So, it's been two years since I've done one of these entries. Fuck, it's been two years since I've followed the show at all. Oh sure, I managed to watch it a couple of times last year, but my heart was never really in it, and wonderful distractions abounded.
I don't know if I'm going to watch it every week or not. I make no promises about that.
Anyway, here's what I thought about tonight. Keep in mind that this was the first time I'd seen or heard any of these people.
Siobhan: Stupid name. Minus 2 points just for that, and if I ever find out that it's some kind of stage-name that she picked for herself, then it'll be minus 50 points from then on. I thought she was very cute - she was the only girl I noticed when they showed the entire group at the beginning of the show. She needs to keep the glasses and she definitely needs to lose the nose ring. And she should probably pick a career other than singing. I thought this performance was screechy and crappy. She's definitely the hottie of the group, though. (65 points)
Casey: He seemed to be technically very good, but the performance seemed quite generic to me. I also took off 10 points for having the guitar as a crutch. (55 points)
Mike: Fucking awesome. Fantastic voice. Fantastic song. Fantastic performance. I'd buy one of his albums tomorrow. Minus 10 points for the guitar, which he definitely didn't need. (84 points)
Didi: Stupid name. She's quite cute, maybe a little too cute. Her plain voice gave a plain performance. Almost karaoke-ish. This was a shame, because I really like the song she chose. (50 points)
Tim: Nice voice. Good song. I like this guy. He missed the right note by a mile quite a few times. StupidGirl likes him, but I didn't let that affect my scoring. (68 points)
Andrew: Good song and good voice, but he seemed to be forcing things a bit, like maybe that wasn't his normal vocal range. Quite good, but I still took off 10 points for the crutch. (75 points)
Katie: Cute. She picked an awesome Aretha Franklin song, and sang it well. She's good, but she seemed a little full of herself to me. I took off 5 points for the backup singers. (75 points)
Lee: Great song. Great and unique voice. Fucking fantastic performance. I took off 10 points for the guitar, though. (89 points)
Crystal: Awesome song. I took off 5 points for the stupid backup singers, and another 10 points for the piano, but other than that she was the best of the night. (85 points)
Aaron: Great song. Incredibly good performance for anyone, but especially considering how young this kid is. But I found myself wondering how good he'll be in 10 years instead of appreciating how good he is right now. Needs to mature a little, I guess. (80 points)
There's probably nobody on Earth who'd call me innocent. Stupid, perhaps. Naive, certainly. Honest and trustworthy and caring, I like to think. Hopeful and hopeless and stubborn and blind, probably.
Nope. Not me.
But this wasn't always the case.
I remember when I lost my innocence. Not the exact date and time, but I remember the place and the circumstances.
It was the night that I found out that she was cheating on me. I'd kinda sorta suspected it already, but I hadn't been sure. I was in denial, I suppose, but there was still enough suspicion to lead me to that place at that time on that night.
Shortly before Christmas, in 1986.
That was so long ago. Not just another life ago, but three or fours lives ago. At least.
I don't dwell on this. It's just something I was thinking about tonight. That night, and that girl - they have no impact or bearing on my life these days. Except for how it's a little bit harder to earn my trust, and how it's even harder to get it back once it's gone.
And something would have happened eventually. I would never have held onto my innocence forever. It would have been long gone by now even if that particular night had never happened. Something would have happened to steal my innocence away.
But I can't help but think that it would be nice to have it back. Just for a while. Just for a little while.
To once again look at life through young eyes. To trust. To feel untainted love with a heart that's still pure.
She's been acting weird lately.
In a good way or in a bad way - I can't say for sure. Mainly because I don't know.
A weird way.
Like suddenly I matter more than I mattered before.
It's about time, I think.
I've been having a really tough time lately, with memory.
I find myself thinking that this situation sucks, and I kinda dwell on that fact for hours and hours and hours and hours.
I drink lots of beer.
Then, I remember that this situation was my choice.
Then, I remember why I made that choice.
Then, I decide to stick with that choice.
Only then, for a few precious minutes, and I anything close to okay with this.
The rest of the time I'm barely held together with band-aids and those twisty-wire thingies that come with loaves of sliced bread.
I seem to have forgotten what paragraphs are for, or how to use them.
Something else is happening. To a friend of mine. Something that I just know is going to end badly. But I cannot warn my friend, because nobody ever fucking listens to me.
Even though I'm right all the time.
All I can do is hope that, when the inevitable pain comes, that she can deal with it, and that she knows that she doesn't have to go through it alone.
I've been having these horrible, terrible thoughts. Like daydreams, except that they're more like nightmares.
Is there such a thing as a daynightmare?
Anyway, these little scenarios are fucking horrible, like the worst things that could possibly ever happen, yet in each of them I end up being needed.
So they're like 99.999999% terrible, and .000001% good.
I like to be needed.
I need to be needed.
But not at the prices I keep imagining.
Sometimes, I feel guilty.
Like, right now for example.
But what can I do?
Nothing, that's what.
The requisite eyes are not mine. I'm too close.
That last bit was a little murky, wasn't it?
Good. That's what I was going for.
I was just thinking back to that night in mid-May, 2007.
It's hard to believe that any human being could be as happy as I was.
My face hurt so much because I couldn't stop smiling. For days and days I couldn't stop smiling.
I could have died on that night, and I would have died an incredibly wonderfully happy man.
I had to keep living.
It's pretty ironic that, as it turns out, that was the worst night of my life.
Heh, this guy on facebook just asked me if I ever sleep.
Sleep brings dreams, so no thanks, I'll pass.
I'd like one of each, please.
I wonder, if I were to write an entry about cynicism, would people doubt my motives?
I'm pretty sure that I would. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'm doing it right now, as I type this sentence.
It's just something I was thinking about today. I don't want to become one of those people. One of those people who's distrust has become so universal that they can't even trust themselves anymore. I know several people like that. They're not happy people.
I don't want to be like that. Like one of them.
But, problem is, I'm bombarded with selfishness and deceit everywhere I look and everywhere I go.
Lies disguised as kindness.
Cruelty for my own good.
And so on...
It's hard to trust. It really is. To look through the deceptions and beyond the actions and see what a person is really like. To ignore the bumps in the road and remember that it's the destination that's important.
I'm rambling now. I think I'll go sit in my garage. It's a nice night.
I went to the store just now. I got to the end of my driveway, and then realized that I didn't have my phone with me.
But that's not the really weird part.
The really weird part is that I didn't slam on my brakes and run into my house to get my phone. Nope, I just went to the store and came back.
Like a normal person.
I could write a bunch of stuff right now. A huge part of me wants, perhaps even needs, to vent a little.
But, I made a promise.
I keep my fucking promises.
Wow, it's late. Time flies, as they say.
I guess it's fortunate timing that I don't really feel like writing, because I'm not sure that there are sufficient words to describe my current mood.
So much potential, pissed away.
A few weeks ago I was numb. That was because it was simply too much to bear, I think.
I'd kinda like to be numb again.
Tomorrow I might get to see HatGirl. I'm holding her car hostage in my garage until I get to see her. It's been a bajillion years.
I'm not looking forward to telling her about Thursday and Friday. She'll be disappointed in me, I know. She warned me that, if I let my guard down, I'd get hurt all over again.
She was right.
I wonder, if she'd given me any inkling that it would be as bad as it turned out to be, if I would have heeded her warning.
There's this old saying that everyone has heard.
I'll paraphrase. "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't fucking say anything at all."
Well, I don't have anything nice to say.
Don't push it. I'm angry. You won't like me when I'm angry. I know that I don't.
I remember Mommy coming into the room.
I don't remember where I was. It was probably at my grandmother's house, but that detail is lost to me forever. I remember Mommy coming into the room, and I remember being oh so happy to see her. I probably peed a little, but I was allowed to, back then.
And then I saw it.
I'd reached my arms up as high as they would reach, and I'd jumped with my little legs to reach even higher, and I'd yelled one of the only words I knew at the time.
So Mommy would see me, so she would hear me, so she would pick me up like she always had before. So my world would be complete again.
But she didn't pick me up. Her arms were full.
She was carrying it.
That is my earliest memory.
It turned out to be my sister Dina, and I was 21 months old.
I remember playing with a girl. She had long dark hair. We sat on the floor between the kitchen and the living room, and we played.
I remember the house, and I remember the girl. It was probably my cousin Terri, but I can never know for sure.
That memory is so strong in my mind. I couldn't have been more than 3 years old.
Dad came and woke me up, and carried me to Dina's room. Then he put me down and picked Dina up. The three of us - how odd that I don't remember Mom being there - went into the living room.
On the TV, I watched grainy footage of white-suited men bouncing around on a white plain.
I wondered why Dad had tears in his eyes.
I was 4 and a half years old.
I'd walk to kindergarten, and my long shadow would lead me down the road. Then, when I'd walk back home, the shadow would be short and stocky, and it would chase me all the way home.
I asked Mom why my shadow was so different when I came home, and she said she didn't know.
I was showing my friend Kelly how fast I could run with my new shoes. I ran through a glass door.
Dad carried me, both of us covered in blood, and took me to the doctor. I got 81 stitches, and I still have scars. I remember being afraid that the doctor was going to cut off my nose. It had been hurt badly.
I was 5 years old.
I'm not sure what the point of this entry was.
Maybe it's just to change the damn subject.
Okay, I'm in a writey mood tonight. Wonders never cease, huh?
Problem is, I'm also a little bit drunk tonight. A couple glasses of Fat Tire (2246) and a bottle of The Reverend (782) will do that to a person, especially if that person is me.
Sometimes I really hate being such a lightweight.
Looking for inspiration, I did a search of my old blog entries. Bonus points will ensue for anyone who can deduce the two-word phrase for which I searched. Not that it matters. It's all the same. It's always been the same, for six and a half years. And, I fear, it will continue to be the same, for as long as it takes. Either long enough for me to stop breathing, or long enough for me to stop waiting.
Here's one from July 2009. I could have written it yesterday, and it would have fit perfectly:
It's not stupidity that keeps me here. Nope, it's knowing the truth, even when everyone else fails to see it. It's speaking the truth, and living the truth, and waiting for beautiful eyes to open so that I'm not alone any more.A couple of months later, I wrote the following. Again, this post is timeless. I wish that it wasn't, but it is:
It's not cowardice that keeps me from turning away and facing the unknown. It's that the unknown holds no appeal for me. And why should it? The appeal of the unknown lies in its potential, and I've already found all of the potential I could ever want.
It's not weakness. I'm not here because I'm weak, but because I'm strong. I have persevered when others would have given up. I have pushed forward when others would have faltered. Time after time I have exposed my heart to the daggers of reality and, though I've been stabbed, I've never given up and I've never cowered and I've never ran away. I've been right here all this time.
And it's not insanity. Step inside me and look through my eyes. See what I see. Feel with my heart the things that I feel. Use my lips to speak, and use my ears to listen to the words fighting to be heard. Reach out with my hand and touch what I touch, and feel the tingling of a million touches yet to come. This is all very real.
It's not stupidity, or cowardice, or weakness, or insanity. It's something else.
I know what it is. So far, I'm the only one who really knows what it is. What it's like. What it means. What it portends.
So far, I'm the only one who really gets it.
But eventually, there'll be another.
Beautiful eyes will open, and they will see me, right where I've been all along.
I can forgive a lot of things. I have forgiven a lot of things. More than anyone else would have forgiven.I'm 45 years old now. As much as that sucks, it's the truth. So now, by any and every reasonable expectation, I'm halfway through my life, maybe a tad more.
How the fuck am I supposed to forgive this and still manage to maintain some semblance of dignity?
I am not a doormat, though I've played one in the past, when it seemed that a doormat was needed.
I did what was necessary, or at least what seemed necessary at the time, not because of what those things were, but because of who needed them.
Because of who needed me.
And I liked it. Loved it, even. I lived for those opportunities.
Of whatever the fuck you want to call it. Friendship? Something more? Something less? Something else?
I don't care what you call it. Just pick something. And don't say nothing. Don't you fucking dare say nothing.
We may no longer exist, but I still do exist. Barely.
And what's left of me deserves more than this. Even the worst person on Earth would deserve more than this.
More than nothing.
What's the point of another 45 years?
This question is both serious and rhetorical.
I don't know the answer. I used to know it, but I was wrong.
I was so fucking wrong. I bet my life, and I lost the bet. I risked it all, and I lost it all.
So what's the point of another 45 years? What's the point, dare I ask, of another 45 seconds?
So, in his mind, did we lie to him as he wept from the thought of missing me? Did we only say what needed to be said, regardless of the truth, to ease his pain? Did we pat him on the back, and tell him what he wanted to hear, only so that we ourselves would feel better?
Or is he smart enough and mature enough to know that sometimes things aren't black and white? That one day's truth can be another day's mistake? That good intentions are not always enough?
I hope for the latter, yet fear the former with all my heart.
The words are still there, you know. Inside me. Straining to be set free. Yearning to serve their only purpose. To be heard.
Slamming into walls that I've slapped together. Testing. Practicing. Staying ready. Staying patient.
How much would it cost me, I wonder, to just let them out? So many would tell me - have told me - that I have nothing to lose. Nothing left to lose.
But what would the words say? Would their screams be in joy or in sorrow or in anger? Or, perhaps, a mixture of all three? I know only that they would be loud; beyond that I cannot predict. These words, they reside in my heart, not my brain, and my heart is a mystery even to me, these days.
To be so wonderfully right, and so incredibly wrong, about the only thing that has ever mattered to me. It's a wonder that I'm not crazy. Not really crazy, I mean. Oh, I have my moments when people might fling that label at me to see if it sticks, but I know better.
Can the truth ever be crazy?
Perhaps I, too, simply landed too soon.
As I've written before, I've heard that most people don't dream in color. As I've written before, I do dream in color, and I always have as far as I can tell.
Sight, even colored sight, is nothing to me, in my dreams. It's no big deal at all.
But, to have a dream so powerful, so real, that I can touch it, and smell it, and taste it?
I've been dreaming for a very long time.
Jostle me, holler at me. Scream "wake up" until your lungs bleed. I never want to wake up. Never. I would rather die.
Because sometimes, maybe once in a bazillion years, a dream will come true.
I'll take my chances.
I tried to get this to embed, but it didn't work. It's still hilarious even if you have to click:
I was going to write about my trip to South Carolina, but I seem to have lost the ability to write anything interesting.
I think that the subjects I most want to write about are the ones I've decided to leave alone. Unfortunately, those thoughts are the only ones my brain can process.
Anyway, I got a wild hair and I drove to South Carolina Thursday. I watched the moon rise over the ocean, and then a few hours later I watched the sun rise over the ocean. On Saturday, I drove back home.
Then, I got to see HatGirl at Rich O's.
I ran across this thing last night; it was a site about writing. It was a site about writing 750 words every day, to be precise. Supposed to be good for the soul and stuff.
I thought it was a good idea, and much more doable - I calculate: twice as doable - as the 1500 words per day that something like nanowrimo would require.
It's so tempting, to start writing regularly again. I think about it all the time. I mean, what's stopping me?
That's not very many words. It's not even close to 750 words. But, I need to stop now.
I don't know what's stopping me, but something is.
Dammit, I miss her. I'm not supposed to, but I fucking do.