"Pure intention juxtaposed
Will set two lovers' souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes
Testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then
Has a burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end
Crippling our communication
I know the pieces fit
Cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame
It doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other
Watch the temple topple over
To bring the pieces back together
Rediscover communication..."
He's a good friend of mine. So was she.
They'd been together before. A four-month relationship that seemed to be lasting forever. And then she ended it, and the hold that he'd kept so tightly on her ripped him apart. That time, I was her friend, seeing everything from her point of view. She was my best friend, and when I say best I mean best. But he was my friend too; not as close, and for not as long, but his friend nonetheless. I was stuck in the middle.
And then I did something silly. For ten fateful minutes I let myself become a volatile broadcaster instead of just a safe sounding board. For ten minutes I took pity on him, and I told him just one little thing that she had told me. And he reacted, and she noticed, and I told her what I did... and things between me and her were never the same again.
Oh, she forgave me. We were still best friends. But that's when we started growing apart.
My friendship with him began to grow until it eclipsed what I had shared with her. Looking back now, it was almost as if I made a choice. With those ten weak, soft minutes I chose him over her.
I don't blame myself, because the position I was in was of such intense pressure that the expression stuck between a rock and a hard place doesn't even come close. It was more like being burned by a fire on one side- the fire of his intense pain -and choked by a rope on the other- a rope that pulled and pulled as she tried to escape the ruins of their relationship. So I gave in. I fed the fire with a piece of the rope. I'm beginning to realise now that perhaps I cut the rope to do that.
I don't regret it either. Since I cut that rope she has become less and less the kind of person that I want to spend time around; running further and further into the distance until all the things that she once was to me have almost disappeared over the horizon.
And then he and I got together. A two-month summer romance that seemed to be lasting forever. And then he ended it, and and the hold that I'd kept so tightly on him ripped me apart. Because it was her. He still wasn't over her.
We both had other relationships, and after the compulsory period of awkwardness, he and I were closer than ever. I got over him... but he never got over her.
And they got back together. Months passed, and it seemed it would last forever.
But if it didn't work once, it was never going to work twice.
And now that they've broken up again, I find myself on his side more than hers. It's surreal for me, having been through this twice with them and now being on the other side of the fence. This time I blame her so much more than I could have ever blamed him all those years ago: it's the way that she just doesn't seem to care, this time. At least the first time she fretted and worried for the proper time period.
I may be wrong about how she's feeling. After all, we haven't had a deepmeaningful, like we used to, for years. But there are some things I've always known and noticed about her... she is immensely practical, ruthlessly down-to-earth, and can be brutally, brutally blunt.
After all he and I have been through, I can't help but take his side in this. But it is surreal... to be part of both lives, to be the fork in the road, the schism of their love story.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Assignment
My first English 121 Assignment:
"The tearing crunch of gravel spoke directly to my memory. It threw me back over seven years ago, over the handlebars onto the path of a park in Mt. Albert. As I blinked and turned around visions of a ten-year-old’s exaggerated injuries crossed my eyes and I started to think about that evening; that moment when I sat, still dazed and tumbled, blinded by the simple realization that the world- and the people who live on it- is not as kind as we think.
It had been one of my father’s failed attempts at getting me into exercise. He was tall and thin, dark-haired and a bit of a fitness freak; I was blonde, short and chubby, so it was inevitable that he would endeavor to turn me to the dark side. I was somewhat unimpressed by all this, but he was my dad and I had to humour him.
Every evening after dinner we would go for a bike ride through the local park. I had to have an escort, because it was the kind of park where people hung out and smoked strange smelling cigarettes and dumped trolleys from Pak n’ Save in the creek. The pathways through it were made of loose, chunky gravel, hazardous at best for an inexperienced cycler. Dad was teaching me how to use the gears, as up till then my own personal choice of wheels had been pink and sparkly with a back-pedal brake and streamers on the handlebars. He was always telling me to push harder, especially on the inclines. At the time I thought he just wanted me to “challenge myself”, but this wasn’t the case; and like so many childhood accidents waiting to happen, I didn’t listen.
On one particular hill I was slowing near the top. One tiny, inconsequential handlebar movement later and I was in the air, flying sideways, the wheels of my ten-speed ripping through the gravel as it toppled. With a sound like the tearing of a dove’s wings, I landed, sliding for metres, bewildered and panting.
My family used to call me a “drama queen”, and make out that the things that I got worked up about were trivial, and I was just looking for attention. But the truth is I was never very good with attention. If I’ve been upset by something and somebody tries to be nice to me, it only makes me cry more. If I’ve fallen, I’d rather people just left me be, because I get so embarrassed. But if I ever needed attention, I made enough fuss to get noticed. If I ever needed comfort, it was then.
“Are you alright?” My dear father said, laughter shaking his words slightly. I know now that this is a male thing- they can’t help but laugh at people falling over- but at the time I couldn’t believe that he could be so condescending.
“No, no, I’m not alright!” I responded hysterically.
Dad pedaled over to me and sat on his own mountain bike like a disapproving statue, towering over me. “Come on,” He said. “Get up.”
I found this such an inadequate response that I didn’t even try to comply. I just sat there, defeated and hurting, as my many scrapes and cuts began to sting and bleed.
All this jumped through my head in an instant when I heard that sound again, the tearing of someone’s pride, happiness and skin all at once. The scrape of flesh and metal against concrete. I turned around on the stairs and saw a boy who looked around my age half sitting, half lying on the ground. Without thinking, without even alerting the friend I was walking with, I rushed back down the steps. An instinct as strong as motherhood and not far from it urged me to run to this boy’s side. I crouched and extended my hand to him and saw my ten-year-old face gaze back up at me out of memory, dazed and confused and upset.
I knew what we were thinking, both my child self and this young man. True altruism is becoming rarer and rarer in this world. With our mouths we say, “Yes, I do help people when they are in need”. With our minds, we begin to quietly reel off exceptions. Unless I’m too busy. Unless I’m running late. Unless there’s lots of people watching. Unless they are fat, ugly, poor, rich, black, white, Asian…
Since that evening seven years ago, I’ve made my mind echo my mouth. I help people in need. No exceptions.
Today I can’t figure out why the fallen boy sat there so long, why he didn’t take my hand and get up. The look on his face still baffles me; he looked childlike, astounded… as if he had found his own epiphany in the dust."
"The tearing crunch of gravel spoke directly to my memory. It threw me back over seven years ago, over the handlebars onto the path of a park in Mt. Albert. As I blinked and turned around visions of a ten-year-old’s exaggerated injuries crossed my eyes and I started to think about that evening; that moment when I sat, still dazed and tumbled, blinded by the simple realization that the world- and the people who live on it- is not as kind as we think.
It had been one of my father’s failed attempts at getting me into exercise. He was tall and thin, dark-haired and a bit of a fitness freak; I was blonde, short and chubby, so it was inevitable that he would endeavor to turn me to the dark side. I was somewhat unimpressed by all this, but he was my dad and I had to humour him.
Every evening after dinner we would go for a bike ride through the local park. I had to have an escort, because it was the kind of park where people hung out and smoked strange smelling cigarettes and dumped trolleys from Pak n’ Save in the creek. The pathways through it were made of loose, chunky gravel, hazardous at best for an inexperienced cycler. Dad was teaching me how to use the gears, as up till then my own personal choice of wheels had been pink and sparkly with a back-pedal brake and streamers on the handlebars. He was always telling me to push harder, especially on the inclines. At the time I thought he just wanted me to “challenge myself”, but this wasn’t the case; and like so many childhood accidents waiting to happen, I didn’t listen.
On one particular hill I was slowing near the top. One tiny, inconsequential handlebar movement later and I was in the air, flying sideways, the wheels of my ten-speed ripping through the gravel as it toppled. With a sound like the tearing of a dove’s wings, I landed, sliding for metres, bewildered and panting.
My family used to call me a “drama queen”, and make out that the things that I got worked up about were trivial, and I was just looking for attention. But the truth is I was never very good with attention. If I’ve been upset by something and somebody tries to be nice to me, it only makes me cry more. If I’ve fallen, I’d rather people just left me be, because I get so embarrassed. But if I ever needed attention, I made enough fuss to get noticed. If I ever needed comfort, it was then.
“Are you alright?” My dear father said, laughter shaking his words slightly. I know now that this is a male thing- they can’t help but laugh at people falling over- but at the time I couldn’t believe that he could be so condescending.
“No, no, I’m not alright!” I responded hysterically.
Dad pedaled over to me and sat on his own mountain bike like a disapproving statue, towering over me. “Come on,” He said. “Get up.”
I found this such an inadequate response that I didn’t even try to comply. I just sat there, defeated and hurting, as my many scrapes and cuts began to sting and bleed.
All this jumped through my head in an instant when I heard that sound again, the tearing of someone’s pride, happiness and skin all at once. The scrape of flesh and metal against concrete. I turned around on the stairs and saw a boy who looked around my age half sitting, half lying on the ground. Without thinking, without even alerting the friend I was walking with, I rushed back down the steps. An instinct as strong as motherhood and not far from it urged me to run to this boy’s side. I crouched and extended my hand to him and saw my ten-year-old face gaze back up at me out of memory, dazed and confused and upset.
I knew what we were thinking, both my child self and this young man. True altruism is becoming rarer and rarer in this world. With our mouths we say, “Yes, I do help people when they are in need”. With our minds, we begin to quietly reel off exceptions. Unless I’m too busy. Unless I’m running late. Unless there’s lots of people watching. Unless they are fat, ugly, poor, rich, black, white, Asian…
Since that evening seven years ago, I’ve made my mind echo my mouth. I help people in need. No exceptions.
Today I can’t figure out why the fallen boy sat there so long, why he didn’t take my hand and get up. The look on his face still baffles me; he looked childlike, astounded… as if he had found his own epiphany in the dust."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Chapter Four: Apathy
"Still it's hard to just get by
It seems so meaningless to try
When all I want to do is cry
No-one ever knew I was so sad
Cause even though I get so high
I know that I will never fly
And when I fall out of the sky
Who'll be standing by?
Will you be standing by?"
A month or so ago I went on the pill and things have not been the same since. I've felt so down all the time... not the drama-filled, stormy down that I'm used to, but a general rainy cloud over my head. I've never really had mood swings before, but I know now what they are. Happy one minute, sad the next, for no apparent reason. And I feel so hopeless and helpless to resist... and in fact, it's as if I don't want to. I'm drowning in apathy. I don't care.
But I know that in an hour or so I probably will care.
It's so confusing having this leaping thing inside my head all the time. Up, down, up, down. I worry that next time I have to make a proper decision about something important, I'll be on a down and not make the right one.
But next time you see me, I'll probably be smiling.
Staying happy these days is like reaching for a star. I'm a long way down and it's a long way up, and I'm scared that if I ever catch it, it will burn my hands.
It seems so meaningless to try
When all I want to do is cry
No-one ever knew I was so sad
Cause even though I get so high
I know that I will never fly
And when I fall out of the sky
Who'll be standing by?
Will you be standing by?"
A month or so ago I went on the pill and things have not been the same since. I've felt so down all the time... not the drama-filled, stormy down that I'm used to, but a general rainy cloud over my head. I've never really had mood swings before, but I know now what they are. Happy one minute, sad the next, for no apparent reason. And I feel so hopeless and helpless to resist... and in fact, it's as if I don't want to. I'm drowning in apathy. I don't care.
But I know that in an hour or so I probably will care.
It's so confusing having this leaping thing inside my head all the time. Up, down, up, down. I worry that next time I have to make a proper decision about something important, I'll be on a down and not make the right one.
But next time you see me, I'll probably be smiling.
Staying happy these days is like reaching for a star. I'm a long way down and it's a long way up, and I'm scared that if I ever catch it, it will burn my hands.
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