So Long Sweet Summer

   Fall is settling in and, for the first time in a long time, I'm finding myself seduced by the biting chill that has undercut the stifling heat of summer.
   I smile to myself as I layer fabrics on top of each other, reveling in the newness of the season.
   I'm grateful for the change. This is the first fall I'll enjoy at home since my senior year in high school. I'm missing the mountains I spent the past two autumns in on an entirely different level, with an aching, bitter force that leads every step I take.
   My new school is still odd and foreign. It's overwhelmingly large and the atmosphere is decidedly different from my little, relaxed Adirondack home. There's a pretentiousness I can't stomach. But I'm learning a lot in my classes, and, as I keep reminding myself: that's what I'm there for. I'm relieved I don't live there. The distance between myself and the self-congratulating student body is worth the commute.
   There are five classifications of students that attend my new school:

1. The Kid Who Wrote "AP" On All His Folders In High School To Remind You How Smart He Was:

This is the main group of students. They ALL carry bags and wear clothing bearing the school's emblem, as if they're rubbing it in that they were accepted. I get it, assholes. You go here. So do I, that's why I'm in your class. Now please stop hinting at what your SAT scores were. I don't care. PS: Mine were higher.

2. The Hot Girl In All Your AP Classes Who You Always Thought Was Real Dumb:

Aside from their presence, they generally offer little evidence to prove their intelligence.

3. Douchebags

Self-explanatory. 

4. The Kid You Always Thought Might Shoot Up The School

They're just as scary in college.

5. The Adult Going Back To Get Their Degree

Present at every school in the country, this is, hands down, the most annoying person at school. They never stop asking questions or telling stories about their busy lives and their children, which, unfailingly, are not as impressive, interesting, cute or funny as they think they are.

   Anyway, I had my first day of work, but it was all paperwork and orientation videos. I start for real Wednesday. And one week from now is my birthday! I'll be 20! And have no excuse for angst!

Over the Hills and Far Away

   It's funny how long things can seem to stay exactly the same for so long, and then how suddenly everything seems to change all at once.
   Mr. Fantasy asked his very-recently-new girlfriend to marry him. I'm not that upset about it. I'm not sure if I'm still in shock or just over it.
   I stayed up until 7am talking to a stranger this week- I guess we're not strangers anymore. :) We met through Esther, who has been friends with him for years.  We talked about a lot of things- past relationships, religion (his unwavering faith in God, my lack thereof), and politics (again, siding with opposite beliefs).  Somehow we barely noticed the hours passing and suddenly the sun was up.
   I'm trying so hard to evolve, emotionally. I read somewhere that introverts delude themselves into thinking they don't need anyone, and therefore they internalize everything, and end up emotionally underdeveloped because of it. I'm certain I'm in this situation, and thus am struggling to develop more personal relationships where I feel comfortable divulging things. So, when he asked me questions, I answered them. For the most part.
   When he tried to share my bed in the morning, I shrugged apologetically and got up. He left, after a few embraces, and went home.

   Last night I saw him again and he seemed a lot less interested. Naturally, this caused me to be maddeningly attracted to him. The more standoffish he became, the more fervently interested I became, and at the end of the night when he went home, I went to bed in a frenzy of restlessness and laughter, peppered with self-loathing.
   I was hoping the infatuation would have worn off by the time I woke up this morning, but no such luck. All day I've been wandering around dizzy, barely able to stop smiling for longer than a minute at a time. I'm stumbling around like a damn fool.

   He'll get a name if he comes to deserve one.  So... new beginnings, anyone? :)

As Lovers Go

   Last night I (very!) unexpectedly heard from an ex; the last on my list of favorite first kisses, which was maybe the most perfect first kiss I've ever had. I guess now he needs a name; I'll call him Dear Sergio.
  We met and walked through the streets of our silent little town, eventually settling on opposite benches in the park, catching up and reminiscing simultaneously.
   "Remember when we just walked up to those random kids and lay down next to them over there," I asked, pointing to a large cement circle that serves as a fountain in the summer months.
   "Yeah, that was... Why did we do that?" he asked, and we both laughed.
   "Remember when you used to break into my car during soccer practice and take pictures of yourself wearing my clothes and send them to me?" he asked, smirking.
   "Yeah, that was awesome." 
   "No wonder I had to start locking my doors," he said, laughing, and then added "Actually, I still don't."
   I immediately began plans to sneak back into his little red car and do it all over again, before remembering he's dating someone else. They got together three days after we broke up, almost two years ago. Ouch, right?  But I understood. I was shady and scared and secretive. We were young. I was leaving for school, moving 500 miles away at the end of the summer. Our relationship was as temperamental as the constant thunderstorms we had that summer; furious, fleeting, recurring. We spent hours in each others' arms, watching them, quietly absorbing our beautiful reflection. Until he found someone who would hold his hand in front of people. Someone willing to change her relationship status on facebook. Someone who could fall in love with him. Who did.
   "A lot of crazy stuff has happened in this place," he said, motioning around us.
   "Yeah... I think I threw up on you here somewhere," I admitted.  He laughed with his typical good nature, and pointed out the place where it had happened. (I've never understood how he had any interest in dating me after that, but he did. His libido's a champ, I guess.)
   "It all seems like it just happened, but it was so long ago. Years." Neither of us could comprehend how much time had passed.
   The time we spent on the benches stretched as slowly and sweetly as the years we'd spent together, and our subsequent years apart. We reveled in each others' company, in how easy and comfortable it still is. When we finally got too cold to ignore, he walked me home and hugged me goodnight, holding me a little too long, needing to decimate the distance silence and apartness had created.
   Lying in beds just blocks apart, we texted back and forth, him trying to admit to missing me as nonchalantly as possible. I sidestepped the issue repeatedly, not interested in making him a cheater. I've already done that. He has no impulse control and my ego is boundless. Those factors compounded with our mutual possessiveness is dangerous. It hardly occurs to us that we're wrong. Until the sun rises. And I'm sick of waking up guilty.
   I still did, this morning. I stayed in bed until noon, closing my eyes tightly to the sun's rays that peeked through my window, reminding me of the sins I've committed. For the record, we stayed in our own beds and just said goodnight. But I can't shake the guiltiness. 
   We've promised each other countless times; no matter what happens between us, we will always love each other. Because we were so blissful, so young, so volatile. And all our angst and frustration dissipated in our laughter and drawn-out embraces, our agonizing delusions. And we might. There will always be a deep current of affection and appreciation between us, I think; I hope.
   The dichotomy of night & day is hard to reconcile. The streets look so different without the sun, illuminated only by the moon and occasional streetlight. Traditionally, the night is filled with sin, but I still feel that teenage innocence under the stars.
   I'm happy for last night; the last time I saw him, it ended bitter and ugly, in heartbreak. This was sweeter. And, though I promised him the next thunderstorm, I think that's one I'm going to break. I'm not seventeen anymore, and at some point, I need to accept that he isn't mine, and hasn't been since I was. I think I'm ready to.

Birds Of a Feather

Bobby bought baby ducks!

I can't wait until they come home to meet their Mommy :)

I Think I See the Light

   I'm ecstatic. Things have gradually been getting progressively better between Me & Bobby McGee. We're finally getting back to each other. This summer will be lovely. I can already see the long nights of aimless adventures leading inevitably to hopelessly meandering misadventures. Even our speech is slowly growing thicker with affection. The nuances are infiltrating our exchanges, familiarly settling to fill the gaps they so recently permeated.
   I've missed my best friend :)

The Air Near My Fingers

   I know I'm supposed to maintain some sense of chronological order, but I'm hopelessly nonlinear. I'm still making my way through these notebooks, and I've been planning to give you guys a better idea of Johnny (who you guys were introduced to in my list of favorite moments.) He was a wonderful part of my life.
   He treated me with respect and kindness. My feelings for him never went deeper than a blissful infatuation and were never really explored, but we had a meaningful relationship and I hold him dear to me.
   Our interactions were very complex; I have a habit of falling into complicated exchanges and mind games. That's true of my relationship with Kid A also, but Johnny and I had a more open affection for each other, while Kid A laced his love with malice and cynicism. Johnny and I had our nights of disagreements and tension; that's inevitable in any relationship between two people, particularly in high school when insecurities and hormones are at such an all-time high, but we always found ourselves beyond them before the sun painted the next day's colors on the horizon.
   Before leaving for college, I wrote him a letter. Actually I wrote him seven, but the first six were drafts and he only got the last one. It went like this:

thank you for being a presence in my life these past years. you have provided immeasurable inspiration with your intelligence and your grace. you have propelled me to become a better person. your take on logic and emotions has shaped my thought process and actions in ways that would take hours to explain. i'm so grateful for that. i'm so grateful for so many things.

i apologize for everything, particularly being fucking crazy most of the time.

you are the best person i have ever known. i wouldn't say it if i didn't mean it. you are brilliant and clever and beautiful. you can always bring laughter. i appreciate so much the laughter you have brought me.

i'm weirdly content with the way we have so drastically drifted apart. it's comforting to know that if i ever should cross your  mind it will be the way i was at sixteen - graceless, guilty, altruistic, indecisive, overwhelmingly emotional and full of ideals. the only adjectives still applicable are graceless and guilty. of so many things.

i want you to know i learned to separate feelings from reaction and to stop apologizing. then i want you to forget that, and remember me how i used to be. i feel like updating you on my current self is somehow a betrayal to the gorgeous, clumsy youth i was so eager to immerse you in.

i have so much respect and admiration for you and i hope that wonderful things happen to you.

thank you for years of support and lessons and, most of all, honesty. i'll never forget it.

-linnea

   I gave it to him the day before he left for school. I handed the letter over in the late afternoon, as he lingered in the doorway to my parent's house making trivial conversion until I, smiling, sent him on his way. Laughing, he walked away with the envelope in one hand, skateboard in the other, to the parking lot across the street where Kid A was waiting. I disappeared inside my house to fold and pack clothing, where I pictured him shove it in his pocket haphazardly and forget it. I found out later he instead went off alone, searching until he reached a quiet place in the shade, and then opened it. 

   He called that night to react. Being the obsessive, anal person I am, naturally I transcribed our entire conversation. It makes remembering things so much more vivid and accurate. I know, I know, I'm weird to the point where it's borderline creepy, but I'll be damned if my stories lack detail!


   "I don't know who you think I am, but you said some really nice things!" he declared, to my laughter. "I think you gave me too much credit," he added, softly.

   "You just made an incredibly positive impact on my life," I explained. "I don't think it's possible to give you too much credit for that."
  "I'm flattered, but I think you overestimate me and underestimate yourself."

   I smiled. "Thank you, but you really did make my life beautiful. Even when things were awkward and occasionally terrible, it was really important and it caused a lot of growth. I really did love you in so many ways." 

   I kept myself in the past tense. He and I had stopped saying "I love you" the summer before when it started to complicate things too much. I remember spending my senior year jumping back and forth between knowing I loved him and being completely unsure if I did or not. Why are these things so hard to sort out? He's such a pleasant, supportive force in my life who still manages to surprise me. But male-female relationships get tangled when you admit love; somehow saying it raises questions that are awkward when unanswered, but nearly impossible to ignore once put forth. It's so much simpler to just silently understand that love exists without expressing it.

   "Yeah," he said, characteristically keeping his responses contained and concise. How sweetly opposite of me, with my rambling, adjective-ridden dialogue! "We had some good times."

   "Sorry I used to be so out of my fucking head."

   "Only that one time," he said audibly smirking.

   "Ohh, I don't even want to know what time you mean!" I laughed. Taking a more sincere tone, I continued. "Maybe if we're ever sixteen again we'll fix everything we screwed up this time... though maybe I said that last time."

   "Maybe I'll see you tonight," he responded, his syllables pulsating with possibility.

   

Tomorrow is a Long Time

   I'm still in the process of reading old notebooks; it's very on and off, and I have over 30 of them. Seriously, how did I have 3,000 pages worth of things to talk about in 5 years? Is this normal people?! I was out of my damn mind!
   Anyway, I found a few amusing things, although maybe only I will think they're funny. I love the awkward, biting cynicism of adolescence.
    Mr. Fantasy and I first met in June of 2006. So, I guess the four years I give us is a little bit of a stretch, but I'm only two months short, so let's just give that one to me, okay? We went to the same high school, and found out later we had both secretly been checking each other out from a distance for a year before ever speaking, but were introduced in the first weeks of the summer I was 15.
   He was a surprising and welcome distraction from my traumatic relationship with Kid A, which was still the main focus of my life (and can be read about for newcomers here and then here, if you want to be up-to-date and informed) and I was grateful for and excited about that. When summer ended, so did we- really, really badly.  It was ugly enough that we didn't speak for about the next year and a half, though I spent much of that time whining and obsessing about him and us. We started talking again in the middle of senior year and, save brief periods of estrangement, he has been in my life since.
    Here are a few things he inspired that first summer.

7/6/06

pasta & flowers

my pillow for hours

he wants to empower

before he deflowers

before he devours

stop.

stop.

stop.

stop.

stop!

you say you could thrill me

while begging to fill me

you claim that it's still me

say it always will be

at least 'til you kill me

stop.

stop.

stop.

stop.

stop!

7/29/06

there seems to be some sort of a force propelling us towards each other, daring us to touch.
so we do.
and in the sickening heat of the night, i start to shiver.
this feels so different from anything before.
this feels so different from everything before.
i love the way your whispering voice sounds in my ear.
i love the way your hand feels locked in mine,
like this is just where it belongs.
everything is becoming laughter between us,
maybe for the sole reason that we're too nervous to let it be anything else.
what a good place we're in.
everything feels like it's supposed to.
i've never felt so alive.
i've never wanted to feel so alive.
i've never wanted this before.
the night turns to tragedy when we part ways
still trying to resist the pull.


but i guess that's half the fun.

8/2/06

we trade lines like a poorly written, overly high school novel but, then again,
aren't we living one?
aren't we all living one?

   He and I don't address that summer or its aftermath, except in jokes. Some are harmless. "We were so dumb," "Yeah, we were dumb, but we were hot," Some are more misguided. "Like when I used you and then left you!" he interjects with, laughing, but retracting it quickly when he notices I wince and cannot quite laugh convincingly. "Did that... do something to you?" he has asked, in moments of quasi-sincerity, knowing I will roll my eyes and scoff before abruptly changing the subject. 

   We have a lot under the surface; a lot I don't acknowledge, a lot he doesn't accept, a lot we don't confront. Sometimes we try but, between the two of us, it's too raw somehow. It always ends with my pleading for a new conversation, and his reassurance that "the past is in the past." 

   But is it? Is progress possible when we have a time capsule of bitterness buried in the backyard?