Polyphony

2005-10-10T07:24:00.000-07:00

Hi.
Happy Monday.
How are you?
I'm working on a piece about music.
I know, big surprise.
But I want to know what you think.
So here goes.
What is your favorite song?
Why is that your favorite and how does it make you feel when you listen to it?
I'll be collecting responses today, with the piece likely to come tomorrow.
So help a girl out.
Get your comments on.
Thanks.

2005-10-04T09:46:00.000-07:00

You're standing to my right. Our arms - your left, my right - periodically brush each other as we carry on conversations with others. We're standing closer to each other than we really need to.

Yes, it's crowded, but either of could create a bit of breathing room if we wanted.

We each hold a bottle of Red Stripe. We've had them since I asked if you'd like a drink and you said yes with a smile. What did you want? Whatever I was having. Yes, Red Stripe sounded great.

You missed the huge grin I had to repress before placing the order at the bar.

Two, please.

I'm sipping, staring at the band performing ahead while taking quick glances at you from the corner of my eye. You have a focused smile on your face, and you're ever-so-slightly nodding your head in time to the percussion beat. We've been alternating between the performance on stage before us and the baseball game broadcast on the television behind.

When I switch from one to the other, you've followed shortly thereafter. And vice versa. And so it is this time.

You place your hand on my back to get my attention and keep it there as you lean over to speak into my ear. I tuck a strand of hair behind the other ear and smile as you mention your goodnatured frustration with the home team. We enjoy a shared commiseration that has been established long before, but it leads into laughter and witty exchange. And then we switch back to watch the stage.

Where is the pause button when I need it?

I want to stay here like this. I want to keep you to my right, wearing the green and orange track jacket that compliments the brown in your eyes. I want to continute to feel your elbow brush against my arm, and I want to maintain the playful banter that brings with it the pokes and the hands on backs and the titled head looks.

But I want to fill the gaps in the story with our subtexts. I want to tell you how happy I am to be standing by your side, drinking Jamacian beer and leaning over to speak to you in a loud room. I want to tell you that I like you.

I like you. Simple enough expression. Three of the hardest words for me to say.

Instead, I'm focusing on the moment. The arm brushes. The fact that you're standing here, with me, and not with whoever else you know in this room.

I raise my arm to take another sip. You do the same. We jostle elbows and we both smile.

The Golden Ticket

2005-09-28T11:12:00.000-07:00

The vast majority of this story is true, although I have changed names and a couple of details to protect the slightly-pathetic-looking. And no, this did not happen to me.

I was making photocopies of the work I'd done so I could file them, turn off my office light and head out the door. Most of my coworkers had already left for the evening, and I could only slightly hear the muffled sounds of occupancy behind a single, closed office door. CJ. I also knew Jane was still around somewhere, but the girl never made noise. Ever.

I was enjoying the peace and quiet - no phones ringing. No beeping fax machines. Just the gentle, steady whir of the copy machine. I realized I was even timing my breathing to match with the strips of light peeking through the top lid.

A quick tap of the pages later (I like nice, straight piles of paper) and I turned toward my office. CJ peeked his head out the formerly closed door.

"Hey."

"Hi," I said absentmindedly as I started to cross the room. He stepped out and leaned against the door.

"So what's it going to take?"I turned and waited for him to clarify. "For..."

"What's your price for your ticket?" He'd mentioned this yesterday, and I'd rolled my eyes. Fresh out of college, 22 years old and convinced that he could buy my Red Sox-Yankees ticket off me. I'd already given him an firm no the day before.

"Oh come on." I rolled my eyes and resumed my path to my office. He started to step toward me.

"Seriously. You have to have a price. Everyone has a price. What's yours?" This wasn't joking. His words dripped with egotistical swagger, and I realized he was convinced that he'd leave the office with the promise of a Fenway ticket.

"More than you can afford."

"Try me. What is it?" He looked as if he'd seen an opportunity.

"CJ. I am not selling you my ticket. I am not selling anyone else my ticket. I am going to the game and that's final. I'll take pictures for you. It'll be just like you were there."

He stomped his foot. I kid you not. "But I don't want pictures! I want to go to the game! Don't make me whine. I'm a really good whiner. And I'll do it."

I stared at him. Was he serious? Jane, apparently having overheard the exchange, casually strolled into the room. "You already are. And you're not particularly good. Get over it. I'm going."

Jane's eyes widened as he set both his feet squarely on the ground and stuck out his lip. "I don't know why you get to go to the game."

"Because I bought tickets."

"What about the kid? He doesn't need to go." My boyfriend's 8-year-old brother, who had been looking forward to the game since we told him we had bought him a ticket. He had the date circled in red on his Red Sox calendar. He'd been crossing out each day before he went to sleep at night.

"I don't know. From the way you're acting right now, he has more maturity than you do. Grow up." I rolled my eyes at Jane, who was trying desperately not to burst into laughter.

As I stepped into my office, he gave one last attempt. "Molly, let me GOOO to the GAAAAAME!"

"NO!" I slammed the door and looked through the frosted glass. I could see his blurry shape slink away. I knew he'd try again tomorrow.

I had been somewhat ambivalent about the game. But as I saw the desperation rise - and as my ticket became all the more precious in the eyes of those without admittance to the game - I realized that this game was going to be one of the highlights to my fall.

So THIS is what baseball fever is all about.

A dispatch from Absurdityville

2005-09-28T10:44:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at the corner of the main bar area. There were actually three long stretches of bartop in the tavern, set up in a series of parallel lines between the main bar and the far wall. The stage was up to my left, a dance floor situated perpendicular to our tabletops, separating the drinkers from the musicmakers.

The beer I had selected was known as The Fischer Cat. When I'd arrived and located my friends and the seat they'd saved for me, Maura let me sample her brew to see if it would suit me, as I was still in the process of developing a taste for beer. Each time I'd ask the name, loud sounds behind me would block out the final word she relayed. Fischer...what?

"Oh, CAT!" I said, gesturing with my hand to represent a cat's paw swiping through the air. Of course it was just as the bartender approached, and he informed me that I could only order that beverage if I promised to make the same gesture each time I wanted a new pint.

I promised. Of course.

As I sipped the beer, amazed that I had bypassed my usual juice and vodka drinks of choice, an older man took the space to my left. I paid him no mind until he turned and said, "Excuse me, Victoria?"

Um...yes?

"I thought it was you! I wanted to say hello." He introduced himself and I nearly spit out my beer. It was The Boy's father.

Now, I'd actually met TBF once before, more than three years ago. It was shortly before I'd moved to Washington, the last show at which I would going to see The Boy perform until who knew when. I was chatting briefly after the show, saying goodbye, when TB introduced us. Hi, nice to meet you, OK, take care, bye.

But TB had come across my old blog, back when I was busy writing about how frustrated I was with the direction he had taken within The Band. I wrote that I felt he was too busy trying to channel Jeff Buckley with bad hair to be a fused member of the band as it performed. (Whoops.) It launched a long series of long emails about music, the business, our perceptions and whatnot. And, as I learned during an awkward, post-emails, in-person discussion, TBF had found the link to the blog and had begun to read.

I thought TB was joking, but I posted a shoutout to TBF and received a comment back. Part of me still thought TB was playing a prank.

It turns out that TBF knows a whole lot more about me than TB does. Because TBF and I wound up chatting for a series of conversations that probably stretched to about 45 minutes in length. He used to read the blog every day. He remembered where I had family in Massachusetts, he knew what I did, he knew that I made trips to Boston on an incredibly regular basis, he knew what I looked like from viewing my photographs, and he knew to ask whether my two best friends were here with me.

"Well, B was supposed to be, but she's not feeling well, so she's still in Burlington," I said with a laugh. "But M's right here!" When I introduced M, her face lit up. "TBF! Wow! Hi!"

He bought us beer. He chatted about the Red Sox. We discussed the similarities between myself and my brother and TB and his sister. He commented on the fact that my birthday was only three days after TBs.

If it hadn't been the father of someone I knew (sort of), I would have been utterly dumbfounded.

We ended the first conversation and he returned to his spot at the bar. When TB came over to say hello and give me a hug, I rested my chin on his shoulder and laughed into his ear. "I just met your father."

"You did?" He pulled away and laughed. "Have you met my mom?"

And then I met TBM. When TBF came back over to join us, TBF put his hand on TB's shoulder and commented on how much he'd enjoyed my writing.

"I sure know you do, Dad," TB said with a chuckle. "And yes, she is a great writer."

TBF grinned. "I was telling her I was so disappointed that she'd changed the address of her blog, because I've loved reading her work."

TB turned to me in surprise. "You changed the address?"

Um. "Yep. I moved it." He gave me a puzzled expression. I wanted to be able to write about what I thought of you without worrying about you or, you know, YOUR FAMILY reading it. "Google was having too much fun with the archives."

"She's got to get me information on how I can keep reading. I told her to send something to you with the new address." TB turned from his father to me. Funny as hell, but awkward...

(I ended up sending him to my myspace, as I post most of the things - except TB-related - there.)

And as all this is going on, M sent B a text message:

"V is speaking with TB AND TBF. At the same time. OH I WISH YOU WERE HERE!"

2005-09-23T08:46:00.000-07:00

No clouds, but a subdued sun. The air is crisp, not yet cool. It subtly suggests the season as it approaches. I've been traveling up and down the pedestrian downtown's brick and cobblestone streets. Leaves are falling red, orange, yellow. A group of children are playing Red Rover in City Hall Park.

It feels like autumn.

And I feel like autumn, in my new, burnt orange corduroy jacket, jeans and boots. My hair whips in the breeze, and I smile at passersby who, likewise, return the favor. The world feels sharper, cooler, and confident, with a change in the air waiting to develop into something more.

I've a roadtrip ahead, during which I will take in the first of the fall colors during my travels through Vermont, into New Hampshire and, ultimately, over the border into Maine. There will be music, beer, dancing and slightly awkward conversation (perhaps?) tonight. Reunions and debauchery on the agenda for tomorrow. A return home to share the anecdotes and sensations on Sunday.

I haven't felt this style of delightful anticipation for a long time.

I'm happily opening my arms to welcome and embrace the arrival of my favorite season.

Let It Be Known

2005-09-22T13:07:00.000-07:00

Surely, I do keep the memories close to my heart, the lessons in my brain and the experiences a part of my being. Don't get me wrong. I completely dug college.

But I spent four years - and how many thousands of dollars? - to become an esteemed alumna. And as such, I have alumni perks.

A college email account that has been shut down because the spam monsters devoured it and an "alumni benefits card" that allows me to utilize the exercise facilities on campus.

Weekends only.

Ahem.

An open letter to the U.S. Senate

2005-09-21T17:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Sirs and Madams,

I cannot cook.

Seriously. Despite efforts by friends, family and a flatmate who should be thoroughly exasperated by now, I have not demonstrated an ability to prepare on my own anything other than a small assortment of meals. I cannot even make rice. It turns out soupy.

Therefore, I am left questioning my role in society, particularly as the nominee for Chief Justice of the Supreme Court has stated that woman's primary function in America should be that of the housemaker. The purported "gender gap" has left me, I fear, somewhere in between that which I should be - capable of culinary excellence and an immaculate home for my husband - and that which I have been aspiring - a successful professional with a long-term, out-of-home career.

Adding insult to injury, I don't even have a husband. I am sure John Roberts would be appalled, aghast at the fact that I am an abnormality. I hang my head in shame as I write this.

You are preparing to vote on whether to appoint Judge Roberts to the highest seat in the highest court in the United States. Media reports predict a relatively easy appointment for the nominee.

I wonder what will come of myself - and others in a similar state - after Roberts assumes his position on the Court. Will we be scrutinized, held to a standard separate from our male counterparts, simply because we possess ovaries and, thus, lack the ability and intellect to hold the positions we now hold? Will we be denied our right to decide whether to procreate - despite the possibility that we could bring a lifeform into the world without the proper economic support or, I daresay, emotional capability to raise that child?

Will those who fail to find a compatible mate in college - which will therefore become known as Mating School for the "fairer" gender - be left to languish in apartments? Will our futures dim upon Graduation Day?

Or will Mrs. Supreme Court Justice-To-Be Roberts personally visit my home and teach me to cook so I can land a husband and fulfill my half of the American Dream?

As always, I am looking to you for answers,
Victoria

Halted

2005-09-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

I shouldn't be so ready to complain.

The exercise room I use is offered to me free of charge. It's location (the building in which I work) couldn't be better. It's a no-frills affair, but it has a treadmill and a television on which I can watch NESN's broadcasts of Red Sox games.

That's everything I need.

I've fallen into the comfort of the familiar routine. Finish up the day, say goodbye to colleagues, get changed and head upstairs to run. Cheer or yell at my Bostonian boys of summer (most often, some combination thereof).

The room was locked last week - there was something or another going on in the space, so we were informed that the room would not be available. And, much as I hate to admit it, I love running on a treadmill, but lack the focus (read: iPod) to run outside when it's particularly hot. I begrudgingly took a week off.

(Which, naturally, brings the awareness that all the progress you've been making is flying out the proverbial athletic window. I tried to remain active, but I could feel muscles weakening.)

Yesterday evening, for the second consecutive day, I donned my running gear and trapsed up the stairs to go running. And the door was locked.

After my polite-yet-terse email inquiring as to why I couldn't get my miles in, an email was sent today, informing everyone that the room would remain inaccessible for the remainder of this week.

I was seething.

I am now trying to contact the college from which I graduated (located nearby), to find out how I can get my hands on one of those free, fancy alumni cards that gives us access to all the facilities oncampus.

Including the gym.

I've been trying to get someone to call me back for two days.

No callback yet.

Anyone have a treadmill? A guest pass to a gym? An human-sized hamster wheel? At this point, I'm not picky.

2005-09-20T06:52:00.000-07:00

I have to feel a pang of childhood rebellion when I take a shower during a thunderstorm.

I remember my mother telling a much younger version of myself that I had to wait, that you never knew if lightning was going to strike somewhere and you'd wind up shocked in the shower. And because my childhood love of science ended abruptly in ninth grade, I never wound up proving or disproving the theory that lightning could strike a water source, travel through miles of piping and zap me in the shower.

So I'd wait.

But when I operate on a finely tuned (read: wake up as late as possible) schedule in the mornings, I have to place myself before the fates and say, "OK. Easy target. Do what you will." If I'm destined to become an urban legend for years to come, hey. Interesting way of going out. Shocked in the shower. Badass moron.

You can't exactly call in thunderstorm to work.

It's going to be a random day, as I've felt myself preparing to expect the unexpected since I awoke. I'm polishing up and sending out a package of sorts, that I hope is received with the same gusto with which it is sent.

I'm also trying to figure out how the hell I want to get my hair cut. And, being a girl in her twentysomethings, this is dominating much of my thought process. C'est la vie.

ADS 4 - A Bottle of Red

2005-09-18T09:33:00.000-07:00

Song - Love, Love, Love - Tristan Prettyman

Diner coffee. Quixotically strong and bland at the same time, it's the only kind to prompt me to stir in creamer and sugar. The squat white mug looks just like the one from last week, served to me in another diner, another place, a couple of states away. It's contents serve the same purpose - wake me up, get me moving.

I blow on the steaming surface and grin across the booth's table. "No, no, no. It's Sunday brunch. This is dish time. Spill it."

Michelle nods from her place next to me, eating some of the whipped cream atop her hot chocolate. She also looks expectantly at John, who beams his best Cheshire cat grin. "You're holding out on us."

We're catching up on our weekends before delving into our various adventures over the last several months. I can't recall the last time the three of us have been in the same place, but we've relayed snippets in the duration, whenever two of the three are around, we chat about or ask about the third.

Each of us drank more than we probably should have the evening before; John at a club eager to serve cocktails, Michelle and I as two-thirds of a trifecta that polished off a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a blush. We take turns confessing to being ridiculous, not knowing why we don't have headaches. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the pain stays away - our various selections of eggs, toast or pancakes will hopefully help our causes.

***

I began sipping the wine around 6:30 Saturday evening, as I realized that the wine-ing was as key to the cooking as it was to the dining. I wasn't nearly as worried about screwing up a meal with a glass of wine on a counter across the kitchen.

The blush was sweet and pleasant as pots of water boiled, sauces simmered and bread baked in the oven. I pulled a floret of broccoli from the wok and popped it into my mouth. Hot but still crisp, more lemon than garlic. Perfect. Done.

The pasta would be finished in a moment or two, and the bread was warm and crusty. I poured olive oil onto a plate and added garlic. The spinach and artichoke dip Michelle had made before leaving to pick up KJ was perfect, and the salad only needed my bright pink plastic tongs.

Table set, a vase of bright flowers in the center. Michelle had brought them home from the last-minute grocery run, along with the extra-virgin olive oil and the lemon I decided I needed. For garnish. If I was cooking, I was going all out - and if the meal didn't taste right, at least it would look lovely.

A little more wine. Two of my close friends, women who impress and astound me, were coming over for my house, and I was giving my first dinner party. I was set to photograph the event so we could send images to the fourth, currently missing member of our group.

It appeared that blind confidence had prevented me from screwing up the meal, and I took care of the last minute accents and tasks that needed my attention. I was focusing on the colors, the smells, the texture of the pasta and the giddiness that comes with taking an assortment of items and pulling them together into a single result.

I heard a car pull into the driveway, then footsteps and voices coming up the stairs to the back porch. As the girls walked in, I grinned and walked toward them. "Velcome! Velcome! Vee hope you are prepared for zee dinner, come eeeen, come eeen! Some vine, yezzz?"

***

We laugh as John recounts the end of his night. "And did you have a good night?" he asks.

Indeed, dear friend. A good night was had by all.

ADS 3 - As You Are

2005-09-17T09:32:00.000-07:00

Song - Outerspace, Julian Velard

I'm sitting in a chair at a table among tables, sipping a too-strong vodka and cranberry. It's bringing a grimace to my face each time I take a sip, but I'm not going to waste the alcohol and take a chance with something that will be equally ill-prepared.

A friend sits to my left, taking log drags off a Camel Light as she tries to nurse her own equally toxic vodka cocktail. An acquaintance joined a table behind me a few songs ago, and I've made a mental note to say hello at the next pause in the show.

The rest of the assembly appears divided between those who adore you and others who have never before heard your name. One of the latter came to realize I'm not there for the drinks, as well as the fact that I'm not keen on tuning out the music long enough to hear him discuss the failure of his third, latest and, he says, final marriage.

The former group has also cast glances at my table since we arrived. I'm a stranger among them, not a regular and not recognizable, yet I know the words. I note that they wonder what I say when I lean across the table to talk to my friend, laughing over some perceived private joke as I cast my eyes quickly at the stage. The looks sent our way are laced with curiosity and suspicion; I am rather enjoying the intrigue.

You stand in your place beneath the spotlight, seemingly oblivious to this display of stares, sloshing drinks and cigarette smoke. You have retreated to some place in the recesses of your mind, eyes closed as you strum out serenades to mystery women you've loved and lost. Despite the inherent melancholy in each song, you remain hopeful, with bits of melody that hint at optimism and your endearingly cynicism-tinged earnestness.

We've all been at the places you travel to in the music. You get it. You know. You care. You've been scarred, you know you're flawed, but you're ready to work on them. But you're appropriately frightened at the prospect.

Armed with a microphone and a songbook of revised and polished reflections on life, you and your contemporaries deliver the words we all hope and dream to hear men say. You tell us that you cried when you turned your backs to us and walked away, you explain that you thought things would work out better, too. You confide that your personal demons were responsible for your decision to not call, and you tell us that you love more than you let us know.

We sit at these tables, waiting to hear the particular lines that sums up how we feel about the promise of love. We mouth along bitter cries and laugh when you let down the wall just enough to show that you also possess the sense of humor that only adds to your appeal.

I know you - all of you - worry that people will forget that you're human.

But as you stand before this crowd, of which I happen to be a member on this particular night, I sip my drink, scowl at the straw and realize that I worry that you forget.

Get real.

I like to think you know I'm aware of your human condition. I know only a fraction of your weaknesses, and I, whether fair of me or not, can't help but demand that you work on them as much as anyone else does. You're supposed to learn from the mistakes, not harvest them.

You're a guy. Who happens to perform. I don't believe that everything should be relegated to material for the next broken song.

I take another sip and draw up air and water. I'm out of cocktail. You're not finished with your set.

The waitress comes over to see if I want another. Why not?

It'll be too strong. But, then again, sometimes I think that so am I.

ADS 2 - Microphones and Stages

2005-09-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

Song: Stretch - Ryan Montbleau Band

"What does he sound like?"Throw the little bit country/rock and roll cliches out the window. Replace them with shades of bluegrass, soul, rock, pop and a dash of funk for good measure. Add a skally cap, blurred fingers flying over the frets and the subdued dynamic of a band that rocks it without craving the spotlight.

"That's kind of, sort of what Ryan Montbleau's band sound like."

I had given him a copy of "The Moonshine Compilation." The transferance of CD came with the nervousness inherent in introducing someone to new music. I knew it was good, but I wasn't quite sure whether he would realize it. I'd spent the drive to the building listening to songs I knew absurdedly well, trying to imagine what they would sound like to someone who'd never heard them before.

I could try to create a catchphrase definition of the sound, and he could nod with a slightly furrowed brow, wondering how the viola would work into the blues. I could say he was good; he could promise to pop the CD into the player soon and let me know what he thought.

But what I wanted to be able to do was to describe to a fellow music lover what it sounded like the night before, when the guitar and the viola hit the high, minor note that prompted howls from the audience members waving their arms and bobbing back and forth in front of the stage.

The way everyone began to clap their hands in time at the same instant, on the off-beats, to complement the jam.

I'd let my hair fall in my face as I shook my head back and forth, eyes closed, feet moving. When

I'd opened my eyes, I saw my friends next to me, likewise in the moment; when I looked up to the stage, Ryan was bobbing his head, little smile on his face, eyes mostly closed.

I wanted to be able to tell this person, who had no idea who Ryan Montbleau was, that I walk into each RM show knowing that I'll dance more than I've danced at any other recent shows; that I'll abandon any sense of self-consciousness, and that I'll happily sing along to words I've come to love.

"Trust me on this one. These guys are good."

Not the least bit tired.

2005-09-15T22:44:00.000-07:00

"What is it about a woman dancing closed eyes, arms stretched out open wide..."

There's nothing quite like the feeling of preparing for sleep with a wristband still in place to mark the satisfaction of a show much-enjoyed. I know that when I wake in the morning (a precious few hours away), I'll look over at the neon green ring of paper and smile. Remembrance of the dancing and the singing and the exclamation of "yay!" that slipped past my lips without my realization until it was too late to not look like a dork.

RM made me smile after hours of frustration and annoyance. My friends made me grin and drink and be silly - friends that covered the spectrum of ages. High school, college, professional years (I laugh even as I type that). A good collection of people who've known me. A good assortment of music I've known and was just introduced to.

Dancing. Singing. Cheering. Clapping. Stomping. Swaying.

Pulling the hair back from where it freely swayed in front of my face.

A good evening.

ADS - 1

2005-09-14T10:55:00.000-07:00

I started a new practice on my myspace, but I'm going to post the results here as well.

I'm posting a different song on my myspace profile each day, and I'm writing a piece somehow related to the song. The series is tentatively titled "A Day's Soundtrack."

(I'm never good at titles.)

As I put described my endeavor on myspace:

It might be a journal entry of sorts, might be a story I've written before that I'm polishing up, or it might be something completely out of the blue.
Somehow, though, it will relate to the song.

The first song selection was Tom McRae's "The Girl Who Falls Down Stairs." The piece is as follows:

The eyes had changed. They were still a warm, rich brown, and the corners still crinkled up as he smiled, walking toward my table. But there was a cloudiness that wasn't there before, a veil cast by different experiences, new friends and places.

I knew my eyes had changed too. Same reason. It was perfectly logical, but disconcerning at the same time. The last time I had really spent any time looking into these eyes was back when we'd seen most of the same things.

He was the first person I met in a new small town, and became a regular fixture for 12 years. I'd seen him grow from a six-year-old to a high school graduate; I'd followed plucky piano shorts as they grew into the original arrangements that drove parents to tears.

We had always been friends, whether we'd fully realized it or not; the torments he used to unleash on me were delightfully obnoxious. But we were the kind of friends who knew each other best through the stories from the past. He knew I remembered the bald eagle costume he wore to my Halloween birthday party in second grade, and I knew he remembered the day I fell down the stairs of the reading loft in sixth grade.

We were never the kind of friends who sat down and talked to each other about what was happening to each of us in the now. In his senior yearbook collection of high school anecdotes with his friends, he made reference to the loft, the stairs, me and the fall.

It was perfectly fitting, my favorite thing in the entire book of memories.

Which is why this encounter, years displaced, felt charged with potential awkwardness. What do you say to someone whose past you know so well, but is now more a stranger with a familiar face?

"Hey, you made it!" He gave me a hug with a grin and I closed my eyes. I couldn't think of if we'd ever hugged growing up. Perhaps at prom? Maybe graduation?

We exchanged the pleasantries - good to see you, you look great, how's your family doing, how was the drive down. I bit my lip when the quiet moment arrived.

I wished I was more talkative, more capable of coming up with something bright and witty to break the quick silence. But we both knew I wouldn't. And that was OK.

He chuckled as he started to run through the list of which classmates he'd seen or heard of during the previous couple of years. I smiled and joined in, part of an exchange of anecdotes that continued until other of his friends arrived at his side to pull him away.

It felt just like old times - in that it was all about old times.

So long, Skipper

2005-09-13T20:09:00.000-07:00

Women talk about just about anything under the sky.

Men. Lack of men. Their bodies. Politics. Dreams. Fears. Food. Whatever can fit into The Three Categories - Past, Present, Future.

But we never talk about playing with dolls as little girls.

So I have no idea of knowing if this is a Me Thing or an Everywoman Thing, but my attempts at creating stories for my Barbies, Skippers and Whitneys always wound up turning into stories about me. Skipper might have walked into the pizza parlor to meet up with Joe McIntyre, but Vickie took over just as Joe Doll started singing "Please Don't Go Girl." And it was always Vickie who wound up in a rigid plastic embrace.

It might have looked like Skipper, but oh no. I knew what was really going on.

I think it's continued over the years. I live my life with what seems to be a completely different take on me than everyone else.

I don't look like the me in my head.

B let me raid her digital camera files today, so I could update the photos on my myspace account. I wanted to do it because I easily fall prey to the narcissistic nature of myspace; but also because The Boy now has a profile. I wanted him to see how dazzling I can be. Wait. Scratch that. How dazzling I am, dammit.

(Hey, I'm going with complete honesty on here. Go with it. This is my logic.)

I hated every image of myself that I found. B's good with a camera, don't get me wrong, but I just didn't look right. Big nose here. Weird smile there. I looked puffy in that one, like a ghost in the next. Strange. Bizarre - UGH! What? That's not me!

"Are you adding them?" B asked as I stared at my computer screen.

"Um, I'll add them later," I replied.

I've got to settle this difference in perceptions - my take and life's take on me. After that is accomplished, I'll turn to being happy with what reality shows me. Flaws and all.

I spend so much time worrying about what others think of me, how they view me, partly becasue I don't want to have to take an actual, honest look in the mirror and take stock in what I am. Who I am. I've let myself cling to the idea of myself as, for all intensive albeit embarrassing purposes, Skipper as a Grown Up.

It's time I started to get to know Victoria.

The Blank Page

2005-09-12T12:31:00.000-07:00

It felt like techonology had driven me to a new form of pathetic cowardice, but I'd realized that I'd reached an impasse. I couldn't keep writing about nothing. Or making references to being saddened without delivering the follow-through on why I was.

Hell, I didn't even feel comfortable including my full first name on the pages anymore.

But, in classic form, what it really came down to was a boy.

I didn't think it was fair of me to comment on anything about him. He's got his thing going on, and I know that people have increased the Google searches of his name - because they've been reaching my old site through those searches on an increasingly frequent basis. But it's not fair for people to come across my own ramblings while looking for information completely unrelated.

I might be angry with him. I might call him an asshole. But I can still be fair - perhaps to a fault.

The other night, as I prepared to drift off to sleep on a couch somewhere on the South Shore, M commented on the fact that I shouldn't feel obligated to him. What did I care about what he thought? What did I care about what anyone who knew him thought?

"Write," she said. "That's what you do."

And I tried. But nothing was coming. I still felt obligated to be courteous.

I wanted a fresh start. So I packed up shop after four years at the other place and found something new. New name, new space - a chance to leave the archives behind for awhile. See how it suits me.

So here goes.

I made myself the ultimate Drive Yourself To Want To Slit Your Wrists In Melancholy mix tonight and played it loudly as I sat in my apartment's sunroom, trying to write and feeling dejected.

At the time, I was unaware of the fact that the excursion my flatmates had undertaken included a stop to pick me up ice cream to cheer me up.

(I live in the first place people discovered the cure-all nature of Ben & Jerry's.)

Nothing was too somber for me. Bright Eyes? That was a given. Matt Nathanson's saddest? There. John Mayer's "Tracing" - a song reserved only for the direst of situations - was featured in the playlist on multiple occasions. Ben Folds' sad songs, blues numbers I'd never even listened to before for fear of being depressed by them.

They were all there so I could stew in my sadness and get it out of my system. The logic, I decided, was to become so upset that I'd be able to pour all of the words out onto pages at the same rate as the tears that fell from time to time.

The only problem was that I wound up too upset to write. I curled up in my bed, lights off, at 8:30. Couldn't sleep, didn't want to, but didn't want to do anything else.

I don't tend to reach points of utter shutdown, but when I do, I go all out.

We are taught early on to love ourselves, to be wise enough to know that people do love us to varying degrees. And the Big Loves will arrive when they are supposed to.

But when you finally start to accept that someone you like doesn't care for you in the manner you want him to, all the years of lessons fly out the window.

All the more so when you also realize the utter absurdity inherent to the situation. I know of him. I know the snippets he chose to show to me, stretched out over years so that I haven't even the ability to discern which remain accurate.

The other layer of complexity made it even more difficult. I met him because of what he does, but I told myself that I cared most about who I saw beyond that. Despite the fact that I hadn't really gotten to know anything about that side for years. Because he wouldn't show me. He didn't want to, didn't feel a need to, whatever the reason. Our interaction became a web of sides of our personalities. I criticized one side because I cared about the other. He commented on both. I was different from the others, he said. He cared about what I thought.

Blah, blah, blah. Look at the googly-eyed girl as she surveys the room smugly, feeling proud of the fact that she's at such a higher plane of existance than everyone else.

At least they were being honest about things. I was unwittingly playing a stupid game.

So let's make this clear. I do not know him. I know of him. I know that I believe him to be talented. Insightful when he wants to be. A dork, although charming. Awkward. Much like myself. Someone who possesses an incredible amount of good in himself, but doesn't seem to realize it.

It's not my job to make him aware of that goodness. He didn't ask me to. I shouldn't feel obligated to do so.

And this is the one I really have to keep in mind - what I've done and want to do in my life doesn't matter to him nearly as much as what he's done and wants to do in his life has mattered to me.

I deserve better than that.