i composed this stream rather quickly, foolishy, and tiredly. i'll improve and update later.
Lustra (and that which makes the world go 'round)
i had never watched another man cry before.
i thought myself quite the voyeur as he stripped off the spotty veneer he called armor, revealing a boy who dreamed small, was small, and loved without hesitation. he was a memory i could carry (could crush) in my hand, in my pocket, with my eyes.
the sirens' cry is a melody. a cadence to seek and expect and grow lost in. his tears, however, were the sound of your knees buckling on stage, your milk spilling at lunch. an amateur's tragedy that was so plain and pitiful that it shook you. his was not the wail of a fresh widow, the unassuming gaze of a starving child refugee. i knew his pain because i'd felt it before, 15 years ago, when i stubbed my toe, scraped my knee. those naive moments where your nerves are set aflame because a bandaid level scrape masquerades as the deepest pain you might ever subject yourself to.
i thought, for a second, this must be some larger issue: stress. his friends. me. all the years of his life.
"no, it's nothing else. i'm just so embarrassed that i had to ask you."
and he was.
i believed him.
and i broke at the simplicity with which he wept, desired him more than ever for his purity, but couldn't help but wonder if such a white light could ever penetrate the likes of me.
"it's okay, baby. you work on it... we work on it... and it will better in time."
*sigh* "i don't know that i can afford time."
me neither, dear. me neither.
i suppose i keep my head afloat and you do the same. you survive the rat race. i'll run the prelim. and please, love, please, let our paths keep crossing.
How to Peel Labels
it would be hypocritical of me to not consider my own tears, the pioneers of my morning. they were, i think, more the product of shock than pain, but i mustn't ignore the fact that a boy made me cry for the first time in recent memory. no doubt in my memoirs i will claim his words were the ink of my own blood, that he laced his lines with arsenic. in truth, i imagine that letter was more akin to a frustrated, incredulous glare or a judgmental "hmph." but when i read those words the way i'd read so many of his before, my eyes flared, and my tastebuds noted that sadness is less salty than books lead you to expect.
and i did question, for a while, if two boys who love to shine could be friends without blinding each other. and the answer that half-satisfies me is "i don't care." piss me off. make me cry. ignore me. make me jealous. because i find myself captivated (i find myself trapped) by you and the possibility of you knowing me. so i mean to keep trying until you run out of tolerance or i run out of sanity.
of course, i did leave you with all my ammunition, and you have still resolved, mostly, to leave all quiet on the western front. which is fine. no rush. no necessity. but i encourage you to cross the netherworldiness of no man's land, cause i'll still be here, shining, ready to be your friend.
i've been reading a lot about the final years of FDR. it's tragic, really. a diplomat to a point of reckless inactivity with a messianic complex to keep the world afloat. "just give it time; i can hold it together; i got this, guys. i got this. no seriously, i don't need your help." and he waited. and he held. and he died. leaving Truman to take over with his acerbic personality and cluelessness as to how to balance the world.
i guess i can't save everyone, either. i can't count on my own personableness, my own genius, my own heart, to fix people. sometimes war happens, but if you're willing to shoulder the quest for peace with others, your world need not need slip from your grasp.
Why Things Fall Apart
it wasn't supposed to be like this.
it was just dinner, true, but I could see it was also the drawing of lines, the restructuring of alliances. we were never going to be as we were before. we were not inseparable. we did not "just click." we were growing up, apart, across, and alone. and while we will still have each other, we will never again have each other the way friends do.
it was sad, at first.
then i drank.
and i thought
about what i wanted
about how it would be
about growing up.
and in the haze on a boy who is 21 and green, I dreamed on weeds, dandelions, loosing themselves in the wind only to become more and more and more. and i thought i'd hop on with a few rogue seeds and we could go spread ourselves across new fields until it was time to divide and move on.
the more and more flaws he found in the boy's face, the more endearing he became to him.
no more embellishments.
no more touch-ups.
a patch of dry skin on his forehead.
a mouth that was constantly perched, pouty or questioning.
how refreshing it was to find he was no longer an ideal, but a person.
with scars and rough patches and truths to hide.
and from that moment, that epiphany, he could not help but approach the boy from every angle.
as a boy who could love.
as a boy who could not.
as a sexual dilettante.
as the air.
he could no longer remember what it was like to not envelop the boy, and he hoped he would keep on forgetting.
The I of the Beholder
it was never your job to make me feel beautiful.
besides, i'm sure i never told you how i have, for as long as i can remember, been obsessed with being smaller. how my mom would find me curled up in closets, sitting under chairs, refusing to sleep in a bed as i thought lying on the floor would make me shorter.
when you're big as i am, it's so easy for someone to see you that they never really have to look at you. i just thought if i could be 10 pounds skinnier, 2 inches shorter, you might have to look at me to see me and that you might like the view.
the truth is i want to lose more weight, but i don't think i can handle the damning looks people give me when they see i've grown smaller. i guess i've forgotten the standard for beauty. i don't know how to look like you need to look at me. but i DO know it's not you're problem, so stop trying to ease me of my burdens, and please, please, please don't cry.
The Seven-Week Itch
i've been itching all over for the past couple months. i can't help but think that God is one of those screenwriters who would sneak in such an itch for the illusion of a deeper meaning. Perhaps it embodies my discontentedness. or perhaps i'm being punished for less than God-fearing appetites. either way, it amuses me just about as much as it annoys the shit out of my skin.
A Touch of Class
The optimist in me dubs this semester rewarding.
The pessimist, hell.
The realist, survivable.
Span 201- I have a great teacher, but I'm the only upperclassmen, I find the work tedious, and I wholeheartedly believe that all foreign language courses should land you 5 credit hours.
Hist 365 (The Hellenistic Age)- No evaluation yet as this course doesn't start til next week.
Post World War II America- I am one of 4 people in this course, so skipping it really isn't an option. We plow through 300-350 pages a week and have 6 essays to write, but this is definitely my subject, and I can tell I'm going to learn a lot with Zoumaras.
JINS- Public Issues and Political Rhetoric- The text, thus far, has been a little sophomoric, but the class discussion is great, the writing assignments appear fun and easy, and my professor is fabulous.
Social Stratification- As always, sociology courses are rewarding if you ignore the professor and read between the lines of the text. Lots of service opportunities for this class though, lots of class discussion, and some good friends of mine are in this one with me.
Other than that, I'm working for Dr. Ling, working for the International Student Office, attempting to keep a boyfriend, volunteering for United Way by interviewing, evaluating, and assessing community needs, looking for time to read for pleasure, half-heartedly looking for time to exercise, getting involved in Half-Full Players, College Democrats, Amnesty International, Prism, and Safe Zone. I plan to stay busy this semester!