Tuesday, February 18, 2003 :::
 
I'm not going to apologize for this. If the story were complete, I wouldn't even explain myself, I'd expect you to do your own interpretations, however, I think it's only fair to give you a few details about this one. First of all, it's pathetic. I wrote it between phone calls at work, as you know. Secondly, it's uninformed. It contains an attempt to describe the feelings of a man dealing with homosexual thoughts and actions, I honestly don't know what that's like, and haven't read much about it. My purpose in including this is two-fold. I first wanted to try describing something I didn't understand, what better? Secondly, my goal in the story is to try and describe the relationship women and men share. The moral I envision for the story is one of realizing that we need each other, though it's tough to understand how it's supposed to work. The monastery, named Malone because it popped into my head, is a place where several characters, this being the first, come to be away from women, and for various reasons. This is not going to be my attempt at a homosexually erotic tale, just so you know. You're forewarned now, it's not entirely heterosexual, and it's also long. That being said, read away.




This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, and I can’t stand it any more. This is a prison we all chose, and it is a prison in the process of being made. Just like a church, this prison needed no building. There were no locks, and in fact the doors were often left wide open, but we were none the less imprisoned. I want to get out, but I’ve made my lonely bed, where now I must sleep. I was so excited, felt a part of something unique and important. I thought for the first time I had found my place and would fit in. I was young (I randomly wrote 23 at the time, but age keeps changing) and my life was empty. Malone offered me something I had always thought of, but never seriously considered, a life without women.

I grew up with good parents. My father had stopped caring, stopped living when I was very young. My mother happily became the downtrodden, disadvantaged substitute patriarch, and was responsible for everything we were to become. I believed everything she said, and tried hard to make her proud. I was a young gentleman, a boy scout. I was proper in my dealings, though at times I wondered what that meant. I said yes ma’am and no sir, and I didn’t stoop to dating, I courted.

Katie was a girl I should’ve married, and I was told this many times, even years later. She was the first girl I pursued, and I was interested because I was told I was. I was involved because her father allowed it. Her father gave us a great deal of freedom to get to know each other. He even occasionally left us by ourselves to talk, provided her older brother was with us. Eric was a boy scout too, but he looked at me with apologetic eyes. We were all embarrassed. We were actors with parts but no lines. I was to be Katie’s suitor, and at the end of the play I was to get down on one knee and finish what I’d started. She was to be the lady pursued, gentle and pure. At the end of our play, she merely needed to submit and say, “yes”, then, “I do”. Eric was the guard, and we were not to touch. If possible, he was to keep us from thinking about touching as well. What else did we need to know? Katie played her part well, she was as quiet and reserved as she was beautiful. I didn’t have need of a trophy however, and we soon both lost interest. My mother continued booking these short term engagements for me and I became quite good at meeting the family and gracefully withdrawing. The audience loved me and kept calling me back out for an encore. I soon became good at declining these as well. It was like a part time job for me, it kept me busy, but without benefits. This went on until I was about 20. Jennifer changed all of this.

Jennifer didn’t particularly enjoy the play as such, though she put on quite a show. She was a teacher of sorts, and I was a quick learner. I was perplexed and intrigued, and I felt desire like I’d only dreamed of. I told her I loved her, and she just laughed and smiled. Jennifer had what I wanted in so many ways. She had a passion for life, she was so confident and knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. She didn’t mind playing the role of the innocent, so long as she was free to do as she pleased on her own time. We spent afternoons talking with her mother, and the evenings were free to please each other. For the first time I was happy, I felt like I was part of something wonderful, I thought this might last and be what I’d always hoped for. She however soon found Kevin, and her happiness began anew. My heart was reborn as stone, though I didn’t know it. I tried many times hence to love, but couldn’t, not as I knew love. All I found was all I’d been given before, and sex grows old without love.

When at first I began telling my friends of my frustrations and despair, many gave the standard fare in response. Many fish never appealed to me though. The right one?, what was I to expect, what if she had never existed? I was drowning in great seas of despair and apathy, I felt lied to and betrayed. I felt discarded and meaningless. Among those who spent the time to try to understand me was Rick. Rick didn’t give advice. He hated the trite and pat answers I shared with him that had been given to me. Rick had never been in my place, never laid his heart out on the line before. He let me know what he felt, and he really listened to me Over time, Rick began to seem something altogether different to me.

I had met him at the on campus espresso bar which we both frequented almost daily. Many nights were spent doing homework or discussing life over cups of coffee. There was something immediate and calm, yet powerful and overwhelming with him. Without a word, we both knew we had found our best friend for life. When the time came to graduate, we both applied for jobs in town and decided to get an apartment in town. What followed were some of the happiest months of my life. Rick and I shared our lives with each other, with nothing held back and nothing required. Everyday when we came home from work, we had our best friend to talk to, vent to, and rejoice with. We spent many nights hitting various bars and clubs in attempts to meet women. Most of the time we simply sat in the background, drinking beer and talking about politics. It became something of a Socratic Dialogue, and we formed our own Republic, built out of conflict and compromise. Over time we ceased going to the clubs, since they were too loud to hold conversations in. Many times we tried to bring women into our conversations, but without success. Our waitress feigned interest and would occasionally sit down to listen to our debate. She never spoke up, and whether or not she understood us as she nodded and smiled, we never found out, but we tipped her generously for her kindness. Soon, even the bars seemed pointless as we rarely talked with anyone else. We began attending discussion groups at the local bookstore, especially the ones dealing with philosophy and politics. Occasionally we even went to the groups that met to discuss relationships, in hopes of finding others in search of love and intimacy. What we found was that everything necessary for a good relationship existed between us. We had open communication, we had sincere concern for each other. There was something indescribable that drew us together and kept us close, something rare and precious.

We were so tired of chasing the impossible, tired of relationships that failed before they began. We were frustrated and confused, and we were ready to try just about anything. There were so many fears, so much built up resistance to any thought of affection between us, or any man. This was different than we had expected and it was frightening. The worst feelings of self-deception and aversion began to increase tension between us. The very things that had made us feel so close before now drove us apart. We cycled through kindness to fear, which led to rejection and anger. After a time of silence and separation came reconciliation, and the cycle started again. After several months of agonizing repetition, our nerves were frayed and we reached the breaking point.
By this time Rick had been able to arrange to work at home several days out of the week, so he had begun cooking more often. He quickly had become very good at it, though I couldn’t tell him as it was just one more thing that increased discomfort between us and hinted at, from what we had been told, that which we couldn’t accept. One night I came home, just pissed off at the world in general, feeling tired and frustrated, all of this now being routine. Rick had cooked dinner for both of us. It smelled incredible, which only served to upset me more. I sat brooding on the couch, debating and resisting the urge to go eat, and to vent my emotions to him. Rick walked in, fully aware of the tension built up, trying carefully not to upset the very delicate balance. He sat silently for a while next to me, the very sound of his breathing drawing me in and driving me away. The silence became suffocating. Every tiny sound shuddering up my back leaving me more irritated than before. I wanted to destroy something, release my anger and hatred, hoping to find some calm through release. Trying so hard to be supportive, Rick tried hitting my leg with a “how’re you doing?” His open palm rested on my knee, and I panicked. Without a thought besides fear, I lashed out with a fist and flattened Rick’s nose. There was a sickening snap, and another moment of silence, now of horror and shock. He blinked back a tear while his blood flowed plentifully down his face. I felt devastated, I would have died in a heartbeat to take it back, but he sat there with a look of hurt and shame, irreversible and inescapable. I was so ashamed of myself, as my eyes filled with tears. He stumbled over apologies, stuttering and cursing. Without another word I reached out and wrapped my arms around him. We both let quiet tears fall, releasing years of hurt and anxiety all at once. We felt awkward, but not alone. The strength of our embrace was something I’d never felt before, and in time it pressed out my fear, leaving me broken and yet finally whole. The food was forgotten, as was so much of our past uncertainty, fear, and pain. That night we slept on the couch, afraid now only of losing what we had just found.

The weeks that followed were unreal. We had known each other so long that it felt at times like forever, but it was all made so new. Every night we spent unraveling our curiosity, dispelling our disbelief. It was not without passion, but never before was the ground so firm and my head so light. The nervousness soon passed and we were left confident and assured. He was more than I could have hoped for. He was responsive and affectionate, and he always seemed to know when I needed it. He was as gentle as any lover I’d ever had, only stronger and more assured. I tried so hard to please him, and he never failed to out do me. I knew I’d be lost without him. I was right.

Like every other turning point in my life, everything surrounding the event seemed trivial. It was Rick’s day off, and he had spent it downtown, walking from store to store. I came home that evening, surprised that the apartment was empty. I had expected to find him cooking as usual, or writing some random poems like he so often did, waiting for me. I ate something I picked blindly out of the fridge and waited for him to get back. I soon fell asleep in my chair where I slept through the night. It took me half to the next day, and many frantic phone calls to find out what had occurred. In the early afternoon of the previous day, Rick had been killed by a car missing a red light and oncoming cars by a slim margin. I couldn’t feel a thing. The silence of our apartment rang deafening in my ears. I stared at the walls in disbelief, praying to a God I no longer believed in, asking to wake up to a reality that I knew He disapproved of. I had run out of emotions, and I felt truly empty. I couldn’t even feel sad or depressed, it was as though I only existed as a hollow shell. I worked and I slept, if staring at the ceiling counts as sleep. Time ground past without my notice, my entire life condensed and tasteless.


::: posted by Unknown at 1:55 AM



Sunday, February 09, 2003 :::
 
Heart Felt Confessions of a Hopeless Romantic

His world is filled with curtseys and bows
The ladies and gents dance all through the night
His armor shines brightly as the damsels he saves
From windmills and wicked men, unscrupulous knaves
But the maidens he sees are young women today
Their corsets and tea parties taken away
To where should this gentleman of yesteryear go?
What use is his chivalry, what else does he know?
‘Tis best, live in dreamland and offer your hand
Bow to your ladies, take your high moral stand
Condemned to live lonely with your visions so grand
With respect and my pity, grip your hourglass sand
Where you go, I’ll not follow . . .

Edward Montel was a 20 year old W.A.S.P. He was raised in a good Christian school with a good Christian family. Edward was a young man perpetually in love. Though he was forever telling himself he adored the young ladies he pursued, the truth was that young Edward was passionately and forever in love with love. This love was blinding to him and left only his dreams in place of his vision. He bled from the heart, which he wore on his sleeve. Cupid’s arrows met willing flesh in his ever bared chest, and frequent were his wounds

Edward grew up in a mid size western city without peril, without adventure, and without pain. His father worked as a health inspector for the state and tried hard, though without much success, to be a good father, involved in his children’s lives and in love with their mother. They all humored him as best they could, and they ate Sunday dinner together after church.

Growing up, Edward’s one and a half brother and sister helped him white wash the picket fence surrounding their house. Edward was a good looking young man, and while he was fully aware of it, he was no more conceited than any 20 year old ought to be. Short reddish brown hair which he always kept neat emphasized his light brown eyes which were always intense. He listened more than he spoke because he was told ot. When he had nothing nice to say, which was rare, he didn’t speak. He loved baseball, though he couldn’t play well, and always cheered for the underdog. His fondest memories were playing catch with his father as the sun set before dinner. As a child he played T-ball, and he still keeps his trophies on the shelf, mostly to please his mother.

Edward lived for the praise of his mother. In grade school, every report card was rushed immediately home to be approved by his first love. She in turn loved to lavish praise on her first born and watch him strut away, several inches taller, walking a few feet off the ground.

From an early age Edward admired the women in his life, always more eager to please them, protect them, and appear the young gentleman to them. He believed that one day God would lead him to his soulmate, a woman raised by God to complete him. This was the heartfelt prayer of his Godly mother, and they both knew He would answer. Edward secretly hoped she would be pretty, but felt guilty about this and asked God to change his heart.

Edward loved to read, and when he read, he read about love. He would dream in black and white of grand ballrooms with elegant waltzing by eloquent people. He read Lawrence and Austen, Fitzgerald , Wharton, and Sterne. He knew Wilde by heart and reread it often.




::: posted by Unknown at 8:35 PM

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My writing. It's not you, it's not me, so calm down.