Transcribed from old journal

The WB showed "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered" again tonight. Joss Whedon really put a lot of poetry into that episode--something rather magical about the silent moments between Xander and Cordelia--something I miss...

I remembered today how much Lee and I look like Katchoo and David. I should probably take a picture of us and send it in to Strangers in Paradise.

I suppose this whole journal thing doesn't really go very far unless I start writing on a regular basis. Oh, well. Fuck that.

I love you. And not in a friendly way, although I think we're great friends. And not in a misplaced affection, puppy-dog way, although I'm sure that's what you'll call it. And it's not because you're unattainable. I love you. Very simple, very truly. You're the epitome of every attribute and quality I've ever looked for in another person. I know you think of me as just a friend, and that crossing that line is the furthest thing from an option you'd ever consider. But I had to say it. I can't take it anymore. I can't stand next to you without wanting to hold you. I can't look into your eyes without feeling that longing you only read about in trashy romance novels. I can't talk to you without wanting to express my love for everything you are. I know this will probably queer our friendship--no pun intended--but I had to say it, because I've never felt this before, and I like who I am because of it. And if bringing it to light means we can't hang out anymore, then that hurts me. But I couldn't allow another day to go by without getting it out there, regardless of the outcome, which by the look on your face is to be the inevitable shoot-down. And I'll accept that. But I know some part of you is hesitating for a moment, and if there is a moment of hesitation, that means you feel something too. All I ask is that you not dismiss that--at least for ten seconds--and try to dwell in it. Alyssa, there isn't another soul on this fucking planet who's ever made me half the person I am when I'm with you, and I would risk this friendship for the chance to take it to the next plateau. Because it's there between you and me. You can't deny that. And even if we never speak again after tonight, please know that I'm forever changed because of who you are and what you've meant to me, which--while I do appreciate it--I'd never need a painting of birds bought at a diner to remind me of.
-Holden, Chasing Amy

Here's to lost loves...

Transcribed from old journal

I've been working on the web pages lately, sorta re-vamping the whole poetry site. I suppose my idleness has gotten the better of me--I just have to do something.

One thing I've tried to do is write--the unfortunate thing about writing is you're either on or off; you're either in the groove or not. This entry, for example, seems forced, off-kilter.

I've gone just about nowhere with yesterday's passage (which, incidentally, I wrote on Thursday). Ms. Kjos suggested the possibility that I write vignettes, moments. I had considered that for a while, but I have a burning need to finish . . . something . . . a story or something at least greater than that small collection of words.


Climbing is going well--I'm starting to really feel comfortable around everyone there. Unfortunately, I think I'm overdoing it. I probably have tendonitis already. My fingers are aching like never before. I don't suppose computer professional/rock climber is a great combination for the hands . . .

What's the meanest you can be to the one you claim to love, and still smile to your new-found friends?

She talked to me today. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Stacey told me this weekend, "She really treats you like shit," which, I suppose is an accurate assesment of the situation. Of course, Stacey has more than a one-sided view of the whole mess.

She tells me, however, that she treats me no different from everyone else in her life. So I guess the proper way of putting would be, "She really treats everyone like shit."

Or maybe I'm just bitter.

I guess I always knew that I would lose her, and lose her badly . . . but what we had was so very special. I didn't think that things would go to that fucking asshole, and I would be left holding the shit end of the stick.

I still love her.

And that's probably the saddest part of this whole thing.

Transcribed from old journal

There's a certain benefit to breaking up with someone that many people don't really partake of. Catharsis. For me, at least, emotions are always far more intense following a breakup. I find it far easier to find empowerment in my anger, to lose focus in my sadness.

And media tend to get far more relevant. Even the horribly cheesy love songs sound profound after a breakup. Stupid television shows that I usually scoff at, evoke bewildering memories and emasculating tears.

I've found that my writing improves during these times. Hell, I hardly write when I'm happy--I've composed my best verses while singing the chorus of "Why the fuck did she leave me?"

I'm writing more lately. Ms. Kjos is pushing me to write. And the things I find coming from my fingertips are good--granted not exactly Hemingway or Shakespeare, they have called out a tear or two.

I thought for a moment of staying, of forcing her to recognize that I still existed in this life, that beyond this final act of passion we were still connected in some way. She stirred slightly in her sleep, and the bed creaked as I backed away slowly to avoid her arms. She clutched herself to a pillow, mumbled slightly, and returned to her slumber.

I watched her for some time, studying her softness under the blankets. Her breathing slowed, and I saw her eyes jump into motion beneath her eyelids. She was dreaming--more than likely of someone other than the man who had just shared her bed, her body.

I silently, but hurriedly, gathered my things--retrieving my shoes from underneath the bed, throwing my shirt over my body. When I had found everything, I knelt beside the bed and gingerly kissed her brow.

"Sweet dreams."

For a brief second, I thought I saw the sides of her mouth curl slightly. I watched her again, for a few moments, and then, holding my shoes in my hands, I stepped from her room.

As I walked towards the car, my vision began to blur. I felt the warm wetness roll down my cheeks as I drove away. I didn't feel like wiping the tears from my face.

And I would trade it all to be with her again.

Transcribed from old journal

Ms. Kjos gave me the following passage today:

You know what I am going to say. I love you. What other men may mean when they use that expression, I cannot tell: what I mean is that I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction which I have resisted in vain and which overmasters me. You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water, you could draw me to the gallows, you could draw me to any death, you could draw me to anything I have most avoided, you could draw me to any exposure and disgrace. This and the confusion of my thought, so that I am fit for nothing, is what I mean by your being the ruin of me. But if you would return a favourable answer to my offer of myself in marriage you could draw me to any good--every good--with equal force. My circumstances are quite easy, and you would want for nothing. My reputation stands quite high, and would be a shield for yours. If you saw me at my work, able to do it well and respected in it, you might even come to take a sort of pride in me:--I would try hard that you should. Whatever considerations I may have though of against this offer, I have conquered, and I make it with all my heart. Your brother favours me to the utmost, and it is likely that we might live and work together; anyhow, it is certain that he would have my best influence and support. I don't know that I could say more if I tried. I might only weaken what is ill enough said as it is. I only add that if it is any claim on you to be in earnest, I am in thorough earnest, dreadful earnest.
- Charles Dickens

Ms. Kjos said that she would love for me to find someone who would say something like this to me. If only time weren't a factor, I would be a happy man.