of being in love. And I don't think I seek it?
13. But I find I am afraid of being in love with the wrong one. And if we go back a few sentences, anybody could be the right one. If I go in through god's eyes, not mine.
14. I am about to be 44. My ideals really haven't changed And they also are more about who I want to be in a relationship rather than who she should be.
15. My trouble stems from following through-from quitting the things that work.
16. that equals fear-but of what? where is the root of that fear?
17. I said last weekend to be a boy scout. Now, since my kid is in cub scouts I have a role model - the troop leader. I hope to talk to him about things.
18. On a side note anybody who gets into a relationship with me will have to understand it plays out in public. In meetings, on faceboook, etc. I am sitting here typing this while in a video chatroom. No, not the naked kind. That's just part of who I have become. I like being exposed and god doesn't seem to mind.
19. I think if I made a list now of "who I'd like to fuck" we could actually get down to the real nitty gritty of my so called 'ideals'! here baby, let me "be helpful" with those jeans.
20. Okay that really was a tangent. But since we are heading that direction let's take a look at what's attractive to me.
21. I like the messed up ones. Maybe that's why Prozac made my resentment list. More than once.
22. I like the intelligent ones. not the intelligent look... sarah palin really turns me off.
23.I like to be needed. But I think that's all about me controlling the relationship
24. I like the independent ones. But that might be so that I can walk away.
25. In a nutshell, I am still clueless and lost. But I am also pretty comfortable with myself.
More (always!) later.
thank you my readers.
August 27, 2009
eight thousand thirty six
August 28th 1987 I decided to "do this thing" without any idea what that meant at the time. Twenty two years later, and somebody something somepower has decided I still have a seat in the rooms; I still have my sobriety.
If I back up a few weeks before that date, a typical night was at least some beers in my system. I had a job, and pretended to maintain my sanity. But I was still drinking every night. Coupled with about a gram of crystal meth every day in order to maintain that "sanity".
Jim was due out of detox. This was a Tuesday night, the 25th of '87. I meet a lot of people now coming out of rehab on this side of the fence, where they are torn between meetings and their friends. On that side of the fence, I knew the score. The score was to stock up, because after seven days of detox, Jim was supposed to be ready to drink. I bought a bottle of something, probably tequila. It was a fifth I know. And a twelve pack. Working through all that alcohol by myself, in the park under a tree, because Jim never answered the phone, I went and bought a second round. This time it was a six pack. And one of those smaller bottles of tequila.
It's a bit weird to know all this. My days at this point pretty much ran together, drinking in a bar, buying speed from my neighbor Mike, passing out and going to work in the morning. But this night I remember clearly.
I ended up at a meeting the next night with Jim. This was the Heil St Group, and it was my home group for seven years. It was three plus years before I missed a Wednesday night meeting there. Ellery and Helen took their birthday. I sat next to a piano against the back wall. I remember nothing yet I can not forget anything about that night. I wish I knew what it was that connected. What I do remember clearly is going into the bathroom, either during or after the meeting. I went to do some more speed. And decided I didn't have to. That maybe this AandA thing can help me kick the dope.
The next day, Thursday, I went to work. I had my beer at lunch and talked about the meeting with Lyle and Dale and whoever else was there at the bar. I decided to give it a try. Of course we know what "my best thinking" does, because I decided to have a "going away" party that night. One last bender before I quit.
Somebody something somepower had other plans for me. Because I went to a meeting that night again.
That next day, Friday, I went to work. I even went to the bar at lunch. I remember wanting a beer and I remember not having one. It bothered me. I went home and finished off what was left of my speed. And I went to a meeting again that night. That was Friday, and my first day of sobriety.
(once in a long while I nitpick. Technically, I was still on that last bit of speed on the 28th. My last drink was on the 27th. I was told to pick a sobriety date and stick with it. It was a few weeks after that meeting, when I realized we had chips for thierty days and for newcomers and such, that I looked back on the calendar to figure it out. So the 28th has always been my sobriety date)
You don't get here from there. you just don't.
Yet here I am.
I get to share my story from the podium in a few weeks. That's always a weird mix of ego and gratitude. Sort of the same as writing on here. I somehow always forget to really get into the "what it's like now" part from the podium. I don't dwell on the drinking, but I do tend to concentrate on the mistakes I've made, both in and out of the program. Perhaps because I am still learning from them.
Anyway, to get on with it, let me explore some of what this past year has been like.
Lonely. Disruptive. Chaotic. Spiritual. Wonderful. Grateful.
In other words, just like any other year. I have a life I have never dreamed of. The steps have taken me into paths I once again never dreamed of or realized I wanted. I grow through pain, like all of us. But I also grow through joy. I have begun again to feed of of it, to water and nurture the joy and let it grow. I lived in my car a few weeks last year, and reached out to newcomers like my life depended on it (because it did). My situation has stablized again, and I still reach out to newcomers in the same way. I have bad days at work and I make amends because I have to. I make mistakes at work and I apologize because I want to, because I want to be helpful. I surrender to my someone something somepower because I am miserable. I surrender my life and my difficulties to that someone something somepower because it is an incredible freedom and I build on that feeling and layer on top of it and climb higher.
If I have ever read your horoscope at the Metro this past year; ever asked you again your name, because I have a lousy memory; sat across from you at a meeting or offered you a cigarette or hugged you after the IHOP; if I've texted you this past year or sent a note here or on myspace, or ever looked at you and smiled or just whined about my day to you, I thank you for being a part of this thing with me.
you continue to teach me and I am indebted.
If I back up a few weeks before that date, a typical night was at least some beers in my system. I had a job, and pretended to maintain my sanity. But I was still drinking every night. Coupled with about a gram of crystal meth every day in order to maintain that "sanity".
Jim was due out of detox. This was a Tuesday night, the 25th of '87. I meet a lot of people now coming out of rehab on this side of the fence, where they are torn between meetings and their friends. On that side of the fence, I knew the score. The score was to stock up, because after seven days of detox, Jim was supposed to be ready to drink. I bought a bottle of something, probably tequila. It was a fifth I know. And a twelve pack. Working through all that alcohol by myself, in the park under a tree, because Jim never answered the phone, I went and bought a second round. This time it was a six pack. And one of those smaller bottles of tequila.
It's a bit weird to know all this. My days at this point pretty much ran together, drinking in a bar, buying speed from my neighbor Mike, passing out and going to work in the morning. But this night I remember clearly.
I ended up at a meeting the next night with Jim. This was the Heil St Group, and it was my home group for seven years. It was three plus years before I missed a Wednesday night meeting there. Ellery and Helen took their birthday. I sat next to a piano against the back wall. I remember nothing yet I can not forget anything about that night. I wish I knew what it was that connected. What I do remember clearly is going into the bathroom, either during or after the meeting. I went to do some more speed. And decided I didn't have to. That maybe this AandA thing can help me kick the dope.
The next day, Thursday, I went to work. I had my beer at lunch and talked about the meeting with Lyle and Dale and whoever else was there at the bar. I decided to give it a try. Of course we know what "my best thinking" does, because I decided to have a "going away" party that night. One last bender before I quit.
Somebody something somepower had other plans for me. Because I went to a meeting that night again.
That next day, Friday, I went to work. I even went to the bar at lunch. I remember wanting a beer and I remember not having one. It bothered me. I went home and finished off what was left of my speed. And I went to a meeting again that night. That was Friday, and my first day of sobriety.
(once in a long while I nitpick. Technically, I was still on that last bit of speed on the 28th. My last drink was on the 27th. I was told to pick a sobriety date and stick with it. It was a few weeks after that meeting, when I realized we had chips for thierty days and for newcomers and such, that I looked back on the calendar to figure it out. So the 28th has always been my sobriety date)
You don't get here from there. you just don't.
Yet here I am.
I get to share my story from the podium in a few weeks. That's always a weird mix of ego and gratitude. Sort of the same as writing on here. I somehow always forget to really get into the "what it's like now" part from the podium. I don't dwell on the drinking, but I do tend to concentrate on the mistakes I've made, both in and out of the program. Perhaps because I am still learning from them.
Anyway, to get on with it, let me explore some of what this past year has been like.
Lonely. Disruptive. Chaotic. Spiritual. Wonderful. Grateful.
In other words, just like any other year. I have a life I have never dreamed of. The steps have taken me into paths I once again never dreamed of or realized I wanted. I grow through pain, like all of us. But I also grow through joy. I have begun again to feed of of it, to water and nurture the joy and let it grow. I lived in my car a few weeks last year, and reached out to newcomers like my life depended on it (because it did). My situation has stablized again, and I still reach out to newcomers in the same way. I have bad days at work and I make amends because I have to. I make mistakes at work and I apologize because I want to, because I want to be helpful. I surrender to my someone something somepower because I am miserable. I surrender my life and my difficulties to that someone something somepower because it is an incredible freedom and I build on that feeling and layer on top of it and climb higher.
If I have ever read your horoscope at the Metro this past year; ever asked you again your name, because I have a lousy memory; sat across from you at a meeting or offered you a cigarette or hugged you after the IHOP; if I've texted you this past year or sent a note here or on myspace, or ever looked at you and smiled or just whined about my day to you, I thank you for being a part of this thing with me.
you continue to teach me and I am indebted.
August 19, 2009
Homework
So I am sponsoring two people now. If that makes no sense to you, don't worry about it. I assigned homework to them this week, and realized immediately it was an assignment i should also do for myself.
"What sort of thinking dominates an alcoholic who repeats time after time the desperate expirement of the first drink? Friends who have reasoned with him after a spree which has brought him to the point of divorce or bankruptcy are mystified when he walks directly into a saloon. Why does he? Of what is he thinking?" ~page 35 of the big book
This is actually a bit difficult to analyze without going on tangent after tangent about my drinking history. I want to focus on those first drinks of a spree though; those times I walked out the door for a beer knowing I had already committed to stop or at least slow down. Even the words above "desperate expirement of the first drink" throw me off into a tangent! I needed a drink; I needed a sip, a taste, just something to take the edge off. I was in all sense of the word, desperate.
Let me give some examples.
I was in a state conservation program. To sum it up nicely, it was boot camp for hippies. We went out in the woods and made fire trails. We chopped down invasive cypress trees and burned them (in the July heat). We got up early and did calistentics (sp?) and stretching exercises. We ran out of cigarettes in a week, got to feeling really healthy after two. After about six weeks, we graduated and went to Tahoe to work. And they gave us a paycheck.
I got to drinking that very night. What was my thinking? That it had been weeks, and i needed a drink of course! But I can recall now the whole idea of joining that program was to dry out and to get healthy and to start doing better. That thinking was out the window at the first opportunity. Within a week (was it two, perhaps?) I was suspended because of my drinking. Had to spend a week living in the laundromat (and already broke). I got back and got another check in a week.
My duties at this point were to make breakfast for the hundred or so, clean up, and show back up to make dinner. I had the day free. I went to the bar for a drink. Here I am, already suspended and back, and heading out to do the same thing! I knew the consequences, and I sure as hell knew that when I drank, I could not stop. What was I thinking? In this case I cannot honestly remember. Of course I came back about four, and napped. I napped right through dinner. I napped right until they came into my room and started packing my bags and sending me on my way.
Lets try another example.
Any typical Sunday that last year of my drinking. l'd sleep in as long as possible. I would hide in my room even longer. Late afternoon I would come around and glue myself to the tv. I knew I had to get a drink, and I would fight it all day long. Up until 9pm or even 10pm. Then I would go to the bar, once again, for that "desperate expirement". Inevitably what followed was a hungover Monday morning at best. Why does he? Simply put I needed to. I understood that from my very first meeting. Very early on I even understood that self knowledge was not keeping me sober no matter how much I tried.
Let's search out one more example for good measure.
Halloween of '86. My last drink was not quite a year away but i always consider that the starting point for my last year of miserable lonely drinking; the point where I stopped caring, stopped trying to quit; where I knew im my heart without having been to a meeting or reading the words, that I was headed for jails, institutions or death. My friends were having a birthday party I wasn't invited to. I showed up anyway. They blocked me at the door, first one person then another. I was arguing. I told them to get Karen since it was her birthday and she was a real friend. She wouldn't come to the door. But she passed word that if i didn't drink I could come in.
Here was a chance. I wanted to be normal, to be accepted and to be a part of. I wanted to be with my friends and to have fun. They were done with my drinking. So what did I do? I swore at them and went to a bar instead. I cannot tell you what the excuses really were, what my thinking was. I had to drink. The guilt and the depression and the hopelessness and the consequences did not ever outweigh the need of my body to ingest alcohol. The first step is easy to admit. That alone never got me sober.
"What sort of thinking dominates an alcoholic who repeats time after time the desperate expirement of the first drink? Friends who have reasoned with him after a spree which has brought him to the point of divorce or bankruptcy are mystified when he walks directly into a saloon. Why does he? Of what is he thinking?" ~page 35 of the big book
This is actually a bit difficult to analyze without going on tangent after tangent about my drinking history. I want to focus on those first drinks of a spree though; those times I walked out the door for a beer knowing I had already committed to stop or at least slow down. Even the words above "desperate expirement of the first drink" throw me off into a tangent! I needed a drink; I needed a sip, a taste, just something to take the edge off. I was in all sense of the word, desperate.
Let me give some examples.
I was in a state conservation program. To sum it up nicely, it was boot camp for hippies. We went out in the woods and made fire trails. We chopped down invasive cypress trees and burned them (in the July heat). We got up early and did calistentics (sp?) and stretching exercises. We ran out of cigarettes in a week, got to feeling really healthy after two. After about six weeks, we graduated and went to Tahoe to work. And they gave us a paycheck.
I got to drinking that very night. What was my thinking? That it had been weeks, and i needed a drink of course! But I can recall now the whole idea of joining that program was to dry out and to get healthy and to start doing better. That thinking was out the window at the first opportunity. Within a week (was it two, perhaps?) I was suspended because of my drinking. Had to spend a week living in the laundromat (and already broke). I got back and got another check in a week.
My duties at this point were to make breakfast for the hundred or so, clean up, and show back up to make dinner. I had the day free. I went to the bar for a drink. Here I am, already suspended and back, and heading out to do the same thing! I knew the consequences, and I sure as hell knew that when I drank, I could not stop. What was I thinking? In this case I cannot honestly remember. Of course I came back about four, and napped. I napped right through dinner. I napped right until they came into my room and started packing my bags and sending me on my way.
Lets try another example.
Any typical Sunday that last year of my drinking. l'd sleep in as long as possible. I would hide in my room even longer. Late afternoon I would come around and glue myself to the tv. I knew I had to get a drink, and I would fight it all day long. Up until 9pm or even 10pm. Then I would go to the bar, once again, for that "desperate expirement". Inevitably what followed was a hungover Monday morning at best. Why does he? Simply put I needed to. I understood that from my very first meeting. Very early on I even understood that self knowledge was not keeping me sober no matter how much I tried.
Let's search out one more example for good measure.
Halloween of '86. My last drink was not quite a year away but i always consider that the starting point for my last year of miserable lonely drinking; the point where I stopped caring, stopped trying to quit; where I knew im my heart without having been to a meeting or reading the words, that I was headed for jails, institutions or death. My friends were having a birthday party I wasn't invited to. I showed up anyway. They blocked me at the door, first one person then another. I was arguing. I told them to get Karen since it was her birthday and she was a real friend. She wouldn't come to the door. But she passed word that if i didn't drink I could come in.
Here was a chance. I wanted to be normal, to be accepted and to be a part of. I wanted to be with my friends and to have fun. They were done with my drinking. So what did I do? I swore at them and went to a bar instead. I cannot tell you what the excuses really were, what my thinking was. I had to drink. The guilt and the depression and the hopelessness and the consequences did not ever outweigh the need of my body to ingest alcohol. The first step is easy to admit. That alone never got me sober.
May 7, 2009
from the book of endings
I
For the briefest of moments his hand hovered above the delete button. For about three long seconds he hesitated, running the consequences through his mind one final time. He had spent years on this novel. The characters had come alive nightly, dancing across his computer screen, jet-setting across imaginary continents. His fingers had brought his ideas to life; these were living breathing people to him as much as bits and bytes in the word document· Even more than that he realized they had brought him to life. They lifted him from his depression; they made him go out into the world and rediscover his senses, the smell of perfume in a hug and the sound of traffic on the boulevard. For those few seconds he could feel them screaming at him, the words transforming into real faces looking up at him urging him to be kind; to be human.
That was enough to convince him though. Looking into their virtual eyes reminded him immediately of the damage they had already caused. Like a lone samurai he wielded these words to suit his purpose; to defend his imaginary fortress and attack those wanting to help. In those few seconds he saw clearly the damage they would do when unleashed upon the world, like a poison to spread from one friend to the next infecting in turn their families and their family’s family. They did bring him life, and he knew it was time to live it.
He hit the delete button. He confirmed it when the little pop-up window asked if he was sure. He emptied his recycle bin, and still feeling the need to purge them completely, began to reformat his hard drive. He walked outside to smoke, cupping the cigarette against the rain that came down to finish cleansing his senses. He was finally at peace.
II
“There’s no such thing as a one night stand” she repeated to John, whose look of shock, perhaps even horror, remained frozen on his face. “If you’re gonna sleep with me you’re gonna stay with me” she added as she finally removed the pillow case from around his throat. She checked again for a pulse in his neck, and finding none there removed the handcuffs and brought his hands to rest on his side. She debated whether or not to leave him naked, and decided that putting his boxers back on, at least, would be more appropriate.
“Forever and always, John. Isn’t that wonderful!” She smiled, and having placed his boxers back on him, dragged him from the bed and across the room into the living room. She pondered her options and decided that John would like the love seat best. He was not too large of a man so the struggle of placing him into a seated position, though not easy, was manageable. She sat beside him, clicking the remote on and hit the up channel button a number of times, settling on some romantic comedy from the nineties. She lifted his arm up and around her shoulder as she snuggled her cheek against his chest. She sighed audibly and let her smile grow, finding contentment in his arms.
III
“Fuck you Bitch!” he screamed into the phone just before slamming it into the receiver, and then placing it more carefully after it bounced out and onto the floor. As it began ringing a minute later he pulled the jack out of the wall and went out the door for a long-delayed drink of whisky at the bar downstairs.
IV
“You think we will always be this happy?” she asked him, her voice quiet but heard over the approaching storm. He laughed.
“No."
“Why not?” He felt the tension creep into her body against his. She was now looking up at him, the hurt showing through her eyes.
“Because this is life, baby. It gets messy, remember?” She didn’t have to remember too long ago, the bullets flying and the plans and back-up plans going to shit around them.
“But we made it. We survived it all, and found each other. I love you, lover.”
“I love you too baby”
“But you can’t be happy with me? Forever after?” He wanted to sigh but found himself smiling instead. She had that way with him.
“Forever and then some baby. Just don’t think we won’t fight at all. Okay? I mean, don’t think it’s all easy from now on that’s all.”
“Are we fighting?” Is she serious, he wondered to himself, and decided that she was, despite the smile forming on her lips. He could watch that smile forever, and then some.
“Nah, baby. We’re living.” And he smiled back at her, one of those wide unforgettable smiles that tended to come few and far between over the past few months. He was glad to have it back. “Now let’s get on with the serious living baby.”
“To Dakota?”
“You know it.” He closed the lid on the suitcase; gun and cash locked together once again, and started the car, letting the engine purr before placing it in drive. “Dakota here we come.”
May 3, 2009
About a moment ago
I am in a moment where I feel
almost alive. on the verge of existence.
Close to being. but not quite there.
When I was younger, much younger
I would will myself to be invisible. Unnoticed.
I could be in a crowded room and nobody would know I was there. a fly on the wall.
I was ten and following people secret agent style.
Maybe I am paying for that now.
Screaming look at me out the window of a moving car
To the empty streets.
I love her with all my heart (how come it always comes back to this anyway?)
And she won't let me.
Somewhere inside of me is a romantic dying to be strangled
beaten. whipped. handcuffed. just
STFU
But he won't.
So I am growing a beard instead.
April 21, 2009
Desire
Desire drove her into a frenzy finally. It had been too long with nothing but her own hands and she was going to find someone to punish for it, his willingness secondary to the need for his body on top of her, inside of her, behind her. It was her second twelve hour shift in as many days, and there were just too many boys coming into the store this weekend to ignore her needs anymore. She was burning inside. Three trips to the bathroom today to help satisfy her thirsting and it only made her body ache. Her nipples were constantly erect and she found herself lifting the merchandise or turning to reach the shelf sideways just to brush against them, to keep them awake and alive. It was a direct link to the heat between her legs and she loved the excitement it brought her, but god damn it she was done with all this and she was going to get fucked tonight and whoever her partner ended up being, he was going to feel it as much as she would tomorrow.
It must have been the boys, she thought to herself. She has a thing for the boys. The girls, too, but something about those younger boys made her instantly wet tonight. It was their baby-faces, their tender skin; it was the way they stared at her cleavage like it was a new discovery to them; mostly it was their innocence that made her excited. She knew she held control over them and knew as well she would rob them of that innocence, leave them craving the way she was craving now, and satisfy them like no other woman had before. No strings attached, she was thinking, isn’t that what every guy wants?
She spent the day working in automatic mode, lost in her thoughts, eyeing the boys as they wandered the store, as they waited outside the dressing rooms for their girlfriends and boyfriends to try on different outfits. She smiled at them, she flirted. Two of the boys she even pressed up against, their arms found caught within her cleavage, wanting, waiting, for them to reach up and find her nipples, see how hard they were. They stared down at her, and even as she sensed them getting hard beneath their jeans, it didn’t get any further. It was driving her crazy. She wanted to lead them into the dressing room, to pull them out of their pants and let her mouth take them in, to feel the hardness grow as she brushed their manhood with her teeth. Her job be damned, it was just a job. Yet she still found herself holding back, holding onto control. She liked the teasing, honestly. She found that roller coaster rush of excitement, up and down until you could no longer take it intoxicating. But not anymore. She was passed that point, about ten o’clock this morning, she was done with the guessing game, and she needed it. And none of these boys were following her lead.
Finally the customers were gone, and the store was locked up, and as she lit her Marlboro outside waiting on her ride home she resigned herself to one more day. One more fucking day, as she verbally stated between puffs, of my fingers and my plastic toy. And as he pulled up, and she got into the truck, she told him to please stop at the store. No I am fine with smokes, I need batteries, she told him, slumping into her seat and staring at the raindrops beginning to collect on the windshield. You only need fast forward about three minutes and see the anger on her face, coming out of the store with no purchase in her hands, to realize they were out of batteries. For his part, he sensed something wrong. They had been friends a good number of months now, but his inquiries didn’t get real answers, and he didn’t push it too far. As he pulled onto her street she told him to pull over early, a few houses down, in front of an empty house that had been for sale now at least three months. He did so, turning off the engine and turning down the music expecting her to open up about her day finally. Before his hand came off the radio knob her hand became wrapped around his arm, above the elbow and she pulled herself toward him. His look was still one of shock as she used her other hand against the back of his neck to draw his face into hers and began to kiss him, two of them quickly, perhaps to test the waters, but almost immediately her need to devour him took over and she was kissing him hard, her tongue probing into his mouth, her self control giving way to her carnal needs. She took his hand and brought it under her shirt, forced it up to her breasts, over her bra, imploring him to please touch them, squeeze her nipple, pinch it hard. His hand roamed over her breasts, first one then the other. Her hands traced down his back then around to the stomach and searching for the button on his jeans.
It took her still about ten minutes to fully comprehend that he wasn’t a willing partner. By then her back was against the passenger window, her face staring into his as the words came out, about being friends, about wanting more, about dating (what kind of guy actually wants to date, she was pondering), before she realized the situation. So she said goodnight and walked out into the rain to go home, while he sat in the truck a full two minutes more, wondering if he could have handled that differently.
That’s when I found her; as she was walking the last few hundred yards to her house. Mine was one house before hers, and I knew her by name, even golfed with her dad sometimes. I happened to be out front, smoking one more cigarette and decided to call out hello. She returned the greeting, and paused just long enough for me to smile an invitation to sit with me. She understood the non-verbal exchange as much as I understood what she really needed that night. She sat down on the swing beside me, her legs up on the cushion so that her knees became exposed as the skirt rode up just enough to get my thoughts going. Words were few between us for a while, and I took a chance on touching her toes, knocking her sandals onto the porch as I squeezed on the arch of her foot. A few moments on the second foot I could see her finally relaxing, finally once again feeling the warmth build up inside of her body. My hand found its way onto her thigh, stayed there even as I got off the swing and onto my knees in front of her. My other hand traced her other leg, from the calf up to the line of her panties. My kisses started above the knee, her skirt inching higher as my lips slowly worked closer to where my hand was.
She found herself shivering. She was still fully clothed but she felt the wetness against her panties and was literally shivering with excitement. She wanted to scream to him “Give me your cock. Now!” but found she was somewhat out of control. Instead her fingers found their way under her shirt, under her bra and her fingers pressed hard against both her nipples and she began moaning, even before she helped him lift her body up to remove the panties. The moaning got harder as his tongue played with her pussy, finally concentrating on her clit, swollen and tender and oh god he better fuck me she managed to think just before her mind gave in and her body began to shudder.
Ten minutes later found her on his bed, her panties still on the porch and her skirt on the floor. He had removed his belt and now wrapped it around her wrists, over her head on top of the pillows. It wrapped four times and he tucked it inside on the last loop. Just tight enough and only a quick moment of fear crossed her face, gone as soon as he pulled down his pants and boxers, his hard on staring straight at her as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. God I want that cock was her only thought then, as she struggled slightly to sit up. He took the opportunity to kiss her neck and then bite it, repeatedly, long enough to leave marks but not drawing blood. She couldn’t stand it yet she loved it. Eight months, maybe nine months of self-inflicted celibacy got the better of her and she rode wave after wave of pure sexual bliss as his fingers dug into her cunt and his mouth found more places to suck on and bite. Her shirt was over her head now then up and caught with the belt around her wrist, in front of her body where her hands were wrapped around his cock, stroking. Her bra clasped from the front and it lay splayed against the bed on both sides of her, her breasts freed and her nipples popped out dying for more attention.
When she thought she couldn’t stand any more he finally turned her over. She wanted to help but he was quick enough on his own, lifting her ass in the air by the waist, scooting her about a foot back, his hard cock inside of her, deep inside of her immediately. He held her by the waist and thrust hard enough for her to realize it might have been a while for him as well. She had some remaining sense left and slammed herself back into his hips with each thrust and she found herself almost screaming as he groaned loudly. She did start screaming in answer to his questions, his teeth gritted, his voice some primal animal, letting her know this was what she needed, isn’t it slut?
She came hard. They both did, but she had one, probably two more than he. As he finished, leaning back but drawing her up and toward him, not wanting to draw away from her pussy yet, as she in turn almost sat on his cock that way, and rocked gently up and down, slowly feeling him go softer inside of her, they both knew they were sated. Yet, still in that non-verbal connection they had shared for this evening, they knew the satisfaction was temporary, that they needed this again. She began to wonder what she saw in those boys after all.
It must have been the boys, she thought to herself. She has a thing for the boys. The girls, too, but something about those younger boys made her instantly wet tonight. It was their baby-faces, their tender skin; it was the way they stared at her cleavage like it was a new discovery to them; mostly it was their innocence that made her excited. She knew she held control over them and knew as well she would rob them of that innocence, leave them craving the way she was craving now, and satisfy them like no other woman had before. No strings attached, she was thinking, isn’t that what every guy wants?
She spent the day working in automatic mode, lost in her thoughts, eyeing the boys as they wandered the store, as they waited outside the dressing rooms for their girlfriends and boyfriends to try on different outfits. She smiled at them, she flirted. Two of the boys she even pressed up against, their arms found caught within her cleavage, wanting, waiting, for them to reach up and find her nipples, see how hard they were. They stared down at her, and even as she sensed them getting hard beneath their jeans, it didn’t get any further. It was driving her crazy. She wanted to lead them into the dressing room, to pull them out of their pants and let her mouth take them in, to feel the hardness grow as she brushed their manhood with her teeth. Her job be damned, it was just a job. Yet she still found herself holding back, holding onto control. She liked the teasing, honestly. She found that roller coaster rush of excitement, up and down until you could no longer take it intoxicating. But not anymore. She was passed that point, about ten o’clock this morning, she was done with the guessing game, and she needed it. And none of these boys were following her lead.
Finally the customers were gone, and the store was locked up, and as she lit her Marlboro outside waiting on her ride home she resigned herself to one more day. One more fucking day, as she verbally stated between puffs, of my fingers and my plastic toy. And as he pulled up, and she got into the truck, she told him to please stop at the store. No I am fine with smokes, I need batteries, she told him, slumping into her seat and staring at the raindrops beginning to collect on the windshield. You only need fast forward about three minutes and see the anger on her face, coming out of the store with no purchase in her hands, to realize they were out of batteries. For his part, he sensed something wrong. They had been friends a good number of months now, but his inquiries didn’t get real answers, and he didn’t push it too far. As he pulled onto her street she told him to pull over early, a few houses down, in front of an empty house that had been for sale now at least three months. He did so, turning off the engine and turning down the music expecting her to open up about her day finally. Before his hand came off the radio knob her hand became wrapped around his arm, above the elbow and she pulled herself toward him. His look was still one of shock as she used her other hand against the back of his neck to draw his face into hers and began to kiss him, two of them quickly, perhaps to test the waters, but almost immediately her need to devour him took over and she was kissing him hard, her tongue probing into his mouth, her self control giving way to her carnal needs. She took his hand and brought it under her shirt, forced it up to her breasts, over her bra, imploring him to please touch them, squeeze her nipple, pinch it hard. His hand roamed over her breasts, first one then the other. Her hands traced down his back then around to the stomach and searching for the button on his jeans.
It took her still about ten minutes to fully comprehend that he wasn’t a willing partner. By then her back was against the passenger window, her face staring into his as the words came out, about being friends, about wanting more, about dating (what kind of guy actually wants to date, she was pondering), before she realized the situation. So she said goodnight and walked out into the rain to go home, while he sat in the truck a full two minutes more, wondering if he could have handled that differently.
That’s when I found her; as she was walking the last few hundred yards to her house. Mine was one house before hers, and I knew her by name, even golfed with her dad sometimes. I happened to be out front, smoking one more cigarette and decided to call out hello. She returned the greeting, and paused just long enough for me to smile an invitation to sit with me. She understood the non-verbal exchange as much as I understood what she really needed that night. She sat down on the swing beside me, her legs up on the cushion so that her knees became exposed as the skirt rode up just enough to get my thoughts going. Words were few between us for a while, and I took a chance on touching her toes, knocking her sandals onto the porch as I squeezed on the arch of her foot. A few moments on the second foot I could see her finally relaxing, finally once again feeling the warmth build up inside of her body. My hand found its way onto her thigh, stayed there even as I got off the swing and onto my knees in front of her. My other hand traced her other leg, from the calf up to the line of her panties. My kisses started above the knee, her skirt inching higher as my lips slowly worked closer to where my hand was.
She found herself shivering. She was still fully clothed but she felt the wetness against her panties and was literally shivering with excitement. She wanted to scream to him “Give me your cock. Now!” but found she was somewhat out of control. Instead her fingers found their way under her shirt, under her bra and her fingers pressed hard against both her nipples and she began moaning, even before she helped him lift her body up to remove the panties. The moaning got harder as his tongue played with her pussy, finally concentrating on her clit, swollen and tender and oh god he better fuck me she managed to think just before her mind gave in and her body began to shudder.
Ten minutes later found her on his bed, her panties still on the porch and her skirt on the floor. He had removed his belt and now wrapped it around her wrists, over her head on top of the pillows. It wrapped four times and he tucked it inside on the last loop. Just tight enough and only a quick moment of fear crossed her face, gone as soon as he pulled down his pants and boxers, his hard on staring straight at her as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. God I want that cock was her only thought then, as she struggled slightly to sit up. He took the opportunity to kiss her neck and then bite it, repeatedly, long enough to leave marks but not drawing blood. She couldn’t stand it yet she loved it. Eight months, maybe nine months of self-inflicted celibacy got the better of her and she rode wave after wave of pure sexual bliss as his fingers dug into her cunt and his mouth found more places to suck on and bite. Her shirt was over her head now then up and caught with the belt around her wrist, in front of her body where her hands were wrapped around his cock, stroking. Her bra clasped from the front and it lay splayed against the bed on both sides of her, her breasts freed and her nipples popped out dying for more attention.
When she thought she couldn’t stand any more he finally turned her over. She wanted to help but he was quick enough on his own, lifting her ass in the air by the waist, scooting her about a foot back, his hard cock inside of her, deep inside of her immediately. He held her by the waist and thrust hard enough for her to realize it might have been a while for him as well. She had some remaining sense left and slammed herself back into his hips with each thrust and she found herself almost screaming as he groaned loudly. She did start screaming in answer to his questions, his teeth gritted, his voice some primal animal, letting her know this was what she needed, isn’t it slut?
She came hard. They both did, but she had one, probably two more than he. As he finished, leaning back but drawing her up and toward him, not wanting to draw away from her pussy yet, as she in turn almost sat on his cock that way, and rocked gently up and down, slowly feeling him go softer inside of her, they both knew they were sated. Yet, still in that non-verbal connection they had shared for this evening, they knew the satisfaction was temporary, that they needed this again. She began to wonder what she saw in those boys after all.
April 13, 2009
Morals and Lent. And the lack thereof
So I had decided to give up my morals for Lent this year. Seriously. Of course a friend told me I had no morals to give up when I told him, but I insist that being Amoral and Immoral are two different things.
Regardless, it did not work out as planned.
Two years ago I had decided to give up a particular girl for lent. That also did not go as planned. She didn't notice at all, actually. I skipped Lent last year, in case you are wondering.
I was allowed to be speaker tonight at the meeting. On Easter Sunday. Me of all people! I used to believe I was the second coming, you know. Well, most of you don't know, hence the need to share it with you. You might think it changed because of my sobriety, and finding god and all that, but that’s not true. It changed when Connor was born.
Now I believe he might be the second coming. At the least I think he has the power to change the world. Better or worse is his decision.
Yes, I am serious. As serious as any of my other writings. Take it as a warped sense of humor or a stretching of the truth or as a manifesto. I don’t mind. As it stands, I got to speak at a meeting on Easter Sunday the year I had decided to give up my morals!.
What I am discovering is I actually live by morals, and I won’t lie to you here. It sucks! There’s the thoughts in my head, and there’s the actions I take. They are two different things. Honestly, they always have been (well, I have to take that back, because I probably wouldn’t have two ex-wives if I had been living with morals), the difference lately is that I recognize them so quickly now. My thoughts show up like these cancerous black spots in my head clouding out who God wants me to be.
It isn’t who I want to be. Not all the time.
I was talking about mirrors and patterns. I might not have been clear, but seeing my past behaviors in somebody else. This actually started a year ago, and I had an argument with a friend. We still haven’t talked to each other since. Then I see it this week again, through somebody else. And it hits me hard and I can’t figure out why, because my past behaviors are just that...past. I haven’t really lived that way in a semi-long while.
And I am now realizing what it is. It’s my thoughts and they haven’t changed, and I tend to be a strong believer that I cannot be condemned for my thoughts, only my actions. And I’ve been fine that way for many years. But now my thoughts appear in my head and they no longer belong there. They are the drunk showing up at the neighbors house not remembering the black eye he dished out the night before. The addict stealing his family’s TV while they’re at work, thinking, really believing that they won’t know it’s him.
This seems to be the essence of the seventh step here doesn’t it?.
So when I gave up my morals for lent, I knew I wouldn’t act on them. I wrote about the married receptionist (oh you didn’t see that one! You ought to give MySpace a look!)... I wrote a bit about the semi-newcomer (and yeah I have exactly what she needs!)... I had the booty call from a few years ago all of a sudden back in my life.
And none of it belongs in my head. It isn’t welcome there. Yeah that sucks! If there’s one thing I don’t want it’s to be sane and well adjusted. What kind of tortured soul writer is that! So when I gave up my morals, it was really just to get to this point. I needed to explore. My god says okay, and shows me mirrors. Good and bad, because not every opportunity was one that would’ve been hurtful. But each an idea that just no longer fit.
I want more! Rather, god wants more for me. He has a plan and I have learned, mostly, to follow along. But let me be honest here, because I sure as hell am going to miss my amorality.
Sigh.
Regardless, it did not work out as planned.
Two years ago I had decided to give up a particular girl for lent. That also did not go as planned. She didn't notice at all, actually. I skipped Lent last year, in case you are wondering.
I was allowed to be speaker tonight at the meeting. On Easter Sunday. Me of all people! I used to believe I was the second coming, you know. Well, most of you don't know, hence the need to share it with you. You might think it changed because of my sobriety, and finding god and all that, but that’s not true. It changed when Connor was born.
Now I believe he might be the second coming. At the least I think he has the power to change the world. Better or worse is his decision.
Yes, I am serious. As serious as any of my other writings. Take it as a warped sense of humor or a stretching of the truth or as a manifesto. I don’t mind. As it stands, I got to speak at a meeting on Easter Sunday the year I had decided to give up my morals!.
What I am discovering is I actually live by morals, and I won’t lie to you here. It sucks! There’s the thoughts in my head, and there’s the actions I take. They are two different things. Honestly, they always have been (well, I have to take that back, because I probably wouldn’t have two ex-wives if I had been living with morals), the difference lately is that I recognize them so quickly now. My thoughts show up like these cancerous black spots in my head clouding out who God wants me to be.
It isn’t who I want to be. Not all the time.
I was talking about mirrors and patterns. I might not have been clear, but seeing my past behaviors in somebody else. This actually started a year ago, and I had an argument with a friend. We still haven’t talked to each other since. Then I see it this week again, through somebody else. And it hits me hard and I can’t figure out why, because my past behaviors are just that...past. I haven’t really lived that way in a semi-long while.
And I am now realizing what it is. It’s my thoughts and they haven’t changed, and I tend to be a strong believer that I cannot be condemned for my thoughts, only my actions. And I’ve been fine that way for many years. But now my thoughts appear in my head and they no longer belong there. They are the drunk showing up at the neighbors house not remembering the black eye he dished out the night before. The addict stealing his family’s TV while they’re at work, thinking, really believing that they won’t know it’s him.
This seems to be the essence of the seventh step here doesn’t it?.
So when I gave up my morals for lent, I knew I wouldn’t act on them. I wrote about the married receptionist (oh you didn’t see that one! You ought to give MySpace a look!)... I wrote a bit about the semi-newcomer (and yeah I have exactly what she needs!)... I had the booty call from a few years ago all of a sudden back in my life.
And none of it belongs in my head. It isn’t welcome there. Yeah that sucks! If there’s one thing I don’t want it’s to be sane and well adjusted. What kind of tortured soul writer is that! So when I gave up my morals, it was really just to get to this point. I needed to explore. My god says okay, and shows me mirrors. Good and bad, because not every opportunity was one that would’ve been hurtful. But each an idea that just no longer fit.
I want more! Rather, god wants more for me. He has a plan and I have learned, mostly, to follow along. But let me be honest here, because I sure as hell am going to miss my amorality.
Sigh.
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