(Originally Written February 25, 2009 in the Journal)
Today was awesome. We putzed around Port-au-Prince, Pétionville, and went to the Baptist Mission, and played with the children at the orphanage. This orphanage, if I understand correctly needs about $36,000 U.S. to operate a year. They receive only about $12,000. They need a new laptop because the old one was stolen. There is so much need in this world. Why can I do nothing about it?
Lord I feel so compelled to get the ball rolling for mission work like this. I'm good at getting people to open up their wallets - why can I do it for you? Lord I'm going to try and raise money for them. If I am successful then I know you will show me a way to do this more permanently.
I have a new idea to open up a missionary service that provides funds for missionaries. Lord the harvest is great and the workers few and the money even more sparse. Help me in this.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Poem #1
(Originally Written February 25, 2009 in the Journal)
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear.
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
So I went to Haiti today. I'm in Port-au-Prince right now! I came with Ms. Erin Adams and Cindy Hundley - a true motley crew we are. We're staying at an orphanage run by one of Erin's friends.
This is pretty amazing. I love traveling, but it was an arduous trip taking nearly twelve hours to get from Jarabacoa to here solely by gua-gua. They had dinner ready for us: chicken, potatoes and carrot, and a salad consisiting of lettuce, tomato, onion and a leafy green that reminded me of parsley but had a spicy after taste.
Well, I think I'm ready for bed. It's been a long day. By the way, Erin becomes more amazing the more I get to know her.
I didn't eat the chicken because I've given up meat for lent.
Lord, the Nazirite vow I took taught me very little. I failed you Lord. Out of this abstaining Lord I hope to gain insight on your true purpose for my life.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found.
Twas blind but now I ssee.
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear,
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear.
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
So I went to Haiti today. I'm in Port-au-Prince right now! I came with Ms. Erin Adams and Cindy Hundley - a true motley crew we are. We're staying at an orphanage run by one of Erin's friends.
This is pretty amazing. I love traveling, but it was an arduous trip taking nearly twelve hours to get from Jarabacoa to here solely by gua-gua. They had dinner ready for us: chicken, potatoes and carrot, and a salad consisiting of lettuce, tomato, onion and a leafy green that reminded me of parsley but had a spicy after taste.
Well, I think I'm ready for bed. It's been a long day. By the way, Erin becomes more amazing the more I get to know her.
I didn't eat the chicken because I've given up meat for lent.
Lord, the Nazirite vow I took taught me very little. I failed you Lord. Out of this abstaining Lord I hope to gain insight on your true purpose for my life.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found.
Twas blind but now I ssee.
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear,
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Classic Nice-Guys Finish Last Victimization Story As Told from a Nice Guy's Perspective
(Originally Written February 24, 2009 in the Journal)
So I’m not really effeminate I’ve just always gotten along better with girls rather than guys. I love sports, I mean I watch at least two sportscenters a day. I go to games a lot, and play as much as time allows. I like to call myself well-rounded – the guy who does hockey and When Harry Met Sally.
I like women. I love women. Sure, When Harry Met Sally is a complete chickflick but when Meg Ryan (my old as mom crush) does that thing in the restaurant I mean come on – how can any guy not love this movie.
But always I find myself swimming in this vast ocean of female friends who treat me like another wave rather than the barracuda I imagine myself to be. My greatest fear in all of this is that someday I’ll be sitting there with my friends (all girls) and they’ll begin to assess me on the female datability scale. I know this fear well – it’s been with me now for nearly 12 years.
Travel back with me, 1997 – Freshman year of high school
So there I am sitting in Mr. Genter’s biology class minding my own business or wandering off into some parallel universe in my head when ol’ Gentsy gets this look in his eye that an atom bomb just went off in his innards and excuses himself in remarkably quick fashion for a guy hitting 70 who has just had his insides nuked.
So my asshole of a best friend yells out to Beatrice Worthington what she thought of me. “Hey Beadie” he yelled. She ignored him because she hated being called Beadie. It was actually a nickname I maliciously gave her in the third grade because she had one eye whose pupil was about a fourth of the other one. I had never seen someone’s heart break before that day and even though she annoyed the hell out of me I worked to fabricate a friendship out of this wreck I cause and protected her from a lot of unnecessary berating. I felt especially convicted of this duty when people called her Beadie.
“Hey Beadie” he repeated. More silence and finally he said her name in full, “Hey BE-UH-TRUST”. She knew that was as close as she was gonna get out of him.
“Yes Anthony?” She replied in a fully proper way. Beatrice wasn’t Amish though we all looked at her that way until it was finally explained to us that she was from a conservative Mennonite family. She always were a bonnet, plain blouse, and ankle length dresses. I’m sure she wore shoes but I didn’t pay them much attention or ever think about it until just this instance.
In addition to dressing very old-fashioned she spoke irritatingly proper English and always called people by their full names. This really got under my skin because having a couple of pot-head hippie scumbag parents they wrote down my name when they were high at my all herbal, all homeopathic submerged birth festival. (Yeah, I was born underwater with about 14 other kids to hippies at the commune). No docs or meds allowed, just a little acid and a ton of pot. So the parents wrote down babies’ names on the official documents and placed them all in a hat. Then different sets of parents drew the documents out of the hat and turned them into the government. At my birth festival there were fifteen kids born, eleven girls and four boys. Miraculously the three other boys all got boy names. My name, Bryan Mark went to some unfortunate girl who I think goes by Bri. Her name, Candice Ashly got so wonderfully tagged tom.
“Beadie, whaddya think of my boy Ash there. He was telling me the other day that you don’t get the credit you deserve. I think he’s working up the nerve to ask you out”. Laughter erupted in the class as Beatrice turned from pale white to a light pink.
Not to make me look like a saint in anyway but I risked a lot of my reputation on being nice to her. I never was a real jerk to anyone, well not intentionally, or not without some comedic purpose, but I wasn’t overly nice to anyone I didn’t see as capable of improving my status. Shallow but typical, I’ve grown out of a lot of my usury and will pay my time in purgatory someday undoubtedly.
Beatrice had actually acknowledge this fact a number of times before, especially in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. Some of this was probably self-preservation on her part but she offered me a release of her and my duty forbade it. A noble guy I wasn’t but, this was one I did right.
Embarrassed by my friend’s jackassery I looked at Beatrice awaiting some relief. I didn’t get it. Instead I got the origin of my phobia – the female datability scale.
“Ashly is wonderful. He’s like a big brother to me but not really boyfriend material”. Her eyes smiled at me as if she had alleviated me from an embarrassing situation. But as an even great clamor of laughter erupted in the classroom her eyes darkened as mine must have imploded. “Not boyfriend material”.
Fast forward with me to 2002. After four years of high school and a few shallow, short-lived relationships and a monstrous best-friend crush fiasco I survived and I went off to school.
I became real close friends with this girl a friend of mine had dated. After they broke up we became even closer friends. That friend moved away after one semester and Meredith and I spent all our time together. It was like we were dating, best friends, and brother and sister all at once. During finals week of the second semester we were together all the time. We slept in the same bed (a twin) and even showered together a couple of times. The tension was there, beyond anything I had ever felt.
There we were, completely naked, chest to chest, about an inch from each other’s lips saying some of the most filthy perverted things imaginable. A pause. She closed her eyes and curved her mouth into a wicked smile. Her tongue licked all around my lips as she put both hands on my shoulders. My body shook in anticipation.
She ran her hands down my chest into my stomach. I opened my mouth and breathed in deep. Closing my eyes I peered up at the ceiling. Moaning playfully her hands criss-crossed over my stomach ever inching further south and crossing my back she grabbed my hips. Yanking me in she bit my shoulder causing me to wince out in pleasurable pain, my eyes focused down on her. Biting her bottom lip she took her hands and grabbed my ass and dug in her nails.
“Like that?” she whispered with a sexuality I had never noticed in her before.
I could only throat laugh and choke out a “yeah”.
She giggled, kissed me on the cheek and said, “I bet you do”. I was stunned as she got out of the shower and dried off. I couldn’t move out of the shower. “Take your time, I’ll be out here” she mocked, shutting the door behind her.
Had this been anyone else I would have never have talked to them again. As it stood though, she was my best friend and could get away with anything. She owned me and knew it.
Our last day in the dorm that year she told me she felt guilty about earlier in the week and wanted to make it up to me. My mind raced on all the possibilities and two front row tickets to a Cubs game seemed pretty fair.
Over the summer we worked at summer camps. She worked in California and I worked in Michigan. I had a fun yet pointless summer fling and she fell madly in love with a guy who was no good for her. We didn’t talk all summer but she was so excited to tell me about him when we got back to school.
That semester we were close but it was different. She was really unhappy and stressed out all semester long. He was cheating on her and she knew it, but her love was so deep she said. They broke up over Christmas and she was thinking about dropping out of school. I drove up to her parents in Chicago on December 23rd to talk her out of it. I promised my parents I’d be back for Christmas but Meredith needed me more. My mom still lays a heavy guilt trip on me every Christmas.
So Meredith and I were together every day and night that semester. We grew close again and Meredith was happy. I was happy. Life was good. No, life was great. One night we were watching Law & Order. I rolled to my right because my left arm was asleep. Just at that moment she rolled to her left to tell me something. I was quicker so her nose fell right on top of mine. She was so close I could barely focus my eyes on her.
“Hi”, her warm sweet breath fell on my lips.
“Hi”, I retorted.
That was the best kiss I ever had. I threw my left arm over her in somewhat awkward fashion (it was still asleep) and it came crashing down on the night stand. My hand took in the remote and turned off the soothing sounds of Jack McCoy’s closing arguments so I could focus on this gorgeous woman wrapping her tongue around mine.
We made out for three hours straight that night. I’m not sure how we even breathed. Just passionate kissing. This went on for two weeks. Every night we made out and it was fantastic.
One night the kissing went deeper and grew more passionate. It was exceptionally hot that night and we were already fairly naked. I reached up the back of her tanktop and undid her bra while she took off her shirt. Whispering in my ear she said, “I don’t want this to mess up our friendship”.
“Ok”, I said, slowing down and resigning myself to more Law and Order. She straddled me when I rolled onto my back and leaned in for a kiss. Taking her shirt from the bottom she raised it over her head. Passion became lust and sex filled my mind. She ran her nails down my chest to my belt line and grasped at the waist of my boxers with her finger tips. She looked at me in the eyes and I saw hesitation. Fear struck me stiff. She was pondering that female datability scale.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this”.
“Ok”. My lips spoke words my heart could not comprehend. It was dead. She got dressed and I walked her to the door. We didn’t speak for two weeks. She started to see someone else. We fell away more and more until we hardly spoke.
It had been three or four months since we had talked. We were now seniors and just two weeks from graduation. At a mutual friend’s house we had both popped in for a drink. A cocktail of nostalgia and mixers took over and we sat there and talked for hours. Her and Mike (the guy she started dating right after we began the gradual drift apart) had broke up after a year and a half. I was ever single. She had a good job lined up, I didn’t.
The party wound down but we felt up for more nostalgia. She came over to my apartment, commented on my stagnant taste in design and I opened a bottle of Merlot. She fake slapped me and kissed my ear.
“You know wine makes me horny”, she laughed a little. “You’re just trying to take advantage of me”. I had actually honestly forgotten that she had told me that wine made her horny.
We made out again that night. The passion was gone. Every once and awhile she calls me or emails me. Friendly how-are-yous, nothing more. We’re cordial but not close. I think she’s married now, but I’ve lost touch with most of my college friends.
So back to the present. I’m a bundle of relationship disappointments and a serious inferiority complex wrapped in a sheer veneer of overconfidence. I’ve got one good guy friend from work, Dave. We hang out. We play tennis, hit the movies, or bars. Then there’s Jamie, my closest friend. She’s amazing. Other than that my social network is more about business ties.
I’m good at what I do. My job is great – good hours, even better money. My apartment is fantastic, like one of those out of a magazine. Gloria, my cleaning woman, is to thank for that fact.
When I hang out with larger groups its with Dave’s or Jamie’s friends. I like Jamie’s better.
Just last week I was out with Jamie when Denise called her up. There was a wine and cheese affair later that night. Jamie wasn’t Meredith (more of a beer and a game girl). Jamie was uptown. I pretended to be too, so I went to the party.
Jamie was my ride and she was clean-up duty for the party. Afterwards we sat around knocking off the remainder of the wine. Then it happened:
“He’s so cute. He’s sweet. He’s stable. He’s perfect.”
“He’s too cute. I love him so much”.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes and picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. Basically Denise was trying to convince Jamie of why we were a perfect couple.
“It’s a lost cause you know”, I chimed in rounding the corner. I had left on the apron to encourage a laugh. Jamie’s laugh was intoxicating and put my mind at ease. I knew this was potentially awkward so I needed a buffer – laughter.
We sat and talked for twenty minutes. Plenty of laughter – not too much awkward silence, but enough for an inroad on a conversation in the car.
“You know, Denise is right. We’re perfect together.” I smiled and looked over at me. She had a look in her eyes of sadness, excitement and slight disapproval. (Tell tale sign that the female datability gauge was firing up). Fear gripped me.
The signs of that gauge change as women mature but I know the look well. I’ve seen it at thirteen, nineteen and now here at twenty-five. (I had seen it many other times but these three left the most telling marks on me). I wish this was a hollywood romantic comedy. That way Meredith would bump into me tomorrow and I’d all of a sudden be conflicted between Meredith and Jamie. Jamie or Meredith or both would get jeaulous and eventually Jamie and I would have a gorgeous ceremony and Meredith would be the best man for me. Sadly, this is my life, not a romantic comedy.
Jamie pulled up to my building, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “We’re on for tomorrow right?”
“Of course! It’s not Sunday without our non-date lunch date!” I still pressed further than I should have.
“Good night Ash”.
“Good night Jamie”.
(The Classic Nice-Guys Finish Last Victimization Story as Told from a Nice Guy’s Perspective)
So I’m not really effeminate I’ve just always gotten along better with girls rather than guys. I love sports, I mean I watch at least two sportscenters a day. I go to games a lot, and play as much as time allows. I like to call myself well-rounded – the guy who does hockey and When Harry Met Sally.
I like women. I love women. Sure, When Harry Met Sally is a complete chickflick but when Meg Ryan (my old as mom crush) does that thing in the restaurant I mean come on – how can any guy not love this movie.
But always I find myself swimming in this vast ocean of female friends who treat me like another wave rather than the barracuda I imagine myself to be. My greatest fear in all of this is that someday I’ll be sitting there with my friends (all girls) and they’ll begin to assess me on the female datability scale. I know this fear well – it’s been with me now for nearly 12 years.
Travel back with me, 1997 – Freshman year of high school
So there I am sitting in Mr. Genter’s biology class minding my own business or wandering off into some parallel universe in my head when ol’ Gentsy gets this look in his eye that an atom bomb just went off in his innards and excuses himself in remarkably quick fashion for a guy hitting 70 who has just had his insides nuked.
So my asshole of a best friend yells out to Beatrice Worthington what she thought of me. “Hey Beadie” he yelled. She ignored him because she hated being called Beadie. It was actually a nickname I maliciously gave her in the third grade because she had one eye whose pupil was about a fourth of the other one. I had never seen someone’s heart break before that day and even though she annoyed the hell out of me I worked to fabricate a friendship out of this wreck I cause and protected her from a lot of unnecessary berating. I felt especially convicted of this duty when people called her Beadie.
“Hey Beadie” he repeated. More silence and finally he said her name in full, “Hey BE-UH-TRUST”. She knew that was as close as she was gonna get out of him.
“Yes Anthony?” She replied in a fully proper way. Beatrice wasn’t Amish though we all looked at her that way until it was finally explained to us that she was from a conservative Mennonite family. She always were a bonnet, plain blouse, and ankle length dresses. I’m sure she wore shoes but I didn’t pay them much attention or ever think about it until just this instance.
In addition to dressing very old-fashioned she spoke irritatingly proper English and always called people by their full names. This really got under my skin because having a couple of pot-head hippie scumbag parents they wrote down my name when they were high at my all herbal, all homeopathic submerged birth festival. (Yeah, I was born underwater with about 14 other kids to hippies at the commune). No docs or meds allowed, just a little acid and a ton of pot. So the parents wrote down babies’ names on the official documents and placed them all in a hat. Then different sets of parents drew the documents out of the hat and turned them into the government. At my birth festival there were fifteen kids born, eleven girls and four boys. Miraculously the three other boys all got boy names. My name, Bryan Mark went to some unfortunate girl who I think goes by Bri. Her name, Candice Ashly got so wonderfully tagged tom.
“Beadie, whaddya think of my boy Ash there. He was telling me the other day that you don’t get the credit you deserve. I think he’s working up the nerve to ask you out”. Laughter erupted in the class as Beatrice turned from pale white to a light pink.
Not to make me look like a saint in anyway but I risked a lot of my reputation on being nice to her. I never was a real jerk to anyone, well not intentionally, or not without some comedic purpose, but I wasn’t overly nice to anyone I didn’t see as capable of improving my status. Shallow but typical, I’ve grown out of a lot of my usury and will pay my time in purgatory someday undoubtedly.
Beatrice had actually acknowledge this fact a number of times before, especially in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. Some of this was probably self-preservation on her part but she offered me a release of her and my duty forbade it. A noble guy I wasn’t but, this was one I did right.
Embarrassed by my friend’s jackassery I looked at Beatrice awaiting some relief. I didn’t get it. Instead I got the origin of my phobia – the female datability scale.
“Ashly is wonderful. He’s like a big brother to me but not really boyfriend material”. Her eyes smiled at me as if she had alleviated me from an embarrassing situation. But as an even great clamor of laughter erupted in the classroom her eyes darkened as mine must have imploded. “Not boyfriend material”.
Fast forward with me to 2002. After four years of high school and a few shallow, short-lived relationships and a monstrous best-friend crush fiasco I survived and I went off to school.
I became real close friends with this girl a friend of mine had dated. After they broke up we became even closer friends. That friend moved away after one semester and Meredith and I spent all our time together. It was like we were dating, best friends, and brother and sister all at once. During finals week of the second semester we were together all the time. We slept in the same bed (a twin) and even showered together a couple of times. The tension was there, beyond anything I had ever felt.
There we were, completely naked, chest to chest, about an inch from each other’s lips saying some of the most filthy perverted things imaginable. A pause. She closed her eyes and curved her mouth into a wicked smile. Her tongue licked all around my lips as she put both hands on my shoulders. My body shook in anticipation.
She ran her hands down my chest into my stomach. I opened my mouth and breathed in deep. Closing my eyes I peered up at the ceiling. Moaning playfully her hands criss-crossed over my stomach ever inching further south and crossing my back she grabbed my hips. Yanking me in she bit my shoulder causing me to wince out in pleasurable pain, my eyes focused down on her. Biting her bottom lip she took her hands and grabbed my ass and dug in her nails.
“Like that?” she whispered with a sexuality I had never noticed in her before.
I could only throat laugh and choke out a “yeah”.
She giggled, kissed me on the cheek and said, “I bet you do”. I was stunned as she got out of the shower and dried off. I couldn’t move out of the shower. “Take your time, I’ll be out here” she mocked, shutting the door behind her.
Had this been anyone else I would have never have talked to them again. As it stood though, she was my best friend and could get away with anything. She owned me and knew it.
Our last day in the dorm that year she told me she felt guilty about earlier in the week and wanted to make it up to me. My mind raced on all the possibilities and two front row tickets to a Cubs game seemed pretty fair.
Over the summer we worked at summer camps. She worked in California and I worked in Michigan. I had a fun yet pointless summer fling and she fell madly in love with a guy who was no good for her. We didn’t talk all summer but she was so excited to tell me about him when we got back to school.
That semester we were close but it was different. She was really unhappy and stressed out all semester long. He was cheating on her and she knew it, but her love was so deep she said. They broke up over Christmas and she was thinking about dropping out of school. I drove up to her parents in Chicago on December 23rd to talk her out of it. I promised my parents I’d be back for Christmas but Meredith needed me more. My mom still lays a heavy guilt trip on me every Christmas.
So Meredith and I were together every day and night that semester. We grew close again and Meredith was happy. I was happy. Life was good. No, life was great. One night we were watching Law & Order. I rolled to my right because my left arm was asleep. Just at that moment she rolled to her left to tell me something. I was quicker so her nose fell right on top of mine. She was so close I could barely focus my eyes on her.
“Hi”, her warm sweet breath fell on my lips.
“Hi”, I retorted.
That was the best kiss I ever had. I threw my left arm over her in somewhat awkward fashion (it was still asleep) and it came crashing down on the night stand. My hand took in the remote and turned off the soothing sounds of Jack McCoy’s closing arguments so I could focus on this gorgeous woman wrapping her tongue around mine.
We made out for three hours straight that night. I’m not sure how we even breathed. Just passionate kissing. This went on for two weeks. Every night we made out and it was fantastic.
One night the kissing went deeper and grew more passionate. It was exceptionally hot that night and we were already fairly naked. I reached up the back of her tanktop and undid her bra while she took off her shirt. Whispering in my ear she said, “I don’t want this to mess up our friendship”.
“Ok”, I said, slowing down and resigning myself to more Law and Order. She straddled me when I rolled onto my back and leaned in for a kiss. Taking her shirt from the bottom she raised it over her head. Passion became lust and sex filled my mind. She ran her nails down my chest to my belt line and grasped at the waist of my boxers with her finger tips. She looked at me in the eyes and I saw hesitation. Fear struck me stiff. She was pondering that female datability scale.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this”.
“Ok”. My lips spoke words my heart could not comprehend. It was dead. She got dressed and I walked her to the door. We didn’t speak for two weeks. She started to see someone else. We fell away more and more until we hardly spoke.
It had been three or four months since we had talked. We were now seniors and just two weeks from graduation. At a mutual friend’s house we had both popped in for a drink. A cocktail of nostalgia and mixers took over and we sat there and talked for hours. Her and Mike (the guy she started dating right after we began the gradual drift apart) had broke up after a year and a half. I was ever single. She had a good job lined up, I didn’t.
The party wound down but we felt up for more nostalgia. She came over to my apartment, commented on my stagnant taste in design and I opened a bottle of Merlot. She fake slapped me and kissed my ear.
“You know wine makes me horny”, she laughed a little. “You’re just trying to take advantage of me”. I had actually honestly forgotten that she had told me that wine made her horny.
We made out again that night. The passion was gone. Every once and awhile she calls me or emails me. Friendly how-are-yous, nothing more. We’re cordial but not close. I think she’s married now, but I’ve lost touch with most of my college friends.
So back to the present. I’m a bundle of relationship disappointments and a serious inferiority complex wrapped in a sheer veneer of overconfidence. I’ve got one good guy friend from work, Dave. We hang out. We play tennis, hit the movies, or bars. Then there’s Jamie, my closest friend. She’s amazing. Other than that my social network is more about business ties.
I’m good at what I do. My job is great – good hours, even better money. My apartment is fantastic, like one of those out of a magazine. Gloria, my cleaning woman, is to thank for that fact.
When I hang out with larger groups its with Dave’s or Jamie’s friends. I like Jamie’s better.
Just last week I was out with Jamie when Denise called her up. There was a wine and cheese affair later that night. Jamie wasn’t Meredith (more of a beer and a game girl). Jamie was uptown. I pretended to be too, so I went to the party.
Jamie was my ride and she was clean-up duty for the party. Afterwards we sat around knocking off the remainder of the wine. Then it happened:
“He’s so cute. He’s sweet. He’s stable. He’s perfect.”
“He’s too cute. I love him so much”.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes and picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. Basically Denise was trying to convince Jamie of why we were a perfect couple.
“It’s a lost cause you know”, I chimed in rounding the corner. I had left on the apron to encourage a laugh. Jamie’s laugh was intoxicating and put my mind at ease. I knew this was potentially awkward so I needed a buffer – laughter.
We sat and talked for twenty minutes. Plenty of laughter – not too much awkward silence, but enough for an inroad on a conversation in the car.
“You know, Denise is right. We’re perfect together.” I smiled and looked over at me. She had a look in her eyes of sadness, excitement and slight disapproval. (Tell tale sign that the female datability gauge was firing up). Fear gripped me.
The signs of that gauge change as women mature but I know the look well. I’ve seen it at thirteen, nineteen and now here at twenty-five. (I had seen it many other times but these three left the most telling marks on me). I wish this was a hollywood romantic comedy. That way Meredith would bump into me tomorrow and I’d all of a sudden be conflicted between Meredith and Jamie. Jamie or Meredith or both would get jeaulous and eventually Jamie and I would have a gorgeous ceremony and Meredith would be the best man for me. Sadly, this is my life, not a romantic comedy.
Jamie pulled up to my building, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “We’re on for tomorrow right?”
“Of course! It’s not Sunday without our non-date lunch date!” I still pressed further than I should have.
“Good night Ash”.
“Good night Jamie”.
(The Classic Nice-Guys Finish Last Victimization Story as Told from a Nice Guy’s Perspective)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Some thoughts on Divorce and New Love interests
(Originally Written February 23, 2009 in the Journal)
So I found out what I was suspecting. She is dating again. I'm loosed from my chains. This marriage was a prison. The relationship had its highs and a piece of my heart will always be hers but not as my wife (my wife was not the woman I married). Like a first love, a fondness for a high school romance. That's all it was - we were just older. Nothing more, nothing less, but not insignificant.
I've written a lot in here cryptically about feelings for someone. I'm not sure if I have them or better yet, I'm not sure how rooted or strong they are. I feel freer, happier than I have in years. Yesterday I woke in such a glory that not even a hangover could have spoiled my mood. I had fun, not mere enjoyment or a lack of fain, but actual fun.
The divorce is over. It was hard, but I am hopeful. Every bit of separation I feared to be hard was monstrously difficult and left gashes though my soul and heart yet...
Yet is the most powerful word in the English language, in my somewhat humble opinion. Yet is the power we have. Life comes crashing down brandishing the weapons of destruction, yet I carry on even in times of slavery. Yet, I am happy. Yet, I have joy. Yet, I am not conquered. Yet, when these deep wounds and gashes heal I feel more alive.
There is some anger, maybe even some hate in my heart. There a whole mindset of women out their who will now write me off. There is a stigma. I wonder if she dons this philosophy as protective gear. Maybe I shall find out or maybe I am still too afraid to move on a feeling like this. I don't fear I will have a hard time committing. I fear the opposite. Maybe I'll come too strong and scare her away or worse still we'll be married and I'll find another woman who I've married is not the woman I dated.
That's an odd sentence.
So I found out what I was suspecting. She is dating again. I'm loosed from my chains. This marriage was a prison. The relationship had its highs and a piece of my heart will always be hers but not as my wife (my wife was not the woman I married). Like a first love, a fondness for a high school romance. That's all it was - we were just older. Nothing more, nothing less, but not insignificant.
I've written a lot in here cryptically about feelings for someone. I'm not sure if I have them or better yet, I'm not sure how rooted or strong they are. I feel freer, happier than I have in years. Yesterday I woke in such a glory that not even a hangover could have spoiled my mood. I had fun, not mere enjoyment or a lack of fain, but actual fun.
The divorce is over. It was hard, but I am hopeful. Every bit of separation I feared to be hard was monstrously difficult and left gashes though my soul and heart yet...
Yet is the most powerful word in the English language, in my somewhat humble opinion. Yet is the power we have. Life comes crashing down brandishing the weapons of destruction, yet I carry on even in times of slavery. Yet, I am happy. Yet, I have joy. Yet, I am not conquered. Yet, when these deep wounds and gashes heal I feel more alive.
There is some anger, maybe even some hate in my heart. There a whole mindset of women out their who will now write me off. There is a stigma. I wonder if she dons this philosophy as protective gear. Maybe I shall find out or maybe I am still too afraid to move on a feeling like this. I don't fear I will have a hard time committing. I fear the opposite. Maybe I'll come too strong and scare her away or worse still we'll be married and I'll find another woman who I've married is not the woman I dated.
That's an odd sentence.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I dream of love
(Originally Written February 18, 2009 in the Journal)
Late at night I sit in my bed wishing to sleep. I scrawl this out, possibly a short story, possibly just for you Ashley.
Me: Can I ask you a question?
You: Sure, go ahead.
Me: Do you think I'm damaged goods?
You: (laughing) What does that mean?
Me: You know, I'm 25 and divorced. I couldn't make the marriage last. From the perspective of a woman... am I damaged goods?
You: Wow, that's a hard question. I mean, I know you; I know your story. I don't really understand how you feel, but I wouldn't say it's all your fault.
Me: (thinking: a classic dodge/stroke my ego a bit, thanks. I love the effort, but don't fully buy it). But if you were looking for a husband, I mean we're not old but were at that age when everyone says, 'When, I wonder when they're gonna get married...' I mean - - not you and I, but generally speaking...not that I wouldn't marry you but you know (nervous laughter) [my head implodes a bit, did you just realize I love you?]
You: (laughing) Oh so you don't want to marry me, or do you? If you don't, that hurts Chris.
A long pause happens. Both Ashley and I feel uncomfortable with the silence. We've been friends now for almost a year and working in such a close knit environment makes it feel like it's been even longer. The uncomfortable pause breaks with her voice.
You: Chris, you know I don't like you like that... I like Steve.
There's an awkward laugh because this line is drawn directly from our skit from a few months back. But, somewhere along the way I realized that I do like you like that. You're attractive - your red hair/infectious smile, your alarming sense of humor coupled with your deeper than expected laugh, the way you hug me or run your fingers through my hair, all these things you've done subconsciously as just a part of your being - your beautiful irresistible personality. My God I love you! You have no idea of what kind of effect you've had on me. The impact is deep. I married her because she gave me affection/she gave me love (however shallow it may have been), a sense of love I'd never felt before. I groan for it everyday (you give it to me). Do you do it on purpose? We click so well... but do I like you? Do I love you? I'm so fucking confused. [I wish I could tell you this/I'm free enough to express my feelings right now]. I think I love you but it's just so soon. My divorce was only a few months ago, but I separated a year and a half ago and my marriage was a sham. In two years I had a wife for two weeks - maybe (probably) less. I feel so alone and you my darling are the only woman who has shown me genuine (and I assume not totally platonic) affection since my dating years over four years ago - a lifetime for me. I don't know, every time we're alone I feel like we're a couple but when we're in a group we're brother and sister/ more like step-brother and step-sister/kind of like a Greg & Marsha... a bit of sexual tension (at least in my mind).
By the way, Steve is asleep beside me on the couch. He's the one I blame for making me realize I love you. He planted the seed. I only looked at you as the coolest girl I know/but he ... he said we looked good. He said it over and over and over until I said, maybe? Just maybe? You, you obviously are out of my league. Sure I'm self-deprecating, self-loathing and yet overly sure of myself, but look at you and look at me.
I can't answer your quip. I can't answer your joke. It would require realness. It would require me to allow you to see my feelings (weakness for you). Why is it that I fall deeper in love with you as I talk this out? Though I've imploded before I explode in my mind this time. Too much stimulation. I see two mutually exclusive outcomes to this.
(As a side note this is to E.A. You'll either be E.L. someday or I'll block your memory because it'll be too painful).
I love you. I think I love you. That Terrifies me.
Two scenarios: We're gonna kiss or you're gonna break my heart.
You: It would be hard to be involved with a divorced man. Plus, we're great friends. I wouldn't want to jeopardize that.
Me: I know right, what could we do?
You: I just don't think I'm interested in you.
Me: Thanks for preemptively shutting me down. This conversation has been most enlightening (my heart is breaking). You know... life is real... not every story comes with a happy ending. [rejection. again.]
My mind was so busy. I was so preoccupied that I didnt' realize that you moved in closer. We are kissing. How long have we been kissing? We're making out. There's something different. I can't put my finger on it. All I see is white. My knees lock. I'm looking up now. This makes no sense. What's that? Your finger? It's shiny.
What a dream.
I'm alone in bed. There's a crackling sound. The aroma o f bacon overwhelms my nostrils. I love bacon, but not as much as you (fake vegetarian).
We're married. Is this fantasy? Is this life? I love you/you love me. We're happy. Together. At the beach. It is a happy ending. We're kissing. It's unexpected from both ends. We're kissing. We're kissing. You're not breaking my heart.
Me: I love you
You: I love you
Is this a dream? Will I wake alone? Is this a dream or fantasy? Is this real? Is it 2009? Is it 2005?
Drunk? Too drunk to write? Is this fiction? you're touching me. This is too real to be a dream. I'm in love.
Late at night I sit in my bed wishing to sleep. I scrawl this out, possibly a short story, possibly just for you Ashley.
Me: Can I ask you a question?
You: Sure, go ahead.
Me: Do you think I'm damaged goods?
You: (laughing) What does that mean?
Me: You know, I'm 25 and divorced. I couldn't make the marriage last. From the perspective of a woman... am I damaged goods?
You: Wow, that's a hard question. I mean, I know you; I know your story. I don't really understand how you feel, but I wouldn't say it's all your fault.
Me: (thinking: a classic dodge/stroke my ego a bit, thanks. I love the effort, but don't fully buy it). But if you were looking for a husband, I mean we're not old but were at that age when everyone says, 'When, I wonder when they're gonna get married...' I mean - - not you and I, but generally speaking...not that I wouldn't marry you but you know (nervous laughter) [my head implodes a bit, did you just realize I love you?]
You: (laughing) Oh so you don't want to marry me, or do you? If you don't, that hurts Chris.
A long pause happens. Both Ashley and I feel uncomfortable with the silence. We've been friends now for almost a year and working in such a close knit environment makes it feel like it's been even longer. The uncomfortable pause breaks with her voice.
You: Chris, you know I don't like you like that... I like Steve.
There's an awkward laugh because this line is drawn directly from our skit from a few months back. But, somewhere along the way I realized that I do like you like that. You're attractive - your red hair/infectious smile, your alarming sense of humor coupled with your deeper than expected laugh, the way you hug me or run your fingers through my hair, all these things you've done subconsciously as just a part of your being - your beautiful irresistible personality. My God I love you! You have no idea of what kind of effect you've had on me. The impact is deep. I married her because she gave me affection/she gave me love (however shallow it may have been), a sense of love I'd never felt before. I groan for it everyday (you give it to me). Do you do it on purpose? We click so well... but do I like you? Do I love you? I'm so fucking confused. [I wish I could tell you this/I'm free enough to express my feelings right now]. I think I love you but it's just so soon. My divorce was only a few months ago, but I separated a year and a half ago and my marriage was a sham. In two years I had a wife for two weeks - maybe (probably) less. I feel so alone and you my darling are the only woman who has shown me genuine (and I assume not totally platonic) affection since my dating years over four years ago - a lifetime for me. I don't know, every time we're alone I feel like we're a couple but when we're in a group we're brother and sister/ more like step-brother and step-sister/kind of like a Greg & Marsha... a bit of sexual tension (at least in my mind).
By the way, Steve is asleep beside me on the couch. He's the one I blame for making me realize I love you. He planted the seed. I only looked at you as the coolest girl I know/but he ... he said we looked good. He said it over and over and over until I said, maybe? Just maybe? You, you obviously are out of my league. Sure I'm self-deprecating, self-loathing and yet overly sure of myself, but look at you and look at me.
I can't answer your quip. I can't answer your joke. It would require realness. It would require me to allow you to see my feelings (weakness for you). Why is it that I fall deeper in love with you as I talk this out? Though I've imploded before I explode in my mind this time. Too much stimulation. I see two mutually exclusive outcomes to this.
(As a side note this is to E.A. You'll either be E.L. someday or I'll block your memory because it'll be too painful).
I love you. I think I love you. That Terrifies me.
Two scenarios: We're gonna kiss or you're gonna break my heart.
You: It would be hard to be involved with a divorced man. Plus, we're great friends. I wouldn't want to jeopardize that.
Me: I know right, what could we do?
You: I just don't think I'm interested in you.
Me: Thanks for preemptively shutting me down. This conversation has been most enlightening (my heart is breaking). You know... life is real... not every story comes with a happy ending. [rejection. again.]
My mind was so busy. I was so preoccupied that I didnt' realize that you moved in closer. We are kissing. How long have we been kissing? We're making out. There's something different. I can't put my finger on it. All I see is white. My knees lock. I'm looking up now. This makes no sense. What's that? Your finger? It's shiny.
What a dream.
I'm alone in bed. There's a crackling sound. The aroma o f bacon overwhelms my nostrils. I love bacon, but not as much as you (fake vegetarian).
We're married. Is this fantasy? Is this life? I love you/you love me. We're happy. Together. At the beach. It is a happy ending. We're kissing. It's unexpected from both ends. We're kissing. We're kissing. You're not breaking my heart.
Me: I love you
You: I love you
Is this a dream? Will I wake alone? Is this a dream or fantasy? Is this real? Is it 2009? Is it 2005?
Drunk? Too drunk to write? Is this fiction? you're touching me. This is too real to be a dream. I'm in love.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Joseph Flannigan and alcohol
(Originally Written February 15, 2009 in the Journal)
Joseph: "See, me and alcohol have this symbiotic relationship. They need me to keep buyin' em and I need 'em to keep forgetting the past so I can live in the present."
Narrator: "A bit too drunk to write eh?"
Joseph: "Sure, why not?"
Joseph: "See, me and alcohol have this symbiotic relationship. They need me to keep buyin' em and I need 'em to keep forgetting the past so I can live in the present."
Narrator: "A bit too drunk to write eh?"
Joseph: "Sure, why not?"
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Joseph Flannigan goes to the Habitaciones
(Originally Written February 14, 2009 in the Journal)
An excerpt from Habitaciones
After all the revelry and madness of Cabarete Joseph decided it was time to follow his self-imposed dictum and go to the Habitaciones con Banos. When he awoke at seven the next morning he felt like ripping his eardrums out to stop their pulsating rhythm that seemed to magnify the trob of pain in his head with each thud.
"It's too early for this" he said to himself. As he closed his eyes he imagined two miniature versions of himself on his shoulders. The one on the left, clad in red and clutching a pitchfork urged him to sleep while the one on the right, draped in a white bath robe urged him up. Joseph listened to neither of his mini-selfs but didn't feel like actually dealing with his subconscious turning his actual conundrum into a rehearsing of some Looney Toons medley. He got up out of bed, grabbed some hair of the dog and showered.
Normally drinking off a hangover usually struck a nerve in his conscious, but his conscious was so overloaded by his week of flesh that this minor offense slid through the cracks. After showering he headed to Dick's for breakfast. The very smell of food made him nauseous and intensified his headache. He grabbed a beer from the colmado next door instead and drained it with a thousand milligrams of aspirin.
A taxi drove him to Sosua. A bus drove him from Sosua to Puerta Plata - from Puerta Plata to Santiago - and finally from Santiago to La Vega. He was asleep when they arrived to La Vega and almost got stuck on the way to Santo Domingo. Luckily, a child no older than five fell down in the aisle next to his seat and screamed. The thumping resulted at a quickening pace as Joseph's eyes nearly exploded from opening so quickly at the disturbance.
It took a second for him to come to the realization that he was in La Vega. He collected his stuff and exited the cool bus into hot 0 though not Sosua hot - and stale air of the city. He hopped in a cab and headed for the habitaciones. The driver stared at him for a second to study Joseph's features. His eyes told Joseph that this was the first time a white tourist had ever asked to be taken there. How one gets that from somebody's eyes is unknown, but Joseph knew it intuitively.
Ten minutes later the driver dropped him off at the place. It seemed to Joseph it was even more rundown than he remembered. The lawn was wild, overrun by tall, thick grass. Joseph wondered if some large animal was lurking in there waiting for something or someone to invade its guarded territory.
Joseph carried his things to the door marked "oficina". Setting his things down to knock the door flung open at an alarming pace. A bare potbelly with other features greeted him. There were a lot of features that Joseph could have noticed about this man - his metallic gray hair sandwiching a shiny coffee tinted head or his exotically blue eyes or the fact that this Dominican man was as tall and broad as he'd ever seen a Dominican be, but his midsection, which protruded out over his belt in a semi-cockeyed fashion demanded Joseph's first glance.
All of this stunned Joseph and it took him longer than usual to change his English thought process into audible Spanish. Just as the words escaped his lips they stopped. The steely blue eyes of this forty-something or older or younger for that matter - Dominicans seem to age either spectacularly well or the opposite and Joseph simply could not mentally age them so he gave himself a 30 year margin of error. But the eyes struck Joseph as exceptionally odd.
"Yeah. My eyes are blue. My mother was half-German. What can I do for you?
Whenever Joseph was attempting to translate his English thoughts into Spanish words and someone spoke English to him the whole thought process in his head derailed. Joseph stammered back that he needed a room for a week.
The guy seem surprised. Like the first taxi driver he encountered the quarter German, fully Dominican (as Joseph learned from the man's drunken tirade the next night) was expecting Joseph was looking for something a bit more illicit. However, the man obliged Joseph with a room for 150 pesos for a week.
Joseph sat his bags down in disbelief inside the room. The dilapidated outside of the building hid a pleasant room with a clean, queen sized bed and a table and a fairly ornate wooden chair. The bathroom, despite lacking a showerhead, was more than acceptable. In his mind Joseph expected the place to house a wooden frame with no mattress, a hole in the ground to squat over and a host of cockroach roommates. Joseph was overcome with thoughts. Part of him was relieved and pleased with his surroundings while the other - and drastically smaller part, was disappointed that he was not disgusted by the room. That part of him was counting on squalor to be an inspiration for writing.
The Habitaciones aren't quite in La Vega, an overgrown town full of factories and motorcycle mechanics. It's on the way from La Vega to Jarabacoa, a more peaceful and scenic mountain village. The Habitaciones are in a town called Jagua Gorda. There's not much there, just the Habitaciones and a couple of colmados.
It was peaceful during the late afternoon and early evening. Joseph popped out of his room about 8:30 to get a little bottle of Brugal to help him sleep through then night as he didn't have a TV or radio for background noise. By the time he had got back to his room the ladies of the night had come out. He had to avoid them with all of his might as they were even more persistent than the beach patrolling cigar salesmen. One of them, a pretty girl, was standing by his door.
As he walked up he planned his escape in his head. On arriving he opened his mouth to speak but before a single word escaped his lips she greeted him with a smile and stepped aside. The smile nailed him to the earthy pathway he was walking on. He stared at her with a goofy, yet charmingly boyish smile. She laughed and told him to have a nice evening before walking away.
Joseph, now aware of his surroundings again continued to the door. It was an awkward few steps and his feet felt like cinderblocks and his legs moved as if they were composed of jello. Like any red-blooded man Joseph enjoyed a good looking woman, but he was always incapacitated by a good looking woman's smile.
[In a gua-gua again and headed back home. Impossible to write]
An excerpt from Habitaciones
After all the revelry and madness of Cabarete Joseph decided it was time to follow his self-imposed dictum and go to the Habitaciones con Banos. When he awoke at seven the next morning he felt like ripping his eardrums out to stop their pulsating rhythm that seemed to magnify the trob of pain in his head with each thud.
"It's too early for this" he said to himself. As he closed his eyes he imagined two miniature versions of himself on his shoulders. The one on the left, clad in red and clutching a pitchfork urged him to sleep while the one on the right, draped in a white bath robe urged him up. Joseph listened to neither of his mini-selfs but didn't feel like actually dealing with his subconscious turning his actual conundrum into a rehearsing of some Looney Toons medley. He got up out of bed, grabbed some hair of the dog and showered.
Normally drinking off a hangover usually struck a nerve in his conscious, but his conscious was so overloaded by his week of flesh that this minor offense slid through the cracks. After showering he headed to Dick's for breakfast. The very smell of food made him nauseous and intensified his headache. He grabbed a beer from the colmado next door instead and drained it with a thousand milligrams of aspirin.
A taxi drove him to Sosua. A bus drove him from Sosua to Puerta Plata - from Puerta Plata to Santiago - and finally from Santiago to La Vega. He was asleep when they arrived to La Vega and almost got stuck on the way to Santo Domingo. Luckily, a child no older than five fell down in the aisle next to his seat and screamed. The thumping resulted at a quickening pace as Joseph's eyes nearly exploded from opening so quickly at the disturbance.
It took a second for him to come to the realization that he was in La Vega. He collected his stuff and exited the cool bus into hot 0 though not Sosua hot - and stale air of the city. He hopped in a cab and headed for the habitaciones. The driver stared at him for a second to study Joseph's features. His eyes told Joseph that this was the first time a white tourist had ever asked to be taken there. How one gets that from somebody's eyes is unknown, but Joseph knew it intuitively.
Ten minutes later the driver dropped him off at the place. It seemed to Joseph it was even more rundown than he remembered. The lawn was wild, overrun by tall, thick grass. Joseph wondered if some large animal was lurking in there waiting for something or someone to invade its guarded territory.
Joseph carried his things to the door marked "oficina". Setting his things down to knock the door flung open at an alarming pace. A bare potbelly with other features greeted him. There were a lot of features that Joseph could have noticed about this man - his metallic gray hair sandwiching a shiny coffee tinted head or his exotically blue eyes or the fact that this Dominican man was as tall and broad as he'd ever seen a Dominican be, but his midsection, which protruded out over his belt in a semi-cockeyed fashion demanded Joseph's first glance.
All of this stunned Joseph and it took him longer than usual to change his English thought process into audible Spanish. Just as the words escaped his lips they stopped. The steely blue eyes of this forty-something or older or younger for that matter - Dominicans seem to age either spectacularly well or the opposite and Joseph simply could not mentally age them so he gave himself a 30 year margin of error. But the eyes struck Joseph as exceptionally odd.
"Yeah. My eyes are blue. My mother was half-German. What can I do for you?
Whenever Joseph was attempting to translate his English thoughts into Spanish words and someone spoke English to him the whole thought process in his head derailed. Joseph stammered back that he needed a room for a week.
The guy seem surprised. Like the first taxi driver he encountered the quarter German, fully Dominican (as Joseph learned from the man's drunken tirade the next night) was expecting Joseph was looking for something a bit more illicit. However, the man obliged Joseph with a room for 150 pesos for a week.
Joseph sat his bags down in disbelief inside the room. The dilapidated outside of the building hid a pleasant room with a clean, queen sized bed and a table and a fairly ornate wooden chair. The bathroom, despite lacking a showerhead, was more than acceptable. In his mind Joseph expected the place to house a wooden frame with no mattress, a hole in the ground to squat over and a host of cockroach roommates. Joseph was overcome with thoughts. Part of him was relieved and pleased with his surroundings while the other - and drastically smaller part, was disappointed that he was not disgusted by the room. That part of him was counting on squalor to be an inspiration for writing.
The Habitaciones aren't quite in La Vega, an overgrown town full of factories and motorcycle mechanics. It's on the way from La Vega to Jarabacoa, a more peaceful and scenic mountain village. The Habitaciones are in a town called Jagua Gorda. There's not much there, just the Habitaciones and a couple of colmados.
It was peaceful during the late afternoon and early evening. Joseph popped out of his room about 8:30 to get a little bottle of Brugal to help him sleep through then night as he didn't have a TV or radio for background noise. By the time he had got back to his room the ladies of the night had come out. He had to avoid them with all of his might as they were even more persistent than the beach patrolling cigar salesmen. One of them, a pretty girl, was standing by his door.
As he walked up he planned his escape in his head. On arriving he opened his mouth to speak but before a single word escaped his lips she greeted him with a smile and stepped aside. The smile nailed him to the earthy pathway he was walking on. He stared at her with a goofy, yet charmingly boyish smile. She laughed and told him to have a nice evening before walking away.
Joseph, now aware of his surroundings again continued to the door. It was an awkward few steps and his feet felt like cinderblocks and his legs moved as if they were composed of jello. Like any red-blooded man Joseph enjoyed a good looking woman, but he was always incapacitated by a good looking woman's smile.
[In a gua-gua again and headed back home. Impossible to write]
Friday, February 13, 2009
More structuring of Joseph Flannigan
(Originally Written February 13, 2009 in the Journal)
First 14 Days:
- Drunk Night/buys ticket to Santiago
-Airplane fiasco on the Way
-Arrives in Santiago
-Nightmare about ex-Wife
-Goes to Cabarete to hit the beach
-Lots of drinking/partying
-Sex with four strangers (doubling his numbers in a week)
-Writes to Angela
-Final Rendezvous with a girl from first night (MB-Swede)
-Decides to finally go to Habitaciones after 12 days
-Habitaciones description and Hooker "Rosalina Ordonez"
-Eats lunch with Rosalina, ponders Pretty Woman scenario
-I'm not Richard Gere and she's not Julia Roberts
-This ends with him having to pay hustler named "Pete" for Rosalina's time
[The girl across the restaurant keeps staring at me. Freaky-freaky is all that I can think of. Not that I'm interested, she just has that look that the girls at the beach had. I'm still enthralled with the woman from the gua-gua yesterday] Can I use this?
Day 15 - Nothing written except scribbles of the ocean sounds and a note to Angela. Shops for three days of supplies. Locks himself in room to write. Goes crazy. Writes nothing. Fourth day leaves to go to Santo Domingo for inspiration. Angela's double. Stays in a hostel and meets three girls from Peacecore. One (in his mind) is a dead ringer for Angela. Hangs out with them for a couple of nights discussing politics/love/philosophy over rum and cokes and café con leche. Mind is fixated on Angela's double (guilt/remorse from Cabarete and anger at break up)
Day 17 - Shocking realization: goes to internet café with new pics of him and peacecore girls to put up on facebook. Sees pics of them and old pics with Angela. Realizes they look nothing alike. In fact they sound and act nothing alike. Every girl he meets he compares to Angela - which either makes them fall short or pisses him off. With this realization the pent up frustration flakes off him and he feels freer than he has since youth
Day 18 - Cabarete part 2 - Goes back to Cabarate, hotel for sale. Contemplates giving up writing and buying a hotel. Decides against it. Heads to Santiago after a night.
Day 19 - A novel in a night.
He sits in the first hotel in a somewhat paradoxical mood. He is happy because he is emotionally free again. he is sad because he hasn't written a page. Suddenly he realizes he should just tell the story of his last three weeks. Pages fly by as he relives the past in detailed prose. Of course it would have to be proofed and polished, but it just flows out like lava. It oozes from his pen at such a rate he fears he will ignite the paper. "My name is Joseph Flanagan and I would like to tell you the story of how I rediscovered myself amidst pure chaos in the Dominican Republic..." Narrator: "He skipped his flight to finish the book. After nearly 45 straight hours of writing he had written his rough sketch and felt proud of it. I'd love to be able to say that it was received by the publisher with awe and enjoyment but I can't. I don't know. I'll let you know in the next book".
Yours Truly,
Joseph Flanagan
First 14 Days:
- Drunk Night/buys ticket to Santiago
-Airplane fiasco on the Way
-Arrives in Santiago
-Nightmare about ex-Wife
-Goes to Cabarete to hit the beach
-Lots of drinking/partying
-Sex with four strangers (doubling his numbers in a week)
-Writes to Angela
-Final Rendezvous with a girl from first night (MB-Swede)
-Decides to finally go to Habitaciones after 12 days
-Habitaciones description and Hooker "Rosalina Ordonez"
-Eats lunch with Rosalina, ponders Pretty Woman scenario
-I'm not Richard Gere and she's not Julia Roberts
-This ends with him having to pay hustler named "Pete" for Rosalina's time
[The girl across the restaurant keeps staring at me. Freaky-freaky is all that I can think of. Not that I'm interested, she just has that look that the girls at the beach had. I'm still enthralled with the woman from the gua-gua yesterday] Can I use this?
Day 15 - Nothing written except scribbles of the ocean sounds and a note to Angela. Shops for three days of supplies. Locks himself in room to write. Goes crazy. Writes nothing. Fourth day leaves to go to Santo Domingo for inspiration. Angela's double. Stays in a hostel and meets three girls from Peacecore. One (in his mind) is a dead ringer for Angela. Hangs out with them for a couple of nights discussing politics/love/philosophy over rum and cokes and café con leche. Mind is fixated on Angela's double (guilt/remorse from Cabarete and anger at break up)
Day 17 - Shocking realization: goes to internet café with new pics of him and peacecore girls to put up on facebook. Sees pics of them and old pics with Angela. Realizes they look nothing alike. In fact they sound and act nothing alike. Every girl he meets he compares to Angela - which either makes them fall short or pisses him off. With this realization the pent up frustration flakes off him and he feels freer than he has since youth
Day 18 - Cabarete part 2 - Goes back to Cabarate, hotel for sale. Contemplates giving up writing and buying a hotel. Decides against it. Heads to Santiago after a night.
Day 19 - A novel in a night.
He sits in the first hotel in a somewhat paradoxical mood. He is happy because he is emotionally free again. he is sad because he hasn't written a page. Suddenly he realizes he should just tell the story of his last three weeks. Pages fly by as he relives the past in detailed prose. Of course it would have to be proofed and polished, but it just flows out like lava. It oozes from his pen at such a rate he fears he will ignite the paper. "My name is Joseph Flanagan and I would like to tell you the story of how I rediscovered myself amidst pure chaos in the Dominican Republic..." Narrator: "He skipped his flight to finish the book. After nearly 45 straight hours of writing he had written his rough sketch and felt proud of it. I'd love to be able to say that it was received by the publisher with awe and enjoyment but I can't. I don't know. I'll let you know in the next book".
Yours Truly,
Joseph Flanagan
Thursday, February 12, 2009
A Possible Structuring of Joseph Flannigan
(Originally Written Feb 12, 2009 in the Journal)
Whenever I see the numerical code 666 in my everyday life I get nervous that I am the anti-Christ. I've never told that to anyone. I wonder if I am alone in this fear or if others share it with me.
This bus is freezing. By bus, I mean gua-gua. I'm heading to Santiago to get some Pollo Victorinos. It's been raining for a week solid. I'm completely depressed.
I'm struggling with spiritual apathy and lust issues. I'm certain the two are connected. I need to overcome one and the other will resolve itself. I should take C.S. Lewis' advice and "focus on heaven and earth will sort of just be thrown in". That's a paraphrasing, but it captures the essence.
This is fairly personal stuff I'm writing, albeit some discombobulated ramblings. There's a guy next to me in a yellow oxford shirt looking into this book reading every word. I'd be intensely offended if we (my book and I) were in America, but I doubt he can read English, let alone my chicken scratch.
Whenever I see the numerical code 666 in my everyday life I get nervous that I am the anti-Christ. I've never told that to anyone. I wonder if I am alone in this fear or if others share it with me.
This bus is freezing. By bus, I mean gua-gua. I'm heading to Santiago to get some Pollo Victorinos. It's been raining for a week solid. I'm completely depressed.
I'm struggling with spiritual apathy and lust issues. I'm certain the two are connected. I need to overcome one and the other will resolve itself. I should take C.S. Lewis' advice and "focus on heaven and earth will sort of just be thrown in". That's a paraphrasing, but it captures the essence.
This is fairly personal stuff I'm writing, albeit some discombobulated ramblings. There's a guy next to me in a yellow oxford shirt looking into this book reading every word. I'd be intensely offended if we (my book and I) were in America, but I doubt he can read English, let alone my chicken scratch.
Salvation ain't a woman.
You ain't gonna find salvation in her.
You are dead to her (my journal says to me).
Move on.
You ain't gonna find salvation in her.
Salvation ain't a woman.
(A Poem from Collected Thoughts and Scattered Dreams)
- Part of the unfinished book of poems by Joseph Flannigan
Have you ever tried to write in a moving vehicle on an ill-maintained road? It becomes increasingly more and more frustrating. I need to get a recorder.
I have just decided to name each of my writing journals by a woman's name beginning with A and ending with Z. This being the first, shall be called Ashley - in honor of the Ashley I played with as a child, not the Ashley I dated as a sophomore. Not that there is anything wrong with that Ashley, nor do I wish her any malice.
Dear Ashley,
You are my first, so be gentle.
Love,
Christopher
"Oh Ashley, I can read you like a book!"
Enough of the stupid jokes - I feel carsick and claustrophobic.
Alright, so I'm out of the gua-gua. I'm in Santiago at the Pollo Victorino's. Habitaciones con Banos is moving along. Chapters keep spilling out. It's nice and exciting actually. But I don't have much of a direction... Hows about some structuring?
Chapter 1 - Introduction of Joseph
Chapter 2 - Supplies shopping and flight
Chapter 3 - Arriving in Santiago
Chapter 4 - Dream
Chapter 5 - Cabarete
Chapter Z - Writing ridiculous three weeks calling it "Three Weeks of Frivolity - Rediscovering myself in a chaotic holiday to the Caribbean"
I think I've got a good thing going, I'm just unsure of how to get to the end.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Letters of the Alphabet
(Originally Written February 11, 2009 in the Journal)
Did you ever think about language and the alphabet? Who could have ever decided that "A" came before "Z" and that "Q" had a purpose or that each letter could represent a number of sounds by positioning the tongue, lips and the mouth in certain patterns and forcing out air. I don't know, the thought just popped in my head.
Did you ever think about language and the alphabet? Who could have ever decided that "A" came before "Z" and that "Q" had a purpose or that each letter could represent a number of sounds by positioning the tongue, lips and the mouth in certain patterns and forcing out air. I don't know, the thought just popped in my head.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Joseph Flannigan - A letter never meant to be mailed
(Originally Written February 4, 2009 in the Journal)
Habitaciones chapter 5
Random thoughts: you can't find salvation in a woman... pass me that bottle there.
Joseph woke from his dream, feeble yet refreshed.
*I apologize to my future typist self for the handwriting...moving bus.
A letter never meant to be mailed
Dearest Angela,
They put a photograph of you in the main gathering place. You don't look too pleased in it. You have a contrived, half smile in it. You look very sad and angry in it, that look you get when something didn't go as you had planned. I know that look well, you gave me it for months as our marriage was falling apart.
I wonder what you are doing these days. Occasionally, though not as frequently as I once did, I check up on you. Facebook and blogs are such anonymous ways of emotional sharing. It is safe and dangerous all at once. I took you off mine (as I'm sure you're well aware of) - I just wanted to say I didn't do so because I was angry or hate you, but because this knowledge is too much for me to bear.
When you left me I felt relieved at first. This giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. No more threats, no more suspicions or doubts. Only one reality, albeit one monstrously ugly, universe crushing fact: you no longer love me and I am alone. I guess I'll take this reality over doubt though.
It took time for me to fully realize this. I moved from a sense of relief to a sentiment of happiness. The more I ponder on this feeling the more I realize it was just emotional and spiritual shock at the life just hemorrhaging out of my soul. My head spun a lot and I searched for ways to reassert my individuality. I lost all sense of individualness in our relationship. Whether that was from you stealing it from me or me forfeiting it, or a combination thereof I still don't know, nor do I think it matters much at this point.
While reconfiguring myself as an individual entity again I realized how many things of my own personhood I hated. There is my neurosis, my lethargy, my existential crisis at the face of my loneliness, my obsessive nature when it comes to just about everything I pour myself into, as well as a host of other things. Most of all I especially hate my insomnia.
Back when we were together my insomnia wasn't any better, it was the same. Maybe even worse. That said, it was easier to cope with because you were next to me. For hours on end I would just look at you, memorizing your breathing patterns, studying the curves of your body, watching your lips curl into half-smiles or frowns. Eventually I could gauge your morning's mood by observing your subconscious moments. Now when I wake I lie in an empty bed and fully comprehend the meaning of loneliness.
It hasn't been all bad though. You know as well as I do (or better) I always paint the landscape a more sinister shade than nature has. I don't know maybe this time I'm accurate. The world contrives to spin but I sink deeper into this hole you dug for me - so deep I can't seem to climb out or even find the motivation to do so. I HATE YOU!
(Joseph steps away for a bit)
I don't hate you. I'm sorry. It's been so long since we've been together but I haven't dealt with it. I've brushed off everything with humor. My jokes and quips have become ever more self-deprecating in the past few moths.
I still battle alcohol. I can't go into a bar anymore because I never know what will happen. The last time I went into a bar I drank until I blacked out. The next morning, or rather afternoon, I realized I had bought a plane ticket to Santiago. I figured, what the hell, why not go? So here I am sitting on the beach trying to overcome a deep sense of loss and a clinical case of writer's block. All I can think is to write is love letters to you. It's all very depressing.
I replay our divorce proceedings over and over in my head. We signed papers, had them notarized and parted with cordial goodbyes. As I walked away I said, "I'll always still love you". Choking back the tears I walked away. In my fantasies though I either express my true thoughts or you reply more favorably. You blurt back, "I'll always still love you"!
Turning around, dramatically slow I peer into your face with sadness. I sigh deeply. "Angela", I say, "you have never loved me. You used me to achieve a certain set of needs, when your needs changed you discarded me. You don't understand the meaning of love. I don't fault you for it and I forgiv3e everything. I never want to see you again - not because I don't love you, but because I love you. I would fall back into your arms again and again only to be discarded at will. I can't go through this again."
At this point in my fantasies one of two things happen. The first is you realize the errors of your ways and we come out stronger in the end. The second, and more likely scenario if I had said what I just wrote is that you spit in my face and walk away. I then leave.
So here is my letter to you. I've written hundreds of them. I never save them. I fold them, put them in an addressed envelope and drive or walk to the post office (you remember walking from the campus to the post office how we would always grab pops at the gas station and we'd always carry exact change and then that one time the price had gone up? We could only get one that time. I couldn't get my Diet Coke if you got your Pepsi and you couldn't get your Pepsi if I got my Diet Coke. We got Dr. Pepper and split it with two straws. I guess you got tired of Dr. Pepper and splitting things huh? Once I get to the post office though I can't follow through. I go back home, with a quick stop for a Diet Coke, and burn the letters in the kitchen sink.
I'll always still love you,
Joseph
Habitaciones chapter 5
Random thoughts: you can't find salvation in a woman... pass me that bottle there.
Joseph woke from his dream, feeble yet refreshed.
*I apologize to my future typist self for the handwriting...moving bus.
A letter never meant to be mailed
Dearest Angela,
They put a photograph of you in the main gathering place. You don't look too pleased in it. You have a contrived, half smile in it. You look very sad and angry in it, that look you get when something didn't go as you had planned. I know that look well, you gave me it for months as our marriage was falling apart.
I wonder what you are doing these days. Occasionally, though not as frequently as I once did, I check up on you. Facebook and blogs are such anonymous ways of emotional sharing. It is safe and dangerous all at once. I took you off mine (as I'm sure you're well aware of) - I just wanted to say I didn't do so because I was angry or hate you, but because this knowledge is too much for me to bear.
When you left me I felt relieved at first. This giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. No more threats, no more suspicions or doubts. Only one reality, albeit one monstrously ugly, universe crushing fact: you no longer love me and I am alone. I guess I'll take this reality over doubt though.
It took time for me to fully realize this. I moved from a sense of relief to a sentiment of happiness. The more I ponder on this feeling the more I realize it was just emotional and spiritual shock at the life just hemorrhaging out of my soul. My head spun a lot and I searched for ways to reassert my individuality. I lost all sense of individualness in our relationship. Whether that was from you stealing it from me or me forfeiting it, or a combination thereof I still don't know, nor do I think it matters much at this point.
While reconfiguring myself as an individual entity again I realized how many things of my own personhood I hated. There is my neurosis, my lethargy, my existential crisis at the face of my loneliness, my obsessive nature when it comes to just about everything I pour myself into, as well as a host of other things. Most of all I especially hate my insomnia.
Back when we were together my insomnia wasn't any better, it was the same. Maybe even worse. That said, it was easier to cope with because you were next to me. For hours on end I would just look at you, memorizing your breathing patterns, studying the curves of your body, watching your lips curl into half-smiles or frowns. Eventually I could gauge your morning's mood by observing your subconscious moments. Now when I wake I lie in an empty bed and fully comprehend the meaning of loneliness.
It hasn't been all bad though. You know as well as I do (or better) I always paint the landscape a more sinister shade than nature has. I don't know maybe this time I'm accurate. The world contrives to spin but I sink deeper into this hole you dug for me - so deep I can't seem to climb out or even find the motivation to do so. I HATE YOU!
(Joseph steps away for a bit)
I don't hate you. I'm sorry. It's been so long since we've been together but I haven't dealt with it. I've brushed off everything with humor. My jokes and quips have become ever more self-deprecating in the past few moths.
I still battle alcohol. I can't go into a bar anymore because I never know what will happen. The last time I went into a bar I drank until I blacked out. The next morning, or rather afternoon, I realized I had bought a plane ticket to Santiago. I figured, what the hell, why not go? So here I am sitting on the beach trying to overcome a deep sense of loss and a clinical case of writer's block. All I can think is to write is love letters to you. It's all very depressing.
I replay our divorce proceedings over and over in my head. We signed papers, had them notarized and parted with cordial goodbyes. As I walked away I said, "I'll always still love you". Choking back the tears I walked away. In my fantasies though I either express my true thoughts or you reply more favorably. You blurt back, "I'll always still love you"!
Turning around, dramatically slow I peer into your face with sadness. I sigh deeply. "Angela", I say, "you have never loved me. You used me to achieve a certain set of needs, when your needs changed you discarded me. You don't understand the meaning of love. I don't fault you for it and I forgiv3e everything. I never want to see you again - not because I don't love you, but because I love you. I would fall back into your arms again and again only to be discarded at will. I can't go through this again."
At this point in my fantasies one of two things happen. The first is you realize the errors of your ways and we come out stronger in the end. The second, and more likely scenario if I had said what I just wrote is that you spit in my face and walk away. I then leave.
So here is my letter to you. I've written hundreds of them. I never save them. I fold them, put them in an addressed envelope and drive or walk to the post office (you remember walking from the campus to the post office how we would always grab pops at the gas station and we'd always carry exact change and then that one time the price had gone up? We could only get one that time. I couldn't get my Diet Coke if you got your Pepsi and you couldn't get your Pepsi if I got my Diet Coke. We got Dr. Pepper and split it with two straws. I guess you got tired of Dr. Pepper and splitting things huh? Once I get to the post office though I can't follow through. I go back home, with a quick stop for a Diet Coke, and burn the letters in the kitchen sink.
I'll always still love you,
Joseph
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)