tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-122540242024-03-13T11:18:04.813-07:00The Life And Times of Her.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-24520419466162140312008-09-17T22:54:00.001-07:002008-09-18T20:40:57.510-07:00a night on the towntonight, i'm going to wear my hair up, and a dress.<br /><br />i'm going to do what i please, and talk to strangers. i'm going to leave the restaurant early and go to the bar, because i feel like spending the money i don't have on alcohol, not food. yesterday i ate nothing but chocolate. i jammed large chunks into my mouth with no regrets, and let it melt.<br /><br />i'm going to wear a dress because i'm tired of being blasé, tired of being depressed. at least this gives my legs something to aim for. magnificence.<br /><br />and even if i don't get there, i'm going to tell myself i don't care. and for once in my life i'm going to tell myself to believe it.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-74625235937833555782008-09-17T22:54:00.000-07:002008-09-18T20:48:34.171-07:00emotastic.i'm unmotivated. depressed. failing to see the light at the end of the tunnel.<br /><br />honours is getting me down this week. i spent six weeks dedicated to my last assignment - researching, forming my methodology, begging for meetings with my supervisors and making stuff up in the interim. my first supervisor is ok, he doesn't have much idea of an end point, but painstakingly feeds me minute aliquots of information i would have benefited from weeks prior. my second supervisor? we had a meeting this week. prior to that, i haven't seen or heard from her in six weeks - she's had a full teaching load. to you, i say pish. you are my supervisor and you should damn well act like one. <em>i</em> run the depression monopoly around here. i have an assignment on giardia - for those of you who don't know, its a parasite that likes your insides, and you find it in poo. of marsupials, among numerous other animals. and that's what some lovely researchers have spent their time doing - analysing poo. sounds just like my life. honours is a fun time. and this assignment tops it - i just can't get motivated about poo. told you i was depressed.<br /><br />to top it off, i'm not happy where i'm living as i can't prove my address to get youth allowance, as my landlord (who is unfortunately an old friend) wants a tax break by not reporting my rent as income. so i can't pay my rent, but he fails to see that as a lose-lose situation. don't make your problems my problems, he says. i'm better friends with his little brother than i have been with him in years. i'm getting a job next week. call centres need to die in a burninating chemical fire.<br /><br />i could have been living in a huge nerd mansion down the gold coast in wanksville - which, no, wouldn't have made me any less depressed, but there's always something heartening about being depressed whilst swanning by a marble-encrusted pool next to a bullshark-infested canal. and why am i not there? why am i such a depressive, disheartened cynic? because people can't commit.<br /><br />me, my parents always taught me that if you commit to something, you have to go through with it. which is why i guess i'm still at uni, and living in a house i can't afford. the irony is... ironic. i don't know why it frustrates me so to see this ability so lacking in other people, but it makes me want to shake them. from the people who pulled out of the mansion the day we were to sign the lease so that noone got to play in the theatre room or with the huge pool table, to my supervisor who volunteered to manage an honours student, knowing full well she was already manically busy educating the ignorant. add to that the fact that she can't organise her way out of a wet paper bag - i want to shake her. and not like a polaroid picture. in a bad, bad, incarcerable way. the most exciting thing that's ever happened to her, which she bragged about at a dinner party (to which those <em>other</em> students were <em>not </em>invited - no, really? they're not on your project - they don't <em>expect </em>to be invited to your home, but to specifically <em>uninvite </em>them is just rude) is that our good prime minister k-rudd's daughter has made breakfast in her kitchen. good for her. clap clap for the handicap.<br /><br />just call me a cynic.<br /><br />i'm listening to missy higgins - the sound of white. she's got such a fabulous grasp of the human condition - its sad music, but it always puts me at peace. through identification of her lyrics, her music, or an almost pathological dislike of her chin cleft, she calms my storm. her emotion astounds me.<br /><br />a good friend asked me on the weekend why i had 'sad eyes'. as we were out to dinner, i brushed it off. i need to have a good chat to him. he knows me too well - its scary. as it is, the majority of a block of old gold jamaica rum and raisin chocolate has made its way into my system today - a fact that makes me feel better, and the damage of which is negated by the half hour i spent on the stair master last night.<br /><br />so here i sit, sad music, sad face, sad bank balance, sadly empty packet of chocolate, and tragically empty document that needs to be filled with a critique on poo. gotta love it.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-14082465117227565642008-09-11T16:46:00.000-07:002008-09-17T23:32:35.668-07:00lullabies and smilesi was thinking to myself last night, as my lover sang me a lullaby from a hundred kilometres away at two in the morning - i've learned a lot.<br /><br />from each friend, from each random encounter, from those i love and loved and hated, i've learned a little something, and somehow all those little things have brought me here.<br /><br />from aaron, i learned the beginnings of sex, in naiive and shy baby steps. and you i thank for beginning me on a journey of discovery. from amy, i learned to listen, to value true friends, and to be humble. you i thank also, for teaching me what not to do. from elizabeth i learnt simplicity, dedication to true friendship, and the words to too many songs. thanks go to her, for innocence and patience. from rohan, sweetness, and fascination with intelligence. you, i thank for teaching me politics, maturity, and to have a good long look at myself periodically. tegan taught me to embrace my impetuosity, to explore my identity, and not to care what others think. you i thank for showing me to embrace the crazy. from adam i learnt to trust my instincts, and not to acquiesce. thank you, adam, for showing me how to better myself. from aron i learnt how to give my all to a person, and how to get it back. he taught me love, loss, regret and the meaning of true friendship. so thankyou. alex gave me a love of fast cars, and a hatred of fast men. thankyou for helping me to find myself in difficult times. from maddie i learnt to love myself, and to be beautiful. to you i give thanks for friendship. dariush taught me to be carefree, to cherish my inner child, and to find good in everyone, even after the fallout. thankyou for teaching me so much, for lullabyes, and for your family. everyone needs to learn about inlaws some time. thanks to your mother, for showing me that some people will always have issues with the unchangeable. thankyou for showing me i can't change people. to dominic reminded me to love myself, my impetuosity, my sexuality, and to be thankful for short but good times. katie, to you i give thanks and regrets, for teaching me the importance of family, and its omnipotence. christian taught me to embrace art, to experiment, to be content with what i have. my thanks to you. to liam, i thank you from the bottom of my heart, for an unlikely friendship, for teaching me patience, dedication, and laughter in the face of adversity.<br /><br />from each of these and more, tiny facets of my life are forever stamped with their influence. in my life, my love, my friends, i see their influence daily.<br /><br />my ridiculously intelligent, brave, dedicated, shy, second-guessing, long-eyelashed boy with a sweet inner child, a secret love of impetuosity and an appreciation for art, music, sex and love - this is the culmination of what i've learnt, who i've become. i am so lucky to have found someone who embodies my desires, my lessons learnt, my needs. so to my friends, i thank you for my happiness.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-59889450883597920572007-09-19T01:06:00.000-07:002007-09-19T01:09:41.003-07:00She, the interminable...<p class="MsoNormal">i spend my life waiting. waiting for the train, waiting on my commute – i waste three hours of every day sitting here, there, crammed in a corner of the carriage floor, speeding on to the rest of my waiting life. i’m waiting for uni to finish, waiting to graduate. waiting for the opportunity to get a job, which i will do whilst waiting to get into med school. where i will wait until i graduate. my life won’t start until i’m thirty. by which time it will be time to have children – wait nine months for them to be born, five years for them to be in primary school – maybe then i can have a real life? – then high school… then what? i’ve no idea, but i’m pretty sure that by then i’ll be waiting for retirement. from there, this waiting game makes its way into a trivial art form – waiting for the mail, for visits from my kids, for pension day, for my carer to change my colostomy bag. which, when it comes down to it, is pretty much the definition of life. get out of the intestine, into the bag. and then you get incinerated, just for being what you are.</p><br />carpe dium, its slipping away.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-29160392421806500302007-06-25T16:47:00.000-07:002007-06-25T16:52:38.840-07:00university for the real worlde...<p>there's a girl a few metres away as i sit, unnoticed by passers by. she's a big girl - not big-boned but fat. fat and wearing the short shorts so much in fashion at the moment. she sits, knees tucked, on her tiptoes, wiggling her legs from side to side and consequently her behemoth arse pseudopodes across the seat. opposite her sits a boy. a skinny boy. a Good boy. a mother's son. he eats the ravaged remains of his hot chips with a scared but happy look on his face - like an emo rabbit staring into a set of oncoming headlights. he's freshly out of highschool; a closet d&d fan with his first girlfriend. she extricates herself from the bench and starts to splodge away, her chipped toenail polish matching her too-big pink havianas. he follows, enraptured.</p> <p>aah, first years.</p>Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-4948549961187511022007-06-10T19:35:00.000-07:002007-06-10T20:35:38.209-07:00oh, the huge manatee.and so the saga continues. the depressive hermit escaped to a cave of someone else's hoarded, useless memories, and i have fled to an unstable but contented playhouse.<br /><br />the asylum, we called it, because we gaily proclaimed our supposed insanity. an apt title, for a house that eats souls and locks them in to fester in its corrupted rooms from which few escape. we are the lucky ones, he and i, for we are stronger and better people for the testing. those who remain, however, pass on messages of apocryphal cheer as they sink deeper into the abyss.<br /><br />the hippie is hardening slowly to life's realities - her needles that she fervently believes to heal others she now turns on herself to ease her pains. her last love defrauded her, and she in return repaid the favour. now she tortures herself, baiting her heart by rekindling their 'friendship'. she says it is peaceable, but i feel the tension in her words from a hundred kilometres away. she tempts herself with boys - beautiful bodies but childish souls - to avoid her own maturity. after all, that would require her to think, and for now she would much rather carouse in her self-constructed escapism.<br /><br />the whore, on the other hand, is in love. the self-professed and sticky kind, reminding me of half-chewed insipidly sweet gum stuck in a stranger's hair. she blogs - i may be expecting! planned and wanted and please don't tell me i'm stupid. i roll my eyes; everyone already knew - stupidity and impending doom, both. he doesn't know yet, but the internet does. she announces their convenient abscondment to adelaide, to increase their menagerie. a child bride, playing at grown up games; ugly in clothes and masks too old for her naivety. i pity the fool. he digs deep holes. i'm glad i left my shovel behind in that house.<br /><br />i find them an endless source of amusement, and grounding irony - a tragic pantomime compelling you to watch, but allowing you only boo and hiss from your seat.<br /><br />the depressive is now merely a hermit - slowly healing his scars and learning to love himself again. nocturnal, he prowls down to work the nightshift at the local supermarket. he is happier than i've ever seen him - happier, perhaps is not the right word, but he is certainly content in his new cave.<br /><br />and i? i play at house in an apartment that is still not my home. my belongings lay obfuscated at my parents', belying the pretence that i still cohabitate their home. i have no home. recently, however, the merest inklings of belonging have begun to impugn my homeless martyrdom, and whilst i still feel like a child playing at 'house', ikea and i have begun to make me a new place to belong. i too, am happy.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-30448788936688922992007-03-26T19:27:00.000-07:002007-03-26T19:52:16.335-07:00homeless and melancholy... (sippy cups, anyone?)i was homeless last week, for the first time in my life. truly nowhere to call my own. that is not to say i had nowhere to go - friends will always have couches. but to feel unsettled and to live out of a bag, and to have to conquer one's own arrogance in order to ask for help (and then to deflect the inevitable probing Why?) is not a situation i would ever like to be in again. even before i moved back to my parents (and yes, it is a tragic inevitability to face when one's own independence stumbles and crashes face first into the pavement), whilst not feeling at peace in a house cohabitating with a depressive, a hippie and a whore, i had a home to call my own.<br /><br />i have slept on stretchers, couches, floors, curled up in the inordinately miniscule confines of my passenger seat, but always i knew that when the storm blew itself out (and with my mother's pandering passivity it always did), my life would return to its regularly scheduled programming.<br /><br />living as i am as a roaming burden on humanity, i am starting to hate trains. commuting is horrible, and whilst i am becoming an unwilling expert on the city's public transport system, i begin to understand anarchy more and more. stupid trains. stupid. all of them.<br /><br />in the mean time, i take a certain satisfaction that the house i left voluntarily is finally revolting. my replacement, prewarned against his cohabitant's predatic and phagocytic nature, has demonstrated his inherent character weakness and succumbed. the remaining two moralists are in hiding, sharpening their weapons for the inevitable face-off. this is something i'd love to see, if i am still considered an ally after pulling a mussolini-style retreat.<br /><br />the house i was expelled from, however, is treating its geriatric inhabitant to a display of neonatal behaviour. making a grown man write out rules for living is a strange dogma to adhere to. don't even mention afternoon naps with blankies. i'm just waiting for the sippy cups.<br /><br />life is strange.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-68790770928036650172007-02-12T00:04:00.000-08:002008-09-17T23:34:08.876-07:00the beautiful people.i seem to be physically attracted to singularly beautiful men. smooth skin, dimpled cheeks, a well built musculature that would make any woman swoon, although given my history, i seem to prefer them slightly on the more slender side. its their ease, their charm, their ability to fall out of bed looking stunning and be not only capable but brilliant at almost everything asked of them that sets them apart from the rest of us mere humans. i have, and continue to be, enthralled by these creatures that seem never to rumple, pimple, sweat or fail; they intrigue me. and yet i have dated them and had my heart broken. and it is only now that i realise that this failing has not been on my part but on theirs also. they too are just beautiful, perfect mortals.<br /><br />the one thing that sets every boy apart, in my mind, is their eyes. i've never dated a man with any less than exquisitely beautiful eyes. i've never dated a man with eyes like anyone else i've ever met. i suppose if you gaze into them long enough, you discover an inherently unique quality in anyone's eyes, and yet those men whose eyes i've scrutinized are so different that it astounds me. a boy on the bus this morning, on the seat in front of me, stole glances at me in the reflection of the glass divider. a finely sculpted face, and wispy blonde hair to his shoulders; a miscreant adonis on a dodgy old bus. i couldn't help but smile as he asked me for the time - it was obvious he turned only to obtain a better look. and yes, i felt special.<br /><br />any woman will tell you that to be appreciated by a beautiful man is a shining highlight in our day.<br /><br />the man i am dating is not, by conventional means, a beautiful man. handsome, indeed, in a rugged, manly, non-stereotypical 'beautifully' attractive way. he does, however, have qualities about him so pure that i cannot describe them by any other adjective than that - beautiful. he has sea-coloured eyes fringed by almost womanly lashes and seraphim lips that i never tire of perusing. and it makes me rethink all those people i have passed over as 'un-beautiful' - to reexamine and find, underneath it all, a pearl or two that are uniquely and beautifully theirs.<br /><br />it seems to me that putatively beautiful men may make us swoon and make our hearts soar in adoration, however we as women fight a continuous battle with the great iniquity of The Male Ego. and as our hearts plummet as we are left behind by these beauteously arrogant obsessions - blinded, as it were, by the ethereal light radiating, scorching from their proverbial toned buttocks, we recover slowly - atom by atom - and begin anew in our perception of the world. it is only then that we can recognise the simple beauties of mankind and separate them from the gaudy, arrogant, garish extravagance of the 'beautiful people'.<br /><br />i have a man who loves me. he thinks i'm beautiful.<br /><br />you may keep your adonis, your david, your romeo, your cherubian nubil of pulchritude. romeo broke my heart, adonis was a vicious, depressive manipulist and david compensated for his own beauty by trying to destroy mine.<br /><br />i'll keep my lover, thankyou very much.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-43322844611766907992007-01-22T23:45:00.000-08:002007-01-22T23:56:02.054-08:00a failed social experiment.he's depressed. you can tell just by looking at him. the way he holds his skinny shoulders, the way his fingers nonchalantly clutch his cigarette. he lies on his bed, collapsed like the roof of an old cottage, empty, lonely and alone. he sleeps as headphones fill his head with interpol - further bolstering his mood - to avoid any sounds of her; she and her new lovers that sneak through our hallway in the middle of the night. he sits, every night, in his room; torturing himself as she chats away in the corner, uncaring of the constant wounds she inflicts with her mindless prattle, her mere presence ripping open flesh that he has repeatedly healed. he thinks that scars are harder than soft, unbroken skin - he is wrong.<br /><br />she calls them, one by one, seeking ratification for her actions. hold me, she says. she has no right to demand intimacy from these meaningless transients she flaunts in our faces. she admits to me her attention-seeking intentions, and dismisses casually the relationships she has made that have brought her to this point. we haven't driven her to this course of action. this persona she creates is completely her own invention. i don't like her any more. i'm not sure i ever did.<br /><br />i have spent the last few months in dread. my self-preserving treaty is absence. i debate in my head whether i could have done anything to change the situation - to have prevented her heart from breaking; to have prevented her from in turn breaking his heart. i could not stop the catalyst - actions defy reason where lust is concerned (or love, as he believes this painful crystallisation of his heart to be). i could not stop it, and i cannot stop his downward spiral now.<br />and so i run.<br /><br />i feel like a liar, living in my perfect bubble whilst he suffers, in his own orb of masochistic heartbreak. guilty- my first thought was to leave them all behind and save my own sanity - it has taken weeks to be let back inside his head. and still she was there. like a leech - she self-includes without invitation, encroaching on our lives like a cancer that can be repressed, although doing so makes you feel ill. i live with someone i detest, on such a base level, and yet i can't cut her out of my life because the two of them are so intrinsically linked, still, after all of this, that to excise her is to excise a part of him that makes him whole.<br /><br />to have him whole, but broken, or to lose him; scarred, but healed.<br /><br />i suggested to him last night that he run with me, soon; to come with me across the country; to write a new chapter. without her. i've never envisaged him moving out of that house. its like another limb. with a carcinogenic housematethat perhaps would be less lethal if amputated.<br />amputation hurts. but a slow painful death?<br /><br />trust me. i'm going to be a doctor.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1163082027475162692006-11-09T05:33:00.000-08:002007-05-21T03:41:33.862-07:00what a tart...<span style="color:#ffffff;">so i've been labelled on the strengths (or apparent weaknesses) of my profile picture. a tart. and what a tart i must be. there is a fine line between art and trash, pornography and art, trash and pornography. i'm sure its not worth my while to show you the trash, and yet, when the beauty and naive essence of the human figure is the question, where is the line drawn between art for arts sake, and art for pleasure's? isn't the purpose of all art to provoke pleasure? or at the very least a response?<br /><br />and 'tart', (see comments on my last post) whomever you may be, thankyou for rewarding me with such a response. i'd very much like to read what else you have to say, feel free to comment as you would. i cannot justify your opinion, but you are welcome to it. for such a strong label, based on an image, it does not have much to back it up. on the other hand, there is art.<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/1600/lempicka.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/320/lempicka.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#ffffff;">an image by polish artist tamara de lempicka - she stares at the viewer, completely comfortable in who she is, baring her breast almost daintily, like forbidden fruit, amused to incite a response, but too blaise to really mind.</span></p><p><span style="color:#ffffff;">another lempicka - one of my favourites. she revels in her body, curvaceous and voluptuous, she looks to be basking in post orgasmic bliss. but shock, if i liken art to pornography. </span></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/1600/lempickarecliningnude.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 335px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 204px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/320/lempickarecliningnude.jpg" width="335" border="0" /></span></a></p><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /><br /></span><br /><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/1600/lempickarecliningnude.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></a></p><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /><br /></span><br /><p><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></p><p><span style="color:#ffffff;">this is art, people. these artists are revered world wide, they celebrate humanity. and so they should. don't even get me started on the beauteous creations of the renaissance period. one can hardly call boticelli or ghirlandaio's curvaceous muses by the trashy title of 'tart'.</span></p><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /></span><br /><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/1600/Modiglianireclining%20nude.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/320/Modiglianireclining%20nude.jpg" border="0" /></span></a></p><p><span style="color:#ffffff;">Armadeo Modigliani's reclined nude hints at sunday mornings after nights of revelry. her toned body and perky breasts arouse images of sex, purely and simply. she stretches like a cat, waiting for her lover to return to bed. what an outcry there would have been if the jewish community (of which modigliani was a fervent member) had thought this to be tarty pornography, especially in the early 1900's. </span></p><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span><br /><div><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /><br /></span></div><p align="right"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyS8BPxiZrL3W1Zk6PZ0srzT8KbTnlz9GTQiolEZbiZxYgfWwcGqTNNiESDl5cBnQcPSRLnnlYkMhiFnxsUXGDHZJTPjPhhbw6aZlEIZqz_-WfBtqhdaCL67Sf64iK3JZGOTYBg/s1600-h/aftermanray.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066961259997131154" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyS8BPxiZrL3W1Zk6PZ0srzT8KbTnlz9GTQiolEZbiZxYgfWwcGqTNNiESDl5cBnQcPSRLnnlYkMhiFnxsUXGDHZJTPjPhhbw6aZlEIZqz_-WfBtqhdaCL67Sf64iK3JZGOTYBg/s320/aftermanray.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyS8BPxiZrL3W1Zk6PZ0srzT8KbTnlz9GTQiolEZbiZxYgfWwcGqTNNiESDl5cBnQcPSRLnnlYkMhiFnxsUXGDHZJTPjPhhbw6aZlEIZqz_-WfBtqhdaCL67Sf64iK3JZGOTYBg/s1600-h/aftermanray.jpg"></a></p><p><span style="color:#ffffff;">Man Ray - pioneer in the photographic world. world reknowned, he took enormous leaps and bounds both pushing the boundaries of art and exploring a new medium. and yet, all of his muses were whores, happy to get off the street and pose. its rare to see one looking happy, and even in modern pornography, it is rare to see a girl with a genuine smile on her face. and yet, this too, is art.</span></p><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">Paul Wunderlich, respected professor of graphic art and painting at the University of Fine Arts, Hamburg for many years, took this photo of a reclining nude in 1971. a fairly liberal period, i know, however he has been awarded extensive acclaim by many art organisations across the world - hardly the reward deserving of a pornographer. </span></div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br /><br /></span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://spaightwoodgalleries.com/Media/Szekessy_Reclining_Nude2.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img style="WIDTH: 444px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 366px" height="366" alt="" src="http://spaightwoodgalleries.com/Media/Szekessy_Reclining_Nude2.jpg" border="0" /></span></a></p><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">and now to the final inquest. where is the line drawn between a celebration of the human anatomy, and pornography? to me, it is only the base nature of humanity that creates the concept of 'pornography' and attaches such a negative allegory to it. if i am guilty of posting a pornographic image (or tarty, as my anonymous recreant critic would put it), i am only guilty of one thing. in my mind, that is art. in yours? perhaps therein lies a deeper question.</span></div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span></div><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/1600/japaneseropebondage.3.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img style="WIDTH: 355px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 408px" height="351" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/320/japaneseropebondage.3.jpg" width="315" border="0" /></span></a></p>Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162992250433161652006-11-08T05:19:00.000-08:002006-11-08T05:24:10.433-08:00and pearl buttons...http://cheaptarts.blogspot.com/2006/10/pretty-girls-in-wind.html<br /><br />this one's for jade. the little girl that lives in our back room, taking the red pill to stay in wonderland and see just how far the rabbit hole goes.<br /><br />a bitter pill to swallow, but better for it. we're proud of you.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162990966319505392006-11-08T04:24:00.000-08:002006-11-08T05:02:46.366-08:00missing him, missing myself...i keep the windows shut, as much to keep the world out as to keep his smell in. the apartment, exactly as he left it, is slightly dusty, particles of dirt from the building site down the road somehow finding their way inside. its only been two weeks, but as i sit here in his space, i feel lonely.<br /><br />why i long for someone so desperately, why i cannot be happy in my own company - this strikes me as both odd and tragic. indeed, the tragedy is laudable, as are my promises never to attach myself so physically and emotionally irredeemably, to someone else. i am not a limpet. and yet, as i sit here, looking at the eclectic mix of frequent flyer paraphernalia, usb keys and rollie papers on his coffee table, my body longs for him with a passionate pain that shocks me - i hadn't realised i'd fallen so hard for him till now.<br /><br />part of my brain finally switches into gear and asks the inevitable 'why?'. i can't answer it. he's a beautiful boy, true, but how on earth he makes me feel this way and why i long for him so badly are questions to which the answers belong in a mystical land just like elves, gremlins and eskimos.<br /><br />i open his fridge, and suddenly i grin. half an avocado, gone hard enough to break a window, languishes next to sour cream expiring over a month ago. tomatoes (at least, red furry blobs that smell like italian corpses) canker along with a leathery lettuce and another avocado that, when poked, oozes a mystery substance that looks like it belongs in a diaper.<br /><br />i explore, relishing the freedom to poke into corners of his life i've not seen before. there isn't much i haven't - he's not a hoarder like me. its minimalistic - the random old cards and mail, a set of mint coins to celebrate his graduation. i didn't realise he graduated with honours. i feel so stupid. i should be studying. damn this blog.<br /><br />as i give up, and go to bed in his unwashed sheets dressed in one of his shirts, i read his last sms again and a smile creeps onto my face. its nice to be in love.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162564026632991932006-11-03T06:18:00.000-08:002006-11-03T06:43:04.983-08:00second class citizen.i live with a ghost. never here, in body and in mind, rarely here in either. in body - her mind is elsewhere, thinking about Him. He fills her days, her every waking hour. and leaves me behind in His wake. i sit, alone on the couch, thoughts of her, i miss her. its a strange feeling to cohabitate with someone, to know them, and to know that they don't know you. to know that you play second fiddle to everything else in their life.<br /><br />and when she is here, she complains of her 'second class citizen feelings'. He exults his car, and leaves her behind. and yet, it is his passion. and so, she accepts. am i, then, to accept that He, in turn, is her passion; to take a back seat to their relationship? or is it just that i am jealous? put that way, it seems unjustifiable that i feel the way i do. and who am i to be jealous, anyway? merely a second class citizen. merely her best friend.<br /><br />i come home, after promises of time to spend together. a promise to get home soon, a promise to do girly things and hang out on the couch. i've had a bad day, and she knows it. and all i want is a little time with her. she's not here. she's never here. she's gone, like a scent lingering on a summer breeze - full of promise but unable to be caught, leaving yet more promises in her wake. she'll be home soon. i give up after an hour and leave.<br /><br />they pass us in the car as we walk down the street. i don't think they saw us. i walk, determined, to my destination, and drown my sorrows in rum. home again - i sneak in around the back, but lack the perserverance to bother sneaking through my own house to catch them unawares. its not worth the effort.<br /><br />the effortlessness is mutual.<br /><br />'oh, you're home'. yes. yes i am, i live here too, apparently. cohabitation is not a prerequisite for communication, i have found. oh, you had a nice night working on the car? good for you, i hope you burn in hell. i'm going to sit here and pout and be selfish. i don't like you right now.<br /><br />i don't like you at all. go to sleep.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162512794514580522006-11-02T15:58:00.000-08:002006-11-27T04:42:45.940-08:00the basketball bride... part 2he looks good on the court tonight. tallest of the team, he strides, confident, smiling, waiting for the game to begin. the melee starts; he runs - his long legs outstride the others' two to one, when he wants them to. they steal the ball, he shakes his head and runs, beats them to the other end and stands, shoulders flexed.<br /><br />he is the rock.<br /><br />in posession of the ball, his team mate tries and fails to find the basket. surrounded by the enemy, he plucks the ball from their hands and, seemingly effortlessly, tips it into the ring.<br /><br />he makes it look so easy.<br /><br />he looks focussed, sitting on the bench, his eyes rarely leaving the game. quarter time, i notice the absence of their coach. they're playing the best i've seen them, and the uptight wog is not even there to see. a brilliant rebound, a simple, fluid move.<br /><br />glancing over to locate his teammate on the wing, he catches my eye in the bleachers and grins. a split second diversion - he snaps back to the game. they try a messy combination to set up a shot - rebounds, and again. my defender - he pauses for a moment, and in his passivity loses his chance for the ball. they convert and pelt away from him down the court, leaving him to grimace and shake his head. time out, and he is left on the bench. they are deep in discussion - seems to me that they do better to coach themselves. he sits off to the side, still irritated, but moves in to discuss their next attack. in their arrogance, the other team practices shots. they're down four points but, also without a coach, do not lack the self-assuredness to ignore that fact. still on the bench, he stands, hands on hips as i've seen a thousand times before, and watches the other defender bumble through a move.<br /><br />subbed in, he stands again, defensive, elbows out. he is my rock. the enemy halts before him. not quite, but he makes for a formiddable defense. i need to learn the rules of this game. but this like any other game, is complex, with fouls and signals i don't understand.<br /><br />they're starting to tire. i now understand the arrogance of the other team. they're fit, and they know it. as my boys begin to flag, their lead diminishes then disappears. 48 them, 42 us. again, my boy tower grabs a rebound from the ring. dribbling it down to their circle, a cross by one of the little guys is too fast for him. again, he shakes his head. down their end, frustrated, he fouls, slamming a palm down onto the hands holding the ball. a minute later, he is there again, all frustration gone as he jokes with the ref. i smile.<br /><br />they frustrate easily, these boys. five fouls are on the board, against the other team's zero. if that means what i think it means, they'll lose a player next. i hope its the tall blonde oaf. my man sits on the sideline whilst this six foot four ox plays almost a whole game. he carries his weight heavily, lacking the grace his tall frame requires, that so casually carried off by his six-seven teammate. again, their tactics are beyond me.<br /><br />they've lost it. a minute and a half to play what started off as their best game, and they're nine points down. a shame. they played well though. especially my boy.<br /><br />defender. tower. strength.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162510536217907292006-11-02T15:28:00.000-08:002006-11-02T15:35:36.220-08:00discussions of the soul...all he could talk of was 'tomorrow', a shining morrow of peace and love and justice in which the human soul, ever through history striving for harmony and perfection, would at last achieve it. and to the coming century he looked for the delivery of the concentrated essence of all the good things of that ideal 'tomorrow'.<br /><br />~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~<br /><br />'first place, what is the 'soul' of which you speak? show me its location in the human anatomy and then i might believe in it. second place, as we say in our country - 'tomorrow never comes'. we live, always in the here and now, the present. to pin your hopes upon the future is to consign those hopes to a hypothesis, which is to say, a nothingness. here and now is what we have to contend with. third place, how shall you recognise 'perfection' when you see it? you can only define the 'future perfect' by the 'present imperfect', and the present, in which, inevitably, we all live, always seems imperfect to somebody.<br /><br />'if we abandon the grammatical metaphor, i'd certainly agree with you that this present which we contemporaneously inhabit is 'imperfect' to a degree. but this grievous condition has nothing to do with the soul, or as you might call it, removing the theological connotation, 'human nature'. what we have to contend with here, my boy, is the long shadow of the 'past hist'ric' (reverting back to the grammatical analogy, for a moment), that forged the institutions which create the human nature of the present in the first place.<br /><br />'its not the human 'soul' that must be forged on the anvil of history, but the anvil itself myst be changed in order to change humanity. then we micht see, if not perfection, then something a little better, or, not to raise too many false hopes, a little less bad.'<br /><br />--Nights at the Circus, Angela Carter. p240Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162691457162319302006-09-13T17:49:00.000-07:002006-11-04T17:57:21.180-08:00the basketball bride... part 1<span style="font-family:arial;">I feel like I’m being shaken. The plywood panels reverberate behind my head and shoulders with every footstep, every bounce. Assaulted with a cacophony of squeaks and shouts, terms unintelligible to my naive ears. </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">They run, confident in their game; the sweat begins to flow. The whistle blows, they quickly wipe their shoes in the pause – to slip, even for a moment, is to risk mockery. Besides, he tells me later, it looks cool. I smile. It’s his game to play, not mine, after all. There it goes again, a flow of musculature, ball careening down the court, hand to hand. The wall shudders. A leap, contested by unmoving bodies; a curse. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">A pause, he crouches, bounces, lines up the shot. He grins over at me as it falls, confident in the knowledge that it’s in; then his consciousness snaps back to the game. </p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoBodyText">Interesting to watch, men playing boys playing a game. They all have their idiosyncrasies. As number 14 sips his blue Gatorade, number eight drapes his towel across his legs, looking for all the world like a sage old man in sneakers. As number 13 stretches, 9 is focussed on all the wisdom the coach can hope to impart in a one minute time out; whilst the coach picks his jocks out of his ass for the hundredth time. Its comical to watch; a running tally of his discomfiture. It irritates me, a court width away, I feel like going to Target to buy him some trunks – perhaps lilac, to match his shirt. </p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoBodyText"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoBodyText">He stands, flexing his muscles, the immovable wall, then fluidly stretches up, up to claim the rebound. He passes, too soon, to selfless to run the ball himself. </p> <p style="font-family: arial;" class="MsoBodyText"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <o:p></o:p></p> <span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;font-size:12;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">The siren screams, he grins. As the coach picks his wedgie for the thousandth time, they wander away – intent o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n other games they have to play. We sit here, like pigeons in a row on our bench as they wander over to claim their well-deserved spoils.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> What a game, they say, man-hugging each other as they disband. He meanders over, salty with other men’s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">sweat – he kisses me and I taste them; the </span><span style="font-size:100%;">spoils of the battle. And all I want to say is, yellow is not your colour.</span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span>Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1157639007607018142006-09-07T07:08:00.000-07:002006-11-02T16:15:21.156-08:00Abraxas...<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m sitting in the chair, writhing in agony. A demon, a minor demon, is pinning me there, fucking with my head. Abraxas, he says, I’m Abraxas, the demon of lies and deceit.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">‘So, what do you want to know about lies, my dear?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m not a liar. I try again to get up – this time I’m flayed, splayed; I feel myself screaming.</span></p> <span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family: arial;">‘I’ll tell you about lies. There are white lies, and black lies, and many shades of grey lies. And some lies are justified. Lies told out of kindness, lies that preserve dignity… Lies that spare pain…Everybody’s a lie, dear. Look at that one – she’s about to tell her lover something patently untrue. Look at their gestures. See how they touch each other too intimately. How they avert their eyes, cover their mouths, they lick their teeth, and hold their chins. They embellish their stories with far too much detail…’</span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />i'm abraxas. i didn't write this, i won't pretend i did. but it seems to me that jenny is right. episode four, season one... i do lie to people. i lie to myself. i'm lying to myself even now; i've lied my entire life. but the truth is even harder to root out than the lies in which we shroud it.<br /><br />i'm running scared. i justify to myself my behaviour; i label it, i analyse it, and in every case it seems that i am wrong. to define love. how does a being define the indefinite. indefinite, infinite, definitive and brief. i feel in ways i've not felt before. i told myself i was justified by loving somebody. he won't tell me. i say it to myself, in the shadows, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >i love you...</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > and yet, futility is all i find there to keep my company. he lists my attributes - amazing, special, intelligent, beautiful, unique.<br /><br />unloved.<br /><br />poor abraxas, i share your fate.<br /><br />we lie, we disillusion, we deceive. and in the end, we deceive ourselves. feelings; like, lust, love, truth, lies. in our perserverence, do we also develop our capacity to feel pain?<br /><br />the truth is futile.</span><br /></span>Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162511866552028422006-08-16T15:51:00.000-07:002006-11-02T15:57:46.570-08:00just say yes...i'm scared. i'm scared of myself. this is the first time i've felt like this. with my beautiful english boy (for whom the word 'my' has become, and always has been, redundant), it was different. at least then it was finite. you can't realistically chase someone around the country, let alone the world. but that's all over.<br /><br />this boy... oh, what to do about this boy... what do you say to someone who seems utterly perfect for you? why does having someone who seems to know me inside out make me want to run for cover? i think its that anonymity i've managed to maintain all my life. to have a kernel of truth somewhere, to know that no matter what, only me knows <i>all</i> of me, and that nobody can, or will, ever get through the walls to know me inside out. he's coming close though. i've never met anyone so intuitive. who, when i try to explain something, says, 'i know'. something that's a big issue for me, an epiphany of sorts, that he figured out long before i knew about it myself.<br /><br />what scares me is this. i'm not in control any more. he knows what he wants to know, he goes off and he does what he wants to do, and regardless of whether it irks me, i feel powerless to tell him otherwise. but that lack of control? how do i deal with that? i'm scared already. scared of losing what i have. scared of surrender. scared of losing myself by being known so well. scared of loving him.<br /><br />i want to run away.<br /><br /> but, i want to discover...Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162510058456699572006-08-02T15:24:00.000-07:002006-11-02T15:27:38.480-08:00the frailty of superhumans..once, when i was a kid, i was convinced i was invincible. just like everyone else. those superhuman fantasies we all entertain in childhood are abandoned in youth, but reappear in early adulthood as we entertain our friends, employers, prospective partners (and lovers alike), our families and our own self-inflated egos. our bulging balloons of self worth that we carry about like trophies to be exulted at, however shallowly; but only until life throws a dart.<br /><br />everyone is invincible, in their own mind.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1153402978982546942006-07-20T06:09:00.000-07:002006-07-20T06:42:59.210-07:00what indeed... child.i know what my mother feels like. i cannot keep my 'family' together. they have cited irreconcilable differences and agreed to go their separate ways. and what of me? it seems i shall live here, alone, for a month. i am the heinous fiend that has forced the boy out of my home, to return to the evil lair of his mother, the dragoness. forced him to digress in mental age to that of a preschooler. to put his feet in my face, to demand that i drive to get him chocolate, to tell me i look horrible when i ask his opinion. to deny me our mutual friends, and make me feel guilty for my happiness.<br /><br />it seems to me that jealousy plays an enormous part of our dynamics. we fight when i am home, which is when i'm not staying, shall we say elsewhere, for that is a story for another day indeed. he demands attention like a rabid puppy, and sulks when denied. he foully behaves like a preschooler, whinges to me about our absent cohabitant and yes, demands foot massages. to what do i owe this dubious pleasure? the same boy i spent two years of my life in love with. have i matured? or does he digress...<br /><br />perhaps both.<br /><br />perhaps it is merely that the rose coloured glasses have been removed from my eyes and i see, that behind an inherently talented, intelligent and good looking man lies the craving heart of a young boy. but i already knew that. now that the glasses have come off, i realise he is no longer my responsibility.<br /><br />i am not your mother.<br /><br />perhaps you would be more hospitable to live with if you said hello when you saw me instead of launching into a tirade of all the irritating things that occurred in your day, that if you were God - and you have no doubt that you are, yet i am yet to see proof of your apparent abilities - you would change... including enlarging the breasts of almost every female on the planet, and removing from the gene pool all non-petite, non-brunette, non-wogs. and me? of course, for i am the top of your list. after all i refused to buy you chocolate or suck your toes. all i do is ask you to stop watching television for a brief nanosecond and bring me a tool from the garage, whilst i'm perched on the ceiling removing a light fitting, before i clean the bathroom and after i do the washing up.<br /><br />i left last night, and had a lovely time. how dare i be so foolish as to enter this house with a smile on my face. after all, there are so many things for you to whinge about or demand to wipe it off for me. how dare i assume that i have any right to be happy in this house! and lo, i am choosing between my friends. the one who treats me like an annoying piece of gum on his shoe, useful only for cooking him food on demand or chauffering him when drunk; this and more, or the one who greets me with a hug when i get home, cooks me food and, whilst she is rather OCD, is generally pleasant and isn't attached to the couch with an umbilical cord. she doesn't even borrow my computer without asking and create her own account! nor does she not speak to me for hours when i forget to pander to her every whim. and whilst he can choose to go home and live with his mother, she has nowhere to go. so yes, evil boy of the world, whilst you may think i am a horrible fiendish bitch of the universe, i shall in the meantime ensure that my friend who is nice to me has somewhere to live. and whilst that may be too difficult for you to understand at the current time, i'm sure you'll get over it.<br /><br />after all, you are God.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1145343490833978342006-04-17T23:52:00.000-07:002006-04-17T23:59:28.080-07:00what have you become...<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/1600/scan0001.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4181/1029/320/scan0001.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />oh to grow... what a journey is life. we meet so many people every day, so many lives to intersect. and what do we become? a conglomeration of opinions. this is the boy around whom my life has centred for the past four years. this is for whom i have run the race. this is he for whom i have cried, with whom i have laughed. and what is he to become? i wish i could tell you, for i know nothing of him any more. it seems to me that he has outgrown me; a stranger in my own home. and what of me? i am the catalyst.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1145343031515064042006-04-17T22:23:00.000-07:002006-04-17T23:50:31.546-07:00a race to be won...so, it seems, there was a race after all. he and i, to see who ceased to care soonest. and, it appears, i passed the post first... it seems to me that the entire dynamic of our relationship depends on this - who cares less about the other; who finds someone to entertain themselves with soonest. yet it seems to me that it seems to bother him more that i move on. he brings them home, when i'm not here, never letting me know, but i know anyway... he disappears, and comes home, refusing a hug, and i know. it would, i think, anger me more if he did not. yet this was the first time i've done anything of my own. and it seems that everything has changed.<br /><br />why are standards so different for he and i? is it an idicator of how little i care, that he goes and sleeps with other women, as is his right, and i let it pass me by? or a show of how much that he cares, that he now denies me affection of any kind, merely because i show interest in another man? i do not understand him, at least, i can see a sense in how unhealthy - no, perhaps atypical is a better and less harsh word - our relationship has become.<br /><br />attached and unattached - the threads that bind but are noncommittal and easily broken, yet woven into our memories; that remain even a year on... this is what the race is made from. the dynamic dance that holds my little household in its sway. every change brings with it new aspirations and new regrets. at times i wish i could stop the clock, or i did before these new developments. i liked what our relationship had become - attached and unattached. and now i'm not so sure. do i need the connection so rawly that when it is taken from me i keen for it? for i do - i miss the affectations, the subtle indications. they all seem to have ceased. and yet, perhaps this is his version of giving me space to pursue my own relationships.<br /><br />or perhaps he accedes. i have run the race.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1144836760942510012006-04-12T03:04:00.000-07:002006-04-18T00:18:03.306-07:00passion... a mere discard...the act of sex is a strange thing. in one way, it is sweet, passionate - making love, they call it. i can't honestly say anyone's made love to me. then again perhaps being in love is a prerequisite for that. however, i digress.<br /><br />sex, to me, seems to be the merging of our spiritual and animal selves - the act in itself is indeed extremely animalistic. so therefore, what separates us from the animals? is it our lust? our enjoyment of that which to most animals (except for dolphins, or so they say) is purely for the purpose of survival? to me, it seems, it is our passion.<br /><br />passion in itself is a term i cannot claim to relate to many things. and when you can't relate passion to sex, that is a strange occurrence indeed. it seems to me, in my sojourns in the last few weeks, that i am experiencing a novel and rather base thing. when sex ceases to be the joining of two people whether with lust or love, but certainly in passion - when to shag becomes purely for the release of tension, for frustration, a drug-like relaxation aid, does that make me an addict?<br /><br />and where, then, lies passion?Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1162511286073774072005-11-02T15:45:00.000-08:002006-11-02T15:48:06.076-08:00so...<br /><br />it comes as a surprise to me to feel myself wanting you. i want you more now than when we were dating. at least at the end. i sat next to you tonight, my heart "racing like a sprinter...<br /><br />that tripped...<br /><br />and f<br /> e<br /> l<br /> l..."<br /><br />and realised you've changed for the better. you're still a beautiful boy. just no longer mine. i'm not the only one that wants this, though.<br /><br />i see you fidget.<br /><br />that look in your eyes. i want to kiss you. you suggest friendship. i agree. we agree on friendship.<br /><br />you only want what you can't have.Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12254024.post-1129809990548017862005-10-20T05:00:00.000-07:002005-11-04T08:18:27.610-08:00new beginnings...<em>and so it is, just, like you said it would be...</em><br /><br />a new beginning. i suppose when i left i expected so much change in myself - i guess i also expected the world to wait for me. and so the obvious fact that you would - and have - changed, comes to me as a shock. its a feeling i guess parents have when they realise their children are all grown up and don't need looking after any more.<br /><br />the fact that you can grow, and in fact, prosper, without your life running intertwined with mine is a foreign concept to me. i guess i've been so caught up in my own self-worth and growth that i haven't begun to deal with you yet. or at least, what you have become. it was good to see you tonight. you asked me what i was feeling. i couldn't put it into words at the time. a sense of loss, bordering on grief, for such a beautiful thing we cannot ever hope to recover. selective memories... an overpowering shock at how my feelings have changed towards you.<br /><br />you were right - i hadn't dealt with them - couldn't, partially because i wasn't sure enough of myself to examine what i was, not knowing yet how i have changed to be who i am now. and partially because i couldn't define that from two thousand kilometres away.<br /><br />and finally, a sense of hope. a confidence that something i had worried over so much - the possibility of a friendship with you, after the maelstrom - that this was a viable option. and i can honestly say i'm happy. its a new beginning. one i can say i'm satisfied with.<br /><br />i'm proud of you. you're all grown up.<br /><br />i'm glad.<br /><br />for both of us.<br /><br /><br /><em>every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end...</em>Me.http://www.blogger.com/profile/05626778632884434072noreply@blogger.com0