So, I know I never wanted a blog. I know I had planned to just forget about this account and let it die and such, but for some reason, I remembered my password and guessed correctly at which email account I used when I heard this news over Facebook that made me laugh so hard I couldn't breathe.
Well, not quite literally. But I did laugh really hard.
And I figured that this blog would be the best place to go, especially given that the first half of this story (maybe more than half) was chronicled right here as well.
As you may remember, six-ish students from the 2009/2010 Creative Writing class took a trip to Whitewater for a creative writing thing earlier this year, myself included. As you may remember, my friend Rose had quite an adventure there with a guy named Joe Montoya. I wrote a summary of all the Joe Montoya events from that day, and, as I indicated might happen, he did indeed find Rose over Facebook and add her as a friend, even though he goes to school in Milwaukee, as it happens. Ashlee and I added him as well, being the stalkers we are. :3
However, life in "paradise" didn't go quite as planned for Rose. Despite Joe Montoya being pretty hot, having a great style, being nice, and all other things she likes-- and, hell, he was even Mexican like her-- whenever she'd try to talk to him, he'd log off, or the conversation wouldn't be all that exciting. Eventually she got so frustrated with him that she deleted him off Facebook. I did not. I may be a hot head, but I had no reason to dislike him (or reason to like him, really; he didn't talk to me either), so he stayed on my friends list, as well as Ashlee's.
Today, as I procrastinated on putting part of my story into the computer, I was on Facebook, and I happened to see his status.
"three more days of high school, which only means that i must not be straight :D"
Once I got around the awkward wording of his status, I couldn't believe it. People being gay is not a big deal to me. I know many, many gay people. I have uncles that are gay, many bisexual aunts, gay/lesbian/bisexual friends, and my own father is bisexual. At this point, I'm starting to wonder if I know more gay people than straight ones, and it doesn't bother me. I've grown up with it; to me it's more normal than someone having red hair. It's not even an oddity to me. You have to understand this; my disbelief at his status was not due to any sort of feeling of being appalled over him being gay, or denial that somebody could be gay. My general reaction was similar to if someone who dyed their hair constantly suddenly posted their true, natural hair color over Facebook. "Okay. I didn't really care a lot about that."
My stunned feeling was at the fact that a Mexican scene boy from Milwaukee (not the best combination of things to be) was announcing publically that he's gay. Is this really a good idea? Is this something that he'd actually do?
My immediate reaction was no. People in Platteville stay in the closet. Platteville is a small town with just about the optimum mindset for being different. There aren't herds of thugs roaming the streets with guns and knives that would kill you because they don't like you or what you stand for like there are in Milwaukee. I know that it's not like that everywhere in Milwaukee, but still.
Then, I looked at the comments and replies from his friends. Figuring it was a joke, I expected light-hearted remarks or a few shocked comments, but generally the feel of a joke.
No.
His friends commented things that indicated that they already knew. I kind of silently chastised myself for being surprised at it, but I proceeded to click to his profile and check to see if anything had changed.
It had. He'd even went so far as to change his "Interested in" from "Females" to "Males" and keep the "Looking for" set to "Relationship". That made it pretty clear.
Joe Montoya, the guy that had given Rose the weird cold shoulder after an interesting first meeting with her, had come out of the closet.
There's your explanation, Rose. The guy's gay.
It sounds a lot more rational typed than it did in my head, but the effect is still the same. Joe Montoya, the infamous man-beast Avi and I taunted to no end, just doesn't roll that way.
I don't gossip, usually. However, Avi and Ashlee will definately get a kick out of this. Tomorrow, I'm definately telling them. When I told Rose, she laughed even harder than I did.
And I'm probably going to tell Kies tomorrow, if she doesn't read this before then. I mostly posted this in case anybody was still using their blogs and was interested.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
You'll Be in My Heart
When I was little, I went through a phase of watching Tarzan all the time. I even learned one of the songs-- "You'll Be in My Heart" by Phil Collins. I learned the song at Mom's mostly, when we still lived in the apartment. My parents were already divorced by then.
Two years ago, November 17th, my dad found his sister Janelle's body in her garage, several days dead. It was suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. I know this is an abrupt sentence here, but I've tried to place it elsewhere and this is the best place for it.
My Aunt Janelle, who was one of my dad's five older sisters, used to do Movie Nights with us, where we'd pick out movies we wanted to watch, and she'd take us to a store and we'd each (my brother and I-- brothers once Tommy and Sean were born) pick out 2-3 movies to watch and we'd buy them. We never really thought about it; we were really young and it had always been a tradition with us. Once a month we'd have movie night, and it was at Dad's every time. We went and bought movies and candy, then that night we'd stay up really late and watch all the movies we bought and, if we ate a good dinner, could eat the candy we picked out as well. Aunt Janelle had always had a good job and could always afford the movie nights. She'd done it at her own insistence.
Sometimes she'd have movies already bought when she came over. Once she had Tarzan with her, not knowing that we had it at Mom's. It's an easy mistake, with two very non-communicative households. I wasn't bothered, though. I was extremely happy about it, actually. I was so proud of myself for learning that song that as we were in the car (my brother wasn't with us for that trip; I don't know why) I sang it for her. I was really young and I didn't actually have the music behind me, so it was probably pretty bad, but she was proud of me, anyway.
Years later, once we'd moved too many times to count, we were in our second New Glarus house. I wasn't in the apartment anymore with Mom and I was a lot older. If I had to guess, I was probably eleven or twelve by this time. We were driving in her truck out to someplace (again, I don't remember where, but just where we were. I could drive the same route if I was there again, it's burned into my mind so vividly), and she told me that she'd found the song.
"Remember when you sang me that song from Tarzan?"
"Uhm... not really."
"Really? No? It was 'You'll Be in My Heart' by Phil Collins. Look, I got the tape for it."
Then she put it in the tape player. This was, I think, two trucks from the Hearse (as we've come to refer to her last truck, a maroon truck she bought brand new-- Ford, as usual. She used it to kill herself. My Aunt Erin went crazy again and when we went through the house for stuff left to us and things we wanted, she took the truck. Paid for it to get the battery charged and a new seat (since all the fluids and blood had drained out the back of her, as the days had settled the blood and begun decomposition in the truck itself) and took it up to International Falls, where I was born and she still lives. It's now in the hands of the husband of a friend of hers. Still driving around fully functional up there. I'm terrified that sometime when I'm up there, I'll see it rolling out of a driveway somewhere. I know I will, too. It was a good truck.
The introduction music started playing to the song and she turns to me at the stop sign and says, "Once you sang this to me. Now I'll sing it to you."
The words started and she sang along with the words. She had smoked for a really long time before this and probably didn't have a world class voice to begin with, so she wasn't perfect. And I, being the immature eleven year old I was, cringed. I didn't say anything, but I remember how I had such a childish reaction to it. It kind of makes me laugh at myself now, but I remember that moment in time.
That was the last time I heard that song until seven days ago.
My friend Teddy-- you probably know her as Hailey Prohaska-- made me a CD with 34 songs on it for Christmas. I got sick, so she didn't see me until two Mondays ago. Once I was healthy enough to not infect everyone else around me, I was out of that house. I went with Manda Martens to Teddy's house and got the CD's.
A few nights later, on Wednesday night, I was at my Dad's house. He lived in Beloit by then (a week ago). It was either very late or very early and I was listening to my iPod. I had uploaded Teddy's songs onto it the same night I got them, but hadn't listened to them since. I had opened the album with those songs on it and scrolled down without looking at the first few songs and put on a Hendrix song. The iPod was on shuffle. I was writing and not paying much attention to the music other than to calm me and focus me.
Then, suddenly, "You'll Be in My Heart" started playing. I didn't notice it at first, but toward the end of the song, I got stuck on a line in my story. I stopped writing and chewed on the end of the pencil and rolled over into a more comfortable position in the bed I was writing in. Then I heard the ending of the chorus of the song. I felt like I'd been jolted with electricity, the shock was so violent.
I just listened to the words. The chorus finished. There was a bit of an instrumental break and then the chorus played again. Then, facing my door and frozen mid-move over my story, the lyrics come clear-- they had been clear before, but these were crystal clear like bells, demanding me to pay attention.
The words were "Look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder." They repeated several times.
Slowly, though it was a bit ridiculous to follow the orders of a song from a Disney movie, I looked over my shoulder.
I jumped.
On my headboard, over my shoulder, was a picture of Aunt Janelle.
"You'll be here in my heart, no matter what they say. I'll be with you now and forever on. I'll be with you always. I'll be with you. I'll be there for you always. Always and always. Just look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder. I'll be there always."
Though she's been dead for over two years now, it was like she had found a way to say something to me, one last thing. It really felt like she was there saying that to me. It may sound ridiculous, it may sound crazy, but that's what it felt like.
"You'll Be in My Heart" has always been our song. It just happened that way, but even now, with her dead, it's managed to stay a song just between us.
Maybe it meant so much to me because she was my mother figure. I have never been close to my mom, even when my parents were together. Since they split up, I've been even further from her. Aunt Janelle filled that void. I'm glad I have some way to hold on to some bit of who she was. This song will always remind me of her. Even though it hurts to think about, I'm glad for it, in a weird way. That's all I had to say. It just struck me as something good for a blog.
Two years ago, November 17th, my dad found his sister Janelle's body in her garage, several days dead. It was suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. I know this is an abrupt sentence here, but I've tried to place it elsewhere and this is the best place for it.
My Aunt Janelle, who was one of my dad's five older sisters, used to do Movie Nights with us, where we'd pick out movies we wanted to watch, and she'd take us to a store and we'd each (my brother and I-- brothers once Tommy and Sean were born) pick out 2-3 movies to watch and we'd buy them. We never really thought about it; we were really young and it had always been a tradition with us. Once a month we'd have movie night, and it was at Dad's every time. We went and bought movies and candy, then that night we'd stay up really late and watch all the movies we bought and, if we ate a good dinner, could eat the candy we picked out as well. Aunt Janelle had always had a good job and could always afford the movie nights. She'd done it at her own insistence.
Sometimes she'd have movies already bought when she came over. Once she had Tarzan with her, not knowing that we had it at Mom's. It's an easy mistake, with two very non-communicative households. I wasn't bothered, though. I was extremely happy about it, actually. I was so proud of myself for learning that song that as we were in the car (my brother wasn't with us for that trip; I don't know why) I sang it for her. I was really young and I didn't actually have the music behind me, so it was probably pretty bad, but she was proud of me, anyway.
Years later, once we'd moved too many times to count, we were in our second New Glarus house. I wasn't in the apartment anymore with Mom and I was a lot older. If I had to guess, I was probably eleven or twelve by this time. We were driving in her truck out to someplace (again, I don't remember where, but just where we were. I could drive the same route if I was there again, it's burned into my mind so vividly), and she told me that she'd found the song.
"Remember when you sang me that song from Tarzan?"
"Uhm... not really."
"Really? No? It was 'You'll Be in My Heart' by Phil Collins. Look, I got the tape for it."
Then she put it in the tape player. This was, I think, two trucks from the Hearse (as we've come to refer to her last truck, a maroon truck she bought brand new-- Ford, as usual. She used it to kill herself. My Aunt Erin went crazy again and when we went through the house for stuff left to us and things we wanted, she took the truck. Paid for it to get the battery charged and a new seat (since all the fluids and blood had drained out the back of her, as the days had settled the blood and begun decomposition in the truck itself) and took it up to International Falls, where I was born and she still lives. It's now in the hands of the husband of a friend of hers. Still driving around fully functional up there. I'm terrified that sometime when I'm up there, I'll see it rolling out of a driveway somewhere. I know I will, too. It was a good truck.
The introduction music started playing to the song and she turns to me at the stop sign and says, "Once you sang this to me. Now I'll sing it to you."
The words started and she sang along with the words. She had smoked for a really long time before this and probably didn't have a world class voice to begin with, so she wasn't perfect. And I, being the immature eleven year old I was, cringed. I didn't say anything, but I remember how I had such a childish reaction to it. It kind of makes me laugh at myself now, but I remember that moment in time.
That was the last time I heard that song until seven days ago.
My friend Teddy-- you probably know her as Hailey Prohaska-- made me a CD with 34 songs on it for Christmas. I got sick, so she didn't see me until two Mondays ago. Once I was healthy enough to not infect everyone else around me, I was out of that house. I went with Manda Martens to Teddy's house and got the CD's.
A few nights later, on Wednesday night, I was at my Dad's house. He lived in Beloit by then (a week ago). It was either very late or very early and I was listening to my iPod. I had uploaded Teddy's songs onto it the same night I got them, but hadn't listened to them since. I had opened the album with those songs on it and scrolled down without looking at the first few songs and put on a Hendrix song. The iPod was on shuffle. I was writing and not paying much attention to the music other than to calm me and focus me.
Then, suddenly, "You'll Be in My Heart" started playing. I didn't notice it at first, but toward the end of the song, I got stuck on a line in my story. I stopped writing and chewed on the end of the pencil and rolled over into a more comfortable position in the bed I was writing in. Then I heard the ending of the chorus of the song. I felt like I'd been jolted with electricity, the shock was so violent.
I just listened to the words. The chorus finished. There was a bit of an instrumental break and then the chorus played again. Then, facing my door and frozen mid-move over my story, the lyrics come clear-- they had been clear before, but these were crystal clear like bells, demanding me to pay attention.
The words were "Look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder." They repeated several times.
Slowly, though it was a bit ridiculous to follow the orders of a song from a Disney movie, I looked over my shoulder.
I jumped.
On my headboard, over my shoulder, was a picture of Aunt Janelle.
"You'll be here in my heart, no matter what they say. I'll be with you now and forever on. I'll be with you always. I'll be with you. I'll be there for you always. Always and always. Just look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder. Just look over your shoulder. I'll be there always."
Though she's been dead for over two years now, it was like she had found a way to say something to me, one last thing. It really felt like she was there saying that to me. It may sound ridiculous, it may sound crazy, but that's what it felt like.
"You'll Be in My Heart" has always been our song. It just happened that way, but even now, with her dead, it's managed to stay a song just between us.
Maybe it meant so much to me because she was my mother figure. I have never been close to my mom, even when my parents were together. Since they split up, I've been even further from her. Aunt Janelle filled that void. I'm glad I have some way to hold on to some bit of who she was. This song will always remind me of her. Even though it hurts to think about, I'm glad for it, in a weird way. That's all I had to say. It just struck me as something good for a blog.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Detention and rambling nothings.
Detentions suck. It's not that they're painful or anything negative like that, they're boring. You sit in a room in a chair for some indescript amount of time staring at a wall. iPods aren't allowed, so you're stuck listening to the heavy Wisconsin accents of whichever staff is assigned to monitor you. Very few things irritate me more than the Wisconsin accent, and that list is confined to the word "silly." I hate that word so much. I son't even get started on how much I hate that word, or this blog will be entirely devoted to how much I hate it. I tell you... GRR! The Wisconsin accent is so annoying. How do you spell leg? L-E-G. Not L-A-Y-G. STOP SAYING LAYG. IT'S LEG. THERE IS NO SUCH WORD AS LAYG. Same with egg. It's EGG, not AYG. It's not malk or melk, it's milk. Humans frustrate me SO MUCH sometimes. This is me stopping myself from fixating on that. So I'm sitting in a detention fixating on these things that irritate me. The Wisconsin accent. The word "silly." Erin. Guy stealer. Ditzy, moronic slut. 'nuff said. I wouldn't normally say something that outright offensive, but I haven't met one person of the female persuasion that knows her that disagrees with me. And I just feel that strongly about it. Detention is such a waste of time. I'm busy focusing all my energy on these negative things when I could be writing. I just can't focus on the nightmare sequence I'm in the middle of now, despite me almost being out of it. I know Silver, the character narrating the nightmare sequence, physically kicks himself out of the dream sequence and his knee connects with the back of the chair in front of him, thus waking him up. But, the character Lenn is sleeping in the chair in front of him. There is no way a kick that hard would not have woken him up, but I can't decide if I want Silver to brood first or for Lenn to confront him outright. I really want him to have that moment to brood on the dream, but I know that if I do that, by the time Lenn confronts him, he'll have his mind back together entirely and will have his whole fake image back up that he's using to protect Erica, his sister, the entire time. I want Lenn to know the real Silver, even if no one else does. However, I've got it pretty much hammered out that one character knows that Erica is not a boy in the regiment. Erica is pretending to be her little brother, Cal, so he doesn't have to fight in the war. They're almost a perfect duo, with Silver's fake arrogance drawing all the attention and Erica being shy enough to avoid any attention cast her way, the should have been able to do it. But I decided a few weeks ago that one other character is going to be told... and the whole story behind that is long and detailed and I don't want to go into it right now. Whereas I don't think I'll go so far as to reveal to Lenn that Erica is not Cal, I might make it so Lenn knows Silver isn't as arrogant as he makes out to be. Garg. But before I make any decisions, I have to know more about the roles that Lenn plays versus the roles that Oliver plays. They intrude on each other's territories as far as the parts they play. Oliver can't be a big brother figure, but Lenn doesn't really have to be either. Lenn is a constant third person guy who pulls everybody together when they're falling apart. Oliver is one of them, but at the same time is very different. I have lots of people who stick up for the youngest of the group, but Oliver's kind of the counter balance to that, sticking up for everyone and anyone who needs it. I know everything possible to know about Oliver, though. It's not him I need to be focusing on, it's Lenn. And that frustrates me. I get the feeling Lenn is an only child. But I don't know how that works into his personality. I need Lenn's character to be more concrete before I can do anything more with him. A;WOJFAWOIEFJUAO948,IHJU4O9UUDOIVFJU. That's my sentiments on the matter. I'm going to actually do something constructive now. Bye. :D
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Why I never tell my secrets
Secrets.
So easy to tell someone else's secrets.
They say not to breathe a word
You swear you won't
But what does the promise mean to you?
Proving you're trustworthy.
Hearing something interesting.
Feeling elite.
But I know if another urge strikes you
and it feels more important
You'll tell.
You want to appear informed to someone else
Don't think it would matter if you told this person.
You'd think they won't care or trust they wouldn't tell.
But it does matter.
The person behind the secret matters less and less to every pair of ears.
It stops being a secret.
Becomes idle banter.
Common knowledge.
But what if it was your secret?
It's different, then.
It's so hard to tell your own secrets
When you finally work yourself up to tell a single person
Get the strength to unburden your shoulders from the dark leech that's latched onto your side,
Unyielding,
Draining,
Stressful,
Contagious,
Poisonous,
And you divulge to a single person.
A single individual you are confident will never, would never whisper a word of it.
It troubles them.
They talk it over with someone else, who they think they can trust.
And it gets out. Your secret in everyone's ears, coating their thoughts like the poison on Snow White's apple...
The knowledge of it engraved in everyone's eyes
Perfectly visible to you as you simply walk, looking into those clear pools down to the bottom, where your secret is etched in bloody, bold letters just for you to see.
They don't even try to hide that they know.
Your shame colors your face, a flashy cape visible as the stars on a cloudless country night.
Your eyes once again greet your toes, an old friendship.
And it starts again.
So easy to tell someone else's secrets.
They say not to breathe a word
You swear you won't
But what does the promise mean to you?
Proving you're trustworthy.
Hearing something interesting.
Feeling elite.
But I know if another urge strikes you
and it feels more important
You'll tell.
You want to appear informed to someone else
Don't think it would matter if you told this person.
You'd think they won't care or trust they wouldn't tell.
But it does matter.
The person behind the secret matters less and less to every pair of ears.
It stops being a secret.
Becomes idle banter.
Common knowledge.
But what if it was your secret?
It's different, then.
It's so hard to tell your own secrets
When you finally work yourself up to tell a single person
Get the strength to unburden your shoulders from the dark leech that's latched onto your side,
Unyielding,
Draining,
Stressful,
Contagious,
Poisonous,
And you divulge to a single person.
A single individual you are confident will never, would never whisper a word of it.
It troubles them.
They talk it over with someone else, who they think they can trust.
And it gets out. Your secret in everyone's ears, coating their thoughts like the poison on Snow White's apple...
The knowledge of it engraved in everyone's eyes
Perfectly visible to you as you simply walk, looking into those clear pools down to the bottom, where your secret is etched in bloody, bold letters just for you to see.
They don't even try to hide that they know.
Your shame colors your face, a flashy cape visible as the stars on a cloudless country night.
Your eyes once again greet your toes, an old friendship.
And it starts again.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Joe Montoya: The Hispanic Edward
Yesterday was the creative writing festival. I'll briefly summarize the whole thing before I move on to the real thing I want to cover: a hispanic boy with a red mohawk named Joe Montoya.
Maybe not the whole thing. Ashlee's session was good; six people read, and the poems were all of varying degree and caliber, anything from poems about demons and abusive relationships to nature to a harsh breakup.
Session two we (Mrs. Kies, Avi, Rose, Ashlee, and I) went to the songwriting one. Personally, being a big critic of music, I didn't like any of the four except the last one, which were a three-man band that did an... interesting piece. Rap to acoustic guitar with odd, witty lyrics about the sixties. I disliked the first three. A lot. I won't even get started on them, else I won't even get to the part about Joe Montoya.
Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and I went out to eat-- or tried to-- at Rocky Rococo's. Or however you spell that. It took forever to get there, because the map was slightly wrong and not accurate at all, plus Avi has messed up feet...
And then we lost track of time there and ended up almost running back to the campus and were nearly late to session three, which was mine.
I read "Chapter Two: Forrest" first (naturally). I was completely absorbed in reading it (I'm not good with crowds) so I didn't really notice who entered late. I just know the door opened twice during my reading and two people came in.
Rose gave the first guy a copy of my story-- because she liked it so much-- to the first guy. Evidently that was enough for him; he was hooked.
No lie.
After all five of the readers were done with their stories, the room started to clear. My papers were spread all over my workspace, so I began cleaning up, since, as usual, I hadn't noticed the time.
By the time I was all collected and such, the room was almost completely empty. The only ones who had remained were the guy who gave us our critiques, Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and another guy. The first thing I noticed was his hair. As typical of all hispanic people, he had very dark hair, but his happened to be worked into a sizeable mohawk; one at least four inches high and dark red. Without the mohawk, he appeared to be about the same height as me, but with it, I judged he was probably taller than me.
Truthfully, he could have either been hispanic or asian and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but according to Rose he was definately hispanic. I'll trust her animalistic hispanic mating instincts on this one. ;)
The moral of that little anecdote was that he didn't have any strong, defining HISPANIC features; they were mostly muted.
Of course I noticed that he was skinny and in "emo" style clothes, but that was secondary to his mohawk in my eyes.
Then, of course, the next thing I saw was his eyes, and how they were trained on Rose like a fat kid would look at something yummy.
Ashlee and Avi were standing around them not really saying much, shifting weight between their feet awkwardly like they really, really wanted to be somewhere else. Then, of course, the boy was talking interestedly to Rose about various things, including where they lived.
I would have found this odd, except I already knew just the way he was looking at her, so it was more a "well, that figures" sort of thing to me.
As we started gravitating toward the door, he followed us, still having eyes only for Rose.
We stopped again around a stairwell, between two halls that lead to different doors. There we talked-- or, more accurately, Rose and the boy talked-- about all sorts of things. They discussed their names. He asked her hers first.
"Rose."
"Rose...?"
"Rose. Glendenning."
He laughed. "Glendenning."
"Glendenning."
"Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning," he said, all with various pronunciations.
Then, he told her his name. The conversation went similarly at first.
"Joe."
"What's your last name?"
"... Montoya."
Then, we proceeded to laugh about his name. Did you know that--
LOL. Rose just told me her last name was Diaz. Freaking lol.
On with the story. If anyone has seen Princess Bride, you surely remember Inigo Montoya, who will avenge his father. Joe Montoya reminded us of this. Evidently Disney has used it several times, just as they have used the name "Diaz", which Rose told me just now used to be her last name.
By this time, Ashlee, Avi, and I had all communicated our thoughts on the matter, and they were shockingly similar. All three of us knew that he--
Haaa. Again. Interrupting myself. Ashlee just squirted Kies with hand sanitizer. It's everywhere. xD
Back to where I left off. All three of us knew unequivocally that Joe Montoya was seriously into Rose. I can't remember all of what they talked about, but some of it made the three of us think things like, "Oh my god. Did she really just say that? She's so oblivious!" and at times, communicate our thoughts between us.
Then, even though where he had to go was the other direction from where we had to meet up with Kies, Monica, and Wendy, he walked us there-- or, more accurately, walked Rose there, since he was walking rather close to her and the three of us lagged behind, giggling behind our hands and papers. The guy had balls, though, as he'd already proven by continuing to hit on her despite us lingering and laughing at him.
I walked in front of them once we got there and ended up laughing hysterically at one of Rose's responses, which were all far too emphatic for something innocent, and by the time I had calmed down and turned back around, she was writing her Facebook name on a piece of paper, and proceeded to hand it to him.
Some people, I tell you!
Once he'd left our ranks, we confronted the oblivious Rose about it, and all recapped it, laughing. Then, as I was talking about something, facing a different direction than everyone, Joe Montoya came back into view. He had walked in a circle around the center staircases where we were meeting and was trying to look furtively at Rose for her reaction!
This was too much for me. I burst out laughing, Joe Montoya noticed me looking at him and laughing, and he turned and walked sideways, past the gigantic pillar that obscured my vision. Then, I didn't see him again, and I've yet to figure out how he escaped, since even when we walked back past where he disappeared to, he was gone.
He added her on Facebook last night, and she accepted.
The Hispanic Twilight thing is an inside joke from the car ride home that I don't have any time to explain at the moment, as class just got done. If you really care that much, you can ask. I'll gladly explain.
She is now Rose Aimee Montoya in my mind. RAM.
If you know what I mean. ;-D
Maybe not the whole thing. Ashlee's session was good; six people read, and the poems were all of varying degree and caliber, anything from poems about demons and abusive relationships to nature to a harsh breakup.
Session two we (Mrs. Kies, Avi, Rose, Ashlee, and I) went to the songwriting one. Personally, being a big critic of music, I didn't like any of the four except the last one, which were a three-man band that did an... interesting piece. Rap to acoustic guitar with odd, witty lyrics about the sixties. I disliked the first three. A lot. I won't even get started on them, else I won't even get to the part about Joe Montoya.
Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and I went out to eat-- or tried to-- at Rocky Rococo's. Or however you spell that. It took forever to get there, because the map was slightly wrong and not accurate at all, plus Avi has messed up feet...
And then we lost track of time there and ended up almost running back to the campus and were nearly late to session three, which was mine.
I read "Chapter Two: Forrest" first (naturally). I was completely absorbed in reading it (I'm not good with crowds) so I didn't really notice who entered late. I just know the door opened twice during my reading and two people came in.
Rose gave the first guy a copy of my story-- because she liked it so much-- to the first guy. Evidently that was enough for him; he was hooked.
No lie.
After all five of the readers were done with their stories, the room started to clear. My papers were spread all over my workspace, so I began cleaning up, since, as usual, I hadn't noticed the time.
By the time I was all collected and such, the room was almost completely empty. The only ones who had remained were the guy who gave us our critiques, Ashlee, Avi, Rose, and another guy. The first thing I noticed was his hair. As typical of all hispanic people, he had very dark hair, but his happened to be worked into a sizeable mohawk; one at least four inches high and dark red. Without the mohawk, he appeared to be about the same height as me, but with it, I judged he was probably taller than me.
Truthfully, he could have either been hispanic or asian and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, but according to Rose he was definately hispanic. I'll trust her animalistic hispanic mating instincts on this one. ;)
The moral of that little anecdote was that he didn't have any strong, defining HISPANIC features; they were mostly muted.
Of course I noticed that he was skinny and in "emo" style clothes, but that was secondary to his mohawk in my eyes.
Then, of course, the next thing I saw was his eyes, and how they were trained on Rose like a fat kid would look at something yummy.
Ashlee and Avi were standing around them not really saying much, shifting weight between their feet awkwardly like they really, really wanted to be somewhere else. Then, of course, the boy was talking interestedly to Rose about various things, including where they lived.
I would have found this odd, except I already knew just the way he was looking at her, so it was more a "well, that figures" sort of thing to me.
As we started gravitating toward the door, he followed us, still having eyes only for Rose.
We stopped again around a stairwell, between two halls that lead to different doors. There we talked-- or, more accurately, Rose and the boy talked-- about all sorts of things. They discussed their names. He asked her hers first.
"Rose."
"Rose...?"
"Rose. Glendenning."
He laughed. "Glendenning."
"Glendenning."
"Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning. Glendenning," he said, all with various pronunciations.
Then, he told her his name. The conversation went similarly at first.
"Joe."
"What's your last name?"
"... Montoya."
Then, we proceeded to laugh about his name. Did you know that--
LOL. Rose just told me her last name was Diaz. Freaking lol.
On with the story. If anyone has seen Princess Bride, you surely remember Inigo Montoya, who will avenge his father. Joe Montoya reminded us of this. Evidently Disney has used it several times, just as they have used the name "Diaz", which Rose told me just now used to be her last name.
By this time, Ashlee, Avi, and I had all communicated our thoughts on the matter, and they were shockingly similar. All three of us knew that he--
Haaa. Again. Interrupting myself. Ashlee just squirted Kies with hand sanitizer. It's everywhere. xD
Back to where I left off. All three of us knew unequivocally that Joe Montoya was seriously into Rose. I can't remember all of what they talked about, but some of it made the three of us think things like, "Oh my god. Did she really just say that? She's so oblivious!" and at times, communicate our thoughts between us.
Then, even though where he had to go was the other direction from where we had to meet up with Kies, Monica, and Wendy, he walked us there-- or, more accurately, walked Rose there, since he was walking rather close to her and the three of us lagged behind, giggling behind our hands and papers. The guy had balls, though, as he'd already proven by continuing to hit on her despite us lingering and laughing at him.
I walked in front of them once we got there and ended up laughing hysterically at one of Rose's responses, which were all far too emphatic for something innocent, and by the time I had calmed down and turned back around, she was writing her Facebook name on a piece of paper, and proceeded to hand it to him.
Some people, I tell you!
Once he'd left our ranks, we confronted the oblivious Rose about it, and all recapped it, laughing. Then, as I was talking about something, facing a different direction than everyone, Joe Montoya came back into view. He had walked in a circle around the center staircases where we were meeting and was trying to look furtively at Rose for her reaction!
This was too much for me. I burst out laughing, Joe Montoya noticed me looking at him and laughing, and he turned and walked sideways, past the gigantic pillar that obscured my vision. Then, I didn't see him again, and I've yet to figure out how he escaped, since even when we walked back past where he disappeared to, he was gone.
He added her on Facebook last night, and she accepted.
The Hispanic Twilight thing is an inside joke from the car ride home that I don't have any time to explain at the moment, as class just got done. If you really care that much, you can ask. I'll gladly explain.
She is now Rose Aimee Montoya in my mind. RAM.
If you know what I mean. ;-D
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sorry
I wrote this back in August... I've spent so many long years trying to decide how I feel, trying to voice it, trying to put it to words... so many years failing at every attempt... that when this poem even started shying in the direction that I feel, I kept it. It's wrong, again. But it's closer than almost anything I have written to how I feel. I don't know if there are even words for how I feel. I'm generally referring to my outlook on love and such things as that, as adolescent and trivial as it sounds. I guess it seems to be the center of most of my pain, so I try and figure it out, through suckish poems most times. Maybe I failed again, but writing them drains me, so even if I failed at voicing how I feel, for a few brief minutes, an hour or so, I'm free of the burden I'm sure everyone has felt. I'm not everyone else, so I don't know for sure, but mine just happens to feel heavier than those of most people.
So here it is. Written August 1, 2009, "Sorry."
ARGH! ARE YOU KIDDING? NO COPY AND PASTE??
Grr.
Well... I guess it's now.
"Sorry"
It's 2 AM, I'm not in bed yet.
I can't sleep.
I'm sitting at my computer desk
Playing through a few simple bars on my guitar
Nothing sounds quite right to me.
It's been years, I know...
Still I have yet to tell you what you mean to me.
I have notebooks filled with poems and letters and songs,
Sometimes pictures I try to draw
All just trying to make you see what I feel.
All those pages you'll never see
They frustrate me.
I can't make my words sound right.
I don't want to say I love you.
Those words are inadequate, just like I am.
I want to show you instead,
but I have no idea where to start.
Nothing I say or do sounds right to my own ears...
Just being near you drives me insane.
I can't think
I can't speak
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
I don't want to embarrass you...
Some girl's affections you don't want.
So I don't want to say I love you
Because I'm inadequate, just like those words.
It hurts to keep it all inside, silence my feelings,
But it's all the choice I have.
You shouldn't have to deal with this.
I can't even talk to you.
I lose my mind if I'm too close to you.
Maybe I'd be better off somewhere else
But I just can't make myself go away.
Maybe I just enjoy hurting.
Maybe I'm crazy and somehow think I still have a chance.
I don't want to say I love you
Because you'll never want to hear it from me.
They'll never be the right words
Because you'll never want to hear me say them.
So should I lie to you and say I don't?
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
Maybe I should just stay away.
Don't say a word--
Every word I speak will be a word too much.
I try my best to stay away
But I guess I just can't control myself.
So I don't want to say I love you
But for now it's all I can do.
I love you...
You may not ever want to hear it,
But it's all I've got for now.
It's stupid, cold, overused
But I guesss it's all I can say to make you understand.
Maybe since they're someone else's words
They won't sound so stupid coming from me.
I hope you understand.
I don't expect you to do anything different or change because of this.
I just couldn't keep so quiet all the time.
This is for me, not for you.
I know you're happy now without me.
But I guess I just can't pretend I am all the time.
I doubt you'll ever see this
And even if you do
I doubt it would occur to you that
You're the one I'm trying to talk to with this...
But please stay happy.
It's bad enough with just one of us miserable.
You don't need to join me here.
I don't want to say I love you
But sometimes I have to.
Even if nobody hears me
And you wouldn't care if you did.
(end)
I posted it on Facebook the minute I was finished with it, thinking it was good. Then I left for an hour and in the hour I was gone, I had changed my mind about thinking it was good. Usually I step away from my writing once I get the first words out on the page and edit, but I didn't do that for this. So I wanted to take it down before he read it.
But he had already read it. And figured out it was about him.
And messaged me about it.
So I gave up, messaged him back, and kept it in its raw form on Facebook. I don't think I ever deleted it off there. He said it helped him understand more, and he's known I like him for years now. I guess I kept it up so in case he ever wants to get inside my head again...
I don't know what he'd want to be there for, though. That was me in a very sorry state of being.
I don't really keep it a secret who he is. I'm too old for that. Somehow, though, it seems to be a secret. Nobody knows, somehow. Every time I say anything about him, people wonder who he is. And every time I tell them, it's new.
Oh well. Even his girlfriend knows I like him now, so nothing worse can happen.
And I could like much, much worse people.
I don't know why I continue to think about him. Especially when it hurts to.
But I can't help myself, I guess.
People wouldn't guess it, but I'm painfully shy. The only people I talk to ever are people I've been friends with for a long time or have motives for talking to. I'm not always so quiet around them, but around everyone else I might as well be a church mouse.
So it's really hard to keep things between me and him at friendship. Especially since it's always awkward with the unrequited love thing in there.
I don't know why I'm still talking, other than the fact that it's 11:06 at night and I don't want to leave my mind to its own devices. Writing helps me steer my thoughts to safer grounds. But I also don't want to make this take an hour to read.
Maybe I'll go read a book.
I think I'll do that.
I know it's not a current poem, but it had a good reaction when I posted it, minus the whole him-figuring-out-that-I-wrote-it-about-him thing. So maybe you weren't completely bored and/or disgusted with it.
Good night. :)
So here it is. Written August 1, 2009, "Sorry."
ARGH! ARE YOU KIDDING? NO COPY AND PASTE??
Grr.
Well... I guess it's now.
"Sorry"
It's 2 AM, I'm not in bed yet.
I can't sleep.
I'm sitting at my computer desk
Playing through a few simple bars on my guitar
Nothing sounds quite right to me.
It's been years, I know...
Still I have yet to tell you what you mean to me.
I have notebooks filled with poems and letters and songs,
Sometimes pictures I try to draw
All just trying to make you see what I feel.
All those pages you'll never see
They frustrate me.
I can't make my words sound right.
I don't want to say I love you.
Those words are inadequate, just like I am.
I want to show you instead,
but I have no idea where to start.
Nothing I say or do sounds right to my own ears...
Just being near you drives me insane.
I can't think
I can't speak
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
I don't want to embarrass you...
Some girl's affections you don't want.
So I don't want to say I love you
Because I'm inadequate, just like those words.
It hurts to keep it all inside, silence my feelings,
But it's all the choice I have.
You shouldn't have to deal with this.
I can't even talk to you.
I lose my mind if I'm too close to you.
Maybe I'd be better off somewhere else
But I just can't make myself go away.
Maybe I just enjoy hurting.
Maybe I'm crazy and somehow think I still have a chance.
I don't want to say I love you
Because you'll never want to hear it from me.
They'll never be the right words
Because you'll never want to hear me say them.
So should I lie to you and say I don't?
Every time I open my mouth, something stupid comes out.
Maybe I should just stay away.
Don't say a word--
Every word I speak will be a word too much.
I try my best to stay away
But I guess I just can't control myself.
So I don't want to say I love you
But for now it's all I can do.
I love you...
You may not ever want to hear it,
But it's all I've got for now.
It's stupid, cold, overused
But I guesss it's all I can say to make you understand.
Maybe since they're someone else's words
They won't sound so stupid coming from me.
I hope you understand.
I don't expect you to do anything different or change because of this.
I just couldn't keep so quiet all the time.
This is for me, not for you.
I know you're happy now without me.
But I guess I just can't pretend I am all the time.
I doubt you'll ever see this
And even if you do
I doubt it would occur to you that
You're the one I'm trying to talk to with this...
But please stay happy.
It's bad enough with just one of us miserable.
You don't need to join me here.
I don't want to say I love you
But sometimes I have to.
Even if nobody hears me
And you wouldn't care if you did.
(end)
I posted it on Facebook the minute I was finished with it, thinking it was good. Then I left for an hour and in the hour I was gone, I had changed my mind about thinking it was good. Usually I step away from my writing once I get the first words out on the page and edit, but I didn't do that for this. So I wanted to take it down before he read it.
But he had already read it. And figured out it was about him.
And messaged me about it.
So I gave up, messaged him back, and kept it in its raw form on Facebook. I don't think I ever deleted it off there. He said it helped him understand more, and he's known I like him for years now. I guess I kept it up so in case he ever wants to get inside my head again...
I don't know what he'd want to be there for, though. That was me in a very sorry state of being.
I don't really keep it a secret who he is. I'm too old for that. Somehow, though, it seems to be a secret. Nobody knows, somehow. Every time I say anything about him, people wonder who he is. And every time I tell them, it's new.
Oh well. Even his girlfriend knows I like him now, so nothing worse can happen.
And I could like much, much worse people.
I don't know why I continue to think about him. Especially when it hurts to.
But I can't help myself, I guess.
People wouldn't guess it, but I'm painfully shy. The only people I talk to ever are people I've been friends with for a long time or have motives for talking to. I'm not always so quiet around them, but around everyone else I might as well be a church mouse.
So it's really hard to keep things between me and him at friendship. Especially since it's always awkward with the unrequited love thing in there.
I don't know why I'm still talking, other than the fact that it's 11:06 at night and I don't want to leave my mind to its own devices. Writing helps me steer my thoughts to safer grounds. But I also don't want to make this take an hour to read.
Maybe I'll go read a book.
I think I'll do that.
I know it's not a current poem, but it had a good reaction when I posted it, minus the whole him-figuring-out-that-I-wrote-it-about-him thing. So maybe you weren't completely bored and/or disgusted with it.
Good night. :)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Will stop being annoying later.
DON'T STOP BELIEVING
(hold on to the feeling)
I betcha you have that song stuck in your head now, don't you.
Ha.
Ha.
Hahaaaa.
Failed.
xD
(hold on to the feeling)
I betcha you have that song stuck in your head now, don't you.
Ha.
Ha.
Hahaaaa.
Failed.
xD
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