When We Met

This is what I just let myself read and remember.

http://redandwhitepianokeys.blogspot.com/

I was several years younger, excitable, ridiculously naive, and highly analytical. Wonder what's changed, besides the number that says how old I am.

Stupid idea to have looked. Wish I could've shown him, though. Especially the ones from the beginning. Maybe he would've found it funny, or insightful, or amusing.

"I'm tired. But... I think I’ll wait up for him tonight. I want to talk to him."

At least those won't happen anymore.
Directly.

Fire

It's 2:30 in the morning and I know I'm not allowed, but I'm having a bit of a time of it, up here in my room. It's just me that's awake and the whole house is quiet. One side of my ribcage is bleeding a little, two deep gouges, but I'd rather not get into that because it's embarrassing. Random unnecessary detail, I know. I guess I'm zoning out with lack of sleep.

Anyway, I think I'll leave some posts here I wouldn't otherwise publish, since this is a fairly invisible blog and nobody'll see it anyway. But I'd like to record them nevertheless.

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Writing Things I Wish I Could Give You

Yeah, I still haven’t moved away from my mindset of, “I’m here to support you every step of the way!” so I guess I’ll leave these here, where you’ll never see them, instead of giving them to you. It would be wrong to. I know you don’t want me talking as much as I do, I'm annoying and obviously don't get the message.

Sorry…

http://the-write-idea.tumblr.com/

http://www.jobprofiles.org/library/students/50_awesome_open_source_resources_for_online_writers.htm

http://www.scribd.com/explore

I'd like you to know that I believe in you and know you'll be a great writer someday. When you're published, I'll buy your book and show all of my friends, sad as it might be by then. Really, though.... I really believe that you'll make it. Even if you think English is a dead-end. It isn't, and you're going to be wonderful. I would've loved to be the one there for you when you spend weeks locked in some office, papers strewn everywhere, letting your beard get way too wild while you don't really take care of yourself because you're too busy on a writer's roll. I can clearly picture your desk, with its chewed pen tops thanks to your oral fixation, empty cans of Coke Zero and Guinness stacked around like it's nobody's business, the little clay elephant I made for you sitting beside the small piles of crinkled gum wrappers, and your smudged glasses resting on the one bare surface there is, because you can't be bothered to stop to clean them, and they're just far too dirty to wear by then. But the day you end up adding the period to the end of that last sentence, I'd still walk in and give you a great big hug and a kiss, and say "Well done." Even if I'd barely seen you for weeks on end. Even if you'd been silent as the grave because you had a thought that had to come out, unfettered. Even if I was kind of mad at you for ignoring me for your work.

I'd get over it. You'd be mine, you'd be scruffy as hell, and I'd be ok with that. So long as you maybe took a shower, because it's likely you'd smell a little. And maybe trimmed up, too.

Dear God. I have so many daydreams still. I hope they fade away soon.

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I'm being a bad girl,

and am letting all of what I’m tangled up in just fade and settle to the bottom of the glass in my right hand.

Cheers to the mist that’ll help it disappear.

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The first of the two was from a little over two weeks ago, and the second, maybe 10 days back, at about 1:30am, when I was so sad I let myself into the liquor cabinet downstairs, which I've never done before in my life. God, I'm exhausted right now. Ugh -- I keep saying God, which reminds me of how on Tuesday, I spent an hour in the basilica in London, praying to a God I don't even believe in, in the hopes that maybe he'd hear the two things I asked for. You were only one of them, I promise... there have been other serious things on my mind as well, lately. I'm sure it's easy to guess, if you were to look at my Tumblr, or even a recent post on here. But mostly, tonight, my mind's on you.

The scariest part for me is that I'm catching myself doing what I've always done to get away from pain -- I remove the source. I am literally going to forget and otherwise block out all of the memories I've gathered and stored, then I'm going to desensitize to everything for a long, long time, and then, I'm going to get to the point where I couldn't care less what happens to you. Soon after, you will stop seeing me. The amount of participation you'll have in my life will be looking at the pictures I post to my Facebook profile, maybe wishing me a happy birthday, if you think to do so. You will not hear from me. You will not be able to tell me about how things are for you. We will meet up for coffee in ten years, if I remember your name, and say how life's going. Then, we will leave and go opposite ways like nothing happened. And that hurts me.

You said you wanted to stay friends, and be able to talk, and have more than what I just described. I tried to get towards that point, but even though I made the effort (it was painful, by the way; I did it because I would have rather hurt than completely lose out on you) you threw cold water on it and left me standing alone and feeling like a complete idiot. I half-knew I wouldn't be able to do it anyway. It wasn't all-or-nothing; it was a sore heart, and a gaping hole that I figured would soon be filled by someone else, or a variety of someone-elses, both of which would break me to watch occur.

I'm going to stop being me, to you. But I guess it's part of the process. After all, you stopped being you, to me. Your presence feels different. You're as attractive as ever, and your smile (however infrequent around me) still sends me spinning, but you're guarded, like I'm watching a recording of you interacting with someone else, rather than me. And you don't care, you can show that all you like. You aren't obligated to care.

I hate that word. Was I really only an obligation?

Sorry -- I guess I just hate this whole thing. But hating only fuels the fire that burns it all away, so maybe I'll feed it some more.

A Source of the Hornets

You likely don’t remember my name.

But I remember yours. I’ve always remembered yours.

I remember the bricks of the fireplace behind you in this photo, the gold fire poker that was always there to trip over, and the way the concrete hearth felt when it scraped the palms of my hands. I remember the weight of your movement, the way you would quiet me when your mother approached, and the way your fingers would rip and bite into my wrists.

I remember. And I know that, to this day, I still have nightmares about what you’ve done. Sometimes, I want to ask your sister, my childhood best friend, if she remembers too. I never have before. But someday, maybe I will ask.

And maybe, someday, I’ll write to you and tell you how much damage you did to a little girl that didn’t bring any harm to you. Maybe I could tell you how much respect for her grown-up self was lost, because of you. Maybe, I could tell you how much you make her question her self-worth and personality almost every day. Maybe I could tell you how much you anger and sicken the only person in her life who knows who you are and what you’ve done. Maybe, I could tell you how badly he wanted to hurt you. Maybe I could tell you that now, she’d let him, if he still felt enough to want to. Maybe, I could tell you that she thinks you don’t deserve that baby in your arms. Maybe I could tell you she wants to take it away from you and see your face when she gives it to someone who knows what it means to be human. Maybe I could tell you she’s afraid of you. Maybe I could tell you that she hates you.

And maybe, I won’t.

Someday, I will see you. Maybe, your God will speak up for you again.

Maybe he won’t.

Remember that little girl?

... Hi.

A Rant About Remakes

My roommates are sitting in the other room watching LOST, and when one stood up to leave, and another said, “It’s not like a movie, they aren’t going to make it again. (We either watch it now or never.)”

Now, ok. This isn’t about the tv show, despite everyone being so excited about it. So if you’re looking for commentary on LOST, you can go away right now because I’s gots more important thangs to say.

To start: I’m saddened that the quality of movies has dropped low enough for people to be so comfortable with their impermanence that they develop no attachments to them. As though they’re just destined to be redone. What happened to movies being made well, so they retain a classic quality that doesn’t require a re-do every few years?

Besides that, the incredible money-grab that is the sequel machine is another thing that gets to me. We as an audience (though more commonly referred to as mere consumers) do not need sequels and prequels and whatever else for each and every movie that is produced. Let stories have an ending, for God sakes. For example, Cinderella does not need a sequel. I have babysat children that think Cinderella 2 is part of the original fairy tale; they don’t know a world without it. The story was good as it is, and it should be left alone. Anyone who knows me personally is well aware that I have no trouble ranting about how Disney needs to stop introducing hollow additions to these timeless stories. They’ve lasted for hundreds of years, I’m sure they’re doing fine without these loosely-based plot extensions.

On a more grown-up scale, the Saw movies were over for me at number three, it seems a little excessive now. They are the perfect example of low-quality movies making a ton of money through nothing more than low-quality content (torture porn) and an obscene amount of sequels. It seems to me like people are learning to settle for what’s provided, instead of demanding anything more.

Anyway. In my opinion, there should be more focus placed on creating quality movies with original ideas and actual creativity involved. Easier said than done, I know - I don’t claim to be a movie producer or script writer. But I’m growing tired of seeing so many people settle for re-used entertainment and easy-to-stick-to patterns of low mental involvement. Broader horizons need to be able to penetrate further into the consumer community, somehow — Because I’m sick of Hannah Montanna being played again and again in my college common room and taken seriously.

-Bee

Ain't No Junk in My Trunk... Yet.

Yesterday, I was presented with a very interesting opportunity. Upon helping my best friend Devon out with a chore at her grandmothers, I acquired a new and very personally-valued object. Our task was to go into her grandmother's basement and sort through old books so she could make some donations to her church. The books were stored in two giant trunks.

Oh, man. Did I ever love those trunks. Looked like something straight out of 1910, England. Or Harry Potter, for you young 'uns :) One was larger than the other, with brass rivets and heavy buckles closing it shut. The hard brown leather covering the outside had capped corners (also done in brass) and was covered in stickers from places all over the world, though faded and peeling. Lots of history behind it. Inside were drawers and compartments, and even a pull-out shirt rack. I loved it immediately.

The second trunk was smaller (though still almost too heavy for me to carry around) and had no drawers or compartments inside. Just one big open space. It had wooden ribs on the outside, which at one time were probably quite beautiful, along with brass capped corners and edges to protect the hardened tweed surface. Inside was a plaid wallpaper, used as a lining, and plenty of MOLD. Yum.

Anyway, we sorted all of the books out, and surprise! Her grandmother told us we could keep the trunks for ourselves. I loved the larger of the two, with the stickers and compartments, and Devon loved the smaller one, considering she'd been looking for a Hope chest for a long time (and figured this'd serve as a perfect one for herself.)

Needless to say, despite our preferences, I was stuck with the smaller of the two because her parents valued the bigger one more (as it was once her grandfather's, who is now deceased. The smaller was her great-grandmother's, and slightly less valued for some reason.) But, I still saw the potential in the smaller one, and still loved it. I began stripping the inside that very day, and discovered the wood underneath of the paper is like new. With a little love and attention, this trunk is going to be one gorgeous addition to my house! :D

Not to mention I'd love to take it on a train trip across Europe with me someday.
-- Pictures coming soon! As the progress of fixin' 'er up come along :)
-Bee

Food For Thought

Tonight, I went to see a movie. Julie and Julia.

The night began with me march-dragging my date across the parking lot, because we arrived at the theatre at exactly 9:15, the precise time that the movie began. Because of my incessant speed walking, we made it in with time to spare, (luckily someone started the movie a little late.) I then spent the majority of the movie squealing, curling up my toes and shielding my eyes from the blinding on-screen glory that is Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. I managed to shove down most of the large bag of popcorn I'd bought before the first ten minutes of the film was over, then made Prince Charming go and get me a drink (which I never ended up finishing anyways) and THEN proceeded to feel washed over with feel-good vibes at the lovely screenplay. It might be just me, because I love stories about people finding themselves, but might also just because I love food and this movie contained it. Lots of it. And maybe because I dream of someday being able to cook as well as the other women in my family (my mother and grandmothers are BRILLIANT cooks. And my great-grandmother, too. Goes way back, big food family. The line seems to have stopped when it hit me, however.)

I've had thoughts in my head for the last age about how I'd like to find that something to get me rolling. To give me direction. For Julie, it was a giant cookbook written by her idol, Julia Child, and the action of cooking her way through every single recipe in 365 days. Through creating, making mistakes, eating, and learning, she ends up in the same place at the end of it all, only feeling better about herself and her relationships. Plus she got a book deal. AND a movie deal. Sounds pretty sweet to me (no pun intended.)

Life isn't a storybook, normally. But it's something. And maybe it's about time my something came along to give me the shove I need. I could start painting again. Or writing more often. Or making costumes and jewelry again. There are TONS of things I could do with myself. Just got to get creative, I suppose.

- Bee

Oh, Hey There. Didn't See You.

I have not written in ages, and for that, I apologize. I've been too busy being unemployed, and searching for summer since it appears to have gotten lost on the way here. Not to mention disappearing off into Dreamland whenever there are no dishes to unload from the dishwasher (DAMN, I hate that chore so much. All you dishwasher-less people probably laugh and say, "Ha. You think that's bad," but really, it sucks just as much as any other dish-cleaning experience after a while.)

You will be pleased to note that I will now catch you up on everything important or remotely interesting that has happened within the time since I've been here last:

1) I was almost hired on the spot at Future Shop because of my excellent bullshit spewing ability. Then they found out I was a student.

2) Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Billy Mays, Walter Cronkite, Ed McMahon, Karl Malden, Steve McNair, Arturo Gatti, Marc Leduc, and Frank McCourt have all passed away. Within a month. I cried for Michael, and felt terrible for Farrah because of how much deserved attention was diverted from her death and onto someone else's. Also, so many deaths of people living in the public eye in such a short time is unnerving to me. Plus, the cat that I had since I was four years old also passed away, rendering me useless for almost a week. I plan on giving her a special dedication post later on.

3) I bought Martin, my betta, a new bowl. It is fantastic, and I rub it in the face of the two girls who stole the last available one from my fingertips at HomeSense two months ago. NOW I HAVE ONE TOO, BITCHES.

4) My cousin got engaged to someone who hates me because I let her leave a restaurant bathroom with a foot long piece of toilet paper trailing from each $500 designer high-heeled shoe. This will make any and all family gatherings, including tomorrow and the next day, quite interesting. I'm hoping she doesn't slip something into my drink at dinner.

5) I wrote and completed my mandatory entrance essay for post-secondary, and rocked it. I hope I beat the other highschool dropouts. Shazam.

6) My yearly physical revealed that I am not, in fact, 5'3 and 3/4 tall as I thought I was, but 5'3 and a half. This is bullshit.

Other than that, yesterday I succeeded in finishing painting a dresser, cleaning and reoganizing a room (getting it to perfection, oh yes,) becoming lost within London to the point of finding the END of a main street, talking to a shark at an aquarium store, and spending five hours assembling a desk that clearly did not want to be assembled. My boyfriend and I agreed; it was an amazing day. We both went home feeling fantastic.

I hope you feel "with it" and "caught up" and "ready for anything." Because clearly, my news boosts have enlightened your spirits and simultaneously moved you to tears. Right? No? Ah.

Hoping you are all well. I'll post pictures of my adventure day (and probably write about it,) and complete the post about my cat when possible. LOOK FOR IT ON NEWSTANDS NEAR YOU. (It's four dollars.)

-Bee

Update: Harry Patch, the last surviving veteran from WWI, has passed away as well.