Joyeaux Noel

Currently I'm sitting on my parents couch in my pajamas, playing with the string of pearls my mom got me, which may or may not be real but I don't care because they're beautiful. I'm watching Sleepless in Seattle and eating red and green M&Ms. Later we're heading over to Nonnie's house for white elephant gifts and laughs. Hope you all are having a wonderful holiday and that Santa was good to you this year. Here are some lovely images to help you celebrate this day of peace. The last is a video Jason Mraz made a few years ago. He really got to the core of what Christmas should be: a season of giving and that means forgiveness.

Oh dear. Why didn't I think to decorate my tree in my brown body suite? Oh well. Next year I suppose.

Happy Holidayz from Jason Mraz & The Voices of Prayze from Jason Mraz on Vimeo.

{Photos from here and weheartit}

A Lovely Habit

I have this habit, and I'm quite sure I'm not alone in this. When I fall deep into a book, I always read right before bed. When my eyelids start to get heavy and I have to read sentences three times just to remember what's going on, it's like somebody's got me tight around the waist and I'm clenching as hard as I can to cover of the book. They're yanking me away when all I want to do is sit and chat with those printed names that are more like friends than characters. But eventually I give in to those persistent arms around my waist and fall asleep. It's here that the habit begins. Once those heavy eyelids get the better of me, I start to dream about whatever it is I'm reading.

When I was reading Harry Potter this proved to be a little scary at times. Voldemort and Draco were always after me and I generally had something very important I needed to do (to save the wizarding world, naturally) and yet never quite knew what that something was.

But now, oh thank heavens, I'm reading Pride and Prejudice. I've read it before but for some reason this time I am seriously enthralled. I think I "poo poo'ed" it the first time because Mr. Long Distance and I had just called it quits and I was questioning the existence of any type of love, especially a love like Elizabeth Bennet's and Mr. Darcy's, or even Jane and Bingly's for that matter. But now I'm positively obsessed with those two. It's messy and they're on the surface totally wrong for each other but oh how they love each other and in the end that's all they need. I'd much rather distract myself with their relationship than worry about one of my own. I've decided living vicariously through books will by my life's new path, when it comes to love anyway. It's so much easier, wouldn't you say?

{photo from here}

Let Me Tell You a Story

There once was a young woman, with fair enough features and a love affair with writing. She decided to try her hand at html and the internet and started her very own blog. She named it Hindsight because she found comfort and solace in being able to recount embarrassing and sometime painful moments in her life for a group of encouraging fellow bloggers. As her "followers" grew, her admiration for the blog grew as well. (And she would like to add how much she detests the term "followers." She is not the leader of a cult). Finally she had found an audience, albeit small. She was ever so thankful for those who visited her humble area of self expression.

But, as this young woman well knows and I'm sure you do as well, no story worth its salt is without conflict. Deadlines arouse, plane tickets for quick trips were purchased, and viruses and bacterial infections plagued her poor, defenseless body. She was left with aches, fevers and ears so full of fluid she could only sit quietly in restaurants, with all their background noise, and nod politely while everyone enjoyed lively conversation. And it was because of those ghastly distractions that her blog fell by the way side. Embarrassingly, she was hardly even able to read her dear friends' posts. The less she wrote and read, the less she thought about that virtual world she had created and the harder it was to bring herself to post again.

This particular young woman, however, isn't one to be defeated by finals, distractions, exhaustion, illness, or even the evil Sir Eliot. She rose above adversity (and got an A in Creative Writing by the way), pulled herself up by her high heels and sat down once again to type a cheerful greeting and regret of her prolonged absence to all of her beloved blogosphere friends.

She promises to visit more regularly, post lovely stories and insights into her sometime humdrum, sometimes exciting life and to update all of her friends of her goings-on. But not tonight, dear reader. Tonight, Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy are drawing our young woman's attentions elsewhere. And at that I, and our young woman, bid you adieu.

Lived-In Skin

Candles blown out,

celebration over.

Two strong and calloused

hands push you from behind, hard.

You’re flung over the edge of Carelessness

into a crevasse of Responsibility.

You look around at the scene,

depressing and real,

at the world they’ve given you.

Your small arms tremble under the weight

of war and disease, hunger and debt.

It smells of garbage and depression.

Dry lips mouth the same questions:

What will you do and how will you do it?

Tongues wag like excited dogs,

waiting to pounce on your irresponsibility

or live vicariously through your lucky chances.

With a chin in the air, you’ll tell them of

summer nights in Barcelona, balmy and tepid.

A man named Frederiko who rolls his R’s

with lips the color of babies. He gives you

roses that look like blood

and calls you bonita.

Tell them of air that tastes like curry

and dark eyes that search parts of

you you didn’t know were there.

Little brown hands in yours

lead you through a land of plenty,

a land of poverty.

You will be bold in dark places.

Tell them of festivals in the mud.

Hippies dance, the music their only partner,

shirtless, their pink and green peace beads jump happily on

their exposed chests while the rain makes

happy trails down their leather-brown and lived-in skin.

That’s what you’ll tell them,

you want skin that’s been lived in.

{photo here}

A True American Thanksgiving

I would love to post some sentimental photograph of my grandmother in her younger days mixing up yams and pouring gravy over mashed potatoes. And I'd love to goosh over how thankful I am for my family and the love and support they offer and what a happy Thanksgiving it was yesterday.

But a happy and drama free Thanksgiving? That's just not American.

It started with my grandmother talking about the gays. Then my grandpa started in on the blacks and how it's unfair that if "one of them" kills "one of us" as gang initiation it's not a hate crime. Yeah, I'll let you think on that for a while. Oh! And let's not forget health care. I heard a lovely one-side conversation with "facts" pretty much generated from Fox News and a discussion about liberals which included that "them" and "us" language. Me being the "them."

I've been a vegetarian for almost two years and I decided this year I would not be forced to eat only side dishes. One person can eat only so much starches in one day. So I cooked my own tofurky, wrapped it up in a basket and brought it over, hoping my grandmother wouldn't kick me out the minute she smelled the soy beans. Soy beans are the fuel of liberals, after all. When I told my grandmother I was adopting a vegan lifestyle two years agoshe looked at me very seriously and said that it was a religion. An evil one. She's lightened up a little bit when I decided to eat dairy again. I'm pretty sure she thinks I only worship the devil sometimes now.

Everyone else tried the tofurky and actually liked it! Even my dad and Uncle Jim who are the biggest carnivores you'll ever meet, admitted it "wasn't bad." Uncle Jim followed that up with "but let's not go crazy here, nobody's converting today." Still, it felt like I had won a small victory. All that was left was to get Grandma to try a bite. It would be like she was telling me she loved me... for the first time (seriously). But she didn't and I had to sit through a lecture on how the liberal education system had brainwashed me into idealizing animals and that growing up on the farm they only ate meat soaked in lard and that if I'm half as healthy as she is now she'll be surprised. Yada yada yada.

The remainder of the evening was spent silent, on my part. On the way home I tried to find something encouraging about the situation. Two years ago, if she had done the same thing I would've been crushed, crying in the dark with a blanket over my head. This year though I almost felt empowered, but sad for HER. I realized that this woman has now idea what joy is and what it means to find joy in your life through your love of others. She's never going to have a true relationship with me, or anyone else in her life, because she doesn't know what unconditional love is.

So what am I thankful for? For the people in my life that love me despite (or because) of my hippy dippy, tofu eating, Obama voting ways.

Keep it Classy

It was Thursday night. My friends and I had gathered at Beatrice and Woodsley for a very merry Unbirthday Party. The restaurant was perfect with it's aspen trees wrapped in yarn and bathrooms with hidden doors. When you pulled the lever to turn on the water, it trickled down a cascading line of silver beads. This place was seriously whimsical. Their cocktails where potent, even during the happy hour, and I had my fair share (which led to me singeing the sides of a 10 dollar bill and telling everyone it looked like it had survived the civil war, followed by hysterical laughter only on my part).

Later, we ventured to the Shag Lounge. A hipster watering hole only popular on Thursday and Sunday nights (because hipsters are far too evolved to be held down by the confines of traditional Friday and Saturday night goings-on). Mr. Nice Guy and his brother showed up. I was decently buzzed, probably a little beyond that actually. Just enough to be brave. I was impressing even myself. We were dancing but I wasn't stepping over any boundaries because I still wasn't sure if my feelings were reciprocated. We were talking and laughing and taking pictures together. My friends watched in the background, giggling at my smooth advances on this boy who, at this rate, I would surly be winning over later in the night.

I later knocked a drink out of my friends hand. I bought her a shot to apologize. And then another, and another. All whiskey. We joined our group on the dance floor. My dancing was getting a little more wild and... well sloppy. I decided that Mr. Nice Guy should, no NEEDED to, know how to do my patented dance move (usually reserved for dance parties in my living room with girlfriend and wine shooters), "Wash the Body." Basically it involves me violently running my hands in circles all over my body. It also involves some hip action and knee bounces that at the time felt So You Think You Can Dance worthy, but in reality... I don't want to think about it. He was generous enough, but his back was turned to me more and more after that.

Later, the girls decided to go the bath room, I headed to the secret corner where I had hidden my purse behind a chair. The journey to the purse involved me tripping at least four times. Not just little scuffs, but full out biffs. Knees bent, hands on the floor. Bad combination in a short skirt. It certainly wasn't my classiest moment.

Mr. Nice Guy is fairly straight laced and I haven't really heard from him since.

Fail.

PS- I recently heard he plans to join the Israeli Army.

Of course he does.

{photo from here}

I Missed You!

Hello friends! It's been ages, I know. Life has been a little crazy: school, work, possibly moving to a new state, and a new crush. All my spare time has been thrown towards a short story I'd like to turn in for my creative writing class. But I'm hoping this week will slow down a bit and I'll be able to re-enter the world of blogging. I've been lurking lately, but I have a lot to catch up on. After I turn in a paper today that'll be my first priority.

So, here's what's been going on in the world of Sarah:

Sir Eliot: Yesterday I had a one on one conference with Sir Eliot and, surprise! I did not want to lay face down in frost bitten grass and curse the moment I decided to pursue writing. He was actually fairly encouraging and genuinely happy to hear I was a creative writing major. I told myself I didn't need his approval to feel validated, but I'll be honest, it felt pretty damn good.

Music: I went to a Hanson concert last week. And OHMUGAWSH. It was amazing. Yes, I'm talking about these guys. They are actually really talented musicians these days. Here's one of their more recent songs:

Also, I'm digging Sherwood's new album, QU. It took me a while, but now I can't stop listening to it. I suggest you do the same.

A New Plan: Recently I read a post on Elise's blog about her new, fabulous plan for 2010. It got me thinking. This whole "live in the moment" experiment I've been trying lately is simply boring. I know, I know, all the yogis and Dali Lamas say that the present is a gift and that we should bask in it. But making plans for the future is just too much fun.

So Elise's blog got me thinking I need a new plan. But that's about as far as I got as life decided to stand in the limelight for a while. And then it was Halloween. What a waste of my time. I spent months sewing this dress that didn't come out like I wanted, my friends were being weird, the parties we went to were lame. I climbed into my bed around 3, completely sober, thinking that I am not living a good story. That's my new experiment, the way I'm going to make my "present" worth something. But more on that on day, I'm still working out the kinks.

The Monday after Halloween weekend, my boss looked at me very seriously and said they were thinking about moving to Austin, and would I come along. I think she was hoping I would be the voice of reason and say no and then list all the logical reasons why they shouldn't move either. But I didn't. I mean part of me wanted to, but that part was very quiet and new better than to speak up. The reckless part of me, that usually gets me into the most fun/trouble said "Yes!"

That was my inciting incident. Technically an inciting incident is this:

"The inciting incident is a plot element and arrives near the beginning of the drama. It can be long or short and connects the situation that the characters find themselves at the beginning or before the play begins to the end of the play. It begins the action and also sets up the main question (Motivating Question) that the audience wants the play to answer. The focus, therefore, is both on the character and audience suspense."

If I am going to live my life like a well loved novel, this is my chance to get it started. It's the start of my drama, a young girl moving to a new state where she hardly knows anyone, pursuing her dream and not knowing where it will take her. I'll be one step closer to finding the answer to that "motivating question." Why am I on this Earth and what am I supposed to be doing?

Austin is an amazing art town with creative types running around everywhere. Seems like I'll fit in well. If any of you lovely readers are from Austin, have any tips? I hear the college campus there has a turtle pond. I'm hoping this turns out to be as awesome as it sounds.

It's not for sure yet, but I feel like it's a very VERY good possibility. But told tell anybody. It's totally top secret for now ;)

A New Leading Man (maybe): And because every good story has a bit of conflict in it (ok, a LOT of conflict), my first hurdle has appeared. There is this boy, let's call him Mr. Nice Guy. He's a friend of a friend and we met a few years ago when we were both in the music program. Back then I was a little out of control when it came to the opposite sex. I mean, I'm still a little nutty, but it's nothing compared to then. Somehow I acquired his number and would invite him to random outings. He worked at the Starbucks by my house and I would go in when I knew he was working. He saw through it all, of course. Disastrous is really the only word for it all. So I'm trying to be the polar opposite of that. So far I haven't stalked him at all so I'm already improving from last time.

I hadn't seen him in at least a year and a half and had pretty much forgotten about him. A few weeks ago, though, I ran into him at a friend's birthday party. He looked completely different. I mean, he was attractive back then, total hipster and definitely what I was into back in the day. But now he's shaved the scraggily beard and cut off the fashionable mullet. Definitely what I'm into these days. The one resounding thing I've heard about him from mutual friends is what an incredibly nice guy he is. I've even asked my most cynical friends who don't like ANYBODY what they think of him. Yep, even they think he's amazing.

We hung out a bit last night with a group of friends. My chest cavity hurts now. I so do not want to have a crush on this guy. Because I don't crush, I obsess. And I told myself that after Mr. Long Distance I would take a leave of absence from the dating world to recuperate.

And let's just say for all intensive purposes something did conjure up between us. I may be in a different state as soon as August. Bad timing, universe. Terrible timing.

{image from here and here}

I Have a One on One Meeting with Sir Eliot Tomorrow

I think we all know how this is going to go.

PS- Sorry I've been so lame with posting and commenting lately. Lots and LOTS to do and even more to catch you all up on. Hopefully this weekend, because I miss you. I really do.

I Dream of Malls and Death

{here}

I Dream of Malls and Death

I hopped out of the van with AJ and the baby. The scene was explosive and confusing. Football players on the west side of the lawn, along with cheerleaders using sex to help the team win the game. On the east side was a concert. Right brained kids in tight pants and scarves jumping around like five year olds after too much candy, and a considerably cooler guy on stage running around, screaming things into a microphone and pointing out girls he’d like to make his “muse” after the show.

We went into the shopping mall who’s south entryway opened up to the madness on the great lawn. It looked like Black Friday or two days before Christmas in there. People bustled about, in generally good spirits. Because when you’re buying new stuff, you’re reinventing who you are for a minute.

Soon my roommate Elijah joined us on our walk around the mall. He was a welcome sight, with his handsome features and messy dreadlocks, tanned skin from outdoor adventures and jeans ripped at the knee.

Before I knew what happened, Elijah and I were separated from AJ and the baby. Once he had joined us, I hardly even noticed they were with us. But AJ had driven so we decided to split up to find them. I went out the wrong exit and ended up in what looked like an office building. Fake wood doors with gold name plates pasted on them flashed passed me as I ran towards an exit. That familiar feeling of panic stretched through my lungs. It was like being back stage at the circus, dreary and depressing.

I finally got out to the great lawn again. Some football team in blue and red had won whatever championship they were playing for and fireworks were exploding because of it. I walked passed two girls talking on their cell phones. One girl was talking about a tall telephone line that just fallen down. It was a big deal because of how tall it was. She suspected a lot of damage had been done because of it. The people on the football field hadn’t seemed to notice.

Then I heard AJ, like she was on the phone and I was a neighbor who’s line had gotten crossed with hers and could listen in. She was saying that Elijah and the baby were dead, that the telephone line had gotten Elijah and she had to drive her dead family home. Horrified I started to walk faster. AJ’s voice had dissipated and all I could think to do was run to the back of the mall. I saw her purple mini van driving on the grass towards me. I slowed and didn’t know what else to do but cry. My bottom lip and chin crumpled up in that involuntary way and I saw her face contort too. She shook her head. I walked up to the van and opened the front door. I saw a car seat and next to it was Elijah. He looked like he was asleep and still just as beautiful as he was in life. No scaring, no blood. His skin was a milky version of what it once was, like when you go to a viewing and the person in the casket looks like a wax figure. I started to cry harder and as AJ started to tell me what happened all I could say was “no” over and over and over again. Like it would change something about the dead body sitting rigid yet peaceful in the back seat. I can’t remember what else she said, my ears started humming and before she could tell me about the baby, the one I barely felt I knew but couldn’t bare to hear was dead, I started shouting “WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP!”

I was in my bed, pressed up against the wall with sheets twisted around my head while tears, hot and mournful, still spilled from eyes. I sat up and looked out my window, it was still dark but already morning. I wanted to run downstairs to see him, hug him, or just touch his dark arm. But how do you tell someone you just saw them die? I laid in bed thinking that more sleep was an impossibility and contemplating this newfound intense affection I had for the boy that lived down stairs, the kind you feel when someone you thought you lost forever comes back. A prodigal affection. How thankful I was that his organs were still warm and vital and that his hands were still cracked and dirty with life.

Writing Against a Brick Wall

{here}

Ok my beautiful little writer friends. I need your sage advice. I've been working on this coming of age story for my creative writing class. When I first thought of the idea I was so excited to get started. The idea just walked up and introduced itself to me. I didn't have to sit and ponder and smoke a carton cigarettes and drink a box of wine to work up the courage to tackle it to the ground. I was simply sitting on the light rail, a name popped in my head, then a street sign I had passed earlier with the city she lives in and then it all came naturally from there. Sir Elliot even like the idea when I pitched to him later that day in class.

It was all too perfect. Writing isn't supposed to be that painless! It's supposed to pull you apart inside, trying to find the perfect subject, the perfect heroine, the perfect words to say something that matters to show the world how much you love it.

Well now the pulling apart has begun. I feel like I writing against a brick wall, or a really strong wind blowing against me. The words are forced and I have no idea where I should be going with the story, and I'm only 1000 words in. Have you ever just known, deep down that what you're writing is complete crap? And I'm not trying to get down on myself so you all can tell me how great I am. I'm serious. This stuff I was typing out was complete and utter crap.

So I guess it's a form of writers block. But it's more like the god of creativity has his massive hand pressed against my forehead as I try so hard to walk forward, swinging my fists as I go, and getting no where.

Have any of you felt like this? And how do you get passed it? Any writing exercises or magic voodoo you can recommend? I really don't want to abandon the idea, just the crappy writing that seems to ooze from my fingers these days.

New Music Monday: I'm Being Lame

Oh shit. It's Monday. I'm supposed to suggest something musical for you, because my taste in music is clearly superior to anyone else's (for the record I'm jamming to Battlefield by Jordin Sparks right now. Irony?) But, much to your dismay I'm sure, I have a test to study for and I can hardly keep my eyes open as it is. So you're just going to have to get by with this:

A Chihuahua named Michael Angelo

That is a pretty accurate description of how I feel after my creative writing class every day. Found it here.

Any advice as to how one would write a coming of age story in 550 words or less? I'd like to go all Holden Caulfield on this assignment, but not in 550 words less. I don't even know where to start with this. I came up with this beginning in class today, but Sir Eliot wasn't amused.

"The first time I heard Heartbreak World by Matt Nathanson, I was watching a train go by, wondering if I should climb aboard or throw myself under it. I'm pretty sure God decided to talk to me that day."

It needs work, obviously. But I didn't think it was quite as wretched as Sir Eliot did.

I so do not want to suck up to this guy, but turns out he was the fiction editor for some fancy shmancy literary magazine and he's got contact info and clout... for the right student of course. All this time I thought he was just some washed up poet and I never hid my eye rolls and heavy sighs. And now he literally detests me and anything I write. Today he was seriously offended that I suggested we name the chihuahua (for a writing exercise) Michael Angelo (yes I know it's spelled wrong. It's part of the silliness). I mean, come on, that's funny. Right?

You Got It, or, The Words To End A Love Story

Oh I so do not want to write this. But, dear readers, I’ve promised the end, now I guess I have to deliver. And maybe it’ll be cathartic. Whatever.

Mr. Long Distance and I “broke up” in April. I use quotations because I suppose we were never officially together in the first place. It was that conversation that started the decline, when I decided I’d ask him how he’d feel about making me an honest woman and start referring to me as his girlfriend. He said he didn’t feel like we should broadcast our relationship like that, since we lived so far apart. Looking back it reminds me of that scene in A Walk to Remember where Mandy Moore says to Shane West “so you want to be secret friends” and then slams the door.

But I did slam some doors I suppose. My subconscious took over when I started to repeatedly say “it’s fine! It’s much better this way.” Despite my desperate attempts to convince myself this was true I was building walls all over the place. And thus started the vicious cycle. I withdrew, he withdrew, I withdrew more because he withdrew, and on and on.

Which brings us to April. We drove around my neighborhood both saying everything but the inevitable and obvious. He made excuses about the peace corps and something about sports and me not liking them, I told him I felt like I inconvenienced him whenever it was just the two of us and that he doesn’t seem to care much about my friends or my family despite the effort I put into his. He apologized and I said maybe I’d try out soccer (that was a lie). Then we sat in silence. Knowing that no matter how much soccer i attempted or how much quality time he tried to give me, there was no saving our situation. Then one of us finally said it, I can’t remember which one, but I think the words were “take some time off from each other,” or something ridiculously open ended like that. I think both of us were hoping that maybe in another time and place this could work, so “taking some time off” sounded better than “let’s break up.”

I dropped him off, went home and cried. And cried. Oh and then I cried some more. Then I stopped, ate some dinner, and he called me. He had just gotten back to South Dakota and... wanted to shoot the shit. I was confused and angry. I cut the conversation short and brooded about why he would want to pretend all was normal so soon. He wanted his cake and to eat it too. A few days later I got an email from him saying something about wanting to stay friends and that I’m one of his best friends. If I may offer you some advice, please, no matter how much you can’t stand not having that someone in your life, under no circumstances go this route. It may seem like the most comfortable way to break up with someone but when it comes down to it, it’s the most self destructive thing you can do. I spent the next few months pretending I was moving on, all the while keeping him in the back of my mind. Knowing that he was there felt safe and comfortable. If no one noticed me at a bar one night (or every night), it wouldn’t matter, because I knew that I had LD, even if the details weren’t the same. All of that is all well and good, as long as that other person stays single.

Ah, but the perfection of a self destructive relationship can’t last forever. Mr. Long Distance came for a visit in August. I met him for coffee at St. Marks. I had an iced chai and he had an iced coconut breve, his signature drink and disgusting, if you ask me. He greeted me like we saw each other just the other evening. He was so nonchalant it was sickening and disconcerting. I gave him a birthday present (a used copy of the poem The Sword and the Stone, his favorite movie), we talking for maybe 45 minutes and he left, leaving me with the impression I would be seeing him again during his visit. The only time I heard from him was a drunk text message and an description of how much fun he was having. The next thing I knew he was back home, uploading pictures of his trip. The last photo was one of him back in South Dakota next a beautiful girl with dark eyes. I know I’ve been a bit, oh what’s the word... paranoid about him and other girls in the past, but something in me just knew that this girl wasn’t like the others. And so, rather than be forced to watch their inevitable relationship progress, I decided to be proactive and remove him and the pain he was causing me.

I sent him a slightly vague email saying I would be deleting him from my facebook and myspace and to please respect the fact that I couldn’t have him in my life anymore. I even asked him to stop reading my blog. Obviously I have no way of knowing if he did that last bit, so if you’re still reading, HI CHARLES! Oh woops, first name slipped out there.

I told him that if he had any questions or anything he wanted to say to me, I wanted to hear it and that he should email me back. His response? “You got it.” I honestly wasn’t expecting him to respond at all, but those three words hurt more than not hearing anything. That’s what I mean to him, “you got it.” Or, in other words, absolutely nothing.

A few weeks later, while on vacation in Iowa I was trying to write my first poem due in my creative writing class. It had to be about a person and had to involve hands. My mind jumped straight to his hands, the way they felt in mine, smooth and brown. So, strictly for research purposes I hopped over to his myspace url which was so kindly still stored in my browser. And there they were, the very thing I didn’t want to see. Pictures of him and that girl. Kissing, hugging, laughing, happy. Happier than he ever looked with me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that before. Some weird combination of anger, despair, and self loathing. She was the antithesis to me. Athletic looking, dark skinned, dark hair, dark eyes, naturally beautiful. Like she rolled out of bed looking like a fucking volleyball goddess.

I have since come leaps and bounds from despair and self loathing, but the anger has been slow to leave. I can say that I don’t hate him anymore, but I’m not quite to the point of forgiveness. I think mostly because if I forgive him, I’ll have to let him go completely and I really don’t want to do that. It’s harder to stay angry though as the emotions are dwindling. He had every right to start dating again, and I sincerely don’t believe there was ever any overlap between the two of us. I just wish he could’ve told me about her. If he had been brave, he could’ve been honest when we had coffee and said there was someone he was interested in. I think I deserved that much, and had I heard it from him instead of myspace, I probably wouldn’t have lost weeks and weeks to sadness. I hate the way he made me feel about myself, or maybe that I let him make me feel that way, worthless and ugly through and through.

On a few weird notes, a few days after I sent him the email, Roommate showed me his facebook status. It said something like “looks like you deleted my from facebook and myspace. My virtual feelings are crushed. Let’s grow up.” Based on that and his response to the email, I’m wondering if he ever actually read it.

I also heard from my friend Gia that he would email or text her occasionally about me. One was right before he came to visit this last time. He asked if she saw me much anymore, she said not as much as she’d like and he responded “yeah, I feel the same.” He certainly didn’t show it while he was here. He also emailed her after I sent him the email saying I freaked out or something and if she knew anything about it. Apparently he was too afraid or passive aggressive to ask me himself. The only thing he could muster was “you got it.”

So there you have it, the saga is complete.

Fin.

If you want to follow the story from the beginning here are the posts in order:

In The Beginning

A New Year, A New Love, A New Loss

This is Not A Love Story, This is a Story About Love

PS- That was kind of cathartic

A Rare Moment of Personal Affirmation

I love to write. I really do. This is one of those rare moments where my heart's nodding in agreement, that this isn't just what I do, it's what I love, and who I'll be for the rest of my life. And, for today at least, that's not the least bit scary. It's really exciting.

New Music Monday: Gregory Alan Isakov

Today I present you with a local gem, Gregory Alan Isokov. He's very much reminiscent of Josh Ritter and the like. Love the name, love the voice, love the face.

Hope you're enjoying you Monday and that Mr. Isokov can make it a bit more cheerful.

Today

Today, I would like to:

Eat This

{recipe here}

Read This

{here}

Watch This

{here}

Play in These

{here}

but instead

I'm doing this

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C'est la vie.

Snowland

This is what's happening outside my window currently. If I can get out of my obligations today and stay inside with some hot chocolate and Christmas music, I will definitely be ok with this. If I have to go outside though, I'll be pouting. Yep, like a 5 year old.

In other news, Sir Eliot gave me a compliment Thursday. I know I shouldn't crave his approval, but the fact that he's so horribly discouraging makes me pine for just one word of affirmation. Well I got it. He was reading a prose poem I'm working on (this proves that prose > than poetry, for me at least) and told me I had amazing imagery. Huzzah!

Right after that I hopped on the light rail to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts (school bag and all) and saw Wicked. It wasn't as good as the first time I saw it a few years ago but, come on, it's Wicked. Of course it's going to be amazing. Defying Gravity made me cry and I really wish they would reprise it at the end.

This time around I realized just how many themes and the extent of the social commentary it has. That paired with the hilarious dialogue, the costumes (oh my we were so close and we could see the detail. They were amazing!) and of course the incredible music, this has got to be one of the best musicals... ever. Yep, bold statement but I'm standing by it. Afterwards we went across the street to this restaurant called The Corner Office for dessert. All of the sudden my mom whispers "that's the wizard!" And sure enough, the wizard and the rest of the cast strolled in for drinks. We left them alone, despite my mother's protests, but it was still very cool to sit that close to the wizard.

Last night I saw Bright Star. It's about John Keats and his muse, Fanny Brawne. I really wanted to love this movie. I did love individual pieces. The costumes were amazing. The guy that played Keats, he could read me the phone book and I would swoon. There were some amazing scenes with wonderful acting. But as a whole, the story was lacking something and I'm not sure I know what it is. I think it just wasn't told very well. Characters weren't introduced to the audience properly and the rising action wasn't presented well. The climax though... yeah it's good. Despite it's shortcomings I definitely recommend it. The cinematography is absolutely gorgeous. Here's the trailer and some stills: