warning: do not read unless...

I think every TV show and every movie ever made has featured at least one scenario like this one; a letter/diary/note that was thoughtlessly or harmlessly written is read by the subject and a misunderstanding/understanding occurs. At any rate, it is a fiasco at least, a disaster at worst. Some things are meant never to be read. Others, ought to be topped with a warning sign--Caution, do not read unless you are a capable and intelligent human being. I guess those are the same thing. Or maybe, better yet, Caution, do not WRITE unless you are prepared for sitcom-like consequences.

I have had my share of situations resulting from a rather loose tongue and a free keyboard. Some have been comical, but not all. Perhaps I should learn to be more guarded, except that I don't mind taking the consequences, not for being honest. Others must bear the results that come from reading. Allow me to be more specific.

There was the Jon fiasco. That situation was just annoying. I understand that it hurt him when he read less than flattering things about himself on the site of an ex-girlfriend. But would he have been pained had he not read? No. Ignorance is bliss, so I've been told. Instead of going about his business, he made life more difficult for many people, trying to fight against the harshness he had read. It seemed a never-ending cycle as long as he frequented my blog. With each perusal the words became more severe. When he finally swore never to read it again, anger subsided to be replaced by cool indifference.

Situation number two: Jessica*'s Vivianne Leigh impersonation. In that case I will not try for a second to deny how in the wrong I was in our fight. But, I do not think that venting my feelings--no matter how childish they were--on my own blog is grounds for condemnation. All that I posted--and subsequently deleted--was said to her face before hand and later. Her pain, I am guessing, stemmed from the fact that I committed my sentiments to words, published before the eyes of many. I learned a lesson: When I publish negative feelings about anyone, I will provide them with an alias. The lesson she ought to have learned: do not expect stories of flowers, puppies and rainbows while in a fight.

The lesson that all should internalize: do not read unless prepared for the truth, good or bad. But when you do commit to reading, make sure to read the whole thing...I hate misunderstanding more than negative revelations, unless of course the confusion results in comedy.

I have just such an example. Ted's mom--and I really am sorry to her for this--believes me to be in love with her son. Over Thanksgiving Ted decided to do some archive reading on my blog, resurrecting the words I penned back in July. His reading it is embarrassing enough, with his full understanding of the background of each sentiment. What resulted from his trip into mylife is that his mom had the link to my blog on her computer's history. She does not understand my near-obsessive love of my friends, so when she read the archives, she became alarmed. Ted was interrogated, and I defamed. We both got a great laugh about it, but I'm not sure that Mrs. Long even now is convinced of the truth of the friendship.

Ah, well, "what do we live for but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?"


* name changed to protect myself from repercussions.

weeping may endure

There is a reason why I sleep with my lamp on. The light is necessary to ward off suffocation. The dark, at times, becomes oppressive, and pain threatens to stop my breath. A light, like a beacon for help, calms me and makes me feel like I am not alone. I use a night light when I am lonely. Of the past eight days I have slept in a lighted room for four. The remaining time I spent away, and the days so revived my heart that I didn't need a lamp. I'll write more on that later. For now, I need to discuss pain.

Last Tuesday night I saw, for the first time, my father cry. He discovered that my mother is living with Bob. He asked me. Yes, I told him. It's true. He handed me my Christmas present--which, incidentally, is what my mom gave him. Fitting, I suppose, as she gave her present from him to Joyce--and started weeping. Then he drove off. Unable to breathe, I walked up the stairs and hid in the shadows. I couldn't go back inside, because only Julie was waiting there. Luckily, I had my cell phone. I tried to call Emilie, but she was on the road. I tried to call Ted, but no one answered. I fell back against the brick and slid to the floor, concentrating on stilling my sobs. The subsequent high-jinks of the night chased away the threat of breaking, but still I slept with the lamp on for the second time in a row.

Sunday night, Christmas, I cannot explain the reason. I think I left the lamp on in protest against the day ending. In all reality the time had been perfect, if also tiring. Perhaps I fell asleep before I could turn the light off.

But Monday was fraught with disappointment. I do not deal well with disappointment. That is something profound to learn about me. I am gracious when let down, but I will not forget the lesson. Two years ago I learned not to spend Christmas Day with anyone who does not love the holiday. Now I will add to it. I will not celebrate Christmas on any day with someone who does not love the holiday.

Also on that day I got to hear the poisonous remarks by both parents regarding the other. They now hate each other. Their war is a competition to see who can be the most indifferent. A cold war, as someone remarked. Mom called while I was playing a game with my brother and dad. I answered it with my dad's commentary in the background. Tell her how much fun I'm having. If only that had been the worst remark of the night. You have to find me a wife, Audrey. It's up to you. No, I protested. That is not my job. Find yourself your own damn wife. I'm only kidding, of course. I just should have done better the first time. I wanted to cry, that's my mother you speak of so derisively. Did he make it better with his retraction, if I hadn't married her, I wouldn't have you? No. I hated him for wanting to erase those twenty-seven years, for wishing my life, my family away.

I half-heartedly opened up to Ted about it when we went to Walmart. But, midnight was approaching and I didn't want to be burdensome and demanding, so I fought against the battering ram at my heart. When he lay on my sofa looking at me, I knew that if he didn't talk I would break, and breaking wasn't an option at 11:50 pm. So we spoke trivially, and he left.

And when I checked my email to find a distraction from my emotions, I found something. And it was certainly distracting. Kevin has a girl friend. My organs, previously melted in anguish, instantly solidified into molten lead. Kevin is not supposed to have a girl friend. He's not supposed to get over me. I'm not supposed to mean that little to him. I know, cognitively, that it's right he move on, that he moved on eight months ago; but I rather wished to go on believing that I mean something to him. I did not respond to the email, and instead meandered to bed.

The lamp remained on, this time on more active duty than guard. Nuora, light-giver, in full battle array. The war I fought was to keep the sobs from breaking my throat, and to keep myself from crawling into bed with Cassidy for comfort. Every time my chin started the tell-tale shaking, and my eyes stung with tears, I forced a breath into my lungs. I shivered with the exertion, using compulsion to bring relaxation. I fell asleep two hours after crawling into bed. I learned a lot about myself in that time. I learned that I can take a lot of pain and internalize it, neutralizing it slowly until it loses its toxicity.

I learned something else too.

I learned that despite the pain of the night prior, the morning is healing. That is how I know I am not depressed. I am just sad, and the hurt that comes from very definite events ambushes me in the dark alley-way of bed-time; but in daylight the shadows hold no threats, and I can continue on with my life in my usual happy manner. I can even reply to the email and tease with ridiculous follow-up questions that, come night, I will not want to know the answers to.

Pain came again tonight, but not for me. I had to observe and attempt to share. My protests against accepting a broken heart were met with the cynicism of self-preservation. Life is pain, highness; anyone who says differently is selling something. Or the less popular, because never said before tonight, life hurts, but it's good to have a dose of reality every once in a while. There will always be pain, wounds I wish I could understand, bear or heal. This evening proved that. Tonight, I know I will sleep with the light on, but it will be with the hope that my lamp could cast its rays to a distant room. Sleep well.

Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.

dreaming

I had nightmares again last night. I woke up smiling, snuggling deep under my covers and squeezing Raphael with fondness. You know those dreams where you suddenly realize at the end of a semester that you've been enrolled in a class that you've never been to, and now you have to take the final? I hate those dreams. But last night's was just a little different: I was on stage. For most people that would make the situation worse. Not for me. I had the lead role, and the day before the performance I remembered that I hadn't been to a single rehearsal. Everyone knew what they were doing, while I read off of someone's torn apart script. Annoying disasters occurred, and I kept appearing places I didn't want to be and having to get back to the stage. Yet, despite it all, I woke up with the thrill I always feel just before a performance.

Oh, how I miss theater.

I've been talking nonstop about the stage ever since Ted and I discovered it in the JFSB. There is a small theater there that he and I explored in the dark on Sunday. He found a piano and immediately started playing. I stood in the middle of the stage, automatically putting back my shoulders and raising my head. Lovingly I stroked the curtains as I ambled around the stage, playing imagination games with myself in my mind. I sighed as we reentered the lighted world of Real.

It's been five years since I quit drama. My one relapse was my senior year in high school when I wrote, directed and acted in the ward roadshow. The night Ted and I talked about good advice not taken I brought up how Nora, sage that she is, told me to stick it out in drama no matter how terrible the high school theater teachers became. I didn't listen. At the time I blamed it on a new teacher who treated me like the underclassmen that I was. Now I know that I couldn't have been happy acting during those years no matter who directed me. That was the time when I shut off my emotions, finding daily life a bit too difficult to feel deeply. And, to be Great on stage, one has to feel deeply. I quit because suddenly I found the emotional vulnerability a bit too much like standing naked before a panel of judges.

Now, however, I think I would jump on the stage and pirouette before them, letting the world see all the things I fear about life, just for the chance to enter that world again; the chance to experience opening night, to see the eyes watching me and then feeling them disappear as I become the part I play; the chance to feel the rush and jolt of being part of a world I create for the audience, as they and I fuse into one entity; the chance to bond with fellow actors as I explore the script and all the possibilities it holds. For that, I would give a lot.

the morning after

This morning I reread the blog I composed last night, and I shake my head to myself. You stayed up late to write that? It is mostly the last paragraph that annoys me. She sits there at the end of my thoughtful, albeit rambling, prose laughing at me. I cannot delete the stupid reference to a poor rendition of A Christmas Carol. The fact that it is there says a lot about me. It says that I will mock my own emotions, especially pain. It says that if I try to do anything great, even by way of a personal thesis, I will trip myself up, because I am too afraid that if I take myself seriously, no one else will. So I laugh first.

But I was in pain last night. Sometimes, when things hurt, it is easy to feel through them. It is a clean pain from an overt wound. Sometimes, the pain is better denied. Sometimes when it is too hard to feel one kind of hurt, feeling another makes it better. I understand why people inflict physical wounds on themselves. I did not do that. Instead, I systematically and unemotionally demolished my heart. A sledgehammer in one hand, a pickaxe in another, I swung left then right without passion or prejudice at the deep places where I feel pain. Mostly, to me, that last paragraph says the things I didn't say, can't say--not on this blog at any rate--about the topic I brought up. I know, now you're all curious. Ask, and I'll probably tell you.

At any rate, I cried myself to sleep, but not until nearly two in the morning. I couldn't bring myself to call anyone, and I prayed only for a minute before I shook my head at my own ridiculousness and crawled into bed. I didn't want to burden anyone with an abstract pain. I slept with the light on. The glow protected my dreams, like a sentinel, like a guardian angel perched on my dresser, cramped but unable to move for all the clutter he would knock to the floor. He was rather unshaven, his trench coat was wrinkled, and his overly-large wings bent at odd angles as they tried to make themselves unobtrusive. I felt glad of his presence, but this morning he was gone. Likely he had a Christmas to save, like Gideon or Clarence.

This morning it was righteous anger that got me up and out of the house. It was also righteous anger that got me back home within the hour. So, now that I don't have a job, I'm feeling great. I think I'll go back to sleep.

perfect love and all the rest

Everyone needs a Reason and a Way.

There is One Reason, and He has given us a Way. I am the light and the life of the world. Life. The Reason to work, to endure, to try and succeed. He opened to our imaginations a veritable cornucopia of rewards. He told us the Plan, the Reward, and how we were going to get there. He is the Way. Light. We follow where he leads, and where he leads is to life. We cannot blaze our own path, we cannot make it alone. But with him all things are possible.
He is the Light and the Life.

He is life. Life mirrors him, copies his perfection in minute replicas all over the universe. C. S. Lewis said that, "miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see." Seasons change; spring eradicates winter. Dawn burns away night. A birth and death of all things, in a simple and perfect design, His design.

Art imitates life, just as life imitates its creator. The archetypes of the hero, the protector, the king, all point to him. We knew in LOTR that Gandalf couldn't really be dead, because he died for his friends, and we all know how the story progresses from there. Same with Aslan. Believe me, dad, you don't have to read the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to know the story. You've heard it every day of your life. And I don't mean since you were born. Even Ayn Rand, vociferous atheist, wrote her greatest novel about a perfect man who redeems those who have been abused by evil -eventually suffering phyiscal torture. He saves them from their own follies after they worked for those who enslaved them by sanctioning the evil that destroys them. Oh, Ayn, I shake my head at your determined denial of truth.

But I get off topic.

Where I mean to go with this is here: We search so desperately-albeit unconsciously- for anything in this life that will remind us of The Life. Is it surprising, therefore, that when we fall in love, the emotion mirrors the Greatest Love? We seek a Reason and a Way.

We want to be inspired. All of us earnestly seek someone who will give us a reason to rise above whatever in our life is bringing us down, ourselves most importantly. Not someone to say to us, you're okay as you are, but someone to say, I know that you have it in you to be amazing. For that person, you want to be amazing. You are willing to work to possess her (him, in my case, but its much more romantic the other way). She is worth every effort, every pain, to hold for one moment that glowing white fruit of perfection. She is the Reason. So gearing ourselves up for the enormous challenge, we suddenly find that she is also the Way. How being our best possible selves is suddenly so easy and freeing...why it's all a tribute to her. The inspiration that gives us the desire also unconsciously gives us the ability. That is the romantic love that all artists, philosophers, housewives and schoolboys aspire to. You've heard the song. You know which one I mean.

Isn't it amazing! The very act of falling in love is a testimony of our belief in a greater good. To love someone with one's whole soul is a sacred gift to the Father and the Son, an acceptance of their gift.

The reason I thought of this is not because of the conversation I had with Ted tonight, though my sentiments mirror his in many respects. I came upon this idea while watching a drama on TNT. Wanted. Now, ask me, how did a television show about police guys who hunt down wanted criminals make you think about the sanctity of romantic love? Because the criminal had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wish I could relate the entire show to you. It inspired me. But the relevant part has been related in full. The mad bomber was a PTSD victim of Desert Storm. It made me think of Dad.

Sometimes I think my dad is so weak, unable to do the simplest things for himself, unable to be a grownup in many ways. I feel burdened, thinking that it is my duty to take care of him. And yet, he has never starved, nor frozen to death. He is perfectly able to take care of himself. So why do I feel that he is not alive? My father is not happy. He chooses to live in the past, in the years he was surrounded by war, death, hatred and pain, rather than to live in the present. Why would anyone choose such a life? Why does he not let himself be happy? It's a simple choice. One that I've tried to make for him, so many times. But I cannot make my father happy. I do not think that even he has that ability anymore. But he used to.

PTSD is a catchword in our family, among we children anyway. A hiss and a byword. Like the phrase, "so damned depressed", it has ceased to mean anything important or real. I forget sometimes that people who have it are legitimately sick, and I use the word sick in its worst connotation. These bastards are sick! And, yeah, sometimes Dad veers that way, but for the most part, even he doesn't think of his mental unhealth as relevant. Dad is skitzophrenic. My dad is insane. And yet, it's not a big deal to us. Why? Because he has always been insane, since before we were born, but it never got in the way before. It was always there, unnamed, but he never let it bother him. My dad, my weak dad, never let his wife of twenty-seven years know that he saw his dead friends from Vietnam. How did he find that strength? Because of her.

I learned the meaning of the word romance from watching my father. Because of him, I can never marry a man who does not treat me like a princess. My mother once lectured him for the money he spent buying her flowers, as flowers die. So, whenever my father got the urge to splurge on a bouquet, he instead bought a single silk rose. In her bathroom, my mother had an immortal collection of ILOVEYOUs and JUSTBECAUSEs arrayed in all colors imaginable. Incidentally, I learned the meaning of disappointed from my mother.

In my mom, my dad found all the inspiration he could ever want for life. His wild past that we joke about with him did not influence our lives negatively, because the man we met was gentle-even when he yelled- protective and living a life within the lines. I'm not counting the Pepsi he drank behind mom's back. She was his Reason for fighting all the demons and dark things that lived in his mind. And she was his Way to do it. Heaven knows they did not have a perfect marriage even at the best of times. They probably ought never to have been married, but I may not ever meet a man who still means it for All Eternity when Time has turned her back on him.

Maybe that is why my dad could not believe in God anymore, and why the Son became fiction in his mind. Dad could not believe in Reason and Way. He had lost love. My parents' marriage really hit the rocks at the same time they left the church. The cause and effect is one eternal return. But I do know that my dad's mental weaknesses caught up to him when he gave up on her. That is why he chooses to live in the war; because to live in a life that doesn't have her is traumatic.

I wish I could do something more than observe it.

For my sanity, I must end on a note of inspiration. Perhaps I may speculate on my future prospects of romantic love. I may bear testimony of the Great Love. Girlishly, I may hope to be the Reason and Way for someone some day. But all of a sudden, I am afraid of messing up those sentiments and paths. So I will end, with a Tiny Tim thought for all: May you find love in your lives that make you a better person every day. May you find a Reason and Way, and the Light and the Life.

God bless us every one. (<--must use very bad cockney accent)

confidence

I do not like an audience. Sincerity becomes diffused between many participants in a conversation. Ted tried asking me about something today and, despite a desire to confide on my part, I did not answer. Not well, anyway. The reason is that Tarythe was present. It is not that I would not have told those things to her, but that I could not do it with more than one person at a time. The same is true if I play the role of a listener. I don't feel a connection to the speaker because I am trying to connect to the other listeners as well. My attention falters. At least, I feel that the speaker thinks my attention falters. Any conversation I hold with other people present feels like role-playing, a performance with the energy and wit and timing of a script. It doesn't seem real to me. I cannot make eye-contact. I am honest in word but not in spirit. Any other arrangement besides one-on-one just doesn't cut it for me when I want confidence.

Yet, when I lack confidence, a group of supporting friends helps to heighten my courage. Meeting new people, for instance, is a task I daren't undertake alone. When I am in a group of people who I know love me despite my follies, then I feel empowered to win over a new friend. It is at those times that I truly believe-a different thing than knowing-that I am a person anyone would like for a friend. So both settings are imperative for me, groups and intimacy. They are good for different reasons: one for the energy and wit and timing that make me feel beautiful and fun; the other for truth and honesty, another way of making me feel beautiful and appreciated.

A note to Ted: When you read this looking for a selfish confidence boost, hear this: I do not think that all you do is ridicule. I am not afraid that you will mock me. I trust you. You are a good friend. No buts about it.

me-mail

I once told Emilie that I learn things about myself through observations not of my emotions but of my actions. Then I find a pattern and trace it back to its cause.

Recently I did this with my obsession toward checking email. I noticed that it is not random chance as to when I sit by the computer clicking refresh on my inbox, nor do I run to the laptop every time I get home. The pattern is this: I check my email when I am exceptionally emotional. I may be very happy, sad, lonely, giddy, romantic, proud, or any number of other emotions. I check my email because when I feel anything that strongly I know in some deep place in my mind that someone somewhere has to be reaching out yearning to be a part of that sense. It is a faith I cling to despite evidence to the contrary.

It is faith that who I am in my most raw form must appeal to someone, and that I need to share it with that person. I am glad to discover this about myself. Especially after last night. Last night I confided to Emilie that I am afraid that when someone really gets to know me then they will stop loving me. Now I know that my soul is really more optimistic than that. My fear of abandonment or inadequacy, or whatever it is, is really a surmountable barrier. I respond very quickly and easily to encouragement, and discouragement alike. If one is enthusiastic about any aspect of my character, I am inclined to show more. It's progressive. And it is not because I dislike my innermost self, but rather that I so love my innermost self that I would reveal it to none other than those who would also love it.

Is it weird to associate that with checking email? Perhaps there is no logical connection. But the relationship, strange though it may be, is that when I feel truly myself, I get on line to see who out there is ready to celebrate it with me.

opposition in all things

Of course, the day after the perfect week ends, I get a cold. Not just any cold, one of those deep-chest colds where breathing seems an impossible task and you wish the knife in your throat would cut deeper and just get it over with. I had the day off, so I spent it sleeping. I called in sick to work today and again used my time productively, by laying in near coma hour after hour. I find that if I focus on my every breath, I can avoid coughing, and if I stay silent my throat had nothing of which to complain...as long as I don't swallow. So really everything is a-ok. I'm a little hungry and loopy from Dayquil, but besides those effects, I have been enjoying a new Zen-like state. Perhaps I'll reach enlightenment tonight. Or perhaps I'll call in sick again tomorrow.

the perfect week

This past week has been perfect.

First Contact
Emilie asserted all semester that I should be with her friend Danny. You'd love each other, she said. Or hate each other. She has wanted us to meet since she first mentioned him to me in September. Caitie agreed. Wednesday he came over for the first time. I was on the computer buying movie tickets, and Em came to invite me out to the living room. I grudgingly, though half-excitedly, exited my room. My breath caught in my chest.
Hi, nice to meet you.
Nice to be met.
Mmm, not bad. Okay, great. When he left I was glad to know I would see him again Sunday.

Scoring
No, not that way.
I played snow football Wednesday night, delighting in the exertion. I wanted to opt out originally-I was tired, hungry and sore. However, wiley boys convinced me to layer my clothes and gird up my loins. The cold air felt wonderful, and I even shed layers as I ran back and forth across uneven ground. Unfortunately, my quarter back wouldn't throw to girls. Ted was QB of the other team and made Emilie, Caitie and me proud by his admirable sportmanship. Finally the QB did pass to me, and I caught it in the End Zone. Ted claims to have won the game, but I was really the winner. Even when he flattened me in the snow to prove his dominance, I never relinquished my claim.

The exercise chased away all the gloomy, wearisome thoughts that had plagued my brain-the anticipation of homework and finals, the prospect of yet another semester feeling lonely, and any other feel sorry for myself thoughts that elbow their way into my mind when I am tired and hungry. I ran, played, laughed and won, and then returned home with my roommates and Ted for hot chocolate.

Night Time Talking
After hot chocolate, my roommates retired for the night. Ted stuck around, and he and I talked together on the couch in my living room with the lights off and the room illuminated only by a lamp and the Christmas tree in the corner. We only stopped when we realized that it was past curfew. We talked on all sorts of subjects. The one that meant the most was sparked by Alanis Morissette. No, we didn't find any deep and important truths in her music. Rather, a mocking discussion of the song Ironic led us to the question, "what good advice have you not taken?"

We discussed regrets. I regret not giving my all to school. I could have been brilliant. You are, he replied. You just don't apply yourself. He misses his father. I've never pursued the subject, just as I have never pushed Ted for any confidences, but I'll admit curiosity. It's such a big part of who he is, a sadness I see only because of the walls he has around it. I want someday to have the confidence necessary to ask him those kinds of questions; I guess all I lack is the belief that he will answer. I never push when I think it is in the direction of Away. But Wednesday night I didn't feel that possibility existed. I felt so euphoric that homework didn't daunt me at all.

Lectures on Principles
Professor Kearl's last lecture Thursday morning ended in a thunderous applause. No other economics professor in the history of supply and demand has ever been given such a reception. The reason: no professor has ever traded in Adam Smith for Joseph.

My biggest fear, began Kearl, is that you will leave this class and believe what you have learned, that some invisible hand choreographs all your self-interested behavior into a glowing Utopian society. Kearl lectured on charity with all the might of King Benjamin, ending with quotes from D&C, for those who "don't believe in ancient prophets". Be generous of heart, he begged us. Give now, of your time, of your money, and of yourself. If you are stingy when you are poor you will never have enough money to help others. Absorb negative externalities.

The second soapbox on his agenda: take pride in your education. Don't let your major cheat you out of exploring all there is in various subjects. Learn to love to learn. Soak in culture and ideas, so that your leisure time will not be a waste when you are an adult. Find something about which you are passionate-Gothic Cathedrals, Eighteenth century British Literature-and pursue it with zeal.

In short, he ended, learn to better yourselves in all things. See you Monday at the final.

When the clapping started, I grinned. I felt like standing on my chair and yelling, "oh Captain, my Captain!" But fear of plagiarism kept me seated.

Narnia
I wish I had words enough to describe this movie. I am powerless. Just know that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the most perfect movie ever made. Feeling the Spirit at a Hollywood film is a once-in-a-lifetime event. I wept, and I was not the only one, not even among my companions.

I will comment on one thing. When Lucy and Susan follow Aslan up the hill and he asks them to walk with him, the two make a comment that they could not sleep. Did C.S. Lewis rewrite the story as it ought to have been, purposefully altering the behavior of Peter, James and John, who could not stay awake in order that they might watch with their Savior and Friend on that His hardest of nights?

As I said, the movie was beautiful.

After the Wardrobe
Driving home that night, Ted asked why he had been so fortunate as to have been invited with me and Emilie to the movie. The truth was that I had thought of him first, knowing that of all my friends (both of them) that he would love the movie the most. He and I have repeatedly discussed the book, and his enthusiasm has matched mine. In the car, we could hardly contain it as we relived scene after scene, hardly breathing for fear of banishing the aura of the two hours prior.

Finally, Ted turned his head toward me. Audrey, you know I love you, right?

No, actually. Ted had never said that before. In times of great sentiment, sometimes he would say he liked me. He always hugged me tightly, but Ted hugs everyone tightly. Despite all signs I have never known that he liked me, let alone loved me.

Oh. Well I do.

Oh. Ted, my best friend, had once said that he doesn't say those words easily. I have witnessed it before, as he avoided saying it in reply to Elise. My shock made me think of a conversation he and I had before the movie. Some people fight hard against believing that what they want is true. I realized that was the case with me. I had to have it spelled out.

Thank you, I replied. I was truly grateful that he had told me, but more grateful that he felt that way. It is not a romantic love-likely I wouldn't have said thank you to that- but just as necessary. I know he only said it because he was tired and had no control over his words. That, in a way, almost made it better. Eventually, my mind realized that I had said, Thank you, to an offered, I love you, and so I finished with, I love you too, not because it was expected but because I wanted to say it back.

Christmas and all the Trimmings
Christmas has always been wonderful. Sunday was no exception. There was even a stranger there, and I didn't mind at all! Each of us in the apartment dressed up and did her hair beautifully. Church was one long Christmas musical program. Emilie, Caitie and Danny sang and were wonderful. I made Chimichangas in between decorating the apartment and singing carols. To dinner came Ted, Danny, Jocilyn and we roomies. The atmosphere was comfy and loving. We ate chimis, then oranges and nuts from makeshift stockings Tarythe and I formed from Christmas-decorated oven-mitts. We laughed and quoted and teased and shared stories. I'll admit, Danny intrigued me. But that's not really what I paid attention to. I noticed the overall feeling of warmth and peace. Christmas is the best day of the year even if it is two weeks early.

School
I passed my economics exam and thus the semester. I can say nothing else on the matter. I am too proud and humbly grateful.

Flora
Cassidy got lilies from a boy. We put the flowers on a Grecian pedestal in the living room with arrows leading to the pillar. She glowed. We giggled.

Nora
Nora got in to BYU, though she doesn't admit it yet. Sure, there was no acceptance letter, but when you are informed that your credits are as follows and your standing is probation, that usually means that you're in.

Fitzwilliam
Even today, twenty-four hours later, I am ready to propose marriage to any male I see. Pride and Prejudice was superbly made. Wonderful direction, amazing cinematography, and grand sound track. The actors played their roles with conviction. I love Keira Knightly. I love the story. All the satire and down time in the books was deleted, all the passion and romance magnified. Wit kept. Visuals enhanced. But mostly, there was HIM! HE stood in the rain confessing love and vanity. HE ran to her side to help her from pain. HE walked across a field full of sage in the light of dawn, surrounded by morning mist, wearing a long black trench coat that flowed behind him as the music swelled in my ears. After HE married her, they sat outside his home discussing pet names. You may only call be Mrs. Darcy when you are perfectly, totally and incandescently happy. He kisses her cheek. Mrs. Darcy. He kisses her brow. Mrs. Darcy. He kisses her chin. Mrs. Darcy. He leans close to her lips and pauses. Mrs. Darcy. Kiss. Roll credits.

Post Final Party
Pizza, Never On Sundaes, Ted, Cassidy, Emilie, Caitie, no more school.


Like I said. Perfect.

masochism

Emilie, Cassidy and I watched an episode of Everwood. We didn't mean to. We flipped channels and there was the best scene ever. Boy and girls are dating and girl is insecure about her appearance overall, not just on this specific occasion. To make her feel better, he locks her in the bathroom until she can see herself in the mirror the way he sees her. Look at your skin, your lips, your eye lashes. We watched avidly.

It made Emilie want to cuddle; it made me want to be told how beautiful I am in someone's eyes; it made Cassidy wish she were self-conscious about her appearance. We relived the scene verbatim. We may as well have developed a habit of poking ourselves with flaming hot brands. Why do we do this to ourselves? Girls are gluttons for pain, as if wanting will replace having, as if viewing will feed longing. It's stupid. Really, really stupid.

Everyone wants a happily ever after, but planning out how it has to be will just leave us dissatisfied when the right person turns out not to follow a script written by the WB. There is no perfect guy, just a guy who's perfect for you. Yes, a guy who's perfect for me will find me beautiful -and better tell me so!- but he'll do it in his own way, and I'll be myself -someone who is too vain to admit feelings of inadequacy- and somehow that will work too, perfectly. Until then, I need to stop torturing myself.

workshop

My creative writing class liked my story tonight! I felt great, especially after the others workshopped with a lot of criticism. It makes me more excited for my own book. I've always been intimidated by my desire to write. Who grows up to be an author, really? But now my story is budding and my characters are becoming real to me, and even people who don't like me have told me to keep at it and finish. I love my CW class because my writing has matured, my ambition developed, and when I feel like I'm wasting my afternoon typing away on my ancient laptop, I remind myself that it's homework.

k-mails

Aren't emails the greatest?! They are especially great when they tell you how great you are, how much you mean to the writer and what specifically they love about you. These emails are so great in fact that you forget you're not supposed to smile that way. You forget that he's gone and left you behind of his own volition. You forget all the bad things that went on before. You might even entertain stupid daydreams where he behaves more like you wish, not like his character dictates. You definitely quote and/or read the email to all your roommates. Ah, the power of words!

But I am just speaking hypothetically, of course. I would never act so irrationally over a mere email.

addicted to chick-flicks

Watching chick-flicks is a dangerous past-time. It makes me want a boy. I want to hold hands, cuddle and, yes, maybe recieve a kiss or two. I want to smile that smile, you know the one. Those who can bring that smile to my face aren't allowed. Maybe Steven Shaw will come up here next semester and I'll swoop in for the catch. Or I could keep watching romantic comedies until I overdose.
I don't have problem. I can quit any time I want. I just don't want to.

the song i was trying to remember

BRIGHT EYES LYRICS

"A Perfect Sonnet"

Lately I've been wishing I had one desire

Something that would make me never want another

Something that would make it so that nothing mattered

All would be clear then

But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments

And watch it all dissolve into a single second

And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet

or one foolish line

'Cause that's all that you'll get so you'll have to accept

You are here then you're gone

But I believe that lovers should be tied together and

Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weatherand left there to drown

Left there to drown in their innocence

But as for me I'm coming to the final chapter

I read all of the pages and there is still no answer

Only all that was before I know must soon come after

That is the only way it can be

So I stand in the sun

And I breathe with my lungs

Trying to spare me the weight of the truth

Saying everything you've ever seen was just a mirror

And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever

And now you are laying in a bathtub full of freezing water

Wishing you were a ghost

But once you knew a girl and you named her Lover

And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summer

But autumn came, She disappeared

You can't remember where she said she was going to

But you know that she's gone 'cause she left you a song

That you don't want to sing

We're singing I believe that lovers should be chained together

And thrown into a fire with their songs and letters

And left there to burn

Left there to burn in their arrogance

But as for me I'm coming to my final failure

I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better

But I ended up becoming something other than what I had planned to be

Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers

And layed entwined together on a bed of clover

And left there to sleep

Left there to dream of their happiness