"Years go by will I still be waiting
For somebody else to understand
Years go by if I'm stripped of my beauty
And the orange clouds raining in my head
Years go by will I choke on my tears
Till finally there is nothing left
One more casualty
You know we're too EASY easy easy "
- Tori Amos, "Silent all these years"
Hi there. My name is Simon and I will be your guide. Watch your step, there are cracks in the earth.
Well, here I am and this is really late. Great. Just shows how on the ball I am these days, what are we, the 25th? eeps... really sorry Jeff...
I had begun writing something though... here is part of it :
"The past two weeks have been odd. I have so much to say and no way to say it, I feel like the words are being blocked by...something.
My best friend, Georgette, came back after being in France for a year. I missed her tremendously, for she and I think in much the same way and show each other our poems, and we always understand exactly what the other is trying to say. She too, was struck by this bug of so many things to say and no way to start saying anything.
Last night though, I found a way to talk.. a least a little bit.
I was driving home with a friend of mine, and she asked me what was wrong. I guess my face looked like someone had pulled it down. I just told her that I didn't know. I'm still not sure what is the matter. I told her how I am lonely, how I need something, but I'm not quite sure yet, and how this girl who hardly knows me, made me feel so happy when she kissed my cheeks to say thank you for something and at that moment I started. I wept, right there, like I hadn't wept since I had fallen in love.
It has been a year and a half that I can say I really cried.
I wept, silently, softly, a few days ago, sitting in a chair, listening to this wondrous poem, which has struck me lately, and I made sure that no one could hear me, and the everything flowed so saltily on my face, and I didn't make a sound, for I didn't want anyone to hear.
I want someone to hear me now."
Looks like it'll be you guys...
I have no professional drive, I just want to stay home, read, watch movies, I am busting to do something, not sit in an office all day, just another form of a classroom. I'm young, I'm driven by my own passions and I want to find someone who will want to kiss me.
Is that too much?
"I want somebody who sees the pointlessness
and still keeps their purpose in mind
I want somebody who has a tortured soul
some of the time
I want somebody who will either put out for me
or put me out of misery
or maybe just put it all to words
and make me say, you know
I never heard it put that way
make me say, what did you just say?
I want somebody who can hold my interest
hold it and never let it fall
someone who can flatten me with a kiss
that hits like a fist
or a sentence, that stops me like a brick wall
because if you hear me talking
listen to what I'm not saying
if you hear me playing guitar
listen to what I'm not playing
and don't ask me to put words
to all the spaces between notes
in fact if you have to ask, forget it
do and you'll regret it
I'm tired of being the interesting one
I'm tired of having fun for two
just lay yourself on the line
and I might lay myself down by you
but don't sit behind your eyes
and wait for me to surprise you
I want somebody who can make me
scream until it's funny
give me a run for my money
I want someone who can
twist me up in knots
tell me, for the woman who has everything
what have you got?
I want someone who's not afraid of me
or anyone else
in other words I want someone
who's not afraid of themselves
do you think I'm asking too much? "
- asking too much, Ani DiFranco
A friend of mine, whom I have been talking to on the phone told me that he hasn't had a best friend, one that he can see, and be around often, in two years. That killed me. I mean, I died when my friend went off to France for a year. Two years, and no one... I... don't know what to say.
Another friend of mine and I have been sleeping together. No, I don't mean sex, I mean, we cuddle up together when night falls, and then we go off to our separate beds, no sex, just pure physicality, comfort. We wouldn't mind more, but we see one another as brothers, and my friend isn't comfortable in involving sex in a friendship. I can understand this view, but it is not one which I share. I believe that if you are friends with someone, and you care for them, love them, then why not share that feeling in a physical or sexual context. This would not diminish the value of sex, for sex is something shared between two people who care for one another (in optimal conditions that is, sex can just be sex too...) and wish to show one's affection for one another.
I want to share something that I have written with all of you:
"Let me take your hands, I'm shaking like milk"
- The Cure
I never thought the day would get here. Never thought you would either. Thought I would live, knowing you were simply existing somewhere else. Never thought I would not weep.
This hot feeling I got inside my belly went up my back when everything jelled (yet it was firm) and we stayed there for hours, lying there, even though you couldn't sleep with anyone in your arms, no you wouldn't hurt me if that's what you wanted (lie) I will lie here, looking at you, my arms draped across my sweaty chest, back aching from these bad pillows and no sleep. Little freckles on a perfect back and buttocks. Green linens that we have slept in hide you, and I go and sit in a simple old rocking chair and your grandmother had one just like it you told me, it even smells like the furniture polish she used to get on it when she dusted the house, her eyes turning blue with cataracts.
I see you, through the doorway, your feet making little hills under the comforter, all bunched up at the bottom of the bed, dangling on the floor. I write pieces of nothing on scraps of paper I write, not being able to speak, or scream, or whimper. Just be and be here sitting in this chair with a cold fake leather head rest, as I look I notice the yellow hole on my bedroom ceiling from where I ripped the tape off that I used to hold all my photos that a friend of mine had taken of me, lying on a piano, crying by an old lighthouse that nobody uses except to hide at and get stoned while the wind makes you freeze, looking right into the camera, not letting anyone escape my eyes, a demented Giaconda. I looked at them every night before I turn off the lamp that I have kept since I was three, always reading Tennyson before I click it off ( I wanna to rescue the lady of shalott, soothe her, and be Parsifal, the innocent fool), and listening to some CD I had picked up that morning while making breakfast, scratching my face, tiptoeing through the clothes on the floor, clothes that took so long to take off,
I don't like being naked.
You came behind me and rubbed the nape of my neck, but you had shaken the geranium and its dry smell had announced your presence louder than your breathing. You sat on the floor, grapefruit rinds in little communes all over the place and you looked up at me and I touched your eyelids with my fingers and closed them.
This is the story of what happened between me and my first love. I say that I am over it, but I am over the initial shock and emotional torrent. One can never be completely over something in the context that experiences shape our lives and our perceptions.
Where I am going with this is that recently, it really hit me of how much of a tragedist that I am. When I was young, I used to write all these stories about death, and dying and love, and lovers dying, and I watched all these Merchant and Ivory movies (Howard's end, A room with a view, etc.) and I completely understood this love that is never spoken. I get these crushes on guys and then I create an identity for them, and then my world crumbles in on itself.
This concludes our tour. If you wish to ask questions, please email me at: JupitersBoy@hotmail.com