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Christine a.k.a Tine, Ting, Tingaling, Teenie
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| See you on the Park side. |
[Apr. 1st, 2007|01:17 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | vision of division- the strokes | ] |
We were sitting at this table at Parkside thanks to Nik's abudance of meals, and we're sittng in pretty much formal wear and heels (fuck you man, we were coming from a fashion show), while everyone is in sweats, and everyone is looking like high school kids- okay, fine, they look like college freshman- and this kid standing in front of the pizza drops his whole tray with a big ol' BOOMCRASHBANG and everyone turns and there he is-poor fella! all red in his face, stepping in a pool of creamy white milk and shards of broken mass-order glass. and this table of kids a big table trying to squeeze together in a too small table, just laughs hard, and yells, STUPID!, and they keep laughing, and i think they know him, no i mean to say, i think they know who he is, and they're just laughing and its like on the fucking set of MEAN GIRLS or some coming-of-age show with cheesy, stereotypical mean high school kids like BOY MEETS WORLD or some shit like that.
and he turns bright red, and i feel awful for him, and im glaring at the kids at the big/small table, hoping to god they really do know him and that he was sitting with them or something, like its a big inside joke my graduating ass is outside of, but he doesnt sit with them, he kind of disappears like he ran away, and my whole table just sits frowny faced feeling bad for him, wondering if he's crying up in his room because you know for damn sure his whole day has been ruined, but damn, we were feeling bad for him, but we DIDNT DO SHIT, and i've been walking around the past couple of days oddly dwelling on lil' parkside boy, wishing i could have gotten up outta my seat and helped him pick his tray up, real graceful like, kneeling down, fucking up the pink patent leather shoes, and then looking him in the eye and saying, dont worry it happens to everybody, i'll help you, and i would hope that those fuckers at the big/small table would just shut their fucking traps, because it would be a real act of grace- not the keep-your-knees-together, dab-don't-wipe-with-your-napkin, keep-your-hair-outta-your-eyes, kind of grace, it would be simple, miracle working, life changing (at the very least, day changing) kind of shit that i wish i could do at least once in my life and those fuckers at the other table wouldve have to shut up and RECOGNIZE. |
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| this is an excerpt from a story im working on. |
[Feb. 4th, 2007|11:45 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  working | ] |
| [ | music |
| | a mix from a former ragazzi patron | ] |
I couldn’t tell you what was going on. I mean, if I was a director, there was no real storyboard plot …it was like the same scene being rewound, rewound, rewound and my words were smashedtogetherwithsyllablesstirredup withmartinisandoversizedolives. Smoke from cigarettes and joints and the branded words of this typewritten account floating off fine cotton paper- paper that has a secret mark when I held up to the spotlights in baby Jane’s cramped little loft. I told her, plain old copy paper is fine, but she’s enamored by that kind of shit. “It’s like magic marker ink, dontcha love it! You wouldn’t even know it had a name if ya didn’t try to see right through it! Good thing you didn’t stick it right in the typewrite, huh Johnny?”
Jane loves secrets. You can tell by her hats. Anyone who wears that many hats has gotta have something they wanna keep under wraps. The first time I met her in art gallery, she was wearing this camel pillbox hat with red lace veiling her eyes. “Gotta light,” she says without so much as a glance. I wasn’t even smoking. “Look sister, where I come from, the only way to earn a favor is to look a man in the eyes.” She drops her cig on the fine wood gallery floor, embers still glowing hot. Then she stares at me, doesn’t bat an eyelash, while she starts slippin’ bobby pins outta nowhere. There must’ve been at least a dozen- out from under her ears, near her bangs, and some from under her little hat- falling like hard rain on a tin roof. And pretty soon, no flinching, no words, no nothing, she’s throwing her hat on the ground, and playing some kind of staring contest with me. There was a skinny Parliament, black bobby pins, and a hat strewn around her like a beauty parlor hurricane. And there was her. She was beautiful- blindingly beautiful. So I blinked. And then I found a matchbook, wrote my number on it, and pinned it to her fallen hat. |
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| as of late |
[Jan. 22nd, 2007|12:18 am] |
| [ | music |
| | bewitched- ella fitzgerald | ] |
today, i sat on his side of the bed, reading, hoping he would be at his desk, watching me out of the corner of his eye. and then hopefully, he would scoot me over to my side, and lay beside me on the bed we have fallen asleep on for nearly a year now. together.
i haven't been on his side of the bed this whole semester, as if i was still respecting his half of the space we shared last semster.
there are little things I do everyday to remember us together. keeping the candle lit till I go to bed, remembering the way he would blow it out right before we went to bed, the sultry smell of burnt wax and crackling sulfur wafting in the air, lulling us to sleep.
then there are big things that he has placed in me as habit. eating right, home cooked meals, eating breakfasts, juice in the mornings, calling my parents more often, reading to sleep, going to class, keeping my room clean. or at least cleaner than i once was (the other day, stacy saw piles of laundry, and said she missed my piles...).
and then there are the bigger things. of planning for the future. of thinking big, about new york and london and the world. and of falling in love.
i am happy we are together, even this way, even oceans away. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 18th, 2006|08:14 pm] |
i've decided i do want to write for a magazine.
i have also decided i want to move away from southern california.
san fransciso or new york, wherever i can get a job. i would love both. but i want to move, and i want to move immediately. |
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| My Yoko Ono Manifesto |
[Nov. 16th, 2006|08:09 pm] |
I'm the kind of girl who spends a lot of time thinking about Yoko Ono.
I’ve come to the conclusion that she is the actual origin of the hipster/emo/ some-kind-of-culturally-relevant boy’s festish for Asian girls or Asian culture, and I won’t back down from that stance. I instinctively hate and love John Lennon for this, because while all Asian women around the world have been gifted from birth with an attractive je ne sais crois, an alluring mystique, it also forces me to question boys who only date asian girls, even boys who merely prefer asian girls. How could I not think,"even if a boy fell for me, what could stop him from falling for any other asian girl? What makes me different from a handful of other slightly hipster dressed, slightly art-inclined, moderately music-aware asian girl?"
A voice in the back of my head convinces me that I just want to be the girl who stands out- the only girl he ever loved, the girl who got away, the exotic, how-the-hell-did-i-score-so-big-with-that-chick kind of girl. It simply infuriates me when I found out someone I once dated has moved onto to something that seems to make him happier. I hate the idea that the person who told me I changed his life, that I was it, has suddenly found another it-girl.
But that’s very petty and very narcissistic of me. And it's just a n immature need to feel special.
But ANYWAY, back to Yoko Ono, I think a lot of people think of her in terms of John Lennon, but I tend to think of her in terms of her artwork and her poems. And I’m not trying to impress you or come off as deep or uber cultured. On average, critics think she’s pretty underwhelming and unimpressive, so name-dropping her as an artist is not winning me any points. I think her most well known series was called, “instruction poems” that she claimed were an exercise in interaction with the viewer. The pieces themselves are plain black text on white background that say things like:
"PAINTING FOR THE WIND
Cut a whole in a bag filled with seeds of any kind and place the bad where there is wind. "
or
"SHADOW PIECE
Put your shadows together until they are one. "
I would go so far as to say that on my fourth reading of her work, I found her cliché and kitschy.
I think that’s why I connect with her so much. I often worry that my work is super cliché. I write poems about relationships and sex and exes and conquests, but who hasn’t? In one of my poetry classes, I did a presentation on Kim Addonizio, a poet who wrote a collection of poems entitled, “this thing called love.” I loved it. She wrote the kind of poems that talk about sliced oranges and pushing her lover up against her kitchen fridge, and she wrote about getting drunk and fitting her life into bottles. They were so accessible to me, and I was excited to present it to the class. But I remember some kid, I think his name was Tyler, made a remark in a very politically correct tone, that her poems were poems of pulp. And that made me rethink the poems and read them over again, and all of sudden they did sound very sensationalized, very hackneyed, and almost inconsequential. They sounded contrived, which was the worst part. I mean, they were about the kind of girl that got drunk and wore heels, and had sex in her kitchen.
I can’t help it though, I love that kind of shit, and I think a lot of mainstream America loves it with me. It’s easy to get, unlike most poetry, which you have to sit down and really punch and beat to get anything out of. Words, when done too densely, make the reader feel like they’re trying too hard, at which point they decide to stop trying altogether. Who hasn’t met that girl that they want to push up against on a kitchen counter? The girl you fall in love with when she speaks to you in fumbled, drunk words. You love her for her confidence, and for her insecurities all at once.
That’s the thing about Yoko Ono- she seemed so confident, like she had to be to put up with everyone who wanted a piece of her husband. I’ve watched dozens of news interviews where John and Yoko are in a press conference, and you can just tell that whenever she says something, which is surprisingly about balanced with the times John talks, everyone is just itching for her to shut up so they can all fawn over John’s enigmatic words again.
I don’t blame them, John is a really great guy, a fantastic guy, so great I still celebrate his birthday. He’s a genius, and in most people’s minds, he is THE genius in the couple. How could Yoko compare, you know? He wrote a dozen songs that will live forever, not just Imagine, but Norwegian fucking Wood, and A Day in the Life.
There’s the rub kids, that’s where all of this comes back to me. Being with Jon, my Jon, Jon with no H, architect Jon is amazing, and I feel like the luckiest girl alive because he is a genius. No joke, he’s the real deal- he challenges things, and makes you argue with him, and you have to be on your toes if you want to converse with him. He works hard, so hard he’s the guy that stands out, but his work is what speaks for him, so he’s not the guy who you hate stands out.
There are times when he talks to me about his projects, and tries to get a critique and I just lose it. I don’t know what to say because I don’t’ understand, and its not because his work is completely incoherent. It’s because I don’t speak the arhictecture language anymore, I can’t critique it because I’m not there. Yet. But I will be and he knows that so he tries to talk to me about his projects and I try the best I can to tell him what I think, and form an opinion, because with guys like Jon, opinion matters.
But a lot of the time, I feel completely inconsequential, and I feel like what I’m telling him is completely trite. Like it’s the completely conservative reaction to his rebel without a cause projects. And I start wondering if it’s not just in architecture where my mediocrity lies. I didn’t get into any advanced fiction classes this semester, and it makes me- despite how hard I try to not let it- wonder if I’m any good at writing at all. I could have been in a class taught by the fucking poet-laureate of California, or in T.C. Boyle’s class. But I wasn’t good enough.
Do you see why I think about Yoko so much? I wonder how she stayed sane as an artist, knowing everyone considered her husband the absolute climax of artistic expression. I wonder how she could ever feel original when someone so innovative was thinking the same thoughts as her but inventing what seemed to be the most appropriate artistic release of those thoughts.
I often wonder if these feelings of inadequacy were because I actually became less opinionated. I have visions of my more single self as a firecracker of a girl. People used to call me sassy and they were drawn to that. Sassy, if you didn’t know, is what people call you when you’re being a bitch and they enjoy it. Being a bitch isn’t always bad.
But I feel domesticated and sweet more often. And I feel like a nicer person, a less judgmental person- I don’t sit on the lawn at lunch and critique every single person’s outfit anymore?- I feel like a person who gives new people a lot more slack, instead of giving them a hard time immediately, as if I had some right to test their worthiness of my time.
I feel a lot less funny too, and it’s kind of because of Stacy to be honest. We used to sit at our shared desk and laugh so hard we couldn’t breathe, so hard we felt like two old g-mas, breaking their arthritis stricken backs. We used to laugh like nobody’s business at some pretty funny, pretty witty shit in my mind, but it’s been a really long time since that’s happened. I feel like a lot of the jokes I make are old, or inside jokes from this summer. And when I do feel funny I wonder if it’s funny because I sound something like Corine. And that’s a valid argument really, because Corine and I have the same humor. I mean, she amuses me more than anyone I know, and I hope I do the same for her, and I think we kind of share a language all of our own. Once, I led her high school class on a retreat, and they told me whenever I spoke, it was like Corine was there with them too.
I feel awfully unoriginal is what I guess I’m trying to say. As I’m writing this, I’m wondering if it’s just a study of Chuck Klosterman’s novel, Killing yourself to live, which I am currently reading. Note: I just referenced a slightly obscure, but not obscure to a certain group of people pop culture artifact. |
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| number 3. |
[Nov. 13th, 2006|02:05 am] |
Instructions for Falling in Love with her Sadness
Watch her slender fingers trace her shadow on a blank wall.
Watch her blur her reflection using foggy breathes.
Build a house of windows for her to gaze out of.
Never block her sunlight. It's the only spotlight she's ever known.
Hide with her under an office desk when she's too weak to run.
Kiss her with long breathes as she chokes on tears.
Brush her bangs from her eyes when she feels blind.
Remember her smooth skin when she won't let you touch her.
Squeeze her hand when she feels like she's disappearing.
Fill her empty eyes with glitter.
Rub her scars.
List all her fears on rolling papers. Burn the list.
Press your ear against her stomach. Remind her she's alive after you hear her pulse.
Offer her your coat when the heart on her sleeve starts bleeding.
Cut out the homicide articles in the morning newspaper.
Take her side in arguments, even when she's wrong.
Eavesdrop on her prayers.
Sweep up the remains of her destruction.
Turn the lights on before she enters a dark room.
Throw a blanket over her when she falls asleep on sidewalks.
Never leave her alone,
Before you realize you already have.
Convince yourself you can save her
Before you realize you're part of the problem
Tell her you're sorry for all the things you'll never give her.
Apologize for not joining her in her sadness.
List all the things you'll miss- paintings, books, kisses, fights.
Tell her you were always proud you were with her.
Say thank you.
Say goodbye.
Watch her as she walks away. |
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| here is another |
[Nov. 12th, 2006|11:38 pm] |
The Circus Act
Shuffling ballet slippers,
sweep wrinkled leaves over
a sidewalk crack tight rope.
Swinging acrobat hands
search for his sturdy grab,
for the exhilaration
of soaring high and falling free,
only to find an empty trapeze bar,
and the same old safety net.
Red velvet curtains part
And curious audience eyes
Scan a staged apartment,
Ripe with the possibility
Of bittersweet pleasures.
As coat-tailed ringmaster
And a quintet of trumpets and horns
Announce the next act.
A trick that defies time,
Defies common sense,
A woman with the ability to relive
An entire relationship
Over and over and over again.
She enters from stage left,
Cheeks already stained with shame,
As a seven am spotlight trails her movement.
She runs toe, heel, toe, heel,
Back up the platform of a grated fire escape,
Pushing back another draped curtain,
Hinging her hands on a window frame,
Lowering her nimble body into his living room.
She pauses in his porcelain bathroom
In front of a distorted funhouse mirror,
reflecting the portrait of lively eyes and
perfectly filled lips, framing a white smile
until she flinches, and the reflection
morphs into the face of a haggard little harlot,
lipstick smears sliding from a heavy pout
and eyes eclipsed with the weight of a night.
She is a lion tamer, running her fingers up her mane-
wiping her lashes forth and back, forth and back.
Toe-tipping toward his bed, fabric slips.
A skirt, a blouse- her very wardrobe
deconstructs into a pile on the floor,
And there she is- exposed to his sleeping eyes.
The spotlight dims on the two performers,
And the bed they share
while a vivid dream of a scene plays in reverse,
Kisses, like fire, swallowed whole-
A burning, swollen blaze,
calms to a golden candle flame
igniting the star shaped sparks that
drown in the kerosene of her rising tears,
Hands moving down, then up,
The clasp of lingerie hooked on,
Dress shirt buttoned bottom to top,
The audience watches, on their edge of their seats,
Reading his lips to decipher some archaic tongue-
"You need I."
And she declares, "shouldn't we,"
in a backwards logic, a backwards language.
They crawl off the bed,
And cross back into the living room
Plunging into a couch
As he pulls his hand away from her cheek
She crosses her legs,
And straightens her posture,
He leans away and places a martini glass
Between his fingers.
Two acrobats in a choreographed sequence
Of platonic gesture and careless cool,
exchange mischievous, painted-on smiles
As a stream of candy colored elixirs
slink up the sides of oversized martini glasses,
Floating mid air until droplets
Hover and trickle back into a carafe of vodka.
His hands loosen from her waist
Before they retrace their steps
Back through the front door,
Skillfully dismounting a set of stairs,
Landing on a tight rope sidewalk
As autumn leaves flutter and re-attach to familiar branches
While a record of horns and trumpets skips on repeat. |
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| i am writing again. |
[Nov. 12th, 2006|11:37 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | poetry sequence | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  exanimate | ] |
| [ | music |
| | till it happens to you-corrine bailey rae | ] |
i am writing a sequence for my poetry class. i will post the ones i deem ready for your eyes here.
here is the first one.
Conquest
I'm showing him what he's missing.
Cutting his light blue eyes into shattered glass
With the piercing gaze that
Leaves us both blind at the end of the night.
I'm making him sweat, overworking his heart,
Pumping up and down, pumping so fast his heart
stops
Just long enough to see what I have become-
A creature pounding on his doorsteps,
Like a wounded bitch
Whimpering for some leftover scraps.
I'm making the best of what's leftover
Pus lined lust, sheets soiled with dust
Picking at the scab of a passion that flows
like yellowed waters and slimy moss,
Resurrecting what has shriveled and decayed-
a rotten fruit that fills my mouth
With the sour juice that keeps me salivating for more.
I'm adjusting to the change.
Squinting at the glare of a plastic glimmer,
Taking my darkness in at intervals
Until I'm left groping and feeling
For the light switch in your kiss,
Turning me on so I can function again.
I can only make blind love to you,
Behind closed curtains
That lock out the moonlight,
Closed eye kisses that help me
Convince myself you're someone else.
I want to invade you with Cleopatra painted eyes,
Lips, and fingers and skin for artillery,
commanding your attention, holding you up by the throat,
Proclaiming to you- you lowly Caesar-
That you were one of many conquests,
A meaningless number cast in the dozens
I wish you were crawling back to me,
So I could turn your own words against you,
with the dignity of a pharaoh queen,
"Veni Vidi Vici."
This is what remains: you are a historical figure.
You are to be catalogued with my past,
And forgotten as a stepping stone,
something inconsequential to be walked over.
These nights of passion will be lumped together
With the sweet nights we will never again taste,
The seeds scattered up and down California
that we'll never water,
The golden morning light
that no longer shines on our morning bodies.
These memories will be misplaced and rewritten
Until you are nothing more to me
Than a faded erasure mark. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 27th, 2006|07:27 pm] |
There are so many funny things, truly humorous things, about coming back home for one last week this summer- things make me chuckle outloud and smile gleefully.
Things like my dad carrying around an electric fan with him from room to room, like its an accessory, like it's attached to his hand. He moves through the house completely unaware of how absurd he looks- Unaware in the best way- the way someone who doesn't laugh at their own jokes is the best comedy act- quiet, subtle, almost ironic.
Things like my little brother spending the entire day clad in nothing by boxers, drudging between a computer game and a video game. or the way he purses his lips upward to cover up his nostrils when we go swimming.
Things like my mom sitting at the kitchen island waiting for us to entertain her with conversation, the way she says she wishes she could "tell stories" all day long with her children. or the cd she listens to during the day- a cd of a Greek folk singer who sings only French and English lyrics that she used to listen to while she was dating my dad in Nigeria.
Things like my cousins coming over and watching The Hills with me, and corine trying to cuddle with me on the couch, or mention drug paraphenelia to start some kind of catharsis.
Things like the ring attached to my finger- the thing that keeps me focused and motivated lately. Some people keep photos of their loved ones pinned up at their desk to give them inspiration. Others keep photos in their wallet. I wear this ring like its a picture of us together, mobile, hand-held in the most literal way. It's my reminder to be inspired.
It's a laughable thing really, that we're moving in together, that you've given me this ring without pretense, and most importantly without proposal. There's been such a fuss over everything- the kind of fuss I expect from friends who like to tease me and laugh at me for falling in love so quickly, so entirely. I expected it to be something to giggle over with friends, in a conversation such as, "Ha ha...isn't it a crazy notion! Living together like this, the way we are now! Falling in love so much its like a folly!" And we would be tickled pink, like children being tickled by their parents, rolling on floors, laughing in delight.
But it's starting to become something different- its more than something my friends tease me for. My parents are getting worried and my brother is getting worried about, enough to need to question and prod at, not with malice, but with care and concern. The other day, my mom gave me the, "I just don't want to see you get hurt," talk and friends have been asking me about my certainty.
It's odd that anyone- besides us- would take such acts, such words, so seriously. I think we do these things and say these things to each other alone, and for each other alone. The fact that other people have put thought into us makes me scratch my head and wrinkle my nose and turn up my lip in confusion.
We are careful with our words. We say I love you, yes. But we also say, "I want to be with you for a long time." We use heavy words like "forever" and "neverending" and "the one" very carefully. Yes, we say big things to each other, promise big things to each other, but we do not do so blinded by rose colored glasses. We say these things because it's better than not saying them. What would you rather we do? Not speak of the future? Not plan to be together for over a year? Deal with things when they come along? I've done that before, done the wait-and-see, and it made me feel like things were so transient, so temporary, so fleeting, that I never had a grasp on what I should have been able to hold tight. I make big plans with him because I want him in my future and I want him to know that. |
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| wow. |
[Jul. 20th, 2006|07:15 am] |
in truth, one of the all time most appreciated things someone has ever said to me with a straight face:
"Don't flatter yourself." |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 18th, 2006|04:07 am] |
this is what he told me:
All I need in this world is you. Everything else follows.
That was much better than anything anyone has ever said to me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 10th, 2006|02:15 am] |
about me:
i have dresses designated for saying goodbye. i am a self-proclaimed friends minimalist, but a so-called extrovert. i can only finish books that make me feel mind numbingly emotional. almost everything i do is done for my mom. i have a love/hate relationship with france. i won't openly admit it, but i think USC is worth every penny of the $45,000 tuition. i was once known for my dissapearing acts, and the subsequent man-hunt searches. every boy i have ever loved leaves me for europe. i love smelling like fresh baked cookies. i go through month long cycles of only listening to a playlist of 3 songs on repeat. i wouldnt mind growing up to be like my parents. i have no problem punching boys. it never really hurts. i wish it did. i wonder if cutting my hair short the first time changed me into something that im not. i wish i could just make greeting cards for the ones i loved as a career. i hate wearing jewelry. i read to my boyfriend at night to help him fall asleep. heat makes me crazy when its not hot by my choice. i used to throw my parent's cigarette packs into the trash. to be honest, i would prefer jazz standards to jazz that breaks the mold. but i respect arnette coleman and the like. i refer to andy warhol on a first name basis because i am delusionally convinced that we would have been close friends if we had been introduced. i have kissed someone upside down before. i hate talking about (a) books (b) music (c) art for first time conversations. i am learning how to refuse to call myself weak. i move quickly in all relationships that mean anything to me. i am oddly cocky about first impressions. i love when a boy rests his hand on the curve of my hip. i hate when people make comments about my car. i will never, ever fall for a boy who has dated more than one other asian girl. my parents met in nigeria and now they make me pay my entire tuition so they can travel the world all over again. im okay with that. really okay with it now. there are only four people who have the unconditional ability to make me laugh in less than ten minutes: Corine, Stacy, my little brother, and Narguess. i put off things to the very very very last second and get punished for it everytime. i've been a librarian, a barista, a secretary, and an art supply store girl. hopefully i'll get the chance to be a writer sometime soon. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 1st, 2006|11:07 pm] |
im 21.
im 21!
im 21?
im 21... |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 25th, 2006|04:58 pm] |
je pense a toi comme toujours.
j'espere te voir le plus vite possible et t'embrasse de tout mon couer qui t'aime.
il faut attendre ca.
O! mais quand tu me reverras ... |
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| an open letter to all those i've ever loved |
[Jun. 22nd, 2006|10:54 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | ode to- rachel yamagata | ] |
greetings,
i know it's been so long since we've spoken, but i've been thinking of you, wondering how you are, caring about you in moments when i realize you'll always be with me. do you remember when we were best friends? when we loved each other?
we were friends once. or we were lovers onces. we were girls together, we were boy and girl together. either way, we were once together. you were the one i called late at night. you were the one who called me when "our song" came on. you were the one who HAD to know when anything new happened in my life. you were the one who i let into my life, who i let see my tears and my smiles, the one who changed my life into what it is today.
i have moments when i can't help but wonder how you are. i wonder if you've been making the right decisions and i wonder if you've needed me and my voice to calm you. i've wondered if i could have kept changing your life.
when your birthday rolls around, i want to be there for it, celebrating with a wine glass in hand, and a toast prepared. i want to be the one by your side, still your right-hand (wo)man. but i find myself wondering if i should even call you, telling myself you dont need some random girl you once knew interrupting your new life.
i think of our conversations because they are what meant the most to me. I think of when you called me when your first boyfriend broke up with you, and you called me. i remember crying in a stairwell with you because if you were sad, i was sad with you. i remember the first time we spoke on the phone, past midnight, and you said to me, "by the way, we're officially best friends now." I remember when you would tuck me in to bed, always such a good roomate. I remember sitting on the lawn with you, eating sushi, and holding you close while you watched me nap outside. I remember waking up at 6AM to talk to you because of the time difference. I remember sharing cigarettes with you, and the jacarandas blossoming outsid my stairwell. I remember commiserating in your room, after you helped me write my philosophy paper. I remember when you called me and asked if you could come over. And you told me you were sad, and you didn't know why. And we were confused together. We wondered how everything could get you down, while knowing nothing should get you down at the same time. I remember when you called me and told me about your family and when you cried on the lawn about leaving high school. I remember writing your appeal letter for you because I wanted to keep you close to me no matter the cost. I remember when you pulled me into a side room and shared your secrets and your wrists with me. I remember the letters you wrote and the packages you sent. I remember the times we went to the beach and the times we went to cafes and the times we sat on swings and made our own music. I remember sitting in your backyard, scooting next to you. I remember the note I left you in your desk, proclaiming epic things like love and attraction. I remember asking questions and I remember crying at answers.
do you remember these times as much as I do? I know things have drifted, I know I've let things drift, some for good reasons, other for reasons not good enough. I blame myself, even though I try to blame you. But I still love you and I always will. I have called you all the love of my life. you are all a love of my life. but sometimes that's just not enough.
no one is to blame. things happen. time happens. we all grow up or move on or find better things or make mistakes. but do you remember me? do you keep what we shared in a chest of memories, in your chest, in your heart? do you keep them in a trash bag, telling yourself you'll toss it into the pacific one day? do you keep it in a closed box, hoping to show it to your children one day, proclaiming, "this person was a big part of my life. they helped me become what i am today." do you think of me when you pass our spots, when you see two best friends, dancing to a pop song in a car? when you see a young couple in love? when you see two people locked in warm embrace? do you still think fond thoughts of us and what we had? i do.
i focus on what we once meant to each other. i still think of you that way. you have been preserved in your best form. despite what i say to anyone else, despite what my mind tries to convince of my heart, you are all still loved. you are still loved in this life.
will you remember me? will you try to convince yourself of my foolishness for letting us slip away? please do. it gives me hope to imagine you in a better place, without my presence, but still there, stuck in the folds of my memory.
if you ever wondered, I am in a better place than before. Things progress. I am happy and in love and I have found someone perfect for me. Do you remember when we thought we were so compatible? I assure you, the things you taught me, the things you brought out on me have not wasted. I am giving them to someone who makes me happier than I ever thought possible. Thank you for giving me this gift.
i have lost best friends and first loves and i do not regret a thing. i let go of you for a reason, whatever reason that was. but i still hold your hand everyday, even if you can't feel my fingertips wrapped around yours. i am still that girl, rooting for you loudly with banners and noisemakers and fireworks. i will be there for your graduation and for your wedding and i will invite you to mine. i may say i hate you, but i only hate you for being so lovable. i hate you for being so wonderful and so willing to be part of my life.
it's odd to think of now- to think that you can be so in love with one person, to think something can be eternal, and one day, realize its over completely. it's dangerous to wonder if everything you consider to be eternal is really temporary. but that is not the case, is it? you are still a part of my life, still a person whose opinion matters to me. i still love you, and all i can hope is you still love me. in a new way. in a better way, where words need not be said. in a way that is universal and floating around in the atmosphere to share with the new people in your life.
i always say my friends tend to be seasonal. but i never considered you a friend. you were a love. you are a love.
signed sincerely,
christine |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 19th, 2006|02:54 am] |
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summer school here i come! |
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[Jun. 14th, 2006|12:14 pm] |
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i was terrified of jumping alone + being the bigger person + asking too much + losing you + wasting time= pit in my stomach for the past two days + too many cigarettes + headaches + going out to avoid it all. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 12th, 2006|06:26 pm] |
i dream of waking up in a room of stained glass windows where everything is glowing in the color it is meant to be.
you will always be golden, and our bed will always be pristine white, and the flowers will always be a rainbow sherbert and the floor will always be stained a warm orange. |
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[Jun. 8th, 2006|02:55 pm] |
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i think of my faults and i realize that i have become spoiled in that i have become accustomed to too much attention and i realize i speak too often of petty things, too often of predictable things but then i imagine myself in a sitcom type lighting, in a scene layered over with a cheesy soundtrack song, while i sit and reflect in a coffee shop, and you the audience feel good because you realize my faults and love me for them. and then i feel okay with myself again. |
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itsallchill's journal