Saturday, December 8, 2012

The first guy

I usually keep these things fictional but today is my Dad's Birthday. Below is my first attempt to write about the legend that is my father. 

I've been thinking a lot about my Dad. In my twenties I feel like I dated many versions of what I think my father was like in his early twenties. Tall nordic looking boys, who like to talk about Joseph Campbell, music, and drink whiskey. Boys that can talk for hours about art, and creating,  boys who can make you laugh, but hold a little darkness. Boys who do their own thing, despite yours. I imagine that's who my father was, the tall blonde, pensive, troublemaker at the end of the bar who could talk about anything. If I had met a guy like my father in my twenties, that guy would have surely destroyed me. Luckily I met the real deal later, or earlier, depending how you look at it. .

 It's a strange to realize that my father was younger than I am now, when I was born. Just six years older when after two kids he was thrown into a divorce. He was forced to grow up, and balance his emotions with that of two small people.  Sometimes he was better at balancing those emotions than others, but he tried. For a while I held up what he wasn't, what he couldn't understand about me, what I couldn't understand about him. In one of the only e-mails that my dad ever sent me he wrote: 'The key is getting to trust people as they are, and not as you want them to be' , I'm still trying to implement that one. 

So on this his birthday, I'd like to list some of the things I've learned from my father, the most beautifully strange man I know. Qualities I'd want from anyone:

Explore, don't be to precious with creativity. If you have an idea try it, make it. Making things is for the fun of it, for the process, not to please anyone else. This was done with everything from balsa wood planes, to ice cream in coffee cans, to tin foiling our entire house like a castle. (Yes, my dad tin foiled the exterior of our house like a castle.)

Find humor. Chances are you're probably taking yourself too seriously. This was true of me 87% of the time.

As a woman you should know how to cook, sew, use power tools, curse, and fix your own toilet.  Not knowing what to do with two kids on weekends, my dad decided to teach us everything. We found ourselves doing everything from going to zydeco halls to building birdhouses. The sight of old men gawking at two blonde children flinging themselves across the dance floor, is one I will never forget. 
Because of him I can put up my own shelves, fix my own toilet, fix my own clothes, host a hell of a dinner party, and yes my mouth does get me in trouble. 

Don't write a lot, but when you do write in CAPS.  I have only received only two e-mails from my Dad, both were gorgeous and written in all CAPITAL LETTERS. In art school when you drafted you wrote in all caps, so Dad still does. He doesn't get virtual yelling yet.

Find creativity in the little things; Whether my dad bakes a cake or fixes a garage, he does it differently. Cakes have blue icing,  garages diamond shaped windows, picture frames have poetry carved into them. He doesn't talk about these things, he does them.

Education through humiliation;This involved my father dancing at gas stations, singing the Rolling Stones really loudly anywhere, and asking me in a grocery store, and in front of my boyfriend at the time if I was a lesbian. His take on this; it was fun, and "Don't care what others think, that's their problem."

You can connect with anyone. The one time we went trick or treating with my father, we had to pull him down the street as he was talking to everyone. Candy was not plenty that year.

Never stop learning, but learn for you. Be curious.  My dad reads the dictionary, literally. His fascination with the iPad is amazing, he's pretty much going to culinary school through that thing. I think this is genetic as Google may have been the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Make space for yourself; this can be found early morning on the jersey shore, flying a kite, sitting on your porch, or watching the Eagles.

Never call when the Eagles are on. (See reasoning above.) 

Sing loudly, even if it's off key. However, your kids may eventually know the difference, and pick on your for it. 

"You were the best tree out there." My dad used to say this to me after shows whether I was in the chorus or the lead, reminding me that whatever I was doing it was important, but not too important. For the record I played an ant in college once, but never a tree. 

Listen to music. Do it, now. Stop reading this. 

Rest when you need to. Sundays on dad-weekends were notorious for fried apples, biscuits and NPR. I remember sleeping away entire weekends at my dads, because he let me. When asked why he didn't wake me 'Cause you needed it or you wouldn't have taken it".

'Ultimately marry someone who is nice to you. This seems intuitive, but a lot of people don't do it. Dad has now taken to closing phone conversations, not with "I love you" but "Okay, marry a nice guy." 

Whenever possible break patterns. 'Patterns of thought are things we hold onto to preserve our ideas and sense of self.' Whether it's the pattern of who you think you are or the route you take to get somewhere, switch it up and see how you feel.

Sometimes in art you have to go back from a place of 'not knowing shit' and 'stop trying, clear your mind of perceived thoughts, and just listen.' 

Get outside.  Whether it's to throw a foxtail, fish, fly a kite, write, or read a book; sometimes you just need air. 

"I'm not an artist I'm a guy who makes things, I can be an artist when I'm dead." Value your work, but don't take it so seriously that you become pretentious. People will stop telling and showing you things, then  you'll never make art.

Don't post everything on the internet. Keep your own artistic endeavor for yourself. (Trying at that one, Daddy, trying...)

Friday, November 2, 2012

Dear New York,

Dear New York,
I want to tell you that I wish I was there. I do.
 I'd probably be one more brooklynite soaking wet, and offering her shower, but I wish I was there with you. I'd be one more Astorian playing 'apples to apples' drinking whiskey in the dark.  One more east villager, taking shelter in other boroughs, but still I wish I was with you.  Just one more person laying claim to you. Perhaps I'd feel as helpless as I do here, watching anchors wading in water, and calling those with working phones, who seem to say "we're okay, we're here", who the day before said "we're okay, we're just waiting".   Maybe it's selfish, but I wish I was with you, for the waiting then and now.
I wish I could be in the Rockaways, or Staten Island, Dumbo, or Brooklyn Bridge Park, doing something, giving something,  instead of sitting here as people complain that it's a bit too cold.  I bite my tongue as they say "It's only like 40 blocks right? Can't they walk?" or "They get storms all the time you'd think the hospitals would be prepared".  I leave the room knowing this is said by people who can barely drive in three inches of rain.  I say nothing, because I guess I know, I no longer have claim to you. After leaving you over a year ago, I imagine I have as much claim to you as I do to my childhood weekends at the Jersey Shore.

I've wasted a lot of love letters. Retroactive love letters, sent after break ups and almost relationships. I've wasted a lot of words on things and people that didn't deserve them, and yet I don't know what to say to you. But  I'll try:

 You are the most resilient bitingly beautiful place I know, and you harbor the most amazing people in the world. People that have come from all over the world to quench their curiosity in your harbor, to get lost or be something bigger. People who are filled with humor and love and passion, people who create from days stuck inside, and days walking your streets, people who need to feel the ground under their feet, people that chose you.  You are the most beautiful place in the world. Not because of palm trees, or sea views, or cliffs, or things that mother nature should claim, not because of ancient architecture or aesthetics, not because of old world european charm, or consistency, or history but because of your pulse; your people. Your people;  they come to you with their beautiful restlessness, their need for consistent re-creation, for simultaneous anonymity and community, for simplicity,  and resilience.  Your people who move through your grooves and you in turn shape us. You give us the hope that you can literally turn a corner and everything shifts, that you can stake a claim in a city of 8 million, that you can be saved from loneliness with a smile across a subway platform, that you can recreate. A little water never hurt you, you've been through worse, and will weather worse. Perhaps if you could speak you'd tell us we we're overreacting,  that you're cool, you'll deal with it.  The lights will all come on, and you'll brush yourself off. You always do.

Miles away I wonder if the basement of 40 Jewel is flooded, if the roof at Garden Place is holding, if the vegan baker on St, Marks is  going to be able to afford repairs after his lease went up.   Is McGuinness is at a stand still as people wait for gas?  I wonder if Cup on Norman is serving coffee to those on their way to walk the bridge, and they probably are. And it's strange because miles and miles away, this is the most I've felt like and least I've felt like a New Yorker in my life.


Wednesday, October 31, 2012


LINDA (43)
The thing is Martin, there a  million different lives you could be living right now. You could entertain the idea of that girl in LA you dated in college, or the one you never did, or the job you were offered in Portland. There are a million different choices that you could have made that would have led you somewhere else. You could be vacationing in North Korea like you wanted, or working for Legal Aid in some far away country, or having whatever amazing adventures in your head that you thought you'd have.  Who knows maybe in some alternate universe you're happy with that girl, and you have that job, or your single and your kayaking in Iceland, or your still in your hometown married to Maya, or whoever.  There are a million people out there that you could be with, that you could be content with, if you just chose them. You could be with anyone if you actually chose, if you weren't constantly looking for something.  But you didn't, you didn't do any of that. You used to say you wanted your work to succeed so it would be like you lived everywhere in the world at once. You can't have everything at once.  You have this. So choose it. Choose us. Cause we're what you have. We want you to choose us. To be here.
 This isn't something I, or life did to you.  You get a vote here, and every day with your complacency, you choose this whether you admit that or not.  I  actively choose this. I choose you, every day I wake up and I re-decide. I recommit by being here, with you.  And  yeah, it's not going to be as exciting as the what ifs and the could be's, and photos and e-mails of other possibilities, but that life that probably would have gotten mundane too. But it's here. And it's yours. And you can commit to that, you can accept that, and be here, or you can just go and always wish you were somewhere else.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Not for our eyes. (Based on words from a friend)

There are things that are not for our eyes.
If my mother could have googled my father she would have run, or maybe he would have, regardless I wouldn't exist.
There are things we shouldn't know, of others others, unless we are told that there are others. There should not be photographic 'proof' to mill on.  There should not be images or videos of who people are perceived to be, or want to be perceived to be, not who they are when they pause on the phone line, not the sentences they form that are intended for us, looks intended for us, words intended for us. It just gives our narrative pictures, springboards for the mind, and instead of creating things we create stories. There are things that are not for our eyes.  Things that came before and things that came after. Things that never come so we build them.

For a while, I looked for signs of who she was. Of photos or posts, or words or clues, or something that could indicate that she existed. That she tried to piss on your wall. Essentially that's what we do right, we piss on people's walls. Boys walls, girls walls, like dogs. Mark our territory through likes and comments and  here here here here I am. And I haven't marked you in a while, I haven't read you in a while I haven't spoken to you in a while. I haven't seen your face, or heard your voice, I don't know if I want to, if there would be a point, but yet it's okay that we're intertwined. It's an agreement we made before all of this, that, and the offense of pulling out at this moment would make something out of nothing, or maybe it wouldn't. And I hid you on some-things, others I can't.  So I'm thrown some of you, and you me, and our feeds cross and our friends cross. It seems quite stupid feeds crossing, when two actual voices can't even speak.

You built me, and I built you. You'll build someone else, and I will too. It's what you do with the person who is there in the morning that matters, and maybe our stories didn't hold up, maybe hers will, maybe his will.

And the thing is we all build people. Create a narrative to suit ours, regardless of word bites, and photofeeds, tweets, and updates, and likes and dislikes. Since humans met they've been building narratives. 'I like the line of his cave drawing of an antelope he must be sensitive. " " His shoulders are broad he'll be a good provider and husband". "Her hip to waist ratio means she must be fertile" is replaced by a million meanings for an arm touch.  "He listens to NPR, so someday we'll listen to Ira Glass on Sunday mornings while making pancakes with our two point five children". We fill in blanks after a beer, a glass of wine, some coffee, a night. Eventually though those memories fade until the next contact or were eventually replaced by actual reality.  We built a frame and replaced it with solids when we knew the foundation was there, in relationships, in friendships in everything. We earned actual facts and in the meantime our imagination held places for some, not all but some.

There are things that are not for our eyes. Before this there were people we never knew existed that we never knew to build. People I will never meet, that might live miles away. People with bright eyes, or too much eyeliner, who like the same music, or have bad taste in music. There are people who travel,  and seem sweet, or sexy, or trashy, or simple or  just different, or some other adjective I choose to put on them based on mere pages. People whose very existence make me seem like a stalker. People who probably don't know I EXIST.  People who I wouldn't recognize in the grocery store.  I'm sure some have built the narrative around mine, around digital me, one that is far more exciting than the reality. And I'm sure there's a girl somewhere thinking I'm another's other, pissing on someones wall. And the truth is if she or I just built stories around ourselves, and lived those stories, we'd both have more to show for it.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012


KYLE, 33
'Shake it off'.  My dad used to say that.  I hated it, it was so condescending. I was in little league, a catcher and I sucked. I did. I sucked. And these guys would just ram into me. Into home. Full force and I would just get the wind knocked out of me. And he'd call from the stand. 'Shake if off'.  'Shake it off Kyle'. 'Let it go'. I mean that's what people say, and you don't really think about it, it's just what people say. Well not everyone, like when you get into a car accident you're supposed to stay put. Survivors have been known to have huge adrenaline rushes, and just run for miles in a minute, just run into a field or something, and just shake. Right after an accident. Because that shock, that feeling needs to go somewhere. Physiologically animals do it, they're scared they shake, they show it.  They release it. But not us ' we stand up straight, we breathe, we toughen up'.  But instead modern medicine, they tell us to stay still, don't move.  Sit tight. So it just sits there in us. The trauma or feeling or whatever you want to call it.

And I was just sitting there at my desk, at work. About 4:30 at work, and finally I was still, really still, feet  flat on the ground.  And my hands and my feet just went numb, and my arms twitched, vibrated. Because they wanted to move, needed to move.  And at first I wanted it to stop. I tried so hard to make it stop. The feeling. So much so that I couldn't breathe. 25 minutes. And it wouldn't, they just kept moving. Cause God, it's been months. I've been trying to shake this thing, ignore this thing for months. deal with it, And at first I resisted, the pulsing, the bubbling, because I've talked about it, you know. Talked about him you know? Thought I made whatever peace I needed to make, for now at least, whatever peace I could. Because how do you, I mean that takes time.  But there I was just moving. Twitching under my desk, as people walked down the hall. Shaking under my desk.  And I just decided to sit in it, sit in the shakiness, sit in the discomfort, and let it pass through me. Be free in it. Almost enjoy it.  Let bits of it go. And I don't know what it was. I don't know if it's stress or tension, or thoughts, or regrets, or not forgiving stuff, or him or I don't know.  I just know that when it was done, I slept in for the first time in months I was so exhausted I slept right through my alarm. Annie had to wake me up. And I could hear him. "Shake it off Kyle. Take your time, and shake it off, It's your game". I should have been a better catcher.

Sunday, August 5, 2012


For guys, at parties in LA, whose potential I see while staring at their shoes and eyes.

'That's interesting... Really. The things is'... The thing is I don't care. I don't care about your band, or your comedy show, or your unironic/ironic cover of 90's, or that you play 6 instruments including the key tar. Or that your gig last week was great, that you say it was great. I'm sure it was great. Or that Portland sucks, or that San Fran was cool, and that you're just happy to be back. 'So you can focus, you know? on other things? Other projects'. Or that you're instagraming this as we speak. The thing is; I would care, I could care, if you cared to ask anything about me. I look at you and know that I could care.  That I could severely utterly care about these stupid, benal, idiotic things that you share while holding a beer, if you cared about my stupid idiotic benal things.  Asked about them; my stupid idiotic benal things. Because we all have stupid things. And that's just what you talk about, you ask about, until you break through. Until you choose to care. And that's why I ask questions,  every question I ask you, I hope that the response is that thing, is that one thing that will break you through out of the stupid and idiotic and into the real. And I  don't want to know this shit; I want to know who you think you are, and you who you think I am, and who you want to be when you wake up in the morning, and who you end up being by the days end. I want to know what you're afraid in others, in yourself. I want to know if you sleep with the light on, and why. I want to know what your real laugh sounds like. Not the polite one you do in groups out of courtesy, the real one.  I want to know what flits past your eyes when you close them, what you see ahead when they open. I want to know that song you love, that movie you love, that line that makes you think, that word, that phrase, that cadence, that makes you laugh, makes you you. I want to converse in a way that makes the youness of you and the me-ness of me just float, be, meet, dance. . But instead I  just say 'that's... that's really interesting' and quietly sip my wine and wait for you to care, as you look around the room.

Saturday, June 9, 2012


I missed the turn because of the tears, and thought there was a turn where there wasn't, so I waited at the intersection at the light in the turn lane with nowhere to turn, and cried. I cried because I felt my leg. I felt my leg on the break, and I realized 3000 miles away, she couldn't. 3000 miles away my mother's leg was numb, and it burned, the plaque intercepting her nerves from the feeling. I realized the plaque could grow until there was no feeling left and that she, just not it would be paralyzed.  I thought how many times we've used that word, misused that word, 'paralyzed'. "Unable to act, the absence of motion, of feeling".  Perhaps for a moment i have been unable to act just for a moment, a second, by fear, or guilt, or life, or just that feeling of not quite being in your skin. But i have never really been nothing, felt nothing. I feel too much, there has always been a something to feel; whether it be pain or fear or joy or even apathy.  I have never felt nothing. "Nothing, no motion. Frozen. No life, no heat. Dead. Numb."  There's nothing after that, no kick, no step, no freedom. Stuck.I thought of this as I waited I thought of her feeling nothing.

It was a quick call, hours earlier. It was an after the fact conversation about emergency rooms and plaque, and a casual reference of not being able to move much less walk. A simple 'So this thing happened' like she was telling me about a minor bump in a parking lot. My mother mentions her illness with the casualty of  sharing going to a new restaurant. "So by the way I'm on IV's now".  There's a certain flair for the dramatic and self indulgence she's never had, so I inherited most of it for her. Since seven I've been feeling for her, but I couldn't feel this.

 Here I was, on the opposite coast, my foot on the break, my foot on the gas, in motion, mobile, a task I do mindlessly. Music purring through the speakers mindlessly. When I walk, steps I take mindlessly,  thoughts forming words mindlessly, these fingers I type mindlessly, ungratefully.  I can't be grateful after every step, every task ,because that gratefulness is too scary, the fragility is to scary.  The trust is too scary. The brain tells me to move and i move, I scratch my head, I squish my toes, I think to speak and before i can think it, it is done. But tonight maybe she can't, in weeks she might never,  so  I feel my foot on the gas, and turn. Not quite sure where I'm going, but I turn because I can.

Thursday, May 24, 2012


Maybe they were all lies. Everything they said what they saw. Maybe they were the kind of things that people think they want, but the idea of sustaining that being in the presence of that is too much. Maybe I'm..forget it. This isn't about me right? You said this isn't about me? And I know you think you're different, but you're not.  I mean you are because you're you, and I care about you but- You all talked about, my hands, my fingers like you talked to each other like you were paraphrasing the same script. Because you can say all those things, you can say all of it, and I can say things I don't really mean to try and make you stay. Recycled turns of phrases that I can twist but I'll believe in the moment, and it doesn't matter what you say, or I say because you're still going to leave. That's how this is going to go. After we have that obligatory cry you're going to leave.  You left in your mind weeks in, moments in, and you've just been riding the obligation of that presence. Because they all leave. I mean I guess everyone leaves everyone eventually right? And it's my fault my frequency that I'm sending out in the universe... the same thing just coming into my orbit, listening for a bit.

 And yeah sure, in about two sentences you're going to say that we'll keep in touch, that I'm 'special' or some bullshit that you want to be part of my life in some 'context', but you won't, we won't. Because I don't turn it off, can't turn it off. And I wish, I wish I could change the channel to some pop song or something, but I'm.. I'm Phillip glass. No that's pretentious I'm.. I'm that Bon Iver album you listen to when you first get it, and then after a while it's just too hard or it reminds you of something else... it's just too something. And you like it, it's a good album it's just not a 'fun' album.  I don't know.  And you'll try to call at first, and we'll get coffee twice and pretend it's normal so you can feel good about yourself, but then you'll just let it go. Let me go. All over again. And I'll find out over the internet that you're engaged to some girl, some boring, simple easy girl, at least I'll tell myself that that's who she is. Simple. And I'll envy her for being so simple. And staring at a screen I'll wish I could be more simple.

Monday, April 9, 2012


Prospective addition for the play 'Carrying'

It was better. It was better that way. It wasn’t something I was ready for or he was ready for. It was just better. At least I thought it was, think it was. And I felt better because I knew I wasn’t the only one. Before it happened I had taken my friend Erin, and I sat in the lobby and watched these teenage boys, wait for their girlfriends and play xbox. With their hoods up playing video games, kids playing games. And I was a kid. And I’m not saying we used it as birth control or making excuses for the girls I knew, know that have had three or four. Or excuses for me or whatever. But it was better. I was 23, 24. A year out of college. And it wasn’t like I had been with a lot of guys, and it wasn’t like he was an important one. Before this, important. He worked at the bar I worked at, he played keyboards in some ironic cover band, he sent things into McSweeneys, and was tall, and sweet and I didn’t know his middle name. Because we had only hung out for a month. But I usually ask people what there middle names are, it gives you a false sense of intimacy. I mean you don’t think about that, if you thought every time you had sex ‘would you be willing to be bonded for the rest of your life with this person in raising a human being together’ no one would get laid. So it was better. It was the better thing to do, and I called Lisa and cried and decided. And she offered to come and go with me, and he offered but Erin said she would. And the appointment was all set, and the night before I just started bleeding. And I bled until it was gone. I just sat in the bathroom and I bled. And I felt relieved and guilty all at the same time. And I’m not saying that I’m being punished or whatever, with this thing, now, because I don’t know that I believe in something bigger to punish me. And maybe it was my body just rejecting it, saving it. And maybe that’s what this thing is too I don’t know. But the thoughts we have, something has to be listening right? Even if it’s our smallest cells listening, something has to be listening. Something has to grow.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

the why

If I wrote poems I'd do that, but I am no ee. except my grammar is reckless and I hate capitalization. My phrases are too long for lyrics, too many commas, and semicolons you can't sing. And I don't love you to write a love song, and my rhymes would be all wrong. Because the truth is I'm just a Melisma, a single syllable slid up the scale. Least that's what I've been told. And reading lyrics always seems trite, unless notes are held close. Songs and poems are too contained, too cool and I am not cool. I have accepted this and am cool with this. So I will write you words, I will give you words, some from my brain others from my heart to my brain, others just wedged in between silence blank spaces I need to fill. Others to fill the silence, that sentence there was to fill the silence. And I will speak these words in your head in my voice, in your idea of my voice, my pauses, my rhythms, my stops, and goings, and redundancies repeated. And you will think my thoughts for a moment, have my thoughts swim in your head and give birth to new thoughts thought babies. Children that will quietly play blocks in a corner that you'll forget about or scream, or bellow in sing song voices, or leave with a babysitter. And for a moment, a brief moment we'll have shared something. Like a kiss with your eyes closed. where you don't quite know where all parts are going, and thoughts flutter in and out but it's just that kiss. In the moment that kiss, that word. and that kiss makes you want to kiss back, kiss differently, or to never kiss at all, but it makes you want to do something, think something, feel something, all cause of a moment. And if I wrote songs I could express this ever so much better, but I still wouldn't get kissed back.

Sunday, February 26, 2012


Validation, That's all we want right? Validation? You see me, you hear me, you care that i exist. That somehow my non existing would make some sort of hole, some void, that I'd like to think you couldn't fill but you probably could.

They can hire someone new for my job, and my parents will be sad in so much as I'm an extension of them. The love they feel as any parent does out of obligation, not to demean it, but  it's not a love they'd feel if I was wasn't their kid, just someone they met at the farmer's market or a dinner party. So that's them. And my friends have other friends, other people to call and vent to, or laugh with, and yes on occasion they'll miss me, and say it's a shame but they'll learn to fill the void. And it... I will be something that sneaks up on them from time to time. And you can and will meet someone new, or have already. Look at you meet people every day. And I am and will not be your last one. The deli guy where I get my coffee will think I moved, as will my cobbler, my pharmacist, people so rarely say good bye. There will be one less person at mass on Christmas, one less voice cheering for the phils, one less person waiting for the N train at Ditmas.. And the cats will eventually make noise to alert a neighbor, or the smell will be too much, or Johnny will come over like I asked and pick them up, check on 'em. Please don't come over, you're allergic or say you are or whatever. It will be okay, they'll find other laps.

And eventually the money I owe will be paid,  my things will be sold and dispersed and people will have pieces of me. Things  that they'll find in their closet or catch their eye on their bookshelf. I'm giving Stef my copy of Denial of Death,  just cause it'll piss her off.  And a friend from college or high school, or a drinking pal will say one day 'whatever happened to?..' and they'll think for a moment to call and then go on having their drink. And that's not a slight, it's just ilfe.

I don't know that we ever get this feeling of validation, and maybe a secret little part of me thinks I will after the fact. And another part knows there is no after the fact. My mother would hate me for saying it, but let's face it it's a possibility. I am an autonomous one. I have had no measurable impact on my community, created nothing of great substance, have no real family, no official relationship, no dependents, no ones life or livelihood is resting on me. And you will say my dear that I am wrong. That I am needed. You will scream from the rafters that I am validated. YOU will validate me. Scream, validating my existence. And I won't be there to hear it. Because the truth is, it's not something you can ask for? And if you have to ask, it's too late.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Kerry, 28

Ok, so I don't want to know about your hopes and dreams. I know about too many people's hopes and dreams, and where they are from, and their parents, and siblings, and their thoughts on relationships, relationships that we never had. I listened to too many people's hopes and dreams who became no one, I've invested in and imagined and counseled too many hopes and dreams that left. and the truth is I'd just be pretending to listen. And I'm sure yours are great, and your upbringing was great, and fucked up and all that, and you have some schpiel on love that is going to make me think you're damaged in a really lovely way, that I am going to think I can fix.
But I think. I think we should just be direct here. Because i have this problem. More of a habit really . Where I'll let you, men, boys, whatever, have all that small talk and the entire time I'm thinking, do you really want to sleep with me? And I know that biologically most men want to sleep with any vagina, unless unless of course they think the head and the heart that go along with the vagina are attached. And by my listening to all this; your hopes and dreams and bla bla bla, whatever, you are going to think that I want more , that I want to be a part of those hopes and dreams and thoughts on relationships, and future thoughts on relationships. And I don't think I do. I might but I don't know. Because I don't know you. But I do know that before I decide any of that, listen to any of that, invest in any of that.. can we just point blank just get to it. And see if that other stuff works. Can we just see if we have fun? Like actual unweighted fun! Because I'm tired of listening to things I"ll never be a part of. And one day when we're tired of having fun, you'll ask me about my hopes and dreams and aspirations and for the first time I'll speak. And they'll mean something, because you'll know me.