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This long complaint is better read piece by piece. The pretentious tone is tiring, and the unneccesary big words can be confusing, as can the often inverted phrasing. Not to mention the fact taht if you don't know what I'm talking about, you'll be horrifically confused and won't understand most of the references. Anyway. Take it a little at a time.
I
I came willingly to this fold of black sheep, little knowing I would still be an anomaly among anomalies. I had thought, idealistically perhaps, that there would be other stubborn outcasts of the incrowd, but the entire collection of screaming Backstreet Boys fans and rap enthusiasts shuns the essentials of my tastes. It is a magnet for stereotypes, this place. But I digress from the subject intended.
There are occasional exceptions everywhere, exceptions such as this place is reputed to be. There is one here like no other I have ever encountered. His skill with the pen parallels my own, and, though I am young, I have been unrivaled in my age group. I wish not to be thought conceited, but truly I had never come across one as young as I who could best me with my own language on paper. The one thing I excelled at alone is everyone's strength here, and I am no better than anyone else at what I thought I was best. Words are my refuge now, equivocal and undefined, a hundred meanings to each combination of meaningless symbols. I am well-versed enough in their myriad uses to love to play with them, a palette of subtle colors on an infinitely confusing canvas. I am sure that everything I will ever have to say has already been said in a much more fitting way, but this way is mine. I am individual. Maybe not the most individual of all, maybe not the best specimen of individuality, but I am me. The meager crowd that feels as I do about appearance, culture and self-expression are my forebears: my mother, her siblings, and my grandmother. I must be a child of some other age. I despise the sickly, oily, choppy look that is currently fashionable. I go out of my way to look presentable as I see it, instead of as the herd does. Unfortunately they are blind to the virtues of this wavelength.
Again, there are always exceptions. Again, there is one major one. It is the same. One who ought to be listened to. One to whom it is a pleasure to listen. An art at which I have little practice is spontaneous conversation that passes for intelligent. This one excels at such art. My tongue is tied often, especially when blessed with his presence. My thoughts do not collect themselves quickly enough to inject a valid point into a lightning duel of wits. This one has not only a gleaming intellect in ink, but a glittering one in even careless banter. I am, unfortunately, not the only one who has noticed.
I am realistic about my chances of being considered as a possibility with the afore-mentioned. There are too many others typecast to play the role of fainting female or adoring darling who would undoubtedly suit better as a companion. I'm sure one of them will be ecstatic when they find out whose fancy they've caught... not that such a fancy would ever be frivolous. Yet, I am realistic in the other direction also. A wordsmith is likely to tire of company who does not appreciate the skill involved.
II 10/23/00
Hope was finally dawning fragile with the sun, (admittedly two days past the misleading revelation), only to be driven, drilled, and crushed into the blackest abyss possible to find. Not a one of those fainting females will get what I thought must surely be coming happily to them... No, fate must twist and throttle my bruised mind with the very irony he and I so often discussed. A friend. No. The Friend. The one person I finally found with whom to share my pitiful situation, who was in that same situation herself, and now has heard what neither of us ever dreamed of being graced with hearing. Well, maybe we had dreamed...
She no doubt deserves him more than anyone I can think of, except possibly she who had him in the first place. How foolish of me to think any of the verse read that day could apply to me, or was even meant for me to hear except that I invited myself to hear it, and he was far too polite to contradict me. It seems I invited myself on every occasion I ever saw as a concession; now I can see it. My adoration must irritate him, interfering in every chance he had to express how he felt to her; he said he hadn't any idea but I know how obvious it was, and now how annoying it must have been for me to tag along and invite myself everywhere I could get away with going when he was there. I must, uncomely and unshapely as I am, repulse and disgust him with the thought of my attraction. Of course, if I ever brought it up, he would deny it and convince me otherwise because of his well-bred and gracious obligation never to offend.
So I cry myself to sleep but wake with a smile because I know he must be delighted... Drawn to her yet wondering if she reciprocated: imagine! My own concept, repeated to me by him through her. Oh, how excruciatingly wonderful. My mind rushes through all the superlative results of the privilege of his acquaintance. That poisonous memory of the gathering, both the night and the morning... The story tripping melodically, preciously from his lips, half a hand away... The inadequacy of it overwhelms me. Woeful, despairing, anguished, unfortunate, worthless, tragic, incredible. There must be a thousand words, and not one can I find to fittingly describe how I feel now, nor one to describe how I love him. My refuge has failed me.
For indeed, if I am not also misled in the definition of love, vague though it is, that is what I believe applies now. It is no doubt a passing love, suited to the swiftness of youth and brevity of all such youthful loves, but a love no less intense and painfully pleasurable. What constitutes love? Inexperienced and unworldly, I believe it is caring about one almost exclusively, to the point where I can be marginally happy because he is, and, a well-adjusted, socially happy individual, ponder removing myself from the situation to remove with myself a possible worry, annoyance, and dishonor from his mind.
III 10/27/00
The impact of the event has at last reached the depths of my conscious awareness. I sigh in confusion at the conflicting messages long presented by his behavior. First, nothing. Then, I heard straight from his mouth that she and I were the only two in the entire situation for whom he felt anything, and high flattery followed. Next, I gathered from his remarks that there was no spark at all involving me; his only interest is in her. Now, after an unexpected interlude which I can only call a virtual taste of what heaven must be like, I find that an ambiguous sentence has me believing subconsciously that there is hope; he is attached to both of us--it was a random choice.
Although it's likely less than true, the experience will serve me for however long it takes to become reality: maybe forever. If it never materializes, this is what I have. This, and the gathering. One at a time, I lie actively cherishing the memories. The sound of his voice, adept and expressive, disclosing the story of a tragic world. The look of bemused concentration on his exquisite face, his ungoverned hair inconsistently defying all his perfunctory attempts to confine it. Relaxed, easy posture, leg brushing mine, leaning in toward the book, his shoulder a few inches away from being my weary head's resting place; but no. I know he's taken, and even if he wasn't, I have no right to assume such permission. One just can't be spontaneous anymore. Even this new incident was tacitly agreed on by both sides.
First, a subjective eternity of bliss: I alone command his attention. He is concerned simply, if momentarily, completely with me. Always considerate, but seldom specifically to me, he now is ardently professing his concern that I am distraught by the situational stresses. An apology, a repentance for a faultless preference, and a concerned inquiry as to my well-being. Then, a reconciliation of a nonexistent estrangement, the means of which delighted all senses it is possible to affect with such an experience. I could see his face, still, looking up from his arms, but the rest of my perception was nearly overwhelmed with gratification, so I closed my eyes in order to enjoy the instant to the fullest. The scent which I find often accompanies him was full in my nostrils, a pleasant one, and I melted inwardly from feeling of his arms encircling me and meaning it, if not in the way coveted and preferred. Head on his shoulder at last, I stood in rapture for a second of forever, and have hoped and wished and craved another such circumstance ever since the moment was broken.
Ah, so presumptuous of me to even consider usurping her prerogative. At midday, daily, I make my pilgrimage to spend half an hour basking in the pleasure his presence affords me, though in the shade of her preoccupation. I converse little, for indeed I am possessed of minimal skill in the oral communication of ideas. So the philosophical discussions and hilarious anecdotes proceed with little input from this quarter. I merely observe, with resigned bitterness, the placement of his hand with unsurpassed grace in hers, the ready offer of help on the slightest excuse. The embrace upon parting rankles especially deeply.
IV 11/27/00
An old adage comes to mind quickly and mockingly at this idiotic occasion: "Be careful what you wish for." The hardest thing is, I didn't even wish! I thought of their attachment bitterly and jealously, but I knew that it was the best solution if it was his preference.
Some internal insecurity plagues her, for I can see no valid reason for her reaction. She has found him inadequate or excessive, I'm not certain which, and the obvious affection he holds for her has no value in her eyes. I cringe from the semi-concealed pain in his posture, conversation, and fidgety glances, as he tries to make little of it. To the public, it was a mutual decision, but she had confided in me earlier about her intentions, and he had no hint. At the time, I hardly took her seriously, for how could I imagine that what would be a treasure to me was a nuisance to her? In her words, he was "too clingy." I suppose I cannot criticize, not having had her experiences and so not understanding the reason for her protest, but it seems such an inadequate excuse to cast away something so valuable to me.
I had cooled somewhat during the painful interlude, having lost all but the tiniest selfish smidgen of hope. I had come out slightly from my withdrawal, the better to distract myself. I had begun noticing other stars in the sky, and latched on to a few for comfort, which was willingly provided me. An admiration of two in particular consumed the part of me left, but was always a poor second to my primary preoccupation. Now I hesitate to explain to them the situation, unsure of what my reaction ought to be. They would probably counsel me to comfort him, but that would be transparent and useless, since he knows my secret and has made no intimation of return. Other approaches too are futile. I make my only choice to wait and watch.
At the beginning of this account, when we were both on the same side of the street, she told me she could not see herself with him and me standing on the sidelines. Her third eye is surely blind, for she has not only braved the traffic and taken up with him, but thrown me off the freeway overpass by discarding what I value.
V 12/12/00
Another nauseating roller coaster of moods and depressions, insignificant to the rest of the world as they may be, plague my inner thoughts this time around. Ecstatic to the extent that I was trembling visibly, (but hopefully unnoticeably), I accepted with moronic bliss his offer. What a clichZ
But now the restriction is lifted, and he is free to reinstate his offer, and he either hesitates, which is crushing, or has forgotten, which is shattering. The first implies he is not asking out of interest but pity. The second implies it was a passing interest and has forgotten he ever had it. Either choice is another icy plunge into the blisteringly salty sea of reality, foaming in my mental wounds. How like Erin I have become; surely he must liken me to her now.
I am not blind to his flaws, for he is quick to condemn and ridicule that of which he knows little and of which he finds the appearance uninteresting. He is, like most in this class of humanity, quite ready to discuss and be entertained be matters I still find... unsuitable for discussion. He's a charismatic chameleon, attentive to those capable of keeping his attention, which I rarely am. I sit, quiet, and watch as he juggles numerous conversations and occupations. Occasionally his eyes meet mine and question my silence and solitude, but I know that when I participate in such whirlwind conversations, they quickly take a stumbling turn, or I am run over and left behind. Once, in sweet stillness, I commanded his complete attention, but through no effort of my own.
So permissive and indominant of the conversation is he, so unself-centered, that still I know little of his interests and can only hope his tastes coincide with mine. He probably still knows little of me, but scarce cares besides as a friend. I wonder despondently if he enjoys the music I'm in love with. My reason for coming to the black sheep's fold is still, for the most part, unknown to him. I doubt that he has even heard me sing solo.
VI 12/18/00
It is with immense embarrassment that I acknowledge the fact that I have been called a genius. It wins no arguments, just makes one look conceited and arrogant, and generally makes very little difference in the scheme of things. I know for a fact, though, that the conventional and accepted definition of a genius is one whose intelligence quotient exceeds a hundred thirty; therefore by definition, half the population of the herd of black sheep surrounding me could be called geniuses not wrongly, including the major subject of this exceedingly long and mostly dull monologue that started as a private exclamation of despair but turned, as all invariably does, into a good source of mostly positive attention. (The reason for over half the actions in the world is attention; if no one had commented on this as a pitiable situation, I probably would have dropped it and complained only to myself). The aforementioned subject most likely would not appreciate most of the observations made here, and would undergo extreme discomfiture if a copy of this ever fell into his hands.
Why did I even mention it? Hands, hands. Long and slender, strong and capable... I could go on, but since I now have an audience, I shall curtail my monotonous raptures and move on to the more interesting woes. Woe is me, he's copped out. I could be wrong, but when I finally worked up the nerve and confidence to return his call, he let it be known that (supposedly through advice of his mother), he will not actively seek continuation of semi-serious relationships. As if we even had one. I agonize over his every movement and he occasionally says hi and hugs goodbye along with everyone else at the end of the day. Though it's not as if I'm any great personality to be with. I probably irritate some people to tears every day without noticing. Contrary, stubborn and overbearing, occasionally insolent, are words that come to mind when judging myself, though I'm hardly in a position to do so.
Perhaps I'm just paranoid. He had any number of excuses and all of them were good, and I can understand how he would feel pressured. And he didn't suggest a complete end. In fact, he was most insistent that we continue as we were (though I'm not sure what that is because I've been so careful not to assume anything). He worried that a lull would bring us out of it as enemies, as it had with both of the others. All I could do was stutter incoherently and nod invisibly, though later on I got the hang of it and was able to tell a few stories understandably well, argue convincingly and grind my teeth silently at my conversational inadequacy. He proves just as scintillating a conversationalist over the phone as anywhere else, as I would well expect him to be, and I just as dull-witted and mushmouthed. I suppose it's better dull and mushmouthed than loud and obnoxious, which I can sometimes turn.
Someday, if this ever gets out of my inner circle, I hope that whoever ends up reading it will not discard it in disgust at my egocentricity and self-absorbed way of thinking, but cluck his teeth in pity at the poor foolish un-genius. As that last only tends to make one think the opposite of what it says, I writhe in abject frustration at the contradictory tone I present. Oh, the abyss with it, I'll go soak my head.
VII 1/15/01
As once an unknowingly despised Queen fell, (of a country invented for her own pleasure, no less), and as earlier the same Queen rose to a position of power useless but for her self-image, so now falls the facade of contentment she puts on for the subjects who are, in reality, her equals and superiors in her art. The numb haze of loneliness and the bitter tang of disillusionment descend. I was right to doubt all along.... like everything else good here, it never happened, "there was never really anyone but me" who thought so.
My subjects turned out in the end to have been covertly repelled, disgusted, and offended by my arbitrary conscription of them into my government, and now are distant, and probably thankful for it. All that might ever have been genuine has been revoked by the hand of Fortune, lost in the dangling ends of ties to former homes. The one who knows me well enough can never be my friend, for she has a duty to me to pursue: my well-mannered upbringing. No fault of hers.
So. We're too different. I understand completely, but the question remains why you started it in the first place, except out of pity. And don't expect me to believe that load of dingo's kidneys about being innately terrible, not wanting anyone to know about it. We're all monsters, we just try to overcome it. Fighting internal battles is an everyday occurrence, hopefully, or everyone would give in to the less delectable parts of human nature. You're no exception.
Now, proclaiming openly of your indulgences with others in my position is your prerogative, and I would scarcely deny anyone the pleasure if you deigned to give it, but could you at least wait until I'm out of earshot? I hate to be picky on this subject but that seems a little malicious to one who has dreamed and gained and lost as I have. You scarcely seem to care, but how could you, not knowing any of the fevered thoughts in my awestruck head? I'm just another conquest, probably. Nothing important.
VIII 2/1/01
Just another conquest indeed. Two entire months, apparently, and nary a word to his ÒfriendÓ about Cece. Now I know why he broke it off. I'm beginning to see why so many in my circle insist that he is playing the field. Let us enumerate.
Jackie, for about 2 weeks at the beginning of the story, simultaneously with Rebecca unbeknownst to either. Brynn, for about the same length of time. At least he seemed to be having fun with her.... Ryan, maybe ( I'm still not quite sure ) for perhaps a week outside of the respite of winter, and nothing ever happened. So now, I understand that another was initiated near the end of my term, this Cece. Yes. All over half a year or less. Quite.
And yet nothing has diminished. There is still that full-body, deep-muscle shiver that starts in the middle of my back and works its way to the front, and then clenches my stomach and continues down, whenever he touches me. My mind still jerks to attention and self-consciousness whenever I even hear his name, much less his voice. My central circulatory system still malfunctions temporarily when he initiates a conversation. I still have trouble falling asleep.
But there is nothing there for him. In that one ambrosial moment when he was mine for an infinitely small fraction of a second, he said he felt the same, and was torn between only two, but now I know that was never true. So much for friendly honesty.
IX 12/30/01
One month less than a year, and so much has changed. He seems a dream to me now, albeit a lucid, vivid, despairing one that is my incessant obsession. None of the times I used to encounter him are now existent; he has no time in common with me. The torture of separation has dulled, but only because of its seeming eternity. Every other day in a week is a felicitous week to see him. The piquant voice of Down Under is often missing from our eccentrics' table, and in many of the instances which he is not, I am unavoidably called away. It galls me in more ways than one. A consistent dull scrape has since been abrading my sensitivities.
My assurance of the mental/spiritual situation has also drastically altered my view of this eternal unattainable. A new presence has emerged (admittedly modeled on his appearance) to comfort and assist me. I feel such a hypochondriac; elsewhere the problems are much worse, but mine are very real to me. This new presence has somehow managed to be everything I ever found attractive or desirable in anyone, but his relation is such that, although I'm sure he would fulfill that type of need if I asked, I see him as a brother and would never ask him to. No, my wonderful imaginary friend, don't even try.
For that post in my heart will never be occupied by anyone else. I know him even less now, I suppose, but he is still what I imagine in dreams, and, frighteningly enough, my reveries anticipate his physical changes. It was a shock to see him sun-yellow, though I had alreadly seen him so, mentally. My acquaintance with him, (for acquaintance it now is, no matter how much he professed his friendship and will to remain a friend at the last of the preceding year), has regressed, but some of my more interesting dreams reveal strange advice.
For there is now another sure chasm between us; I am a were, and he is not. If he were ever to find out, I couldn't be sure of his reaction. There is the suave, polite and distant side of him which would probably feign interest and then make sure never to associate with me again. And then there is the passionately sympathetic side of him which might actually be interested. Either way, nothing is repaired. He is still human.
All information regarding this realm is copyright (RS)^2, especially this information, and any unauthorized use will be tracked down and punished especially severely. Disembowelment and emasculation come to mind. I will bite your jugular out and chew your eyebrows off and give you the shape of a pretzel if you copy this and distribute it as your own work, and then I will kill you.