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.