Six Month's Eve

Seven months ago, on April the 12th, I was introduced to a man who changed my life forever. My date was a Navy boy who took special leave just to come down and escort me to my prom. He gets a phone call in the middle of the prom and his face changes, becomes unreadable with a fine line of anger as he grabs his hat and his camera, his phone and me and stalks down the hall of the hotel. As we near the piano next to the staircase, three figures are approaching us - a slender man with a red beard and long red hair tied back, dressed as a WWII paratrooper; a rather tall, attractive woman with long blond hair wearing a hat that wasn't quite a cowboy hat but would have been used on the range and a jacket; and a man who was a little taller than the woman with brown hair, spectacles, dressed like a trapper, fringes on his jacket and all. All and all these were three very interesting characters indeed. They stopped in a half circle around us and introductions were made.

The man that was only a little taller than I (at this point I'm not wearing my heels, I'm barefoot) was named Jerry, the woman's named turned out to be Coty, and the man with her was named Kris. As I greeted them in kind, my date still brooding and trying to act pleasant, I couldn't keep my eyes off of Jerry and finally piped up - 'Look, I'm sorry, but I have to hug you.' Why on Earth would I say something like that? Because it was just amazing to me how someone had the balls to dress up like that and arrive at a rather prestigious hotel and act as comfortable in it as he is with his own skin. It just amazed me and hugging him was the only way I could express how fantastic I thought that was. I'm a girl, I can get away with such things. And that, as they say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

At later times, it was expressed to me that the look on my date's face was priceless, a mix of fury and of confusion as Jerry grinned at me and I grinned at him, our arms sliding around one another. Something inside me when he had his arms around me melted, something clicked and when we pulled back, we both recognized it. According to Kris and Coty, it was obvious. We were just right for each other. I wouldn't call it love at first sight because honestly, things like that don't exist in my world. But like at first sight, admiration and respect at first sight for the person you see in front of you, that connection - that definitely took place. Instantaneous, unplanned, we more or less fell into each other's lap. He was just what I needed in my life and I was just what he needed in his.

But let's not jump ahead. The Navy boy who came as my date was actually my some-what boyfriend at the time. I say some-what because I realize that he was seeing other women in Maryland while I was still in Tennessee even if he wouldn't admit it. After all, the hole in the Jeep's windshield where he was having sex with some girl in his Jeep and her stilleto heel actually went through the windshield - well, you don't have to be a rocket scienetist to realize that something was going on behind the scenes. Despite these trysts, he still had visions of a wedding and children with me. Fat chance in hell.

Back to the story though. Navy boy wanted me to get to know some of his friends a bit better and one of them just happened to be Eli, an Army guy stationed in Iraq. Eli is Jerry's cousin, so when I talked to him next, I was actually able to get Jerry's myspace and from myspace correspondence to messaging, Jerry and I soon became very attached - even if we were only friends for then. I invited him, Kris, and Coty to help me celebrate my eighteenth birthday with a new piercing - my ears are double pierced -and a movie - The Forbidden Kingdom. Had I watched the movie with any other group, I don't think I would have enjoyed it as much.

Soon after, I went go-karting and mini-golfing with this trio in what will later be termed, by agreement, as our first date. Kris and Coty were, of course, together while I and Jerry were paired off together, which was just fine with me except I kept having the embarrassing notion of 'I wonder what it would be like to kiss him'. The worst of it was that in later discussions, it was devastatingly obvious to the entire party of my rather impromptu infatuation with a man seven years my senior. Oh yes, this man was a man, with his own house fully paid for and a few cars, a good steady job and wonderful family/community relationship. I was not dealing with some boy just out of high school or in his first year of college, no - I was dealing with a man. Though why he decided to deal with me, a slip of a girl just turned eighteen, about to graduate from high school, is beyond me.

And so we went around in circles, around the track and around each other, never far away from each other in any sense. When we went to supper at Waffle House, I rode in the convertible with him while Coty rode in Kris' truck. My cell phone was in my jacket while we ate and I missed a message from my parents so when we got back to the facilities and I called my parents, they were rather angry and I was afraid that I wouldn't be allowed to go out again because of a particularly bad decision of mine the previous summer and I cried. And you know what? He didn't turn away or shy away from the fact that I was upset. No, he held me, tightly, let me cry and explained to Kris and Coty when they arrived after what had happened - he stood beside me and helped me through a small bit of panic.

When we returned to the course, we played golf and he was never far from me - which is a good thing because at one point when I was trying to retrieve my ball from one of the little pond/waterfall areas, I nearly fell in. Had he not grabbed the back of my pants to keep my balance, I do believe that I would have fallen head first into this shallow water pit. He made me laugh, he made me smile. He rubbed gently with his knuckle along my spine as we watched Kris and Coty take a swing at the brightly colored orbs of interest and was a comforting, warm shadow at my back. He was my silent supporter and seemed determined that I enjoy myself and I did - thoroughly. One of Jerry's friends that stopped by shortly after I met the small group first at the prom stopped by the course and when we went to leave, Jerry and Coty and Kris escorting me to my parent's awaiting vehicle, his friend Dan performed what used to be a tradition, revving up and speeding, tires squealing, out of the parking lot.

Well Dan revved his engine and came up behind us. I heard the noise, turned around in the group that was more or less huddled around me on this fine spring evening, and stumbled backwards, falling as headlights blinded me and Dan's truck rolled to a stop. They helped me up, Dan moved past us, which made me notice my dad had pulled out of the parking lot and was parked right beside where Dan had to pass by. I found out later that dad had his hand on the little revolver he had with him - he has a license, don't worry folks. And nothing happened. Dan left, Jerry and them brushed me off and escorted me to the Jeep and life went on. I heard from Coty and them later that Jerry had chewed Dan out, tore him several new ones, and that man never loses his temper, never loses his cool. I think that was the beginning of the relationship right there. It showed that he was there and that he cared what happened to me, was worried about me...

To Be Continued...

Midnight Scribbles

What makes me a writer?

Is it the letter I labor over before sending them home to my love? Or perhaps the local coffee shop, whose couch I often occupy as I quietly sip my Chai latte. Maybe it's the glasses that I wear, thick black frames to hide my young and vulnerable face behind. My glasses draw the attention away from my probing blue eyes to the flowers made of glitter on the sides.

Perhaps it's the clothes I wear; eclectic band shirts, random-stuff shirts and shirts from the Harley Davidson brand. Maybe it's the army jacket bought one visit at a local Goodwill store or maybe it's something different, something special, something more. Maybe it's that one pair of jeans, faded beyond belief with more areas torn and exposed instead of mended and clean. Maybe it's the wannabe Vans or my pink Converse - or perhaps my rainbow socks and my graphic underwear.

Or maybe it's the determination to get up every day, head out into that world and face it instead of cowering in some desolate corner that makes me a writer. My experiences - the places I've been, the people I've seen, the books I've devoured and the movies I've danced over; the hardships, the joys, the good and the bad, beautiful and ugly experiences that are out there in the world to possess the knowledge of - all of it. The past I've had, the present I'm living in, and the future that I dream of.

Maybe it's all of these things and maybe it's none of them. Maybe some silent muse sits upon my shoulder, wandering off every now and again to leave me sitting, with my pen poised and only ink dripping from it onto the otherwise pristine or filled page, a black oblivion. When it comes back, I am it's willing slave, listening as it jabbers incoherently in my ear in a tone so sweet it makes my heart ache and I write what comes to me, revising as I let my pen merrily trip along the lines of the paper.

So in short, I don't know.

I never have and I doubt I ever will.

But I know have a talent and so I'll use it. Even if not every attempt is beautiful and perfect, I will write until my last days. Hopefully one day I'll get paid for my lines upon lines of words.

Thoughts On A Poem

As often as I make the claim to be a writer, I have never had my work published unless you happen to mean a school newspaper - in which case I've been published several times. I've been on television, I've been quoted in newspapers, but I have never had any of my work published. Once, I got an honorable mention for some writing competition I entered in my sixth or seventh grade but still - you get the point.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

But I love writing. It's what I do. Every day I write something that someone goes 'I never would have phrased it that way but that's brilliant' or 'Very nicely put, you outdid yourself' to which I respond, no I'm a writer. One of the things I want to do before I die is to make that statement a reality. Be published for a short story or a novel, perhaps even a book of poetry. I fill journals and pages upon pages of loose leaf paper, surely some idea in there is just waiting to be taken out of the bag and nourished. Watered with more ideas, warmed by careful dedication until it grows to be a sapling to be pruned with careful slashes of the razor edged tongues of family, friends and editors. If it makes it past all of the pulling, prodding, tying back of limbs and complete severances of branches, then it should be able to grow up into a strong tree. If not, well... start the process all over again.

Composition books, covers covered in permanent marker or stickers, a dazzling array of carefully clipped pictures pasted on from magazines of the time, line a chest that I have in my room, locked carefully away so that no prying eyes can see. I've burned pages, rewritten old poems and songs and stories, expanded and contracted in the realm of my ability but sometimes I just become burned out. Bummed out. So I took almost a month, maybe it was more, to stop writing. Because I couldn't stand the thought of it being a chore. Because my life was in a metamorphosis that I could watch and enjoy or let completely pass me by. A part of me is glad I became this butterfly and another part of me feels as if my wings didn't develop.

Autumn leaves scattered 'cross the sidewalk
Like broken dreams scattered on the floor.
Dry leaves, sapped of life and color,
Crushed beneath the disapproving looks.

A broken time piece sits upon the mantle
A voice so silenced, it echoes down the hall.
Gears lay in the stillness of forever
No longer does the heart beat anymore.

I'll work on this, get back to you... Please don't steal.

November Drivels

I leave the room full of laughter and silly ideas that bubble from lips, breath sweet from their strawberry smoothies, and enter the solitude of the hallway. The lights seem dimmer than those in the rooms here in this modern dorm room, spaced out more friendly-like on the eyes that they burden. I keep my eyes to the tiled floor that makes up the floor of the entire building except for the lobby and stairs. As I pass doors, I listen, behind every door a new but similiar sound. Some doors hold silence, some doors how laughter like that which I just left but different - not the same at all. Forced laughter, natural laughter, from the belly laughter that makes your eyes tear up... I hear them all as I pass these doors, so similar, only the number changes. True, the door itself may have a poster or left over Halloween decorations but it's still just the gateway into someone else's world.

I hear doors that are filled with silence, not even the rustle of clothing and it's loud. Never has lack of presence been so disturbing as in this bustling bee-hive of a college dorm. Flyers grace every bulletin board available, movies blare from phantom tvs that are understood to be behind the doors but none of them catch your attention like that silence. Sometimes it makes me want to place my hand against the door as if somehow I'll be able to feel a pulse and the silence will lessen instead of deafen. Instead I just keep placing one foot in front of the other, passing another door and then another, music loud and making the door vibrate in it's frame, an instrument strummed lightly and sweetly and then the riotous yells and slams as a game goes on - inside the room or on a screen is hard to tell sometimes. Sometimes I fear the sounds I hear, sometimes I wish I could quietly knock on the door and asked to be let in but all the time I keep walking. I keep moving.

I feel like Alice going down the rabbit hole, strange objects floating beside me as I make it to a stairwell and start to make my dizzying descend. Even the stairwell doors have their own feel in this building. Some ring out and come to a sudden stop as yelling, cat calls and obscenities volley back and forth as a few guys thunder down the stairs past me, making me cringe against the railing for a moment, fearing their wildly swinging arms and legs. Some click quietly as someone slips from one floor to the next, eyes turned upwards and steps measured and controlled. Sometimes its a combination, sometimes you have to slide past the guy caring his bicycle or hold open the door for someone with a basket precariously balanced in her grip. If these stairwells could tell stories, I'm almost afraid to ask what kind of stories they would tell.
My descend is ended as I come to the first floor indoor bike rack, for lack of a better term - it is merely a straight set of bars in the same style as the railing for the stairs, mostly meant to deter students from playing under the stair cases, but it has been utilized as a place to lock bikes to inside of the facility.

I make my way to my room and here I am still, in my chair with what makes my roommate cringe but makes the chaotic side of me very pleased. Empty bottles on the desk, dirty dishes beside the sink, folded and clean clothes in a basket, not hung up yet, yesterday's newspaper and today's laying, unopened, on my desk. Movies, make-up, needed texts for my classes along with print offs, notebooks, and such - not to mention the food. Cookies, the Kroger equivalent to Oreos, a box of Chef Boyardee cups. Even an unopened grape soda can. She cringes when she sees my side of the room, carefully keeps her eyes averted when she's on her side of her room, where everything is neat and has it's place. Dishes never sit, she takes a shower every night, and would never think of wearing the same jeans twice in a row. Something about her discomfort pleases me. Just like handing a bag of pennies to the annoying RAs that come and knock on my door in hopes of collecting the dollar that I owe them for letting me into my room to get my ID that lets me into the cafeteria, my building, and my room pleased me greatly.

Ah well. Therapy is doing wonders for my writing at least.