January 14th is actually a fairly important day.
According to Wikipedia, it's New Year's Day for those regions still following the Julian Calendar.
Happy New Year to whomever might ever read this from one of those (as if I'll ever have any people from Mount Athos reading this).
Also, in 1967... the "Human Be-In" took over Golden Gate Park (neat!) which led to the hippie overtaking of Haight-Ashbury, and thus entrenched the entire neighborhood in patchouli stench to this day (bad!).
The Sex Pistols broke up mid-tour in 1978...
...and we landed a probe on Saturn's moon Titan in 2005...
Norman "Sailor Jerry" Collins was born on this day in 1911... love the rum, by the way...
Dave Grohl... born in '69...
John Francis Dodge... automobile god... and Anas Nin ...erotica goddess... both died on Jan 14th...
For me... January 14th has a special meaning.
365 days ago, I met Her.
She walked between two cars in a parking lot in Yuma, Arizona... straight up to me and introduced herself. We then spent the next few days together in Mexico on a paleontological dig.
I thought she was beautiful in Yuma. I thought she was beautiful covered in mud and sand and sweat in Mexico. Her eyes are a sea of blues and greys. She's 13 inches shorter than I am. Has the curliest hair, the sweetest smile, and the softest touch. Her laugh is infectious. Her touch sets my skin shivering with excitement. Every time I touch her, it's like I'm touching her for the first time.
Sometimes my hands shake.
She is smart, clever, intelligent, wise, worldly and wonderful. Her insight is spot on, her common sense is uncommonly good, and there are more things she knows than she gives herself credit for.
Brilliant and beautiful. Her mind, her body... she is everything I've ever wanted in a woman.
It took me a while to realize how much I had fallen for her... and it took me longer to admit it... and even longer to admit it to her.
Seven days after meeting her, we went on out first date. The 21st. We made it "official" on a 21st, too.
There can be a 21st every month... a bit into us dating, I would do that. I'd buy her flowers, or tell her "Happy 21st." or something. Sure, it's kind of cheesy... kind of romantic... somewhat high schooly... but I didn't care.
There's only one 14th, though... and for me, it's in January. You can all have February 14th...
I'll just be a month early every year.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Beginning/First Post
I don't know where or how to start one of these.
Especially since I don't know how people reading it will react. Or even how I'll react to writing it.
I've called it "So Many Broken Reflections" because of a dream I had recently:
I was staring into a mirror... one of those full length ones that you see in changing rooms. The room around me was either featureless or I didn't notice the features because I was staring at myself.
Well, I thought it was myself. It was a reflection of me... it made my moves, it looked like me, but anything coming out of it's mouth was in someone else's voice. I could talk to it, but it would answer in another voice.
One voice was mine, but a version of it. Angrier. Combative. Assertive. Violent.
Another was a voice of my parents... both of them at once, saying the same thing or different things. It was a cacophony. Loud and abrasive, sweet and sickly alluring, and condescending and gentle.
Another still was one of a woman I know. Strong. Painful. Mocking. Loving.
("Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons is playing in the background as I write this. This song makes my throat constrict and tears flow easily when I hear it.)
Each question I asked of my reflection was answered by a different voice. Sometimes two or three or four at once. It was very frustrating. Confusing. I couldn't get an answer I wanted or needed... just chaotic discussion. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Every time I opened my mouth, my voice broke.
I started to cry. Hard. The reflection stopped mirroring what I was doing and stood there. One voice laughed, another told me to grow up, and still another told me to stop crying/I'm sick of you crying/all you do is cry.
I locked up. I fell to my knees and punched the floor and screamed and thrashed. I hit the walls, I hit myself, I just started blindly flailing. I couldn't see because of the rage and frustration and tears flowing from my face. I couldn't breathe because my throat would close and my nose was stuffed from the crying.
In a panic I broke the mirror. The voices stopped, replaced by the shocking crack of a mirror fracturing.
Piece by piece, the mirror broke and fell to the floor in powder... leaving only a large fragments still in the frame. Looking up, I saw that it wasn't a mirror but a window. On the other side of it was Me... but not me.
The Other Me pushed the last piece of glass out of the frame and stepped through. Reaching down, He grabbed me by the back of my shirt and lifted me up to my feet. Smiling. Snarling.
In His hand was my gun... a black Ruger .45 caliber. I knew then the same gun was in my hand.
"You can't get rid of me. You can't kill me. You can't make me go away."
He kept saying this over and over... in all the voices. Shrieking and scowling and yelling and whispering.
In a rage, I rose the pistol and aimed at the Other head, and saw him do it in return. I hesitated.
I lowered it, as did He. Again, I raised it and took aim, and He did the same. Lowered it, and He did.
Then, somewhere in my head I remembered the scene from Fight Club... and raised the pistol to my own head. He did the same.
I closed my eyes tightly, breathed out, tightened my finger and heard a single gunshot. The sound shocked me.
I opened my eyes, and saw Him crumpled on the floor, blood pooling under what was left of His head and flowing under His body.
Raising the pistol, I shot the body seven more times and kept pulling the trigger even after I had run out of ammunition.
Then I woke up.
--
Especially since I don't know how people reading it will react. Or even how I'll react to writing it.
I've called it "So Many Broken Reflections" because of a dream I had recently:
I was staring into a mirror... one of those full length ones that you see in changing rooms. The room around me was either featureless or I didn't notice the features because I was staring at myself.
Well, I thought it was myself. It was a reflection of me... it made my moves, it looked like me, but anything coming out of it's mouth was in someone else's voice. I could talk to it, but it would answer in another voice.
One voice was mine, but a version of it. Angrier. Combative. Assertive. Violent.
Another was a voice of my parents... both of them at once, saying the same thing or different things. It was a cacophony. Loud and abrasive, sweet and sickly alluring, and condescending and gentle.
Another still was one of a woman I know. Strong. Painful. Mocking. Loving.
("Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons is playing in the background as I write this. This song makes my throat constrict and tears flow easily when I hear it.)
Each question I asked of my reflection was answered by a different voice. Sometimes two or three or four at once. It was very frustrating. Confusing. I couldn't get an answer I wanted or needed... just chaotic discussion. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Every time I opened my mouth, my voice broke.
I started to cry. Hard. The reflection stopped mirroring what I was doing and stood there. One voice laughed, another told me to grow up, and still another told me to stop crying/I'm sick of you crying/all you do is cry.
I locked up. I fell to my knees and punched the floor and screamed and thrashed. I hit the walls, I hit myself, I just started blindly flailing. I couldn't see because of the rage and frustration and tears flowing from my face. I couldn't breathe because my throat would close and my nose was stuffed from the crying.
In a panic I broke the mirror. The voices stopped, replaced by the shocking crack of a mirror fracturing.
Piece by piece, the mirror broke and fell to the floor in powder... leaving only a large fragments still in the frame. Looking up, I saw that it wasn't a mirror but a window. On the other side of it was Me... but not me.
The Other Me pushed the last piece of glass out of the frame and stepped through. Reaching down, He grabbed me by the back of my shirt and lifted me up to my feet. Smiling. Snarling.
In His hand was my gun... a black Ruger .45 caliber. I knew then the same gun was in my hand.
"You can't get rid of me. You can't kill me. You can't make me go away."
He kept saying this over and over... in all the voices. Shrieking and scowling and yelling and whispering.
In a rage, I rose the pistol and aimed at the Other head, and saw him do it in return. I hesitated.
I lowered it, as did He. Again, I raised it and took aim, and He did the same. Lowered it, and He did.
Then, somewhere in my head I remembered the scene from Fight Club... and raised the pistol to my own head. He did the same.
I closed my eyes tightly, breathed out, tightened my finger and heard a single gunshot. The sound shocked me.
I opened my eyes, and saw Him crumpled on the floor, blood pooling under what was left of His head and flowing under His body.
Raising the pistol, I shot the body seven more times and kept pulling the trigger even after I had run out of ammunition.
Then I woke up.
--
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