Sweet sojourning nightingale murmurs all night long…

Untitled #1

Sighing
Tweezing daily
Remembering
This is how Hannibal
Crossed the Alps.

Penultimate Thought: I drink at odd hours.

Final Thought: It’s about to be cold until June.

Tryna tell them ole junkies that my crack ain’t soap…

It seems like it’s always the little things that make difficult times real. Difficulty can so often be an abstract concept that we are too weak of mind to comprehend, so rather than go to great lenghts explaining itself, Difficulty tosses an oop to the Little Things and allows them to take care of the rest. Sometimes, I think this happens because the disconnectedness of hardship is so impersonal that it allows all of us off the hook.

But in life, there is no such thing as getting off the hook. Really, it’s just a matter of whether or not you’ve slid down it enough to get inextricably snared on the barb. To be fair, you’re probably never inextricably snared, but that’s not a very comforting thought when trying to guide that hook back the way it came without getting freshly cut along the way. In fact, the pain you feel is the Little Things doing what they do best: forcing you to feel.

The Little Things can be many different things for people. Photographs that compel you to make a call before you remember there won’t be an answer, inside jokes with no one left on the inside, the inability to blame someone for picking up one of their quirly or annoying habits; all of these are examples of the Little Things. But these are parts of the hook that are reserved for those passed. It’s a bittersweet pain that brings people back, if only for a little while.

Unfortunately, there’s a part of the hook for the living as well. This is more bitter than sweet and while it’s killed only a few, it seems to be in the business of dealing death. When she was earthy and relevant, Jewel wrote a decent little number about those Little Things that slowly kill us through recall. Between talking about cold beds and remembering to put toothpaste caps back on out of deference to someone who would not be around to notice her improvement, she almost perfectly describes life while trying to remove the hook hoping against hope that her lost love will return to remove it for her.

Still, the song wasn’t quite perfect. Perhaps radio time didn’t allow for it, but she forgot to mention the worst Little Thing of all: Becoming an Interrupter. I don’t know if it happens by virtue of being hooked or if it is something you realize while struggling to free yourself, but the station of the Interrupter is especially brutal. One moment, you’re inside a situation– be it relationship or group of friends–, secure in what you think you know and with time to enjoy this sense of security in abundance. Without thought or much regard for permission, you use this time at your leisure.

 The next moment, you’re sitting on the outside, decidedly uncomfortable and utterly helpless, wondering how a situation so certain soured so irrevocably. The only emotion available is one of dreadful hope; the hope for time spared. This same element of time that was once used for the silly, irrelevant things suddenly seems crucial and yet unfulfilling. For the Interrupter, the only question worth asking is “Why?”, but few dare to hazard that dangerous question for it can lead to the abrupt expiration of time because as all Interrupters know: Time is not given to them. It is granted. So they strain smiles and feign laughs. They act as if life on the outside for a former insider is more or less the same, praying someone knows that they’re lying. Yet still,  they  hope no one notices the minor surgery they are trying to perform on their heart.

Penultimate Thought:  Everyone’s a poet at 5:15.

Final Thought: Growing up is knowing that some things won’t ever be right.

War Goes Deep, Some Beef is Everlasting…

So, as it appears that my swivel chair in the Second Largest Gym In The World is the new place where I hold courtly proceedings (RIP Valhalla 2002-2006), I had occasion to casually chit chat with Young Love and Basketball this past Sunday afternoon. While a general seething ball of rage during her freshman campaign, she is in the early lead for the Tiffany C. Martin Comeback Player of the Year Memorial trophy, an honor bestowed on those individuals who, while once rather jerkly and standoffish, show enough grit and determination to personify the “better late than never” adage.

Anyway, while discussing such matters as oven-baked chicken and her attempts to slander the good name of my cooking, the discussion turned to her mate, who is something of a winter chicken. After a convoluted tale of wooing that included the purchase of a prom dress (while not being allowed to be a prom date due to the fact that he probably should have been chaperoning), her yarn wrapped up with the classic, “We were friends at first then…”

After I chortled at an innocence and naivete that can only be found in the middle western United States, I informed Sanaa that, while she may have been proceeding in a friendly manner, his intentions were not of the high-five nature. Now, it is not to say that he only wanted to put his Snickers in her Milky Way, but it is to say that the thought of doing this was at least in the back of his mind.

Upon hearing this, young miss attempted to put the pieces of her shattered universe back together by telling me that this was indeed not the case and even went on to say she has plenty of male friends that don’t want to bump stomachs with her. I mean, why in the world would guys she doesn’t look at that way look at her that way, right?

Why? Because we’re guys and unless it never crossed our minds from jump street (mainly due to the fact that we wouldn’t sleep with the person based on an initial sighting anyway), then it’s at least at the back of our minds. Yeah, we may not want to shtoop you, but we would in the general sense. And frankly, that’s not an insult and doesn’t cheapen your relationship with the young lady. I mean, if your friend is that rare combination of attractive– personality, physical qualifications, intelligence, cool– you should probably want to, at some point, wake up next to them wondering why you’re naked under their sheets. Doesn’t mean you should, I’m just saying you should sort of want to. Why do the grown-up with people you don’t find friendly (I mean, excluding the cases of redemptive consensual vindication sex to settle some petty score)? In fact, I’m told a lot of good marriages are based around poking at your best friend, so really, I can’t be that off-base.

Of course, in her youthful defiance, she kept trying to allege that guys and girls can be just friends from jump, which i categorically deny. You can eventually be that, but the uncertainty is basically a guarantee. I’m pretty sure girls don’t know about this because of that foolish girl logic which tells them that guy who they’ve never ever met before approached them and struck up a conversation because he could tell they had a good heart underneath their snug t-shirt. Mind you, these same girls are generally of the attractive or desirable nature. I’m not sure of the corollary here, but it seemed worth mentioning.

At this juncture friends, I’d like to present the T Diagram. It’s something that is only slightly less than bulletproof when discussing man, woman, chaos. OK, all guys and gals who meet each other and are heterosexual start at the bottom of the T (Sidebar 1: I’m pretty sure the Diagram works out for the gay and lesbian community as well, but I’m working with what I know here). Of course, this start assumes that at least one of the party finds the other reasonably attractive and hasn’t thrust them into the “Friend because I wouldn’t” category. The point between the bottom of the T and the intersection of the T is the Region of Uncertainty. In this region, one of the parties, most often the guy, is casually putting out his feelers to see what the business is. Doesn’t mean the guy is in it only for that, this is just standard operating procedur starting at about age 12. Often times, the girl is completely unaware that this is even occurring, but this does not prevent the feeler deployment from being a reality. During these times, the guy is generally conferencing with his buddies, contemplating making a move but remaining unsure for two reasons: 1) Nobody likes getting the kiss lean-in rejection and 2) Because the girl is actually cool, the post- kiss lean-in rejection awkwardness is enough to drive a man to Toads.

Eventually, the two parties reach the intersection of the T and take the left into relationships/ probable bad decisions or the right into friendship/unrequited love. Though not unknown to those of the XX chromosomal ilk, this agony is generally felt by the male because they have johnsons and, as Bernard Freeman once so eloquently quipped, “the venom in {their} snake wants to poison.” It is again important to note that this transition can and often does take place without the female’s knowledge. So while she thought you visited her suite all the time because you were friendly and actually liked tea, the reality of the situation was that you had weighed the Kiss lean-in rejection/ post-kiss lean-in rejection awkwardity and decided against. Only after that has the friendship aspect started for both parties. The guys who are actually successful at snagging that girl who was a friend and turn her into a girlfriend/ jump-off weren’t “friends” at first; rather, they successfully navigated the Region of Uncertainty and took that hard left in the moment of truth. Facts are facts baby.

Anecdote: Because I don’t have unattractive friends in general, I clearly don’t have unattractive female friends (Sidebar 2: My father always told me to, no matter what, surround myself with beautiful women and so far it’s working out like gangbusters). Because of this fact, I have either wanted to sleep with all of them at some point/ hypothetically would. Doesn’t mean I have, just means I would. True Story: Marion Jones (sans juice) one of my truly dear friends (who I have never poked, prodded or otherwise) was on my radar the very first day of orientation about 1460 days ago. Did she think I really asked for a bite of her ABP sandwich, a bite she obliged, because I was hungry? In point of fact she probably did, but she’s one of the dizzy dames I was talking about a few lines back. Let’s be serious. I sent out my feelers to find something and ended up getting a whole lot more in return. Still, make no mistake, my initial reaction was not “Gee, she looks like a swell pal!” Feelers to dividends. Peace to the natural order.

Penultimate Thought: Random Real Name Shoutout– Danielle K. Smith ’06 for always having a sense of humor.

Final Thought: Eating salad at franchise restaurants kind of defeats the purpose.