(no subject)
My name is Eric. This is my first experience with these Live Journals.
How it happened is this:
In my loneliness I was searching for information about an old Rogers and Hammerstein musical, “Me and Juliet”, (a pretty crappy one) and up came the live journal of this girl in Wisconsin named Juliet. Her writing was neither beautiful nor revealing but in her simple, cryptic way she allowed me a glimpse of herself and fueled my imagination. I spent the rest of last night searching for friends of mine and reading their live journals. What makes them truly unique is that they are a mix of diary entries and letters. They are aware that others will read them, but because the writer does not have to hand them over to the reader and will probably never know if they even were read, it affords them security enough to let the writer make themselves vulnerable. They can be extraordinary.
And so, though I can’t imagine who would ever read mine, I begin my first entry.
Now it is morning and, like always, dull happiness comes to me with the dawn, but what I want to write about is how I felt last night. So I will pretend.
I am plagued by this glowing love. (I’ve discovered the key to live journals is ambiguity, ex. “I could feel your eyes, hating me” “I gave you my heart and you gave me nothing” stuff like that, so in great live journal tradition.) You, yes, you young girl have driven me mad. Driven me to erratic fits of conversation, driven me to sullen silence, and driven me on rare and glorious occasion to cry, in a way I haven’t since I was really in love. I think that’s how I cried then. True love was long ago.
No one loves me, or has for some time now. I haven’t been held in someone’s smiling arms in over two years. Around here is where self-loathing creeps in. In the past when I’ve felt this hate for myself, I’ve found that the thing to do is stand in the mirror and lay, in great detail, every nasty word I can on myself. It actually makes me feel better. Like, at least the mystery of why I’m such a wreck is gone. I have a starting place for improvement.
But, tonight my only complaint is with my heart. It is so unhappy out of love, so it seems I always develop burning infatuations, like the stove on a steam train, they speed my life and add excitement. But my heart never glows bright or beautiful enough (or maybe my face) to attract that love. Or maybe it does and I just ignore it. That’s been the case once or twice. I don’t know. Either way I’m still a wreck.
With my audition at U of M coming up I can’t keep thinking this way. I need to be artistically potent. Excuse my pride as I let it take over and list my talents:
1.I tell a good story. On a stage or in your living room I can show you something worthwhile. I’m not great, but working on good.
2. Well, we all know that I’m
quite proficient in rhyme.
It can be a sublime
way of passing the time,
but these lyrical licks
are just poor parlor tricks.
My heart’s tongue is
tied up in mime.
That took me thirty seconds. Silly rhymes just poor out of me, it’s the one thing that comes easily to me in life. But as this one says they’re mostly unbeautiful. The real poems are rare, and they come out like ninety-pound babies (sorry for the image, but think painful.)
Trying to think of a third talent. Sad I can’t really think of one. I’m told I have a pleasant speaking voice but fudge to that, I want to sing.
The torture of my love for musical theatre and my lacking voice is too long to put down here.
Notes on Thanksgiving:
It was a sad one this year because I had such a lovely day. I spent the night with my Michigan relatives, while my favorite cousin Greg spent it with my family in Minnesota. Though he arranged his plane ride in the morning, so he’d have a four-hour layover in Detroit, and he and I could see each other again. (It had been nearly a year) Comfortable from our first words with each other, Greg and I had another lovely, relieving conversation. He told me about his new lover, organic chemistry, string theory, and life in Boston. I talked about loneliness, theatre, musicals, and aspirations. Somewhere we met in between and made fun of our fathers. Hopefully we’re going to Chicago together over winter break. Then he boarded the plane and I went to my grandmother’s house full of the “lesser cousins”(I still love them, but I swear all these kids do is drink and play cards) Greg is one of the three men that hold my heart. The other two you ask?
1. Nick, my “best” friend. Sadly, I never see the boy outside of school, always tied up with a certain lady. Shame, because we share an innocence and exuberance about life I’ve got with no one else. After five years and fifteen shows together there’s a trust and an inevitability of our staying together. When it is, it is golden.
2. Forest, my “best” friend. Sadly, I never see the boy save six times a year. Before he lived in Royal Oak, now it’s Ann Arbor. Shame, because we share a trust and respect unrivaled by anyone I could imagine. Even so we still call the other one a fool every time he acts like one, (which is often) my happiness is inextricably linked to his. Our greatest asset is our self-awareness, the relationship is far from perfect and we have to remain painfully honest to make ourselves known to each other. Our golden age was when we were both in love freshman year, each of those loves ended. I’ve been alone for two years and he has been with another, Megan, for two, but I’d still say we’re golden. (Maybe white gold) He was the only person other than Leah to whom I would regularly say, “I love you”
Reading this, I see I’ve covered a lot. It might be difficult reading it all, though I can’t imagine anyone who would read it, seeing as I have few caring friends anyway and don’t intend to advertise my writing it. So maybe it doesn’t matter that I’m long winded. That’s a relief. So goodbye, goodbye to me and myself and all the loves living in my head and any internet wanderer who is searching for information on Green Peace and searches the words “Forest” and “love” or something like that. I hope I gave you something to imagine.
-Eric
How it happened is this:
In my loneliness I was searching for information about an old Rogers and Hammerstein musical, “Me and Juliet”, (a pretty crappy one) and up came the live journal of this girl in Wisconsin named Juliet. Her writing was neither beautiful nor revealing but in her simple, cryptic way she allowed me a glimpse of herself and fueled my imagination. I spent the rest of last night searching for friends of mine and reading their live journals. What makes them truly unique is that they are a mix of diary entries and letters. They are aware that others will read them, but because the writer does not have to hand them over to the reader and will probably never know if they even were read, it affords them security enough to let the writer make themselves vulnerable. They can be extraordinary.
And so, though I can’t imagine who would ever read mine, I begin my first entry.
Now it is morning and, like always, dull happiness comes to me with the dawn, but what I want to write about is how I felt last night. So I will pretend.
I am plagued by this glowing love. (I’ve discovered the key to live journals is ambiguity, ex. “I could feel your eyes, hating me” “I gave you my heart and you gave me nothing” stuff like that, so in great live journal tradition.) You, yes, you young girl have driven me mad. Driven me to erratic fits of conversation, driven me to sullen silence, and driven me on rare and glorious occasion to cry, in a way I haven’t since I was really in love. I think that’s how I cried then. True love was long ago.
No one loves me, or has for some time now. I haven’t been held in someone’s smiling arms in over two years. Around here is where self-loathing creeps in. In the past when I’ve felt this hate for myself, I’ve found that the thing to do is stand in the mirror and lay, in great detail, every nasty word I can on myself. It actually makes me feel better. Like, at least the mystery of why I’m such a wreck is gone. I have a starting place for improvement.
But, tonight my only complaint is with my heart. It is so unhappy out of love, so it seems I always develop burning infatuations, like the stove on a steam train, they speed my life and add excitement. But my heart never glows bright or beautiful enough (or maybe my face) to attract that love. Or maybe it does and I just ignore it. That’s been the case once or twice. I don’t know. Either way I’m still a wreck.
With my audition at U of M coming up I can’t keep thinking this way. I need to be artistically potent. Excuse my pride as I let it take over and list my talents:
1.I tell a good story. On a stage or in your living room I can show you something worthwhile. I’m not great, but working on good.
2. Well, we all know that I’m
quite proficient in rhyme.
It can be a sublime
way of passing the time,
but these lyrical licks
are just poor parlor tricks.
My heart’s tongue is
tied up in mime.
That took me thirty seconds. Silly rhymes just poor out of me, it’s the one thing that comes easily to me in life. But as this one says they’re mostly unbeautiful. The real poems are rare, and they come out like ninety-pound babies (sorry for the image, but think painful.)
Trying to think of a third talent. Sad I can’t really think of one. I’m told I have a pleasant speaking voice but fudge to that, I want to sing.
The torture of my love for musical theatre and my lacking voice is too long to put down here.
Notes on Thanksgiving:
It was a sad one this year because I had such a lovely day. I spent the night with my Michigan relatives, while my favorite cousin Greg spent it with my family in Minnesota. Though he arranged his plane ride in the morning, so he’d have a four-hour layover in Detroit, and he and I could see each other again. (It had been nearly a year) Comfortable from our first words with each other, Greg and I had another lovely, relieving conversation. He told me about his new lover, organic chemistry, string theory, and life in Boston. I talked about loneliness, theatre, musicals, and aspirations. Somewhere we met in between and made fun of our fathers. Hopefully we’re going to Chicago together over winter break. Then he boarded the plane and I went to my grandmother’s house full of the “lesser cousins”(I still love them, but I swear all these kids do is drink and play cards) Greg is one of the three men that hold my heart. The other two you ask?
1. Nick, my “best” friend. Sadly, I never see the boy outside of school, always tied up with a certain lady. Shame, because we share an innocence and exuberance about life I’ve got with no one else. After five years and fifteen shows together there’s a trust and an inevitability of our staying together. When it is, it is golden.
2. Forest, my “best” friend. Sadly, I never see the boy save six times a year. Before he lived in Royal Oak, now it’s Ann Arbor. Shame, because we share a trust and respect unrivaled by anyone I could imagine. Even so we still call the other one a fool every time he acts like one, (which is often) my happiness is inextricably linked to his. Our greatest asset is our self-awareness, the relationship is far from perfect and we have to remain painfully honest to make ourselves known to each other. Our golden age was when we were both in love freshman year, each of those loves ended. I’ve been alone for two years and he has been with another, Megan, for two, but I’d still say we’re golden. (Maybe white gold) He was the only person other than Leah to whom I would regularly say, “I love you”
Reading this, I see I’ve covered a lot. It might be difficult reading it all, though I can’t imagine anyone who would read it, seeing as I have few caring friends anyway and don’t intend to advertise my writing it. So maybe it doesn’t matter that I’m long winded. That’s a relief. So goodbye, goodbye to me and myself and all the loves living in my head and any internet wanderer who is searching for information on Green Peace and searches the words “Forest” and “love” or something like that. I hope I gave you something to imagine.
-Eric