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October 17, 2017, 08:54:54 AM
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Badmovies.org Forum  |  Other Topics  |  Off Topic Discussion  |  The New BMDO Home of Anecdotes, Life Stories, Erotic Tales, or Alien Encounters. « previous next »
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Author Topic: The New BMDO Home of Anecdotes, Life Stories, Erotic Tales, or Alien Encounters.  (Read 1620 times)
indianasmith
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A good bad movie is like popcorn for the soul!


« Reply #30 on: August 26, 2017, 12:41:04 PM »

You have led an interesting life, sir!
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Dark Alex
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« Reply #31 on: August 26, 2017, 02:20:57 PM »

And yet when I am on the phone I can never think of anything to talk to people about.
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ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #32 on: August 27, 2017, 10:45:04 AM »

Though my nine-year-old godson, whose name I can barely make myself speak, comes from a family where the other men are notably daring and accomplished (his father used to fly ultralights; his maternal grandfather once made twenty-percent commission on selling P&G $5,000,000.00 in banner ads for the ATP tournaments worldwide largely through force of personality; his maternal uncle had enough credits to graduate from high school in eleventh grade and had disturbingly zero fear of heights and used to take me, much less brave, up on tall places just for fun) my godson himself has more fear of illogical things than any child or person of any age I have ever known.

He is terrified of being alone in a closed-off room, and closed doors in general unnerve him.

He is uncomfortable with stuffed animals, dolls, even action figures.

He sleeps with his head covered, even in 100 degree weather, and can’t get to sleep unless he is wearing socks.

Until recently he could not stand buttons on any item of clothing, he’d melt down, not in a bratty way, but like he was truly disturbed, though recently he started wearing a button-down dress shirt to church, which we all take as a hopeful sign.

Baths freak him out, he cannot stand being submerged in bathwater even a few inches, showers don't bother him but he can only take them when someone is sitting in the bathroom outside the shower, or if someone is in the hall. Though baths scare him, he likes swimming in a pool just fine.

Most cartoons disturb him. He says, "They aren't real. They aren’t real.”

He will almost always under all circumstances, ask someone else to open a door first and walk into a room ahead of him. This includes elevators and revolving doors. His mother has a bead curtain on this one archway, and he will not under any circumstances pass through it unless someone else holds it aside for him, then he scurries past real quickly.

He has some odd fascination with the color orange, and sometimes---I am NOT kidding---carries a carrot in his pocket or backpack, and takes it out and looks at it.

These are just some of his peculiarities. Everyone has strange preferences, mostly these preferences of his can be catered to or dealt with, but, see, he also has a lot of...fear in him.

I do not know exactly why this child has the fear levels he does, whether it is something inside his brain, some strange episode in his life, or as my New Age-minded friend Mitch suggests "past-life trauma" (he claims his favorite medium told him my godson was a Soviet partisan executed in 1941 by being tied up in a group and run over by a German tank, and the terror still reverberates in his cellular memory) but much scares this boy, everything from stuffed animals to being in a room alone. He makes all right grades, sometimes excellent grades, he reads at a high grade level, but he is vulnerable to other kids capitalizing on his idiosyncrasies and picking on him, and even his teachers lose patience after a while because he is so high maintenance. (My oldest daughter has zero patience with him, though I tell her he's her guest, so she grits her teeth and tries to pretend.)

Until he was six he ended up sleeping in his parents' room on a cot at the foot of their bed because they found that easier than listening to him scream and having to take him back to his room over and over each night when he'd run to their room the instant he was tucked in bed. Now he's progressed to sleeping alone but with the door open and a bright nightlight in the wall and a baby monitor on so he can wake up and hear the sound, even the sound of silence, coming from his parents’ bedroom.

Sometimes I have thought he needs to toughen up and have thought okay, let him scream all night, he'll get over it, but I do think it's more than that. He's been tested and is said not to be autistic, he does not mind being touched, for instance, like his hand held or anything like that, he had a CAT scan and nothing was noticeably wrong with his brain. He's seen therapists and counselors and nothing has changed. He could be drugged into docility, I suppose, which is their suggestion, the therapists, but his parents don't want that for him, so they've found ways to live around his peculiarities and keep their fingers crossed he'll outgrow his ongoing terrors and quirks.

In a way I wonder if there is not something in his brain itself, something that does not show up on a scan, that relates to how his uncle was. His uncle had a rare perceptual condition called synesthesia, that left him smelling colors and tasting certain sensations of touch, associating various people with specific sounds. I wonder if this boy's disorders are not somehow similar, some wrinkle in a lobe that went into one condition for his uncle and has become fear-oriented with him.

He, my godson, spends the night over at our house a few times a year, less than he used to, comes over and hangs out sometimes, and he has a lot of charm going for him, he's not some quivering nerd and he's not overweight either as it seems a lot of children in his generation are, he's a nice-looking well-spoken boy, and sometimes he seems almost normal, but it's in small odd matters where his sad strangeness comes through. Like last time he was spending the night with us/me, he was terrified to go into the bathroom alone, daytime, nighttime, he cannot tolerate being alone behind a closed door. I asked if he goes alone at his house and he said, yes, but he leaves the door open, so I said okay, leave the door open. Before bed that night he asked if I would wait outside in the hall by the bathroom, so I said (sigh) all right. So he went in and as I was waiting out in the hall near the un-shut door, I heard him open the cabinet, pull back the shower curtain, apparently look all around for....whatever, before he felt safe to pee.

Not real reassuring.

We talked later before he went to sleep (naturally he wanted me to stay with him while he dosed off) and I tried to steer him toward why he is this way, though I know it is a mystery to him and he can't like being the way he is. I used to wonder about abuse, unlikely as that seemed to me since I know his parents and I have never seen any evidence of it, and I have kept it in mind, believe me, I'm not so naive as not to have thought of it, and he isn't afraid of his parents (he did used to be a little quiet around them compared to his talkative self around me) he doesn't show any sign of hiding abuse or anything, no history of "falls" giving him bruises or sudden urgent care visits, he just....has a lot of nervous worries and bizarre phobias.

But anyway, I talked to him that night and I kept waiting for him to say something out of The Sixth Sense, like, "I see dead people. There’s one right behind you" But, no, nothing even explicable like that, he is simply...a weird kid.

This summer his maternal grandfather, who probably never knew timid moment in his life, took him to Costa Rica, where they did zipline and walked on rope bridges and swam in two oceans, saw caimans and snakes and birds and had a good time, some of it in a tent under the stars in a rain forest, and my godson did fine, wasn't worried about sliding down ropes or any of that, he didn't wuss out, but there, too, he was scared to be left alone in a closed room, even for a minute. That is his singular terror, being alone, anywhere, anytime, for any reason, if a door is shut. Left alone in a shut-off room he gets panic episodes that can be horrifying. Even opening a hotel room door to the hallway will placate him, but a closed room, alone....he goes off the scale.

Soooo, in a nutshell that's my godson, and I do hope he finds ways to overcome his issues, because I don’t wish that abnormal a life on anyone, let alone someone for whom I care.
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Paquita
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« Reply #33 on: August 27, 2017, 01:17:53 PM »


Until recently he could not stand buttons on any item of clothing, he’d melt down, not in a bratty way, but like he was truly disturbed, though recently he started wearing a button-down dress shirt to church, which we all take as a hopeful sign.


This is actually a real thing and runs in my family.  I still don't like buttons, but I can coexist with them.  I used to have fits about them before I was 5, especially the rivets on jeans, and I remember my mom forcing me to look at them and telling me the story about how she had to stand in a long line behind a girl who had buttons down her back and she forced herself to get over it that day.    My uncle never really got over it though.  He doesn't freak out or anything like he used to as a kid, but he just won't put up with them.

I also used to be afraid of being in a room alone when I was really young and I remember it was because I was certain when I left the room to go back into another room with people everyone would be dead and turned into scarecrow-like dolls.  I'd spend really long periods of time convincing myself it was safe to leave the room.  This was long gone by the time I was 9 though.

Poor kid.. I hope he gets over these things too. 

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Dark Alex
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« Reply #34 on: August 27, 2017, 02:18:30 PM »

I hope its something he grows out of. Sounds like he is getting the help he will need along the way.
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javakoala
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Does ANYBODY remember this guy?


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« Reply #35 on: August 27, 2017, 02:57:30 PM »

I think I must be related to this kid somehow. Except I was more like Paquita, I was okay in a room with the door closed, but scared of what was on the other side.

Nice to know these things are still with me.  Lookingup Hatred

But, in the famous words of someone, somewhere, "Oh well."   Cheers
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Trevor
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« Reply #36 on: August 28, 2017, 04:47:13 AM »

We talked later before he went to sleep (naturally he wanted me to stay with him while he dosed off) and I tried to steer him toward why he is this way, though I know it is a mystery to him and he can't like being the way he is. I used to wonder about abuse, unlikely as that seemed to me since I know his parents and I have never seen any evidence of it, and I have kept it in mind, believe me, I'm not so naive as not to have thought of it, and he isn't afraid of his parents (he did used to be a little quiet around them compared to his talkative self around me) he doesn't show any sign of hiding abuse or anything, no history of "falls" giving him bruises or sudden urgent care visits, he just....has a lot of nervous worries and bizarre phobias.

But anyway, I talked to him that night and I kept waiting for him to say something out of The Sixth Sense, like, "I see dead people. There’s one right behind you" But, no, nothing even explicable like that, he is simply...a weird kid.

This summer his maternal grandfather, who probably never knew timid moment in his life, took him to Costa Rica, where they did zipline and walked on rope bridges and swam in two oceans, saw caimans and snakes and birds and had a good time, some of it in a tent under the stars in a rain forest, and my godson did fine, wasn't worried about sliding down ropes or any of that, he didn't wuss out, but there, too, he was scared to be left alone in a closed room, even for a minute. That is his singular terror, being alone, anywhere, anytime, for any reason, if a door is shut. Left alone in a shut-off room he gets panic episodes that can be horrifying. Even opening a hotel room door to the hallway will placate him, but a closed room, alone....he goes off the scale.

Soooo, in a nutshell that's my godson, and I do hope he finds ways to overcome his issues, because I don’t wish that abnormal a life on anyone, let alone someone for whom I care.


Speaking as a child and later an adolescent abuse survivor, I feel that there might have been some abuse - maybe not physical but possibly verbal - in your godson's life and I feel you should talk to his parents. The abuse I suffered in my life stops with me and I will always tell young ones what happened to me and how they should prevent it happening to them.

There is no excuse for abuse. 
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As time goes by, you will see
That we're going to be free, you and me
We'll touch the sky
Can you see in your mind's eye that we are one
We're all the same and life is just a simple game.
Trevor
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« Reply #37 on: August 28, 2017, 06:27:26 AM »

On grasping what was inside my underwear she lept back, pulling her hand out which she then looked at as if it was diseased and needed to be cut off right away and with a look of horror on her face screamed "Your a man!".

Eighteen year old mes ego suddenly vanished in a cloud of "Huh?" To this day I am pretty sure that holds the record for the shortest time to go from something existing to not existing. The exact time properly involves words like quantum.

 BounceGiggle BounceGiggle

This left me wondering what would have happened if she put her hand inside MY undies.  Buggedout Wink
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As time goes by, you will see
That we're going to be free, you and me
We'll touch the sky
Can you see in your mind's eye that we are one
We're all the same and life is just a simple game.
ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #38 on: August 28, 2017, 12:30:53 PM »

If anyone cares to plunge into this mammoth diary entry, thanks, welcome to Friday-to-Saturday of possibly the best weekend of my entire life, beginning with spending the night with my cousin in a college town the day before, Friday in other words.

Maybe I'll post Sunday the 25th someday if anyone ever wanted to read it but it's sweetly painful now to recall that happy/sad long-ago day that only I'm left to remember. And if this September 24th was not enough in itself to register in retrospect as special, it was exactly one month before I nearly died in a truly strange accident when I fell playing tennis on October 24th. Life went from so wonderful to so awful in a matter of hours, and really, though I couldn't know it, this was almost the end of an era, the way life had always been and never would be again.

But I didn't know that yet, so my time with my cousin was just a lot of fun.

Background: My parents let fifteen-year-old me go be with my twenty-year-old cousin that weekend, and as it would turn out, assuming I'd stay gone til Sunday evening, what teenager wouldn't, I came back Saturday to find them gone: pre-cell phone, remember. I'd wake up Sunday morning to a still-empty house and find out they were on a river cruise, a hundred miles away. I went out the door like a shot, free as a bird, though that's another entry altogether

This is mostly about Friday night with my cousin, feeling old and cool to be with her....


Saturday September 24, 1994

Another long, long day after a long, long Friday. I have the willies tonight, things are deffo strange and unusual, it’s even thundering outside right now, so pack a lunch and eventually I’ll be done.

Truthfully? Truthfully I am writing to keep my mind off things. Home alone, it’s late, no clue where they are. Feels disturbing.

Dana picked me up (on time, Mom!) yesterday, and they gave the permission slip the FBI treatment and called Mom before they’d release me with her.

Dana told me to change out of my school uniform in the car while she drove, which isn’t easy to do the way she drives, and even under my jacket I felt like an exibitionist. So we got to Oxford in under an hour if that tells you anything, and walked right into Frankie’s and we tag teamed Roy and Jess at pool, and I wanted to play darts but drunk fratters were all over that, and Dana said messing with frat boys when they’re in a group is sketchy. And if SHE says don’t do something….!

Ended up going to Deb’s apartment (she’s the girl from last spring who had the nose ring and said I’d enjoy camping on the Appalachian Trail, the nature girl) and watching The X-Files on her tiny flickery TV, and then we all went in Dana’s Nissan down the road, left Deb at her boyfriend’s work, then Dana and I went to see her friend Scott, and Dana said it’d be a good night to get me stoned if I still wanted, and I said no but thanks anyway, and it didn’t come up again. (Way too much to lose because of Dad right now.)

We went in there and I loved Scott, he was hilariously campy. He had stories that were funnier than. He said I was the best audience he’s ever had, and I said thanks, and I said he ought to see me when I start laughing inappropriately at something serious. He said, “Hon, then never give a blowjob…..”

Which of course made me start again. He was too funny.

He microwaved us a prearranged frozen appetizer platter he STOLE from the Bill Knapps he works at as a waiter, and fixed us tropical punch and left the bottle of rum on the table and said add it or not whatever, so I didn’t but Dana got toasted and he was pretty giggly drunk too, and I felt real left out. He had funny stories and showed me he waxed his legs and even his arms, and I go, “Are you a cyclist or a swimmer?”

He laughed and Dana goes, “Tell her.”

He. Is. A. Part. Time. Drag Queen! Oh my GOD!

But he also said he went through this seriously horrible Baptist brainwashing program in Georgia in high school because his mom caught him on his bed with another boy both of them lying with their pants down doing you know what side by side to Patrick Swayze shirtless with Ghost paused on the screen, and they tried to un-gay him with prayer and by yelling at him that he was going to go to Hell, and it didn’t work and he said it left him hot for the youth pastor!

Oh my gosh!

Dana said you can’t un-gay somebody with prayer any more than you can change their eye color with prayer. Scott said, no, but sometimes you can pick-up other nice gay boys at those de-programming events and he had sex in the bathroom with some of them.

So we talked on his floor mostly and he just freaking loves Mariah Carey, and he sang along to every song that came up on her CD that he played and showed us pictures of him in drag. We didn’t go to sleep til 2-something. Even I was dead on my butt sleepy. I kept wondering, when were we going back to Dana’s place?

Well one little problem.

Dana and I ended up sleeping together on his queen size living room hide a bed because she didn’t tell me this but one reason I had to change in her car instead of her place is she had a knock down drag out clash with her roommates, and isn’t going back for a few days, which sucks because I wanted to see the kingsnakes. She said I should buy myself one, they’re only forty bucks, but somehow I don’t think Mom would go for that.

Dana was like, “Tell Aunt Cath Saint Patrick drove it to your room.”

We laid there for what must have been half an hour in the dark, talking. Dana said twenty is absolutely the last year you can be “a kid” and she’s going to enjoy it more than any year so far.  We talked about the future and long-term plans and she said she won’t have children before she’s thirty and won’t have them before she’s married and won’t marry before she’s thirty, cause she wants control over her life. She might live with men between now and then but doesn’t want a marriage or even too tight of a relationship. She wants to live her twenties to make memories. She had an ideal teenage spread of years and now plans to have her twenties be just as on schedule. Neither of us could quite see what the point to marriage is, but Dana said eventually she’ll do it.

I go will I and she goes yes either real early or real late probably.

When I’m eighteen and she’s twenty-two or twenty-three, she and I are going to take a cruise all around the Caribbean and hang out and party, see the Yucatan and drink in clubs and get bought drinks by dark men, and British ex-pats. The second being mine. I laughed but I said sure, I would do it. She held up her hand and so palm-to palm we swore we would. Then we both laughed and couldn’t stop but she finally said laughing like that hurts her skull.

She said she is going to stay in this area, because in the nineties Cincinnati has lost so much of its talent and youth to other cities, and if people only realized if they’d stay there’d be a young energy here, but people leave for Austin and Portland, and drain the area. Plus she said it creates an advantage being here because the competition is thinned out for jobs and stuff, you know?  She goes which one would you go to, Austin or Portland, and I go Portland, easy.

Finally her voice kind of trailed off a few times and she said she had to shut down. All in all I think my cousin is about the coolest human being of this generation I know.

I didn’t sleep well, though, but I was worn out, so I did pass out kind of, but the hide a bed was a thin foam mattress above metal slats. I would have slept on the floor, but I saw waterbugs crawling around in the dark in the places where the blue microwave clock made the floor visible. Dana also rolled to the middle of the bed the second she was asleep. I moved as far to the right as I could, and she kept crowding me in her sleep, so finally I pushed her back and she goes, “Quit trying to cop a feel and sleep, will you?” Ha. Well I did get some sleep but not one that’s going to win awards.

Ended up skipping tennis in Evendale this morning because I helped Dana go get her stuff and move out. She put some of it in her car trunk and piled on her seats, and left me on the sidewalk to watch some more she had stacked there while she got Rick to bring his van. She totally moved out today though. We hauled a lot of her things up to Rick’s attic, which he doesn’t officially own, it’s like shared storage space with the three other apartments in the building, and Dana is sure everything there is going to get stolen, which kind of turned her b***hy. I didn’t say so but from what she said her fight sounded kind of minor and I was thinking she might go straighten it out with them, but like I said I didn’t mention it.

I invited her to stay with me at home, but she’s going to stay tonight at Deb’s and then thinks she has a plan to get in a place she might actually like living in about three miles out of town.

She called Aunt Judith on the pay phone at Shell and rocked on her heels in her silver boots, which she wore because she said they’d get stolen instantly in the attic if she left them. The way she manipulates her mom, an otherwise un-manipulatable person, is past any words I have.

If Dad ever thinks I’m bad for lying about a guy, he should listen to his niece, because while I stood there drinking a Mt Dew, she conned AJ out of a deposit, and then Uncle Lark out of a bigger deposit, and she has to go to Hyde Park for AJ’s check, but Uncle Lark, who was in Dallas, wired it to her, and we went into Shell and picked up a voucher and drove to cash that at a Fifth-Third that had late Saturday hours all the way in Fairfield. It was a pretty shameless move on Dana’s part but, shrug.

THEN out of the blue when she had her money from the bank, she gave me two hundred dollars, put it in my hand, curled my fingers around it, and said it’s good to have emergency money! I couldn’t believe it, but she seemed happy to do it, just told me not to spend it, save it in a sock drawer in case I ever need it.

So I now have two hundred bucks in fifties sitting in my drawer!

She asked if I wanted to go see AJ with her, but it was after two in the afternoon and it was a long day, I hadn’t taken a shower even before moving her stuff, so I said please drop me off, so she did, and didn’t want to come in, even though I asked her to.

Nobody was home. I let Charlotte out back and she peed a long, long time, like she hadn’t been let out. That’s an important detail, by the way, that she hadn’t been out. I went up and called Brian, thinking it’d be a good day to finally hang out like he’s been asking since he got that money, assuming he has any left, which I don’t care about anyway, but no answer.

No luck with him anymore. Not since school started.

So walked Char, who wagged like a propeller to see me, and I let her sniff Mercury through the chain link fence at Rachel’s.

FINALLY Brian called me back and when I told him I was free, he cussed and griped and said he’d just told some guys he’d meet up with them and since one owed him fifty bucks he floated him from two weeks ago, he better go.

I got on his case about not getting drunk and he said he wouldn’t get wasted, that was for sure, and said he is the lightest drinker among his friends, and doesn’t know why I think it’s such a big deal, but he knows I am trying to look out for him, and he said he thinks that’s mostly sweet, and thanks. So we’ll see what “not getting wasted” turns out to mean, but I think he’s right about his drinking, and compared to the drinking scene at Miami, he’s moderate. I should probably lay off him about it.

By dinnertime I was starting to wonder where Mom and Dad were, so I took some money (not my emergency two hundred) and ordered tofu Pad Thai with extra lemon grass, and it got dark before it came, the delivery dude was not Thai at all, he was this red-haired creepy guy with a scruffy beard and he smelled like beer and drove an old ‘80s Sunbird. (I wrote his license plate number down, just in case….yeah, that freaky.) I gave him the whole ten to get him off the walk and gone. I got this paranoid idea of what if I started eating the Pad Thai and the doorbell rang and a Thai person was there with a paper bag and was like here’s your order! Like what am I really eating???

Seriously it was starting to get creepy.

So it was dark and I was still here alone. I almost felt like worrying, no note, nothing. Charlotte obviously hadn’t been let out in a long time when I got home today. I called G-Ma and she didn’t know where they were. I called Aunt Christie, and she didn’t know but asked if I wanted her to come get me. I said no thank you. Wyoming to here is a long way. I wondered if they heard me wrong and thought maybe I was spending tonight with Dana too. If I had a way to reach her I would have called Dana up and gone back over with her, but since she’s crashing at Deb’s…you know.

So eleven o’clock, here alone, I figure Mom and Dad, dead in a ditch. I took Char up to my room, locked the door, laid in bed with the light on, had the creeps like I can’t describe, and had to play some real mellow space music to level out, and started writing this long entry.

It is now 12:35 and no one is here with us and I have no idea what is going on.
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ER
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #39 on: August 30, 2017, 08:11:58 PM »

Went to a meeting today near an international airport, and across the table from us were these Bangladeshi gentlemen from Bristol. They were darker-complected than some Nigerians I have seen and gave the impression they should be using the dialect you get when you talk to a customer service rep about your debit card balance, but they had the crispest Oxbridge accents this side of BBC Two.

Within twenty minutes we reached an agreement with them regarding the matter at hand, though the person I was with said we actually had them within the first three minutes and the rest was pretense and dance on their parts. Letting them know that what they wanted for their campaign could be produced within a week was the key, since they were afraid of being relegated to second place by their competition. They had an idea and they needed to get the word out about it " veddy fahst."

So that wrapped up with handshakes and felt pseudo-anticlimactic considering it had loomed large in my head all week and arriving there I figured this was going to be an all-morning and possibly afternoon discussion marked by gives and takes, and I was left feeling almost light-headed, especially since in the elevator coming down (in a couple senses of the word since I had been surfing a strong adrenaline high heading in there) the man I was with said to me, "That went better than I realistically hoped. I would have gone down two more percent, but I caught fast that they wanted to get this going before their competition grabbed a share and now they're first out. So I upped it three points over what I was going to lay out there at first, and they went for that."

I think he was hyper too but it's hard to tell with him because he's good at presenting himself as composed, but I do know his default settings for hyper can go high indeed, but he was in a good mood and before the doors opened in the lobby he leaned back against the railing and laughed heartily and I asked, "You're into this. How did you live without this for so many years?"

Because after doing very well in the mid-1970s to the mid-1990s, he did a 180 in his life and spent most of this century in California, doing work for religious non-profits.

He said, "I loved that, too, and it was a different sort of good feeling but, yes, I missed this, and it always affirms your self-worth to exceed what you realistically thought you might come out of a deal with."

We had a whole blank slate of a day ahead since we'd both expected this to run on, so we went to this, like, lounge near the airport, sat at this table, not many people there yet before lunch, and he has not had a drink since 1996, not one, and I am not really into alcohol, so we just got these three-dollar waters, mine with lime, and life was good, you know, big score business-wise, easier than either of us dared hope (though my part in this was 10% of the heavy-lifting he was doing for it all) and so we sat there for three hours, coming back to earth, talking about old times and new times, and God and life and war and his daughter's strange habit, we've both remarked on over the years, of tapping her left fingertips with her right when she's thinking (shrug), and how she was a varsity gymnast in college around the turn of the century, and how demanding gymnastics is on a young body.

This server with an odd accent, vaguely Mebourne, Australia, kept coming around asking if we were ready for a drink yet, and he kept giving her ten dollar bills and saying more of the same, please, even though after the third time she did that the waters were just sitting there untouched, so I suppose the real politics of the circumstances were we were renting the table.

Eventually he paid me my bonus for the meeting in cash, and I thought how funny that would've looked if anyone had been there to see it, like a drug deal or worse, and even after he left I continued to sit there a bit longer, my brain feeling bubbly, and I thought wouldn't it be funny if I suddenly got on a jet and went somewhere at random?

"Where's your next destination?"

"Detroit."

"Lovely, one-way, please."

Yes, it was a giddy, funny, post-victory afternoon of doing almost nothing but sitting around drinking expensive water, but it made for a fun day.

Success is just plain cool.

I'm happy tonight...

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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
indianasmith
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« Reply #40 on: August 30, 2017, 10:24:47 PM »

I think we're all glad when you're happy!  Cheers
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« Reply #41 on: August 31, 2017, 02:26:50 PM »

I remember the first time I ever connected with another person well enough to be privy to his secret self, one of three modes of identity we all possess alongside our public and private selves. I was fourteen and I'd never had that experience before, to be trusted to the point someone else opens his spirit and mind confiding in you, almost like free association, sometimes almost as if you're not even there.

I remember mostly feeling flattered to be so trusted and valued, to be considered worthy, but beyond that I was aware I was gaining insights into not just another person's mind but the male brain itself, and I found it a vaguely odd place, but compelling, almost addictive, to be brought into someone's thoughts that way. Firstly to have someone's trust at that level transcends most of life's experiences, secondly, I learned things I never would have guessed.

As I heard about goals and dreams and hopes and worries and the grand minutia of everyday life, I learned that just like girls, boys have to often be someone else outwardly, even while feeling differently inside. I learned that boys had their own set of emotions and thoughts they had to conceal, and that they got their feelings hurt a lot more often than it seemed they did. I found out boys didn't have it as easy as girls said, and that their existences required their own sort of courage. Last but not least I had it verified that men truly do go through life in a near-constant state of sexual preoccupation beyond anything I think I ever felt.

It was, my young self considered, as if men were born addicts, always looking for a fix, even a short-term one. Maybe, I thought, women really weren't as beautiful as we've always been told, maybe it's just that we're a sort of drug.

But mainly his talks with me were not sexual, just frank, often about school, working, his family, his friends, drinking sometimes, taking walks and thinking, writing, what books he'd read, what books he was going to write, though girls nearly always lay somewhere near the heart of them: girls who were cool, girls who were unattainable, a girl who drove a busted up pickup truck just to be unique, a girl who was cruel to him, another who was into him and he was not into her, my mother who was never on time, his mother whose need for reassurance of her worth centered on her wanting him to say bad things about his father, with whom he went to live when his parents split up.

He'd make me laugh describing his sister, three years younger than him, who lived with their mom, and how she always called him, day or night, with her every twitch of a problem, her voice high with emotion (like some little dog's, he claimed), her every new upset of insurmountable importance to her and barely of any moment to him, though he'd try to console her and talk her through, even though sometimes he told me she made him feel like leaping off the campus' tallest building was preferable to another hour playing therapist to her.

He told me of a girl he knew in high school, his first serious girlfriend, who kept saying she loved him but was so cold she scheduled their breakup months in advance, saying, "Well, we'll be at different colleges next year, why would I want that?" Her "enjoy this while it lasts" attitude was so pragmatic it puzzled him and on the last day before he drove north to his school, she literally shook his hand and said "Good luck." A week later she was with someone new.

He described his fascination with sitting in class in one of his lectures behind a girl who had beautiful hair, like silk, and how when she moved her hair would adjust as well, flowing like captured water suspended in mid-air. He rarely saw her face, was not sure he'd know her if she turned toward him anywhere else on campus, but her hair was perfection.

He told me all this, it drew me, it sometimes made me spellbound for his next tale, but also I'd think, huh, so that's what girls seem like to the other gender. Wonder what I am like?

He would tell me little things that made me think, and being far away as he was at the time, his surroundings began to take on an almost fairy tale aspect, garnerning glamour via distance among settings that were to him mundane and to me just the opposite. It was something I have never quite found again, maybe because it was new, a first exposure to a state of closeness I didn't theretofore know existed, but maybe, like some people say about their first kiss, I've spent my whole life since seeking to recapture that closeness, that feeling of there being no barrier between the heart and mind of another person and myself.

 
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--Lord Byron
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #42 on: September 06, 2017, 01:22:23 PM »

I went out at mid-day, after my littlest got on her bus and rode off to the concentration camp, and I bought some books. One of them was David Sedaris' diary, less because I know much (yet) about Mr. Sedaris, more because I am interested in diaries. Though I will read it through if the Fates or Furies, whichever governs my days---I have a theory---spare my life a bit longer, I did thumb through and pick put a few entries at random, figuring that unlike a novel a diary isn't spoiled by non-linear participation, and besides, I bought it, I own it: et emit eam, et possidebunt eam.

Sedaris' entries and style aren't much like mine in my own utterly-confessional, sometimes second by second 6,000-page diary, but then again I've yet to encounter anyone save perhaps Anais Nin who comes close.

As I read, though, one entry in there from the late 1970s did introduce a friend of David Sedaris' who put me in mind of my own buddy Rob (funny, I always call him a buddy, not a friend, interesting) and how one day Rob decided he was going to start worshiping the Norse gods, his desire to be powerful running second only to his ambition to become a successful pornographer.

This was back in the days when he had not yet met the woman he eventually married, she being more down to earth and likely to have less patience with his fancies, telling him to put away childish things on weekdays and get a real job.

Still, before she came along with an inarguable force of transition rather like one of the Valkyrie Rob so admired, he did take to wearing Thor's hammer Mjolnyr around his neck, did start capitalizing the 'h" in "He" when he made reference to Odin, Thor, Loki or the denizens of that crowd, and he genuinely tried to face life with a warrior's bravery.

Sometimes I would go back into the woods with him while he sought out an ancient oak or a sacred grove, reasoning a day outdoors is seldom misspent, and besides, of everyone I knew he needed someone to look out for him. So I'd go and he'd tromp around gulping Mountain Dew, flask of sacramental honeymead on his belt, and finally he'd find the right tree (or get tired and say he did) and he'd pull out notebook paper on which he'd copied some supposed chant or other and obeisantly bellow out  phonetic word salad that sounded neat at least, and pour the mead onto the ground, inviting Thor to drink deep. Sometimes he'd bury a ceramic runestone he bought out of the classifieds of a horror movie magazine (mostly pre-internet, the middle-'90s) and when he was done I'd ask, "Do you feel empowered now, Rob?"

"I'm not sure yet, El, but it's supposed to let me see Asgard in my dreams."

"Wanna get out of here and do a border run?"

"Sure, Taco Bell sounds great."

I'd say this all lasted a year, maybe a little more, and sometimes when he was stoned and pensive sitting out under the stars in the summer, off school, he'd ask me if he was chasing his own tail by seeking mightiness in a largely dead pantheon of deities, and me, believing in nothing save science and intuition despite going to Mass six days a week for most of the year, did not quite have it in me to quash the boy's dreams, so I'd say, "Well, Rob, a pearl can't form around nothing, it has to have a grain of sand to grow around, so probably there is some form of truth to the old legends of northern Europe. Besides, since almost nobody is praying to them anymore, if Odin and his family are real, they'd be more likely to hear you."

That made him happy.

I think I've told in here before the tale of him getting his hammer taken by bullies, which was not the finest hour of a young man who modeled himself on a stand-your-ground crowd of Iron Age warriors, but no one likes to have his less admirable moments recounted, so I won't, I'll just say praying to Odin seemed to set him happy for a while, and seemed to make him a better person in some ways, and since ancestor worship played some small token bit in Norse religion, he even began being more polite to his mother.

I guess we should have anticipated the end coming for Rob's flirtation with going to Valhalla, this was, after all, a boy who cried after skipping ahead and reading the end of my copy of The Virgin Suicides one late night over at my house, and who then could not listen to that '70s song "Make It With You" without getting a lump in his throat in remembrance of those non-existent dead sisters, asking plaintively, "But, WHY did they all have to kill themselves? Even Mary, who got a second chance....? She was so hot, and probably a virgin."

("Hot and a virgin" described his fantasy girl. Race, hair color, income, religion, all unimportant as long as she was: 1. Hot, 2. a virgin. Therefore Mary's death hit him hard, and Lux's less so.)

I guess the fact youth comes before age is a gift to us all, letting us get certain things out of our systems, allowing us to play roles in childhood and adolescence no one would tolerate in us later, and so it makes me happy remembering back twenty-odd years to Rob's time of communing with his Viking heritage. It was brave of him in those pre-Cosplay times to be unique that way in a conservative city.

In fact, I'm sort of proud of him for it, and thought I'd say so now.



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"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
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The world becomes a dream....


« Reply #43 on: September 08, 2017, 10:55:00 AM »

I don’t know how other people felt about it, but the first time I had sex----it was the Ides of March---I briefly regarded myself as the stupidest person on the planet.

For years I’d been in love with someone older than me, until recently in this almost entirely chaste way, but the thing is a few weeks before I went to bed with him, I broke up with him on the phone just when things were at their very best between us, right on the heels of this wonderful night out together where we drove south into another state (stupidly brave) and stayed out really late among his school friends, all of them four or five years older than me, none making a big deal about our age difference (I could kind of present myself more maturely than most my age, I think) at this crazy little diner that literally had not closed since about the 1940s. Of anything that might have come next, virginal me dumping him---almost accidentally as if the words I was saying were as much a shock to me---was likely the last thing he could have expected, so he was crushed and puzzled. I do believe he thought I was kidding for a moment and then it was like from miles away I could feel the blood draining from his face as I said it, could hear his heart stop with a jolt then re-start fueled by adrenaline. After a few seconds he exploded at me with barely contained fury. I was doing that to him OVER THE PHONE????? To HIM? After everything?

He could have said a lot of mean things but he only hung up, his hurt and disbelief total.

Soon after I asked my worldlier cousin was that really bad or something, and she said yeah, except for cheating that was probably the most low-class thing she could think of to do to someone in a relationship, ending it (not quite intentionally) with a telephone call.

Ugh. You learn something new every day. Guess that’s what he, in college, got for being with a free-falling tenth grader living years ahead of her age.

Instantly, though, I was terribly sorry about doing that, basically I was sorry the same night I did it and tried to say so and begged forgiveness, promising I would never do something so callous and inexplicable again but he barely talked to me at first and this was during a bad time in my life in general, so one night I left him a long message telling him how all this sad, bleak stuff had recently gone wrong in my life, including my mother abruptly leaving (which he knew about) and my grandma having a stroke and being on pseudo-life support (which he did not since it happened when we were apart).

He came home later and after hearing my message talked to me a while on the phone, I having caught him when he was fairly buzzed from drinking with his friends, so he said he was sorry about all I was dealing with and he’d listen to me as long as his buzz lasted, so I talked and talked in the rapid-fire Irish way I sometime do, having picked it up from my mother, who mastered the practice from having to be quick to get a word out among all her siblings. Imagine a machine gun that shot words and you about got it.

Among many other things I let him know how I could not feel worse for letting him go over the phone, insisting it was not really what I’d wanted and I did not know why I said I did but I was soooo sorry.

I think to this day he took his sense of being aggrieved a little too far but he compared my contrition to someone who robbed a bank saying afterward how rotten they felt for the holdup, but the crime still happened. He had a point but jeesh, I regretted it, it wasn’t the real me who’d done that, I was all squeezed up in my mind with the problems around me, I’d just freaked and of course I didn’t want us to be apart, why didn’t he get that?

The fact he hadn’t gone out and replaced, me, which he could easily have done over the course of the last month, said a lot to me, so I said, “I know you love me too.”

He said, “I do, but so what. Apparently that doesn’t matter to you.”

It wasn’t that he was being sulky or hard-headed, he’d thought a long time and decided he had better cut and run if I was really that unstable (or cruel). Not to mention he was in college and I was in high school, so there was that. He was one of the top students in his department, an undergrad but Ph.D-bound, had had high honors several years before from one of the best high schools in the city, finishing so far ahead of schedule they gave him an assignment to work part of the day at my school, where I first met him as a seventh-grader, so if I had suddenly gone unstable and made noise about things, this future professor had a lot to lose at his university and wasn’t reckless as rule, he knew the razor’s edge he was walking and only the fact he cared about me the way he did kept him in a relationship that had sometimes been potentially dangerous. He also wasn’t a pervert (shrug, he was only four years older than me, big deal) and the unvarnished fact is we’d gone places together for years, talked and interacted with great depth, and he probably could have had sex with me when I was fourteen, but he wasn’t like that. He did genuinely love me and like me, and want good things for me. Years in the future he would ask me to marry him, and I said I would, but that’s another story.

After our talk, though, I went over to his apartment after school. I’d been there many times in happier occasions (in fact I almost had sex with him there the day I got my driver’s license), but now he actually wouldn’t answer the door for me (seriously!), so I stood there in my Catholic school uniform, in the cold, my legs freezing, his pervert voyeur neighbor barely hiding the fact he stared out at me. When I could stay no later I left but the second day I did that he finally did come out but just to say, “Go home, Evelyn. Go home.”

(He almost alone in my life called me by my birth name, Evelyn, not Ellie like most people do, though he also had a silly nickname he often used.)

And that was all he said, more or less, that time.

But I came back the next day, too, three days in a row, so he talked to me in my car and said he wasn’t really mad anymore just it was clear now had a complete failure of understanding when it came to me, his emotions must have blinded him to my flaws if I could cut him off like that ON THE PHONE, and besides no matter what he was feeling, things in my life were a mess all the way around and I had a lot more to think about than him, with my family degrading the way it was, illness, divorce, it wasn’t fair for him to be around me now, that I wasn’t even the same person anymore, and he could say that since he’d known me better than anyone since I was in seventh grade. So again he was saying just go home, leave him alone, yes, he did love me, he’d loved me since I was in middle school and he was in high school, he still loved me crazily and totally and foolishly now that he was in his third year in college, but apparently that didn’t matter.

He finally said, “Were you coming here thinking having sex with me would fix everything?”

I went, “Would it?”

He said, “It might.” But then he said he was kidding and went, “Well no matter what nothing is happening here today.”

Which shows how I had hit him hard by what I’d done, he was a twenty-year-old male, in love with me, turning down a chance to go upstairs with this sixteen-year-old virgin in a Catholic school uniform. (Incidentally he was probably the only guy I knew who was not particularly turned on by Catholic uniforms on girls, since he said he grew up seeing his sister wear one.)

He knew I’d been to hospital that morning to see my grandmother in intensive care, and he asked if I’d eaten anything, knowing I would often go these long stretches of time without food, and I admitted no, not since the day before, and he kind of shook his head and cussed and said I was self-destructive and he wasn’t always going to be there to look out for me so grow a brain, Evelyn, Jesus Christ, girl, quit starving yourself. So we went and I got something, which I wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t pushed me to do, then we sat in my car there talking, him with this thousand-yard stare and his left knee kind of pulled up toward him, and still all he said was to go be with my family and quit worrying about him. He said it as nicely as he could, sort of regretfully, like I was the cause of anguish to him and he to me, depthless heartbreak was likely, that I was someone he loved to his peril and pain (ultimately prophetic), but when we got back he said it again: “Go home.”

And he meant it.

So I did go, but the next day after school, from which I was totally disconnected all that year, I went back to his apartment, and that was one time too many.

I remember it seemed surreal to be in that situation, in his bed with him at long last, like it was all happening to another person, not me at all, and it also felt like leaping off a very high bridge must, thinking before you hit the water that what made total sense at the railing was a bad idea after all, but too late.

I didn’t say much, which weirded him out, I laid there and was probably barely worth the trouble, and I saw him do a double take at me afterward when I was sitting up, and later he told me I had no color in my face, though I’m not sure why because despite all I’d heard and been told by my cousin who was always trying to scare me off doing anything, it wasn’t bad in any way, or good either for that matter, just overwhelming. Strange. Unreal. Kind of like….a great washed-out blank canvas that I’d expected would be beautiful.

I left almost immediately after, again not saying much, and drove a few miles and stopped and walked around with this cramp in my thigh muscle, trying to figure out how I felt about getting what I thought I’d wanted, and it hit me that everything in the world was exactly the same as it had been, no different. Unpatched cracks in the sidewalk were still there, this overweight man was walking along carrying a grocery bag, birds were flying north with the nascent spring, dogs were barking, back home my mother, who was barely twice my age, would still be gone, my grandma would still be dying in a hospital, my father still had a job I had to lie to my friends about (“My dad’s a consultant…”), and to top it off, I had my asinine AP homework to do, same as I’d had every night since kindergarten. It was the same old world, and that seemed even more surreal.

Then I went home and to my shock my father was there, and he virtually never came home early, and I felt paranoid, like, well, how did he know? He even said let’s play chess and you can tell me about school today. So there I sat across a chessboard, my nerves fraying, feeling like (as I’ve sometimes said) the man in The Telltale Heart when he talked to the police with the body hidden under the floor, and I was trying to decide if this was coincidence or a mind game (I am just about positive it was a coincidence) but my father was not a man who missed much, it was his job not to miss things, a job he did well, I might add, and finally that hell ended and I went upstairs to my room and shut the door and thought about the day real deeply. My phone did not ring, which was good, I laid on my floor still in my school clothes and the shadows got longer and the light dimmer, and being me I wrote about things in my diary (which I always called a journal) without quite saying anything.

I began the entry with:

“Everything’s supposed to be different. I keep trying to make it different, and I can’t even in my own head.”

Mostly I felt like an idiot like in that old saying be careful what you wish for or you just might get it, and was sure somehow, some way, I had messed up everything with this person I loved, had messed up my entire life, had messed myself up with the universe itself, (not with God, because I was heuristic and did not believe in God or sin or damnation or reward or anything that was not empirical) and yet nothing was changed, same life, room, street, world, and that above all seemed the thing I could least process. The world had not altered, which was insultingly depressing.

So I heard nothing from the man I’d been with, what I was expecting to hear I am not sure, but then the next morning before my dad left for work at the same time I drove to school, he said to me, “I haven’t been keeping very good track of you lately, have I?”

Which again made me tailspin into thinking he somehow knew, but again, even across all these years I am all but certain his words only seemed overly significant to my guilty conscience. And for the record I was not a bad teenager, I didn’t get drunk or do drugs or make bad grades or say bad words or have the wrong sorts of friends or drive recklessly, and even my school, where I was in the top five-percent, was prestigious. I went to church, not entirely willingly, I did volunteer work, until an accident ended my desire I was good enough at tennis to be in line to join the pro tour, if I wanted. The fact that since the summer after eighth grade I’d been carrying on to the extent I was with a college student, lying about it to cover my tracks, was really my only misdeed.

The day after, I went to school, made it through the day absolutely uninterested in anything there, and then headed back to the apartment and he opened the door to me and he seemed cautious and I don’t know what else but he hardly looked at me with those amazing eyes he had, almost gray but with a faint splash of blue, but I was pretty much myself again, talked to him, and he lightened up and things felt awkward but good after weeks of upset. We walked out onto his balcony and he said this was a much better version of me than he was expecting, and I rested my chin on the railing while he confessed how he had spent the last day in dread waiting for me to come back and have some big dramatic episode, and the only question was how huge my drama was going to be.

I said, “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He said, “Oh yeah you would.”

So he told me everything he’d hypothetically figured out to say to me when I unleashed at him, from reminding me he had told me to go home all those times, to saying I was the most brilliant but dense person he knew, that I could walk face first into a glacier and be like oh, I didn’t see that there.

It was like The Twilight Zone listening to this alternate reality version of how things were predicted to go, and I laughed but it also stung and I thought well that’s what he thinks of me, is it? I said, “All that didn’t happen, so it shows what you know about me.”

He had been looking outward but he turned his face to me and goes, “I think I know you pretty well.”

Great double meaning if ever I’ve heard it, it actually made my cheeks flush even though I laughed, but he did have a point, I could sometimes be like that, and he did…know me.

So all was well again, I’d never loved anyone more, and from then forward we more or less stayed involved for almost the rest of his life.


« Last Edit: September 08, 2017, 07:18:19 PM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

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--Lord Byron
indianasmith
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« Reply #44 on: September 08, 2017, 06:48:09 PM »

Your stories never get old, you know that?
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