Untitled.

How was that night for you?
Did you feel anything besides
guilt
pain
fear
lust?
Where was your head and
What were you thinking?
I bet I can guess;
But I won't.
If it's any consolation,
My mind was elsewhere, too.
My head was split in half--
Half in our future,
Half in our past.
I couldn't feel the present.

I didn't know there was one.

You were in the present.
Your mind was in the moment.
And you knew it was wrong.
I knew it, too,
I just didn't care.
Force had brought you to that point
So much of my own force,
Sheer will power,
Sheer something.

What were we doing.

Why did I think that was ok.

I know now it wasn't.
I know now how much I hurt you,
How much pain you were in,
Cuz I now have that pain, too.
Guilt.
Guilt, guilt, guilt,
And manipulation:
A bittersweet recipe for disaster.

I wish behind those retro curtains,
And within those worn-out blankets,
Underneath that midnight sky,
That some truth could've been found
And time would not exist.

But time is what has brought us here,
To this place of warm recognition.
Where apologies stop,
Lies stop,
And our minds remember
What was once so beautiful,
As we introduce our souls
For a second time.

Naropa 2.

I made fish fingers in our toaster oven.  I think this is where the adventure starts.

I made fish fingers in our toaster oven minutes before I had to leave.  I mixed mayo and relish together to make tartar sauce [a handy trick I learned from my parents], and ate 3 fish fingers.  The other 3 I wrapped in tin foil and put back in the fridge; I was already feeling a little bit nauseous.  I ran back upstairs, shoved a bunch of my clothes in my backpack.  That's when the thunder started.  We'd been seeing dark grey clouds loom over Boulder for a couple hours, but nothing had happened yet until I was finished putting everything I needed in my backpack.  A loud roar of thunder burst through our open window.  No wind, no rain, just thunder.  The air was still warm of course, because for some reason it never falls beneath 80 degrees in our room.  I got used to this over the summer, though, when the suite I was staying in at CSUCI had a constant temperature of 85 degrees.

Back to the thunder.  It roared far off into the distance, but with enough gusto that my roommate and I looked at each other in disbelief.  I put on my black hoodie, said goodbye to my roomie, and raced down the stairs.  I was almost out the door when I all of a sudden stopped, turned to the hall closet and took out my rain coat.  I figured I'd be needing that.  It hadn't started to rain yet, but thanks to the thunder, I was given a clue.

As I ran down the stairs to the front entrance, I could see small water drops hit the ground.  It was beginning.  And of course, as soon as I stepped out from underneath the archway, it started POURING.  Massive drops of rain hit my face, and left giant imprints on my raincoat.  I had to walk 5 blocks in this to the bus stop.  I realized my fate, and couldn't help but smile.  I have no idea why, but the thought of walking to the bus stop in the pouring rain, wearing clothes that were definitely not suited for this weather [except for the raincoat I thankfully grabbed], it made me laugh.  Loudly.  The entire walk, I was giggling to myself like a madwoman.  I thought of the time I was with Amanda in San Francisco and we had to walk more than 5 blocks to a bus stop, and all I had were jeans, my black wool coat [with no hood], and my silver shoes.  That small adventure killed those poor silver shoes, but I don't regret it.  That was one of my best memories with Amanda, walking to that bus stop.

Anyways, I'm walking through the streets of Boulder in this ridiculous weather, and there's lightning flashing off in the distance and thunder responding accordingly, and I'm laughing my ass off, soaked to the bone, letting my hood fall to my shoulders because the wind keeps pushing it back anyway, and just trying to get to the fucking bus stop.  I finally get there and I'm completely soaked.  My hair is wet, my jeans are wet; my shoes did nothing, I might as well just gone barefoot.  But I'm here with 10 minutes to spare, and finally under some kind of shelter.  And right as I sit down and admit defeat, the rain stops.  Of course.  I shook my head and silently smiled.

Finally the bus comes, and I get on for free with my student pass, and sit down close to the back.  I figure I'm gonna be on here for a while, I should stay close to the back.  The bus makes several stops on the way to Denver, at places I've never even heard of.  Most of the stops were at shopping plazas out in the middle of nowhere.  It was pretty bizarre.  I'm still sopping wet, and now cold, too, because for some reason the AC is on full blast.

An hour long bus ride and my jeans hardly dried.  I get off the bus and walk up the stairs to meet Katy.  I apologize for my appearance, and she says "no worries", and introduces me to her friends Jaime and Summer.  She and Summer live in Albuquerque, NM, but drove out here to visit Jaime who lives in Denver.  And then I decided to meet them in Denver.  All of them made plans to go to a concert that night somewhere in Denver at a place I'd never heard of, to see a band I'd never heard of, and they invited my along, and I accepted.  I trust Katy's judgment and taste.  I knew I'd be in good hands.

We walked a block or two to this restaurant/vodka bar called Red Square.  Summer and Katy went to Poland for some theatre gig and fell in love with this specific kind of vodka called Zubrowka [pronounced joo-brohv-kuh].  They hadn't been able to find it in the U.S., but this place had it.  So we stopped in, ordered a caraffe of Zubrowka and a bowl of Borscht [a Russian soup made of beets, pickles, eggs, and...something else...but really mostly beets], and then after we successfully and discreetly filled Summer's water bottle with the leftover vodka, we ventured into downtown Denver.  The vodka was a little too strong for me, I only had one sip, but it was fun to watch Summer, Katy, and Jaime have a couple shot glasses full.  They weren't drunk, of course, maybe just a little buzzed.  Anyways, it made for good conversation.

We strolled along the 15th street mall in Denver, just looking at all the stands and stores and people.  We stopped into a Himalayan exports store, and I found a really neat Om charm to add to my collection.  I put it on the chain with the one my mom gave me.  I'm sure people are like "Alright, dude, we get it, you're into that", but whatever, I like the way it looks.  One represents my newfound independence, and the other represents my mom.  The two things I couldn't live without.  And they of course echo my life-changing experiences in San Francisco.  So fuck it, I'm keeping them on one chain.

We grabbed a cab to Jaime's place and figured out our plans for that night.  Summer and Katy and I sorted out our badass outfits for the concert.  I had no idea what I was in for.  I'd never even heard of this band, but from the way Katy and Summer were putting together their outfits, I could tell I was in for something good.  Polka dot knee socks with a black silk dress?  Yes, please.  A plaid vest with a striped shirt and an olive green skirt?  Uh huh.  A star-filled grey shirt with booty shorts and matching grey leggings with snaps on the side?  Oh hells yeah.  We were good to go.  I had a couple sips of a Newcastle, and a few sips of something called Vanilla Port, but I wasn't affected at all.  We hopped in a cab, and took off for the Bluebird Theatre to see Slim Cessna's Auto Club.

The band was AMAZING.  Truly amazing.  It was a 6 part band, with a keyboardist, a drummer who looked about my age, a bassist, 2 male singers, and probably one of the most amazing guitarists I have ever seen, and that is including Pete Townsend and Keith Richards.  I'm gonna talk about the two singers first, however.  They were both very tall, very slim, and very white.  One wore a white cowboy hat with a white shirt, and beige pants, and gold horn-rimmed glasses.  The other wore a black cowboy hat, a black shirt, and black pants.  They looked very similar to each other and sang very similar, too.  Sometimes you couldn't tell which one was singing.  Their showmanship was amazing.  Each song started off as some epic story between them, something along the lines of, "Well, one time, me and Slim here, we was walking down the backroads of Georgia...", with maybe a "Yes sir!" thrown in somewhere, and a steady beat in the background.  The singers also played banjo and guitar when necessary, and actually danced at one point.  They had so much chemistry, and were so in tune with each other, it was awesome.  The entire band moved so well together as one entity.  Yes, the singers stuck out with their off the wall outfits and sheer charisma, but they didn't take away from the band as a unit.  And the lead guitarist, oh my god, this guy rocked.  He was relatively short, compared to the 2 singers, but he could wail.  He played a 12 string electric for most of the show with an image of the Virgin Mary imprinted on the face of it.  He played two different acoustic guitars at different points throughout the show, and of course he busted out the banjo now and then.  He made sounds come out of that banjo that I didn't even know were possible.  At one point actually, during one of their encore numbers, he stood with this back to the audience because it was a song that required a lot of feedback, so he stood in front of his amp making these beautiful beautiful sounds, while the 2 singers harmonized.  We didn't see the front of the guitarist the entire time until the very end when he turned around, and he was not playing an electric guitar, my friends.  No.  He was playing a motherfucking banjo.  A BANJO.  Banjo + feedback = amazing?  Apparently.  I did not know that could be done.

The show ended at about 12:30 am, and we were planning on getting a cab back to Jaime's place, but we ended up just walking instead.  We explored the streets of Denver with only Jaime and the moon to guide us.  It was so cool.  I love wandering through cities like that.  Especially at odd hours.  It reminded me of when I left my dorm at 4:45 am to catch the BART that one cold morning in San Francisco, and how different everything felt.  It wasn't San Francisco anymore, it was a whole other place.  Or maybe it was even more San Francisco without all the clutter.  I don't know.

We walked through a park that apparently used to be cemetery but was then converted into a park [sound familiar, those from Ventura?  Don't we have one of those?], and on the way through the park we came across two women and their dogs.  One of the dogs was a white labrador puppy.  I welcomed it into my arms and it got muddy pawprints all over me.  I didn't mind however, as I hugged it and expressed the same affection towards it as I would've expressed to my dear Franklin.  I miss him.  I let the cute dog go, and we continued on our way.  Summer and Katy walked behind me and joked about seeing zombies and such, because of the park's past.

We reached the apartment, raided the refrigerator, and watched Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure.  That is how the night concluded.

I woke up on the couch with the sun breathing down my neck.  I switched to the other side of the couch so that the sun wouldn't blind me, and fell back asleep.  An hour or so later, I woke up to Summer saying "I want to wake her, but I don't think I know her well enough to tap her on the head like I did with Katy."  I woke up laughing.  We sat around and drank coffee, and then got dressed and went to a breakfast place called Benny's [not to be confused with Denny's].  This was a mexican themed restaurant, not the all-american all day breakfast diner.  I ordered french toast with a side of eggs, and this is where my weekend hits me, friends.  This is where everything came together.  As soon as I downed 4 slices of french toast and took a bite of the eggs, that was when the fish fingers, the Zubrowka, the Borscht, the foreign beer, the leftover vegetarian cal-zone, the artichoke dip, the pita, the coffee, the french toast, and the eggs hit.  I didn't feel too hot.  They'd planned to drop me off at the bus station right after breakfast, but I felt really sick.  So we went back to Jaime's place and I...took care of what needed to be taken care of...and then we took it easy for a half hour or so.  We watched a special on the Discovery Channel about the Freemasons.  At first I was really intrigued, but then after a while, I just got really creeped out.  It is a weird thing.

Finally we said goodbye to Jaime and took off for downtown Denver again.  Summer and Katy were going to drop me off at the bus station and then head back to Albuquerque.  I forgot to mention, however, that the Democratic National Convention is being held in Denver tomorrow, so the streets were packed with all kinds of things having to do with that.  A bunch of Republicans actually rented a large U-Haul size truck and plastered a giant picture of an abortioned fetus on all sides.  It was disgusting.  I'd just started to feel a little bit better, but then I saw that and was thoroughly grossed out.  Freedom of speech, though, freedom of speech.  Besides that awful sighting, there was actually a lot of really cool things going on.  The city was filled with people wearing Pro-Obama shirts and Anti-Bush shirts and carrying flags and picket signs and all kinds of things.  Peace signs everywhere.  There was even this nightclub that was going to have a "DiscObama" later that night.  It was hilarious and awesome.

Summer and Katy pulled up outside the bus station, and Katy hopped out for a few seconds to hug me goodbye.  She got back in the car and I headed for the steps down to the bus station.  I waved as they drove away, about to embark on their own adventure once again, and here I was on mine.  I waited for a good half hour or so, flashed my student ID, and boarded the bus.  It was a relaxing ride back to Boulder, though the stakes heightened when I downed the rest of my water bottle and had to use the restroom very badly.  So for the last 15 minutes, I was very uncomfortable.  Unfortunately there are no restrooms on the buses to and from Denver.

We pulled into Boulder, and I quickly got off the bus and found the ladies' room.  As soon as that was taken care of, I walked back out the way I had came the day before, and continued down the 5 blocks back to my apartment.  I was very proud of myself for remembering how to get back.  I was certain I'd get lost.  But I made it back.  And here I am.

Naropa 1.

I've sat down to write at least 6 times since I've been here.  And now I am not even alone, I am in my dorm with my roommate Sophie, and we've been chatting about TV shows and how many times we have changed in our room mid-day with the blinds all the way up.  She is now uploading a mixed CD her friend made for her, and we have just agreed that 30 Rock is by far one of the best TV shows ever.  She is trying to learn this relatively unheard of song for the Coffeehouse performance tomorrow night.  I wanted to perform, but it's a little hard to get something together when you don't know anyone and the only Coffeehouse accepted thing you can do is sing.  I could read poetry or something generic like that, but who really wants to hear me do that?  I figure I'm better off just listening, soaking in my surroundings, establishing myself slowly, and then working up from that.

I've been falling asleep far too early.  The other night I fell asleep at 7:30, which is 6:30 in California.  I've just been extremely tired, and, if you wanna know the truth, a little lonely.  It's hard to even pinpoint my emotions, however.  Cuz I'm not sad, but I'm not excited all the time...I'm back to being disoriented.  Learning new things, taking it in.  I have a hard time adapting to something new in an outgoing way.  I prefer to stay introverted, and keep my thoughts to myself.  I did this same thing in San Francisco.  That day that I went exploring with Christa and Amanda and we looked at Balmy Alley, I was still finding myself, still finding my place in this new and chaotic world.  The founder of my school apparently described chaos as a good sign because is presents change and opportunities for understanding.  Or something like that.  I can't pronounce or even spell his name either, but just know that it is something beautiful and Tibetan, and you may look it up if you want.  I know it ends in Rinpoche.

Our apartment is really nice.  Two-story with a view of the courtyard, but really mostly trees.  We have black and white checkered flooring, which I was definitely very excited about.  Our kitchen is quaint, and untidy at the moment.  We do not have a microwave, which came as a rather unpleasant surprise when I cut up my tofu the other day and wandered around the apartment searching for an unknowingly non-existent microwave to heat it up in.  I ended up using the toaster oven, and it tastes even better.  So hey, thanks, Universe.

The bus system here is simple.  I get to use it for free, too, which is tight.  They're not buses directly ordered from the school either that only take you to specific buildings.  Fuck you, Academy of Art.  These buses are public.  I'm able to take a bus to Denver for free.  I plan to do so on Saturday to visit my good friend Katy Houska.  I'm really excited.

The people here are all so welcoming, but I for some reason still feel so isolated.  I did however meet a girl who is also from Southern California, and we were able to connect on that.  A "California Club" is in the works, too, apparently.  The proposed idea of the "CA Club" is that during the winter while all the people from the motherfucking East Coast who are used to absurdly cold weather are outside snowboarding and skiing, we will be inside sipping coffee, wearing slippers and robes, and watching classic movies about California.  I think it's brilliant.  I of course will venture out into the cold weather at some point because I haven't since I was 6, and I definitely should.  Oh well, of course there was the snow adventure Amanda and I experienced last January.  But that was Southern California snow.  Though that adventure was bold and dangerous and memorable, I don't think it counts as real snow.  What the fuck do I care, I don't need to convince myself of anything.  Why am I trying to clear all of this up?

I've only been eating tofu and granola.  And vanilla yogurt.  Oh, and I've been drinking water by the bucketloads.  It is so dry out here.  I did not prepare for this weather.  I bought sweaters and coats and jeans and all kinds of cold weather shit, and now I'm sitting in my room wearing a tank top and boxers, with my hair up, a fan going, and the window wide open.  Fuck.  I've gotten tanner out here than I ever have in Southern California.  The sun shines 300 days of the year here.  At least I won't get seasonal depression.

So in our room, there were all these hooks in the wall around the room.  We didn't put them there, they were just there.  So my mom bought me really cute miniature Chinese lantern stringlights to string along said hooks.  Unfortunately you had to put them together yourself.  And now if ever asked "What do you hate most in the world?", I can honestly say "PUTTING TOGETHER AND ASSEMBLING FUCKING MINIATURE CHINESE LANTERN STRINGLIGHTS."  So if ever you buy miniature Chinese lantern stringlights and need help assembling them, please, PLEASE do not ask me to help.

I put all my pictures up yesterday.  Well, the ones I had anyway.  I only have a few, but I bought this really beautiful tablecloth to use as a backdrop and it looks awesome.

We have a skylight.  I thought that was worth mentioning.

Each of our lectures and meetings begin and end with a simple and traditional bow.  It's supposed to center you so that you may engage yourself in whatever will be mentioned.  We repeat it at the end to symbolize a conclusion.  I'm gonna admit, at first I was not a fan, but after a while it's started to grow on me.  Now it seems like second nature.  It's sort of a training process, too, I suppose, because right now it is very hard for me to center and engage myself in such a short amount of time, but I'm sure after a while I will be able to center myself within seconds and fully focus on what is about to happen.  Practice, practice, practice.

I think that's about it.  There's not too much to report on.  I start classes Monday, and they're gonna be epic.  Oh, and Boulder is a lot like Ventura, except instead of seeing the ocean everywhere you go, you see the mountains, which are just as beautiful.  There's already snow on some of them.  I'm thrilled, I'm excited, I'm tired.  Good night.

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To.

I'm not scared.  That's the only thing I can think of to say.  I've been wanting to write this huge testimonial for days now, because that is what I usually do when something is about to come to an end, and a new beginning is on the horizon.  God, that sounded so gay.  So incredibly gay.  I can't even write anymore.  I don't know why.  Nothing I have been writing is interesting in the least, unless I am drunk off my ass, and even then it's not all that entertaining.  I want to write something that doesn't make sense, but everything I have been writing lately is so literal, so tangible, so real.  My mind won't fuck itself up for even a second.  What I really want to do is leave now.  That's what I really wish to happen.  Leaving is so different this time.  Maybe I need to stop seeing it as such a big deal.  Maybe it's not that big of a deal.  Last time, it was a huge deal.  People made time to hang out with me during my last days.  But this time?  No one cares.  No one cares that I'm flipping out.  I am scared.  I am so scared.  But mainly it's because I think I've lost everything here.  I feel like I've lost everything in my world.  A lot of my friendships fell apart this year.  A lot.  And I didn't gain many either.  I just wish that for once I didn't have to throw my own party, that someone could take care of that for me.

Untitled.

And with a whisper and a wink he was gone.  "Into the wild", as he so delicately put it.  I'm glad he said something.  Just the fact that he even told me where he was headed, that he even had the thought to explain, that is altogether reassuring.  Reassuring of what, I don't know.  I go through so many bouts of hate with him, there are so many times where I would like nothing more than to throw him off a cliff.  He never feels that way about me, though.  I know that.  He doesn't want to throw me off a cliff, why should I throw him?  I've constantly been told by people who know us both very well, that we will remain friends throughout our entire lives.  Most of the time, I can't even believe that could ever be true because I get so frustrated with him.  So much of the time I can't even understand that.

But then there I was, laying in bed watching an episode of Scrubs, and my phone lights up.  A text message?  From him?  I could only imagine what it could say.  I thought it was a mistake at first.  All he said, though, was that he was leaving to go backpacking, he wouldn't be here when I left for school, so he wanted to wish me good luck and he knows I'm gonna do great.  There's a part of me that is frustrated with the fact that he could even think that text message would mean ANYTHING to me, but of course, sentimentality gets the better of me, and I shouldn't rebel, I should just be gracious.  He didn't have to say anything, I fully expected him not to, but he did, and it was very nice, and somehow proves that I wasn't a total dumbass when I was in love with him.  See, he's an actual human being, and I did maybe mean something to him at some point...

He'll be gone for 10 days, in some unknown world, with no cell phone or computer or anything.  I can finally stop holding my breath and relax.  No danger of seeing him or anything.  He's out doing his own thing, and I'm about to do mine.  It's really quite relieving.  I'm glad he left before me, now I don't have to worry about goodbyes or confrontations.  Fuck it.  Forget it.  He's gone.

It's just nice to know there are no hard feelings on his end.  He was fine with contacting me.  And that's a start.

On a Rainy Monday.

Just breathe.  Breathe.

8 days.

I think I'm gonna call him next week.

Weary & Bleary Eyed.

The other day, I couldn't even hold it in long enough to write it down, I just spoke.  I rambled and rambled like a mad woman, clutching the phone in my hand with your number dialed, just daring myself to hit "call."  I recorded everything I said.  Most of it gibberish, hardly making sense, fragments of our past sewn together haphazardly by a neglected shrew.  I can't even count the number of times I have thought about calling you.  The number of times I've thought about what I would say, what you would say, if anything at all, and how it would feel to finally call you.  I know it will never measure up to what I want.  Never.  I will never get what I want from you, and that is what kills me and haunts me and makes me want to call you, but keeps from actually doing so.  Everything feels unfinished and it kills me that you don't feel the same.  Aren't you even the least bit curious?  No, you're not, answered my own question, didn't even need to pause for a reply, I just know, I always know, I don't even know what I ask or wonder, because I always know the answer, I always knew the answer and yet there I stood for 3 long years, 3 years of heartache and depression, just waiting and wondering and wishing, analyzing the tiniest look, the tiniest phrase.  I remember wanting to stay up until all hours of the morning, just waiting for you to call, there was always a chance that you would.  My first summer without you, my first summer without seeing you almost every day.  My first summer without even riding in your car, or speaking to you at all.  I didn't even hear your voice this summer, not once.  Not a phone call, not a confrontation.  And all I feel is numb.  I'm sick of blaming you.  I'm sick of blaming me.  I'm sick of blaming the world.  I don't know where else to turn.  There's still a chance of me seeing you, of me talking to you, of having some sort of encounter.  And secretly and quietly I hope there will be one.  Secretly and quietly I picture it in my mind.  Colorado does not approach fast enough.

Crack Nature's Mold

It's that point where that person's face is unrecognizable, where you can't even place where you know them from.  I see him, and I see his face, and it seems like he should make sense, and to my numb and inebriated mind he does make sense, but the face, the face just doesn't register.  I see my past, I know my past and I remember him, but the way he looks now...I wait for him to talk to me.  All the time.  I always want him to be the one to communicate, establish, initiate, when I could just as easily do any of those.  But where's the fun in that?  My face is numb.  The people who know me well, know what that means, and probably know where these miscellaneous writings are coming from.  I spent 10 minutes staring at his face, that seemingly happy face that hardly ever reared its head in photograph for all the time I knew him.  I don't think he ever even posed for a photo, except for our dance picture, and even then it seems as if he just turned around and there was that face, that smirk.  There are so many vivid pictures of him in my mind, and yet none of them are even similar to the pictures I have just seen.  None.  It's hard for me to believe I ever even knew him.  Maybe I didn't.  Maybe I don't.  I want to take the easy way out with the whole "maybe it was just a dream" philosophy, but we all know that's not true in the slightest.  It wasn't a dream, it was real, I was there, he was there, several other people were there, days, weeks, months passed of us being there together with other people and enjoying our time.  I was there.  I did know him.  I just don't know him now.  Fuck.  None of this is making sense.  Hands and face are numb.  Even the toes.  But my mind is alert, and thinking at rapid speed.  Where's the sense in all this, the theme that can bring me back down to earth?  It's not there.  It's sitting in that wine bottle in the fridge.  Fuuuuuuuck.  It's almost 5 am, I check out at 10.  Still haven't packed.  What a whirlwind this has been, and now it is all gone.  Blow winds, and crack your cheeks!  Rage!  Blow!

Feelin' Two Foot Small

I don't even know what I would say.

I saw him the other night and it definitely messed with my head.  Number one, because it was in a relatively familiar environment with people we both knew and a setting that could not have been more reminiscent.  I went and saw A Midsummer Night's Dream, and he was there.  The last time we were both at a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream was the last time we were ever intimate together, and that was quite possibly the point in our friendship that caused everything to come a-tumbling down.  And there we were in that room, watching this play that ruined our friendship, with all of our mutual theatre friends, in plain view of each other.  What's worse is that he definitely did not put any of these facts together.  He was just seeing a play.  Not reliving painful memories.

I was hurt that he didn't say hi, but I can't decide if I would've been more unhappy if he had said hi.  What if he had approached me?  I'd probably be sitting here crying about how unfulfilling it was.  Complaining about how he didn't hug me, or look at me, or ask me how I'm doing, or what I'm doing, or tell me that I look nice, or whatever.  Would I have yelled at him?  Ignored him?  Probably not.  I'd like to think those choices would've crossed my mind, but they probably wouldn't have.  Why didn't I approach him, you ask?  Well, because I'm too afraid.  I'm afraid he'll ignore me, or yell at me, or reject me in some way.  And I feel like he owes it to me to be the first to say hello.  Why should I have to be the one to initiate contact?  But then again...why does he?

I still don't even know what I would say.  All I want to do whenever I see him is to spill about all the amazing things I am doing, how happy I am, how many friends I've made, how much I really truly don't need him, and how well I have survived without him.  But I know he doesn't care.  I will never be able to impress him or make him care.  Yes, he'll be happy for me, whatever, but he'll never give me the reaction I want.  And I will never be truly healthy and happy until I reach that point where convincing him of my happiness is not an issue or a necessity.  I shouldn't even care.  And right now I do, and I am aware of that, and I'm working on it to stop.

Why do all signs point toward him, though?  Right when I think I'm ok, I see him.  Every time I'm on the brink of letting go, something clicks in my brain and all of a sudden some glimmer of hope for salvation pops up and points directly at him.  This happens every time.  It used to be that I would look for these signs, but now they just fucking happen and haunt me and ruin my life for about a week and a half.

This acting program is the only thing keeping me sane.  Being distant and away.  There's no chance seeing him out here.  None.

Then why do I feel like he's right behind me?

Viva La Vida

A chapter in my life has been closed.  A new beginning has started and it feels wonderful.  I have finally let go of what is done, what is over, and I am finally ok with doing so.  It doesn't hurt, it does not cause me pain, and I feel so much stronger, so independent.  I miss him, yes, but I don't NEED him anymore.  It is no longer necessary for me to see him, to talk to him, to remain in his life.  All that is here now is the present and the future.  I don't even feel the past.  I cannot express to you how glorious this feels.  To be so free, to be so distant, and yet feel so unified.  No longer in repair, no longer blaming it on a simple twist of fate the regrets are gone, the anger is gone, everything has fallen into place, and I have done it all on my own.

Yesterday was very cleansing.  I was given the chance to experience a lot of new things, to move on to something completely different and unique and life-changing.  I worked with people I had just met and constructed relationships with all of these people.  I entered a new life.

This morning I woke up feeling like hell.  My head hurt, my eyes wouldn't open, my stomach was all messed up, I was ridiculously sore; I felt awful.  But it wasn't the kind of awful where you don't want to do anything.  In fact, I felt more motivated than ever.  What I think happened was that because I did so many new things yesterday, so many cleansing processes, my body is now trying to get rid of all the toxins that polluted me before.  I'm working all the bad stuff out of my system and conforming into this new person.  Now I feel like doing everything all the time.  Even right now when I am utterly exhausted and going on 6 hours of sleep, I still want to go for a run.  Or dance.  Or just move in some way.  I'm still open to do all of that, because it has all been so refreshing so far.

I've never experienced anything like this before.  Being able to let go of all my inhibitions and just live and be with people who have no idea who I was or even am, and I'm free to be whoever I want.  No point of reference, except my own.  How fantastic.

Bleeding Love

I don't feel poetic.  I don't know how I feel.  I all of a sudden just felt really empty.  A deep sadness just creeped in out of nowhere.  I'm not even sure if it was attached to him, but his face was the first thing to flash in my mind.  I made the realization today that I am afraid to close my eyes.  I hate closing my eyes.  I was sitting out on this dock today over by Marina Park, and it was beautiful and tranquil and the perfect place to sit and meditate, but I just couldn't do it.  I got out there, sat down, stared out at the sea and tried so hard to keep my eyes focused on one thing.  I couldn't do it.  I can't fixate, I'm always all over the place.  Maybe I'm afraid if I stop moving, I'll never be able to move again.  I stopped moving when I met Jake.  I closed my eyes for far too long.  And now I have a hard time even blinking.  I sat there listening to the waves, watching them roll in and out, and then I tried so hard to close my eyes so I could soak it all in and delve into my mind and listen to the world and all that, but I just couldn't do it.  I would have my eyes closed for 3 seconds and then have to open them.  And it's always like that.  I never close my eyes in cars, on buses, airplanes, nothing.  I can never fall asleep with other people around.  At sleepovers, I almost always fall asleep last.  I'm just really paranoid, I guess.

I'm still feeling empty.  I don't know where this came from.  I'm gonna try to write right through it.

It's hard for me to face the fact that there is this person out there who knows more about me than probably anyone I know, including my mother, and I don't even talk to him anymore.  He's out there walking around with all my secrets stored up, and I don't even know who he is anymore.  We can't even look at each other.  I saw him yesterday from afar, not even up close, and the wind was immediately knocked out of me.  He didn't even have to look at me.  He didn't even have to acknowledge my existence, and here I was with my head between my knees, panting like a psychopath just trying to catch my breath.  All I see in my mind is every day and night we had together; every car ride, every talk, every phone call, every play, it's all there in my head, and he's there in my head, but my eyes only see this person that I don't even know, who knows all about me, every single detail, because I chose to scream and I made him listen.  I always feel ugly around him because he always made me feel like I wasn't good enough.

When I go running, I picture him running, too.  It turns it into a race and I'm determined to win.  I just for once want to be better than him at something.  He's had two girlfriends since me and countless hook-ups, and I've had none of either.  I'm just too afraid, I guess.  Don't want to get hurt, don't want to get too attached; I run from everyone.

I've become very reserved.  Like, I have a really hard time making friends on my own.  Sure, I mean, I've gained new friends over the years, but it was always through someone else.  I haven't just "made a friend" in a really long time.  So that's scary, cuz I'm leaving for Boulder in like 48 days, where I know NO ONE and will be forced to make new friends, or else be really lonely.  It's just been too hard for me to trust anyone after Jake.  Jake...god, that name doesn't even have a meaning anymore.  It doesn't resonate or anything.  It doesn't seem real.  Maybe that's why I have such a hard time seeing him, because it's like seeing a ghost.  He's just a memory--a figment of my own imagination, if you will.  A dream.

Then why does it still hurt so bad?

Different Colours Made of Tears

inspiration, motivation, cooperation, exasperation, saturation. a video into my past turned into a window into my soul, as i watched memories being made and facts unfold themselves. i didn't remember until just now, i didn't remember until just this second how much i was in love with him, how much i cared. i didn't remember what he looked like, i didn't even remember why i loved him, it was all gone. and then there he is unexpectedly, there is that smirk, that drawl, that long hair and those goddam blue eyes, and suddenly, i remember. i remember what it was that was so captivating, because 3 years later and it's still there. i just couldn't let go. one minute i held the key, next the walls were closed on me. i couldn't just say goodbye. adios. aufwiedersehen. none of that was good enough, instead i clung tightly and dug my fingernails into his arm, just emptying his veins, killing his spirit, ruining what little trust he had. i don't know how he got out. i wish i could get out. i wish i could leave. it's like i just woke up from a terrible dream and i'm not in the same place that i was when i fell asleep, and i have no idea how i got here. i didn't remember the past 3 years until just now. i didn't remember what happened until just now.

i slept for the past 2 days. just constant sleep. i woke up to eat, then went right back to sleeping. i'm tired. i'm always tired, and i don't even know why. for what reason do i have to be tired? the only times i'm not tired is when the moon is out, the city has fallen asleep, and i don't have to hear anyone else in this house make a noise except for my dog who wanders the house hourly. night is my only escape from communication in this godforsaken household, it's the only time where there is no risk of yelling or of fighting or screaming or anger. not with anyone else, anyway. usually i yell and fight and scream and get angry at myself during these few brief hours. i would really like to just sleep till august.

i might not see my best friend till december. i haven't seen her since january. you do the math. how painful is that.

See Me, Feel Me, Touch Me, Heal Me

I used to pray to God when I was in 6th or 7th grade. I'd pray for very selfish reasons like "Make Nick like me" or "Please let me be popular", shit like that. But it was praying all the same, and I really believed there was a God up there listening. I grew out of that for a little while during High School. I found out what Agnostic meant and decided that was what I was. I believed in a God, but not a specific one, and when my first experience with real unrequited love made its appearance, I was back to praying.

By the end of Junior year, I hated God. My life was in pieces, and because I didn't want to just blame myself, I blamed God. I stopped praying, and eventually, I stopped believing. I turned into a full-fledged Atheist, cynicism and all. Even when my prayers were answered in the middle of summer, I stuck to my guns and still did not believe in a God. And I wouldn't for a couple years after that.

I don't know when I finally decided there was some kind of a Divine force again, but I'm guessing it was sometime last fall, or maybe even in the summer. In any case, I was not back to praying, but I was back to believing in something; not necessarily God, or a God, or many Gods, and not exactly Buddha, but I definitely put all my faith into karma. And I started to view the last 3 years of my life as payback for all the manipulative shit I had done to someone in particular. I wore this poor boy down, killed his spirit, and then asked for more. I know everyone thinks he was so horrible to me, but if you heard even half the conversations we had, you would hate me, too. So when I realized I was basically in the doghouse as far as karma goes, I decided I was going to try and put as much kindness out there as I could. I thought that would resolve it. I thought then ideally, I would be, well, saved, for lack of a better word.

But even though I was putting all this kindness out there, I still felt tortured. Things were still not exactly working, my life was still in shambles, and I kept feeling so neglected. Things would still happen to me that just seemed so unnecessary, and I knew it was payback for what I'd done, but it was still just as hurtful. A lot of the things had to do with that poor boy and unfortunate meetings. When he came home for spring break, I ran into him very unexpectedly and it was awful. Not just once, but several times, each more painful than the next. I finally accepted it and by the time he left, it was ok, but I was still shook up and definitely did not want to see him when summer rolled around.

Well, summer has now rolled around, and he is back. I went to my alma mater's graduation the other day and had such a strong feeling that I would see him there. I was extremely alert the whole time, because I knew that once I let my guard down and forgot about it, that would be the moment I would see him. It never happens when you expect it to. So I kept an eye out the entire time, scanning the crowds for him, making sure he wasn't there. And...he wasn't. He hadn't showed. I was in the clear. I went to greet all my friends who'd graduated and took several pictures and finally relaxed. I was invited to a graduation party, but opted to go home instead. I was going to get a ride with my friend Trevor, but then we realized that his car was actually probably further away than my house, so I walked with him a little ways to the corner of Seaward and Poli. As soon as we reached the corner, I looked at the white truck sitting there diagonally waiting to turn onto Seaward and lost all my breath. It was him. We made eye contact, but then I abruptly looked away, hugged Trevor good bye and began walking as fast as I could down Seaward. He turned onto Seaward and drove right past me. I almost threw a fit. I went that entire ceremony without seeing him, there were hundreds of people there and he wasn't one, but then I decide to walk this certain way at this exact moment and I see him. I fucking see him. If I had talked to Toby for another minute, if I had walked a different way, if I'd tripped and fallen, I would've missed him, I would not have seen him, but for some reason those events fell into order and there he was. At the moment I least expected it, there he was.

As soon as that happened, I looked up and cried out, "Are we even yet?!" I was sick of this bullshit. Who does that happen to? No one. I wanted to know if my payback was over, if this madness would end. Cuz I have been giving and giving and giving for quite some time now, just trying to make it all even and balanced, and yet I'm still tortured with that. I walked home as fast as I could with watery eyes, just really wanting to punch something or someone. It was awful.

The next day I went for a walk and thought about the events that had happened the day before. I silently asked Karma if we were even yet, and if so, to give me a sign. The wind actually picked up a little bit at that point, but I didn't know how to interpret that, so I ignored it.

The day after, I was still searching for a sign, still silently asking. I knew it would come to me when I least expected it [as most things do], so I tried really hard to forget about it.

I was talking with Toby later that night and decided to get a small snack. Well, when we visited my Nana on Tuesday, she sent us home with a huge stash of fortune cookies. Since that was all we had in our house basically, that didn't require microwaves or toaster ovens or anything like that, I grabbed one and then went back into my room to finish my conversation with Toby. I opened up the fortune cookie and ate the half that didn't have the fortune in it, wondering if fortune cookies go stale [they do], and then when I was done eating the one side, I pulled out my fortune. This what it read:

"From now on your kindness will lead you to success."

I sat there and smiled and stared at it for about 10 seconds. Toby asked me what was wrong, and I tried to explain this entire story to him, but it's a hard one to tell.

I don't want to say that was my sign from God, but I think it was a sign of some sort, a sign I needed anyway. And the events fit together all too well for it to really be anything else. I always leave a door open for coincidence however, and I don't think I will ever be truly persuaded to lean one way or another. Even when I was "Atheist" I always left a door open for faith.

So that's my story, and that's where I stand.

Who'll Stop The Rain?

My heart hurts. The beat of anger and the beat of hurt are all rolled into one pounding tempo that will not shut the fuck up. I'm chewing on my teeth because my pride has been worn down too thin. I'm always hurt. I always end up hurt by someone, I can't get attached to anyone. They always end up leaving me for another person, another summer, another country, another life. And I'm always alone sitting here wondering what I did wrong. They always change. They always change and don't bring me with them, they leave me behind. I trust and I trust and I trust and then I'm thrown away.

I'm just so tired. I want a break. Please, God, Buddha, Allah, whoever the fuck you are, can I get a goddam break? Can you please just give me something constant that isn't going to rip my heart out at the drop of a hat? Can I please just exist for once? Can the things I want just please want me back?

I have to get out of this town away from everyone.

Smoke Without Fire

We were both outsiders. When things got too loud or too fake, we reached out to each other momentarily to grab onto that reality we both so wonderfully kept intact. He was more real than I was, of course. And I always reached out to him more openly than he ever reached out to me.

He showed me less and less of his real side, though, as the months and years wore on. And as soon as I began to feel comfortable talking about worldly things and inner thought, he closed his doors more tightly and left me out in the cold. I stopped believing in a God, and he didn't care to talk about it. I stopped believing in myself, and he turned the other way. I stopped believing in anything, and he was gone.

That's when the rebellion started, the rebellion against reality and religion and the world altogether. My world became one of nothing, no responsibilities or commitments or rules. I did what I wanted because what else was there to do? I'd been following this dear boy for so long and as soon as he betrayed me, I lost faith in everything and everyone. I couldn't follow anyone, especially teachers and adults. Art became my world, and I used it as an excuse for everything. I was an artist, so I could read T.S. Eliot instead of doing homework, I could paint portraits of Bob Dylan instead of writing essays, and I could do theatre instead of, well, going to class. Because I thought no one could understand my tortured mind. And I still thought that as I was sitting on those hot cement bleachers in the middle of June, watching all my friends receive their diplomas and smiling emphatically. They'd done it. They'd made it. But I, the artist, sat there screaming on the inside knowing this wasn't right.

The work was still bullshit, mind you. The work I refused to do was still bullshit, I will never change my opinion of that. And I still feel that the public school system failed me tremendously, but I know of course it was mostly and namely my fault. I could've just done it. It wasn't like I wasn't smart enough or anything, I just didn't have the motivation or the focus. Reality was too much for me back then. I couldn't deal with it, so I ignored it, made up excuses, I did whatever I could to make it seem like I was in the right, that I was the victim, and that everyone around me was just out to get me. I was very paranoid.

He didn't help. I don't think he intentionally tried to drown me, but he did. I was far too caught up in him to look back or even ahead, so I stayed another year. I stayed to try and salvage whatever was left between us. I skipped out on a whole future just so I could have one more moment with him, one more measly moment, that I never got, mind you, and ended up pushing him further and further and further away, as I drowned and drowned and drowned. I watched as he went through relationship after relationship, love interest after love interest, and every time I would lay awake at night for weeks just wondering what it was that they had that I didn't. Why I was so boring compared to them. Why I wasn't worth it.

I ignored myself for three years, only paying attention to what he was looking for, what he wanted, and paid no attention to myself. I'd never fallen so hard, so fast, and so low. That's when the manipulation started. I would pick fights just so I could reassure myself that he actually cared about me. I started to stage phone calls and get-togethers. I ALWAYS needed to talk to him about SOMETHING. I always had some crisis that he needed to tend to. Needless to say, it wore him out very quick, and though he still might've really cared about me, he couldn't handle it and started to detach himself.

Our reality pact finally broke one night when I rebelled against him and got as drunk as I could get for the first time in my entire life. His birthday was the next weekend, and he'd decided that for his birthday, he would drink for the first time. I was invited, but didn't go. I don't know if it was the booze talking or what, but from what I hear he was pretty bummed I didn't show. He called me that night, wasted out of his mind, rambling about loneliness and how I'm the record that Holden breaks in Catcher in the Rye. He ended up dropping his phone behind his bed and falling asleep minutes afterward. I laughed for a little bit after this conversation, and then cried knowing this was the end of an era. We were no longer outsiders together. We'd crossed the line and already lost each other.

My faith still rested in that boy. My opinion of myself was still taken from what HE thought of me. It was disgusting. He didn't even have to say anything, he could just give me a look and that would be what my day would revolve around. I would analyze it, try to figure out if it was a good look, a bad look, a nice look, a mean look, whatever. If he was unhappy with me, then I was unhappy with me, it didn't matter what else had happened that day. Lots of paintings came out of this. Paintings trying to convey my biggest loss: my first love and half of myself. And for a while I thought I had found my calling, but when the inspiration finally ran dry, I was back to square one. Once there was nothing left to fight about and no reason to contact him, the paintings stopped and everything seemed empty.

We tried being friends and it kind of worked for a little while, but I always ended up caring a lot more about him than he cared about me, or at least that was how I felt. So I pushed him away again. Then a week or so later, I went running back to him, pleading for help and support and advice, trying to get him to turn around, and after hours upon hours of tears and yelling and saying things we both didn't mean, I got him to turn around and help. I got him to talk. And I felt so guilty afterwards, I couldn't even focus on his advice. All I could focus on was how reluctant he was to even be a part of my life. I still did the same thing a week later, though, but this time he didn't budge. He would not turn around and help. So I told him I wished I'd never met him. I didn't mean it of course, but I said it and all he said was ok. We haven't spoken since.

I still think about him all the time. I can't get him out of my head. I don't dare contact him, though, cuz I know that is over, there is no coming back from that, but he is still always in my head, in my dreams, in my nightmares, in my thoughts, in every song I listen to, or every book I read, his voice or his face or his eyes, his goddam eyes that could always see directly into my soul, they're always there. The memory of him will not fade. And I am so scared of seeing him because I'm afraid he'll become a part of my life again, and then there will be a whole new memory to haunt me.

But I know that if I go this whole summer without seeing him, I'm going to be just as disappointed.

Road Block.

I've hit a wall. I apologize. I'm going to take a slight hiatus.

San Francisco Blues II

The trip started out well enough. We arrived an hour early, which gave us just enough time to wander the ornate walls of Union Station, the sweet aroma of coffee leading the way and tempting our weary minds. I was up till 5 am remembering the backhills of my mind and immersing myself in my own San Francisco Blues with the help of dear Kerouac. My mother awoke me in her sing-song way at the beautiful 8 am mark, but I lay in bed for a good half hour, tying up loose ends from the night before. And then it rained and then it stopped, and in between shared laughs and remarks, I focused on my own world changing, covering my glazed over eyes with my 60s Swedish shades.

There's this boy sitting a few seats behind me now, reading some epic work about freedom and truth and if I had the guts and the vigor I would attempt a polite and simple conversation, but instead I sit here hiding behind my Kerouac and these blue velour seat cushions, while Lou Reed puts a spike into my vein. He only brought a guitar and a book with him, and as intriguing as that is for me, I haven't the faintest idea if it is intriguing for him. Maybe he's one of those secret beats, the ones who don't relish in the fact that they may have the key to the universe. I'm not a secret beat; I sit here in my loud Kerouac shirt, reading my goddam Kerouac, writing my own goddam Kerouac, knowing that if asked, my mind would not be able to catch up with my thoughts, and therefore my mouth would be dumb, mute, ignorant, fake. Enough about this boy, he's making me depressed.

My trips to San Francisco always fascinate me. I'm not talking about actually being in San Francisco, I'm talking about the journey up, the always silent, always mystifying journey. I've spent hours just staring out the window organizing thoughts and rhymes, trying to match my life to these surroundings. Most of the landscapes consist of blackened weathered trees, or dry golden feathery grass, or the lost souls of soon-slaughtered cows, and power lines after power lines. Sometimes a river or two, but mainly just desolate nowhere. The baggage compartments keep popping open and my OCD desires telepathic powers so I can close each one or open all of them, one of the other. I'm sitting in a seat that when vacant causes an ultimate ruckus and makes concentration almost impossible. For the whole first half of the trip no one was brave enough to sit in it apparently and it disrupted the minds of those without headphones for the first 3 hours. Lots of windmills, lots and lots of windmills. I honestly can't tell if I am asleep or awake, or confused or focused, but in any case, the weather's hitting me hard with its dark grey clouds, not even revealing some patches of light or hope, and I can feel Kerouac's grip on my heart, soul, and mind tighten as we get nearer and nearer to dear Ol' Francis. It's very reflective of the day Mander and I left San Francis back in January before her ultimate African dream captured her for 4 months and banished me to solitude. I can't complain, though, I think my time alone was meant to let me reflect on the things I learned from dear Amanda, and I got back on track well enough.

And I end here with green rolling hills and a motion sick stomach. My adventures continue in San Francisco, though my life may be separate.

San Francisco Blues

I remember one morning back in October, back when I was living in San Francisco, I had to leave my dorm at 4:45 am to catch the 5 am BART. I was taking the BART to SFO, so I could fly home and surprise my VHS friends. I know, there were far too many acronyms in that last sentence. Anyways, I left my dorm at 4:45 am, all bundled up in my thick black coat and wearing my Beatle boots with my small black luggage in tow. I gave an acknowledgment nod to the guy working the front desk of our dorm building, and he gave one back. I'd never been out walking around in the city this early in the morning [or this late at night, however you decide to look at it], and I was a little weary of doing so. My dorm wasn't exactly in the best of neighborhoods, and walking around during the day always proposed a slight risk, I could only imagine what it would be like at this hour. I took a deep breath and opened up the glass doors of my dorm building to be greeted by the cold and brisk night/morning air. I was surprised at what I saw.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing and no one. Only streetlights and taillights. There were hardly any people. I started walking down Sutter St. towards Powell, my Beatle boots clicking along the cement, and was filled with extreme wonderment. I could not believe how deserted it was and how safe I felt. My rolling suitcase clicked along with my boots, and almost echoed within these empty and dimly lit streets. I tell ya, Union Square is beautiful when it is deserted. It's beautiful anyway, especially at night when all the lights are on and the decorations in the department stores are aglow, but there is no comparison to what it's like when the noise stops, the people stop, and it just sits there as still as can be. Nothing moves. It was the first time I'd been able to walk down Sutter St. and not be hassled. It was amazing.

I wrote hundreds of poems in my head about its beauty as soon as I reached the BART station, but they were of course lost in the depths of my mind as the hours wore on. Before that point, I hadn't really enjoyed the city and could only ever think about coming home, but as soon as that happened...well, that was the first time I genuinely felt an attachment to the city, where it genuinely impressed me. I'd been doing all the touristy things before that [Union Square, Nob Hill, Haight-Ashbury, Balmy Alley], and they were all amazing, and I did enjoy wandering about those places, but it wasn't until that cold morning in October that I actually saw the city for what it was. And in the coming months my attachment to it would grow more and more, with a little help from my friends.

I always found it ironic that the first time I fell in love with San Francisco was when I was trying to escape it. Maybe it wasn't even the city, maybe it was just the encompassing feeling I had of being like a rolling stone, out on my own, wandering the streets of this city I barely know with belongings in tow, and not knowing what to expect. I could've gone anywhere, or at least that was how I felt. I did after all have a very set destination [a $125 plane ticket destination], but I felt like I could go anywhere. And after that night, I was no longer afraid of the city. In the coming months I would make several more trips by myself, similar to this one, but never of the same grandeur. I'd make tons of trips to USF by myself, a half hour bus ride across town on one of the shadiest buses in all of San Francisco. Walking home from work by myself at 11 pm every Friday and Saturday. Those moments became so freeing. I never felt rushed or scared, I only ever felt relaxed and content. I have a feeling I will wander back there someday.

"It's too gray,
I'm too cold--
I wanta go Golden,
That's my home."

Thanks, Jack.

My Evaluation of The Beatles

Everyone has their favorite Beatle, this is known. Most people go for either John Lennon or Paul McCartney, because they are the most well-known and wrote the majority of The Beatles' songs. John is usually more favorable than Paul, however, because he is in fact dead, and died in a very untimely fashion. Paul is normally a favorite of those who either A) hate Yoko Ono, or B) enjoy Wings. George Harrison has been gaining more popularity lately, however, because he is in fact "the quiet one", and therefore adds a very unique twist when you say he's your favorite. He did write some great stuff of course, but most of the time, the only reason people say that George is their favorite is because it's all too trendy to say John, and all too embarrassing to say Paul. Ringo Starr never gets any love, that is always how it goes. While all the other Beatles got unique recognitions [Paul was "the cute one", John "the smart one", George "the quiet one"], Ringo was only known as "the drummer." For some reason people have gathered this image that he is an untalented and worthless musician who could have been replaced by anyone. For the most part, the people who DO like Ringo, mainly just feel sorry for him. Or are drummers.

I don't have a favorite Beatle. I can't decide. George was my favorite when my obsession started, mainly because I really liked the songs "Blue Jay Way" and "Here Comes The Sun." Also, the one friend that I had who was equally obsessed with them [even more so than me], her favorite was George. But then I got a hold of John Lennon's Plastic Ono Band album, and "Working Class Hero" immediately converted me. "Jealous Guy" also became a favorite, and at the time seemed to dictate my life. Around that time I fell in love, however, and soon John was too cynical and edgy for what I was feeling. Paul became a little more popular, with his always rhyming and always impish sounds. I saw him in concert, too, which pushed him even further to the top. Unfortunately, I still thought Ringo was worthless, as most Beatles fans do, and did not give him any credit. "Octopus's Garden" was ALWAYS skipped over whenever I listened to Abbey Road. I just didn't get it, I didn't appreciate it for being silly. I thought it ruined the whole motif that The Beatles were going for, as well-accomplished and serious musicians. I didn't realize until later that The Beatles were trying to reach ALL levels, not just the intellectual serious ones. Songs like "Your Mother Should Know" and "Baby, You're A Rich Man" contribute to that theory, and both of those were Lennon/McCartney gems.

Then my heart broke, and I was back on the John Lennon. There was some George Harrison mixed in; songs like "All Things Must Pass" and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" were great get-the-fuck-over-this songs. Paul McCartney's Chaos and Creation in the Backyard album also extended some valuable advice and helped make light of the situation with its child-like melodies. I still did not care for Ringo, though the song "Act Naturally" suddenly became a favorite. Still not written by him, but sung very nicely. At least he could carry a tune.

Here's how I see it:
John Lennon is the one for the radicals. He's the revolutionary one, the one preaching for peace, and unafraid of crossing lines. But he does it in a very stylistic way, a very organized and polite way. He didn't light things on fire or make obscene gestures. He encouraged revolution, but at the same time he talked about it in a way of complete class. The song "Revolution" isn't about rebellion, it's about common sense. It's about displaying your opinions in a way that makes sense and isn't just for the sake of "fighting the man." "But when you talk about destruction/Don't you know that you can count me out/Don't you know it's gonna be alright." That's not the voice of an angry man or even a rebellious man, but of a man who was willing to work for change. He didn't care how long it was going to take, as long as it was in a peaceful manner. That's dedication and respect right there.

Paul McCartney appeals to...well, just about everybody. People who appreciate good music, I suppose. He's respectable and he's talented, but I think the one thing he is missing is a cause. I know he's a strict vegetarian and fights for animal rights all the time, but he's mainly known for his feel good ballads. I think people who are fans of Michael Bolton and Lionel Richie can appreciate him more in his entirety than other people. He's had a lot of throwaway hits like "Let 'Em In", "No More Lonely Nights", and "My Love." Janis Joplin once described her sound as the bottom layer of rock and roll. She said there is a surface layer and that is where most people are, and then there are the bottom layers, and that's where she said she was. I think Paul is an outer layer musician. The edgiest he ever got was with "Helter Skelter", whereas John was ALWAYS rattling our minds with "Yer Blues" or again, "Revolution." Paul's for the people who like to feel, like to dance, and like to sing...and probably aren't too good at the latter two. But I'll tell you, there is not a single person on this Earth, musician or not, who can whole-heartedly hate the song "Yesterday." No matter how hard you might try, you will always find something that you like about that song.

George Harrison is for those who when they listen to music, they like to stare off into space and lose themselves for 4 minutes or so. I don't care who you are, "Within You Without You" will ALWAYS put you in a trance if you listen to it for more than a minute. It doesn't even matter what part of the song. You could catch it 3 minutes in, and still be compelled to sit down and think about the state of the world. Although always known as the lanky one with the guitar, he did yield some great hits, that I feel are under appreciated. "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" wasn't even taken seriously by John and Paul until George brought Eric Clapton in to record lead guitar. He wasn't necessarily a radical, but he was a peacemaker of sorts, and I really feel like he took advantage of his musical skills in all the right ways to try and get a point across. The Concert for Bangladesh was the first ever benefit concert, and that launched a whole new perspective on rock and roll and its meaning. It'd always been about sex and rebellion, but then it became more about meaningful lyrics and mantra-like melodies. I think George is for the people who have more worldly opinions.

And then there is Ringo Starr. Somehow in the course of 45 years or so, Ringo has gotten the reputation of the "less important" Beatle. Though there may be some truth to that, it still does not mean he is a terrible nor untalented musician. Yes, if you were to put "Yesterday", "Revolution", "Something", and "Octopus's Garden" all together, of course "Octopus's Garden" is going to be the inferior one, but that does not mean he's completely awful. It just means "Yesterday", "Revolution", and "Something" are INCREDIBLY AMAZING and INCOMPARABLE. You put ANY song next to those ones, and it doesn't matter how good it is, it will ALWAYS be inferior. Somehow a rumor of sorts got started, too, that Ringo is a bad drummer, but it is a fact that great drummers such as Dave Grohl and Phil Collins hail Ringo as being a revolutionary and phenomenal addition to music history. I see Ringo as the balance in The Beatles. He was very good at keeping time and putting in the right accents without taking away from the actual piece. And with The Beatles, if you had too much good stuff going at one time, it would ruin the entire song. George Harrison was a crappy guitarist, but it didn't matter because he was able to carry a tune, keep with the beat, and give what was needed. Ringo did the same. He let the lyrics and the melody do their thing and carry the piece. The Beatles didn't need an elaborate drummer, and that's a fact. If Ringo was such a horrible drummer, The Beatles would NEVER have made it as far at they did. People never seem to take that into consideration. Ringo is for the people who can appreciate The Beatles as a whole, and not just as individuals.

The magic of The Beatles was their balance, and the reason they split was because that balance was disrupted. John became too deep for them, Paul's ego grew too large, and George and Ringo became suffocated by John and Paul's overwhelming popularity. I can't choose a favorite because they are all irreplaceable. None of them could have survived without the other. What if it had just been John, Paul, and George, hmm? What then? Or just George, Paul, and Ringo? The combinations are endless, and also useless. It's a fact that each were able to contribute something on their own that made The Beatles what they were and how they are viewed today. John's attitude gave them their edge, Paul's smile gave them their appeal, George's subtleties gave them their meaning, and Ringo's beat pulled them all together. I'm sorry, but The Beatles are The Beatles, and cannot be separated.

When someone asks me who my favorite Beatle is, I always say, "Eric Clapton."

i'm surprised i haven't killed someone yet.

i've kind of stopped listening to the world. there's too much happening for me to comprehend, so i just stopped listening. or maybe i'm still listening, but it's more like selective hearing. i'm really numb. i don't think there is anything that anyone could say right now that would shock me the least bit; i feel like i've heard it all. i realize things can always be much worse, much much worse, that is always in the back of my mind, and i think at this point it's the only thing saving me from a mental breakdown. starving orphan children in africa are keeping me from losing my mind, but at the same time put more weight on my heart. my heart is always heavy with something, anything. if it's not one thing, it's the other. my life was finally sorting itself out, and then all of a sudden these walls showed up, these separate walls of all different heights, they just stuck themselves in my path, and now i have to fucking climb over them, and i keep going, i always keep going, because if i stop, i WILL lose my mind, and it will not be pretty. being awake has just started to really wear me out. it seems like the world is moving so much faster now more than ever.


there are those slow moments, however, like when you finally realize that the person you were so enamoured with 3 years ago doesn't want anything to do with you anymore, and honestly wouldn't care if you stepped in front of a bus. those moments last forever. and ever. and always occur at odd times. like 8:13 am on a wednesday, or 2:08 am on a sunday. or when you realize that the aforementioned person basically derailed your life for 3 years and you still don't feel whole because they took the other half of you with them when they left. those moments where you wish you hadn't met them; those moments where you wish they didn't exist.


but then there are those thoughts that come to you at 2:12 am on a sunday, where you realize what you've learned and where you're going, and all of a sudden, it really doesn't matter what you've been through or who it was that you went through it with. none of that is important.


i've got a lot of great people in my life right now who really do love me. some have only been around for a couple months, some for years, but in any case they're here, and really really would care if i stepped in front of a bus.


"though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious." thanks, jack.


i'm gonna go back to reading big sur. i think it's time i picked it up again.

Away.

again, 20 to 4 and no hopes of retreat, though my eyes are puffy with longing and lose their burn when closed. but my fingers won't stop moving, typing, strumming, and i can't stop breathing and humming. i squint--but not hard enough to see past all of this haze. my vision is clouded and so is my mind. my stomach will not stop twisting itself, and nausea has actually started to sink in. nauseous; nauseous with hurt, with reluctance, with bitterness and remorse. i broke him down because i knew i could, i knew i could make him see my way, to pull himself together and be there for me, even if he really didn't want to be. i wanted to make him be there and see and feel all of my hurt. crying through text, draping each word with a tear, making sure i struck a chord. and he turned around. he actually showed concern. he asked what was needed and i told him. and then through tired and depressed thought, he muttered, "don't." don't. like it's that easy. then with a final wave of hopeful and forced concern he said:

"Let's go, Tom Wingfield."

only he would make that connection. only he would save me with that phrase. and for a minute, it made me laugh. but the laugh quietly turned to guilt as i reflect upon the night with heavy eyes and a heavy heart. why do i keep doing this to him? why do i drag him back in? but namely...why do i always have to drag him back in?

i'm waiting for the day he walks in by himself, and my hands are at my side and not clenching his shirt collar.

Life On Mars?

You can't hear anything in outer space. Nothing. Sound gets lost.

I think I had a dream about this. Or maybe it was just part of a weird thought pattern. But in any case, I thought about this at some point last week. I thought about how if I was in outer space, by myself, how silent it would be. I would only be able to hear my breathing. Just my breath.

There are times where I feel really alone. Like, I feel very small compared with the rest of the world, compared to the things around me. And I feel distanced from everything, from all of it, even when there is someone sitting right next to me, talking to me even, I still can feel very alone. And then there are times where I daydream about outer space and its emptiness. There are times where all I want is pure and absolute silence. Where I don't want to hear anything, not even the wind.

When I saw Children of a Lesser God at the Rubicon, there was this part where the main teacher guy plugs his ears and tried to understand how this deaf woman feels, to hear (or I guess NOT hear) what she hears (or DOESN'T hear). She made some comment about how he will never truly understand. I plugged my ears and tried it. I have of course plugged my ears before, but I never really paid attention to the sensation it transmits. You can still hear. Its muffled, but you can still hear. Sound waves are still being transmitted, and you can still feel it. No hearing person can ever understand absolute silence.

When I realized that, it really depressed me for a little bit. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I want to be deaf or anything, I just for once would like to feel the idea of absolute silence. To be able to melt into my own mind without any auditory distractions. That's why outer space is so attractive to me. I know it sounds loony, I know that, but I mean, think about it. Think about if the only sound you could hear was yourself breathing in and out. Think about pure blackness except for the freckly stars. Think about floating weightless, not knowing if you're up or down, and realizing it doesn't matter because gravity doesn't exist. Think about absolute freedom.

I don't know if there's anything in this world that I want more.

Kerouac Complex, yet again

you're trying too hard says that fucking voice inside your head, you know the one--that voice you get at 2 am on a wednesday night, the voice that knows you should be sleeping, but at the same time is making you stay up so you can at least try to write something comprehensible and memorable and glorious. glory-ory-ory is what you're searchin for, and what that goddam voice is yelling at you about, cuz you're trying too hard to quench it, to reach it, you want to grab hold of it and suffocate it like one of lenny's puppies. fuckin steinbeck, that genius of human nature. gotta wake up at 8, gotta wake up at 8, and it's already too late to get myself some rest, some good rest, some of the best rest. coffee made me sick today, among other things. my stomach seized itself as soon as the one sip went down, it was like the universe was trying to tell me something, like everything i highly enjoy and love was not going to go down smoothly much like this sweetened and delicious coffee, and boy was the universe right. it started with a sip and ended with a gulp, and now i am hopeless and helpless and tired with no means to an end, convincing myself it's done, it's over, when i know it will be back. back back back down that path, so familiar i could walk through with my eyes closed, and all other senses restrained. it's not that much to look at anyway. i crave a glass of wine [or maybe 3 or 4], a dreary night, and the faint whisper of mischief down the hall.

hallelujah

remember when we thought god was real
we thought our hearts were what he'd steal
we thought in time we'd know how to feel
we didn't know cohen's hallelujah

victory marches were what we knew
we thought there was nothing we couldn't do
we were invincible with every breath we drew
we'd never heard the word hallelujah

you held my wrist in your stable hand
until i screamed and cried and took a stand
but your fingerprints left a permanent brand
a symbol of our only hallelujah

we didn't walk by an old canal
we didn't stop in to a strange hotel
we always thought we were parallel
to our own faint hallelujah

that vacant lot on an autumn night
the last time i would ever see the light
you saw it, too, but in a different shade of white
spelling out a revealing hallelujah

i turned my back on god that day
when you blatantly told me you couldn't stay
i ran inside and threw away
every bit of any hallelujah

and now i'm hoping you'll change your mind
hoping the planets will somehow align
praying to a god for a simple sign
screaming and crying hallelujah

Head Over Heels Over Heels Over Heels

About a year and a half ago, or maybe two years, I got really mad and destroyed everything. I destroyed everything that could possibly remind me of him. Playbills from plays we went to, movie tickets, pictures, random shit he gave me [like his guitar pic, which I actually turned into a necklace and wore for many many months], all kinds of shit. I kept it stored in a drawer, and on that one night when I got really mad, I emptied out that drawer into a trash bag and threw it out. The garbage truck came the very next morning and took it all away. I didn't even have time to rethink it. I knew that once I threw all of that shit out there and walked back inside and went to sleep, it would be the last time I would ever see any of it.

I remember telling him that I got rid of everything. I couldn't tell how he felt. He seemed...sad in a way, actually. And kind of mad. But he didn't make a big deal about it, he didn't yell or anything. I think when he heard that, that was when he realized this was not going to end well. That he had treaded too deep. I don't think he ever really realized how head over heels I was for him until I told him that. And that, I believe, was when he started looking for a way out.

I really miss talking to him. I miss him calling me to talk to me about plays, or monologues, or movies, or music. I miss him telling me those things, telling me what was going on in that little blonde head of his. My life just hasn't been the same since he stopped. He of course found someone else to talk to about those things, to share in those interests, someone who wouldn't flip out on him over the slightest thing, or make a huge deal about nothing, or even scare him to pieces with her own problems. I still insist on telling him everything. I don't know why. I still want him to know everything that is going on in my life, every little detail about what I am feeling, but he tells me nothing. I honestly have no idea who he is anymore. I don't know who he is friends with...I'm just so attached and detached at the same time, and it hurts so bad. It is so awful. It is the worst pain, the worst feeling you could ever feel, to be so enthralled with this one person who meant so much to you for so long, and then...they wouldn't really care if they never spoke to you again. He's my goddam crutch. I need to fucking heal and get rid of him.

Five In One, Baby

1st Cup Of Coffee:
eyes barely open
traveling to ojai
downing it fast
as the bus rolls by
WAIT, I scream
but there it goes
anger fills me
from my head to my toes.
I run and run
as it stops up ahead
oh, how I wish
I'd stayed in bed.

2nd Cup of Coffee:
done with work
I'm glad to say
painting and building
all the livelong day
I'm too tired
the sun's too bright
I forgot that I
have plans tonight
I sip my drink
and read my book
a stranger gives me
an interesting look
That Kerouac?, he says
I say, Why yes indeed
he laughs and says
'Tis a good read.

3rd Cup of Coffee:
Kirch and I
walk to the show
and I realize how many
people I know
a familiar face
in every direction
goddam this coffee
is true perfection
I float through the doors
flaunting a smile
I act like an idiot
but I do it in style
the lights go down
and up starts the band
I take my place
as number one fan.

4th Cup of Coffee:
gonna kill Toby
gonna kill Shane
goddam it
that's gonna stain
I wonder if I
should just go home
but I'd rather be here
than all alone

5th Cup of Coffee:
it's 11:30
i know, what the hell
it's my fault
if I don't sleep well
case and point
right here and now
I swear I'd sleep
if I knew how

Kerouac Complex #563

i don't
exactly know
what it is
that i'm trying
to say
i don't
exactly know
what it is
that i'm trying
to do
we'll see
where this
leads me

i always think
i know
where i am
or
who i am
or
what i want
but maybe
i'm completely wrong
maybe i don't
know where
i am
or
who
i am
or
what
i want
if i knew
would i be here
would i be
awake
would i be
writing
reading
confused

all of this
is crap
all of it
i don't know
what i a
m
trying
to get across
maybe nothing
maybe every
thing
i thought
this was
fine
i thought this
would be
ok

my world stopped.
just now.
did you feel it?
no.
you didn't.
how could you?
you never did before.
how could you now?


i'm waiting for the day where you actually answer one of my questions.


once my hearts stops
that's when you'll pounce
once i stop trying
once i draw my last breath
my last thought
my last smile
then i'll mean something
i'll be something
i know
want what you can't have
have what you can't want
that's how it is, right?
for you

then you'll feel my world quake
and shake
and ache
and you'll know.

would i do it again?
no.
am i lying?
yes.
there's no more truth.
there never was.
we are lies
both of us
lies
lies
lies
lies lies lies.
honesty.
sweet honesty
return to me
restore my karmaa

patience is a virtue
and honesty a chore
our past is the raven
screaming
nevermore.

Kerouac Complex #4? #5? #851

you don't make sense
you don't understand
one hand washes
the other hand
2:30 in the morning
and still going strong
you never admit
there's something wrong
staying awake
staring at stars
while bowie asks
is there life on mars
you give a nod
and then a laugh
look through a glass onion
at the other half
across the universe
your soul wails
consumed with thought
and tragic tales
but here in your room
you quietly wonder
as daylight arrives
like ominous thunder
your eye twitches
and an eyelash breaks
crying for no one
your mind aches
the smile flees
with a furrowed brow
love has taken
its final bow

will you remember this night?
will it be this clear?
probably not
as you let sleep steer...

Where Am I Going?

I looked in the mirror and saw two vacant eyes staring back at me. Two, unrecognizable, unfamiliar eyes. I stared and stared and stared waiting for something to make sense, for one of those eyes to finally remember, to finally identify, to finally understand. But they just stayed there, wallowing in deep confusion, just trying to make sense of everything.

I can still hear him cry. Only when I'm half-awake, but nonetheless, I hear him. Crying, pleading, begging...that was so long ago. So so long ago. In a time that didn't seem to make sense then, but makes more sense now.

I don't miss him. I miss the idea of him. The idea of having someone care so much about you that they couldn't stand even the thought of you leaving them. The idea of loving someone so much that it hurt to be without them. The idea of belonging to something so intangible and misunderstood. The idea of having your emotions pushed further and further, to a place you didn't even know you could reach. Everything meant something, so much meaning and care was put into every action. Risk. I want risk. It doesn't matter what I do now, and in a way that's freeing, but really...it just means I'm alone. I have people who care about me, I know this...but where's the intimacy? Where is that risk? Where are those emotions and feelings and actions? Nowhere near me, that's for sure.

I want and I want and I want, and I give and I give and I give. It's not even interesting anymore, it's just sad.

Kerouac Complex #3

I knew not what to say as I laid there under the sterling moon. Its rays melted around my skin, and if I squinted hard enough, it looked as if it would explode right in that single moment; explode into a million more stars to fill this dismal night. I shift my focus slightly to the rightly, and examine the night sky bit by bit, second by second, and now my eyes are filled with stars and blackness, aeroplanes and space. I am laying on sand. My toes are numb from being hidden under the cold dark sand, the cold pure sand, but my hands feel warm, and wish to be the sand themselves. In a single moment, I felt my body turn to sand and my mind fade into the stars, with the whispers of the ocean playfully taunting me. "Come in," they say, "Take refuge, take shelter. You are free." The laughter of reality mocks my gullible innocence, and I realize that not only am I invisible in this busy restless world, but I am alone.

I think about leaving.
I think about staying.
I think about disappearing.

I think all too much.

The Kid

I just watched Charlie Chaplin's The Kid. I don't know how to put my emotions into words.

Sometime a while back, I was up really late one night just kinda hanging out. I don't remember why I was up so late. I think my parents were out of town or something, so I took that as a chance to do whatever the hell I wanted. So I stayed up late watching old movies, because that's what I used to really like to do [I still do on occasion, but not as much as I used to; I used to be obsessed with old films]. Anyways, I was watching a movie on TCM, and then a documentary on Charlie Chaplin came on. I was kinda watching it, kinda not, but then they showed the footage of Chaplin reciting that immortal speech at the end of The Great Dictator. I was mesmerized. These words he was saying, these beautiful beautiful words, they were so...brave. I think that's the one quality Chaplin exuded: bravery. He made that film one year into WWII, when Hitler had already risen to power and the state of the world was in peril. He made that gorgeous gorgeous film, and poked fun at Hitler and the war and greed and all of that nonsense. He stood up to the dictators of the world through film. Sure it was a lot of slapstick stuff, lots of cheap shots and physical humor, but at the end, we see the real method behind the madness. In a speech Chaplin wrote himself, he speaks directly into the camera, no longer in the Little Tramp persona, but as himself, as the genius himself, staring right into our hearts and our souls, and convincing us that this is not our future. He calls out to the people, in this treacherous time of warfare, and tells us to unite. No one did that back then. NO ONE. Everything was supposed to be very hush hush. But Chaplin rebelled against it and restored hope in the fate of mankind. The first time I saw that speech...my mind was blown. I vowed that I would use my knowledge in the same way he did, and try to make a difference in the world through art.

I became very obsessed with him after that. I watched The Great Dictator over and over again, and researched him like mad. I checked IMDB at least once a week, seeing if anyone had added any more interesting facts to his profile, so that I could know more. I memorized that speech. I wrote it down over and over, my mind wrapping itself around each word. I found his life so fascinating. He was one of the only actors from the silent era to successfully cross over to the "talkies", and all of his films always had such beautiful hidden themes. His Little Tramp character wasn't just some idiot messing around in society, he was personifying the idea of simplicity, of judgments made on the unknowing and the unaware, of ignorance. The Little Tramp was the ultimate fool, falling into the hard times of society and working his way through purely by chance. He wasn't a hero, he wasn't a villain; he just enjoyed the world, and unintentionally showed others how to enjoy it, too. Sure it was goofy, it was foolish, and downright elementary humor, but it was beautifully choreographed, and always filled with specific meaning.

Chaplin's always had a special place in my heart since that night. I did a couple art pieces based on him, wrote a couple reports, I even purchased a porcelain Chaplin doll from a thrift store [it was my most prized possession for a very long time]. But as my obsessions usually do, my interest in him began to die out, and eventually I moved onto something else. I didn't forget about him, I just didn't dwell on him as much.

Today, I sat down on the living room couch after making myself a smoothie and flipped on the TV. When it turned on, there was my good old buddy Charlie on the screen, wearing his traditional Little Tramp get-up. I don't know what film it was, but it was marvelous. There was a child involved, and several antics surrounding the child and Chaplin, such as getting stuck to fly paper and accidentally frosting a hat instead of a cake because of unfortunate placement. It was a silent film, and although there were no words, I was still on the floor laughing at all of Chaplin's antics. He can make the simplest things hilarious. The film ended with him being stranded on the border of the US and Mexico, with nowhere to go. We see him start walking away from the camera, in his Little Tramp walk, with one foot in Mexico and the other in the US. That's another thing about Chaplin's classic Little Tramp films--they always end with him being placed in an awful situation or setting, but all he does is shrug his shoulder and carry on. You never feel bad for him, or sad, or worried, you just know he'll figure it out.

So after that movie ended, the documentary I stayed up watching all those years ago came on, and I watched a little bit of it. They did a whole segment on The Kid, which I had missed the first time I saw that documentary, so I placed close attention this time. The clips they showed, and the things they talked about that inspired that film...I began to cry it was so beautiful. I'd forgotten how fucking genius Chaplin was. So tonight, I watched The Kid. Lucky for me, it was on YouTube in 5 parts.

That film is too beautiful for its own good. I cannot think of a single film that has surpassed that raw beauty, not even in our modern world. The fact that it is a silent film, except for the wonderfully orchestrated soundtrack composed by Charlie Chaplin as well, and it still can express unholy amounts of beauty...well, that just blows my mind. I don't know how that is done, but it is. No words, just music. Just music and facial expressions and specific movements make that film.

It starts out with a new mother. She is walking out of a hospital carrying her newborn in much despair. She had the child out of wedlock, and the father took off. She is poor and basically homeless. She feels she cannot care for this child. So one day she walks past an orphanage and decided to leave the child in the backseat of a car parked outside of the orphanage with a note saying "Please provide love and care for this orphan child." Unfortunately, the car gets stolen by a couple of thieves, and when they find out there is a child in the backseat, they pull the car over, leave the child in an alleyway, and then drive off. Enter our Little Tramp, minding his own business, out for a leisurely walk. He comes across the child, and after trying to force it upon about 3 other people, he finds the note wrapped inside the baby's blanket, and makes the decision to take the child home.

Five years pass, and the child grows into a little boy. The Tramp and the boy have developed a strong bond by now, and are quite a team. They do everything together. Unfortunately, the little boy becomes sick and requires medical attention. Chaplin has a doctor come to their small apartment and check up on the little boy. He does, and then asks Chaplin a few question about the boy. At one point he asks Chaplin if he is the boy's father, to which Chaplin says, "Well--practically." The doctor asks him what he means by that, and Chaplin tells him the story and shows him the note he found. The doctor tells him he needs immediate care and attention, and then leaves to tell child services, unbeknownst to our dear Tramp. Child services eventually ends up coming to take the child away, and the Tramp fights with all of his might to get the child back. At one point he wrestles three people at once, just doing all that he can to get his dear boy back. The child fights, too, but their efforts are useless. The boy is thrown into the back of a truck marked "Orphan Asylum", and begins pleading and crying for our Little Tramp. There are several close-ups on the sweet boy of him pleading a crying and screaming, and there is so much emotion in his face and so much feeling being thrown out there, you can almost hear his cries. The acting in that scene is brilliant. Through some stream of chance, Chaplin somehow eludes the people who wrestled him down earlier and after jumping from rooftop to rooftop, he tumbles into the back of the truck that the little boy is riding in. Chaplin grabs the boy tightly, plants a huge kiss on him, and they just sit there and cry, holding each other. Chaplin fights off the driver of the vehicle, and takes the boy to safety.

In the meantime, the boy's mother who abandoned him all those years ago, becomes a famous stage actress, and develops a great life for herself. The story often flips over to her and we see how guilty she feels about leaving her child behind. We know she is always looking for him. At one point, she ventures into the town that the little boy lives in, and they actually stumble across each other. She gives him an apple and a stuffed dog, and they share a wonderful moment. It was the hardest thing in the world for me to watch. Because the audience knows that she is his real mother, but he doesn't know it's her, and she has no idea that it is her son, and yet they are sitting next to each other, giggling and having fun for those few brief minutes. I could not stop crying when that happened. That moment and the moment when the boy was taken were the real tear-jerkers.

So the Tramp and the boy flee to a hostel where they can stay the night and then regroup in the morning. Unfortunately, a $1000 reward has been issued for the retrieval of the young boy, and when the owner of the hostel makes the connection of the young boy and the ad for the reward, he steals the boy during the night and takes him to the police station. Chaplin wakes up literally 30 seconds after this happens and immediately freaks out when he notices his beloved boy is gone. He wakes up everyone in the hostel and runs out the door to find him. He unfortunately does not find him, and the boy is taken to the police station. The boy's mother is there, though [somehow she figured out he was hers], and she takes him home to live with her.

The next scene opens up on the Little Tramp at dawn. He has wandered around all night searching for the little boy. He ends up back at his crummy apartment, but the door to the building he lives in is locked, and he doesn't have his key. So he takes rest on the stoop of the building and then an elaborate dream sequence occurs, which I am sure is some play on society and the nature of mankind, because the scene starts out with everyone in the neighborhood dressed as angels, playing harps and all that, and then the words "Sin creeps in" come up and we see a couple guys dressed as devils sneak into their town and start corrupting everyone. I really don't know what it has to do with the plot, I'm sure it was just some play on the world constructed by dear Chaplin. Anyways, he is awoken from this dream by a disgruntled policemen, who seizes him by the collar and drags him away from the building. We think he is dragging him to the police station, but as it turns out, he drags him to the residence of the boy's mother. We see the door to the house open and the little boy run out into the Tramp's arms. THE END.

I cannot label the feelings I have after watching this film. There are just too many, and they are far too grand to be described in mere words. Words mean nothing compared to what I felt.

But not only is this film moving and beautiful, it is also hilarious and witty. The scenes between the boy and the Tramp are priceless. They just work so well together and are so sweet to each other, and their slapstick humor is spot on. It makes for a very funny movie on top of being brilliant.

Goddam it, Charlie. You have my heart once again. Of course, you and Devendra Banhart are gonna have to fight over it. Ugh, I don't even want to try and go into that other section of my life.