Bind yourself to the mast and unstop your ears.

I said goodbye to Topher today. I spent about twenty-four hours straight with the man, which we hadn't done since the beginning. I counted back, thinking - it's only been a month, near exactly, since I met him. I so badly needed him just now. I'm glad he was here. I told him that. One thing about him is that I've never been afraid to tell him what's on my mind, he simply accepts it, and we move from there.

So we continued our lessons in poolsharking, went back to my place and played Monopoly until the wee hours while killing a bottle of wine and talking in wretched Russian accents. That last part may have been just me. But then we just fell asleep, in our insomniac way, waking and talking and touching each other and falling back into dozing again. We finally got up to go make omelettes and bacon at his place, eating strawberries and cherries and drinking lemonade and rum. We feasted and talked awhile, a long while - I think we've talked more this day than - no, that's not true, we always talk. It was good. Cuddled up on the couch and watched Shaun of the Dead. Wandered into his room and spent a lot of time looking at each other. I learned things. A few:

His love, the one he lost, is Jennifer. He calls her 'the one who meant everything.' I know what he means. I'm glad he has one.

His birthday is November 10th. This took a very long time to find out. Though I guessed he was a Scorpio that first night.

His mother. Things about his mother I don't think I ought be repeating, but some very solemn exchanges.

He found out that I bought the compilation of Edward Hirsch's poetry, Lay Back the Darkness, because he gave it to me to read and I so loved it. About the reasons for the novel, a few that I hadn't known. About Jason. The scar on my forehead. We explore each other a lot. I like that about us. I'm just trying to put some of it down, what I liked about us, because the strange thing is, if I love him, and I am not sure I do, I love him for being something I recognize, something very much like myself, and for letting me be tender and sweet toward him without being afraid of me. He's not afraid of me, not at all. He looks me in the eye unflinching and he laughs at what he sees there.

It was so simple to let him go. I'll see him again. He has my address; I have his; we have a mutual predilection toward letters and fine handwriting.

His middle name is Ian and his car's name is Lucille. He can play chess but not dominoes. He has seven tattoos and stories for all of them. He has the most perfect fingernails I've ever seen on a man, and hands that remind me of wolves. He kissed me very gently when he left me, and we both know we're not done. With this, yes. This is done. But I'm looking forward to seeing him again.

Hitting the road tomorrow, headlong toward you precious beauties. Catch me quick; I'll be gone again soon.

Neglectful me.

All my insistence and yet I let the days go by. Here's the newness -

The apathy continues, I'm nearly gone and everyone seems to want to pass me out of here with flying colors. My drama teacher so loved our pre-scene that she told us not to bother with a final one since I won't be there for the production day. I got a 92 on an exam most people got 70-odd on, and the two final papers are already mapped out and ready to be written. Barbara wants me to start working for her again, Manoah and Sara and I all have plans to go to the beach a lot this summer, go on quests, spend time creating things, learning. It's good. I won't be coming back, I think, until August.

I'm leaving on Tuesday for Colorado (Taravitch, I call you soon, we work out the key situation) and I'll have to spend a last night with Topher somewhere in there, because when I return, he will be gone. Sad but good. I love talking with the man, I would have liked to spend some time with him when we weren't both desperately busy, but it's good to think of what he's doing. We both got disillusioned as to teaching, he's going back to stonemasoning and living in an old farmhouse, wanting to learn to fix his brother's Chevy truck, to grow a few things and to fire-dance. I like thinking of him out there using his body and being fascinated. I will be visiting him in those little quests I take.

I'll be visiting you two so soon. It's only a week now. Gods, I miss you. Open your arms, I'm coming in.

I'm not an addict (maybe that's a lie)

That song just ran straight through my head and out the other side like it was chasing its cat. So weird.

But I am. An addict, that is. Sex, girls. I can't get over it. I'm sick as a dog right now, nose stopped up, mouth all chapped, that horrible brewing sensation in the back of my skull, and Topher's in a bad way too, all hungover from his finishing-the-thesis celebrations, but I haven't talked to him in a week (see: finishing-the-thesis) and I so miss being touched. When there wasn't anyone, when I'd walked away from that mind-numbing fantasmagora in LA, once I'd got my center back, I was fine, I didn't need anything anymore. I was chaste as a frozen beetle with Jason, and that's unlike both of us. But now I'm all in the center of it again, and it's not over, not remotely, but I can see it closing in front of us slowly like the mouth of a tunnel and all I can think of is Touch me now before I have to face what's waiting for me in the Bay.

By which I mean the old lovers, of course, the old mistakes, the old guilt. Not you. You I await with shake-me-in-my-skin anticipation.

I'm with you, though, Tess, about the caring too much about people, or at least so intently that they get all frightened and shaken. It's hard, though, knowing how good it can be between us, and how we've sort of transcended all the simple little friendships people we know have had. Hard to think you might not be able to have that, in a relationship. Or that you might have to pretend you didn't want it. That you should have to pretend at all, that's the killer for me. I hate withholding from someone I feel trust with, I hate not being able to look someone clean in the eyes, see the echo back, and say, "Oh. There you are." To have it be acknowledged. I don't mind being different but I hate this fear that shadows everything. That we're not seeing what we know we see. Hell, if I didn't have you, I'd be the most depressed individual west of Georgia.

Give it a try, dear heart. I'm holding fast to mine, but that's me, and we've never been exactly looking for the same thing. Not exactly. Same soul, different circumstance. We'll see how it works out, you know? Tara's got hold of hers.

Oh, geez. Tara? You sure you don't want to reconsider? I can't tell you what a bitch it is not being able to eat myself into an earth-shattering funk before your wedding because I have to be able to fit into that dress.

No self esteem issues for you, Tess. None whatsoever. Not allowed. I will make love to you until you beg for mercy and swear eighty-seven times in a row that you're sweet-gods-lovin'-gorgeous.

I have to go study for a French competency exam now, lest they decide my tuition 'twas for naught, and no graduation pour moi. Mais vous etes les belles dames de mes reves, et je vous aime.

L'amour.

Thinkething

It's one of the most beautiful days I've seen all year, this green-soaked wonder of an outside, all the riot going on, taking over the highstone beautiful gothic buildings, and birds with goldflecked backs running up to the ancient swing hanging over a mudpuddle where I've been sitting with Dos Passos (who is totally influencing everything in my little demiuniverse right now). I can't sit still, even for lovely language; I keep staring out into this impossibly glowing green, I go walking, I try to continue work inside but my body is having none of it. There's a festival of some kind going on in the quads which I won't see the culmination of tonight because I will be working, but it makes me strangely sad. There's a giant jumpy castle, and a rockwall looking like a dinosaur turd at one end of the center square, and every student union known to man lining the quad, selling things. And a band at one corner, the base making the ground shake under my feet.

I'm thinking (oh dear) about communes.

I've been thinking about them a lot lately, about how the whole philosophy of how people treat each other is warped somehow, and based on this mutual acceptance of lies. How we only pay attention to the things that are wrapped in bright lettering. I started thinking in movie-mode (ever do this?) where I imagined a debate going on, flashing in and out to scenarios, imagined someone (okay, me) explaining why a commune works better, why the capitalist system is madness. It's not communism, exactly - it's just this attitude of knowing everyone, knowing where that thing you need is and who can help you to get it. Eliminating the unneccesary. This absurd addiction to excess. And, because I am secretly a romantic, how much prettier it is when you get rid of the excess.

And how you have to decide. You have to decide. You can't have a revolution, not the way we think of revolution, with guns firing and people rioting and lovers kissing passionately because this is the last day they get. You have to decide, to live differently, to find the others who believe the same, and then you have to abandon everything else and go off and start it again.

It's that part that's so terrifying. We all want to stay right where we are, to start it at home. Maybe it can be done. Revolution, to revolve, to evolve, to change, to turn into something else - maybe. Maybe maybe maybe. I'm hoping, girls. I'm hoping that when we're middle-aged we're all still leaning on each other hard, the way we do, I hope we've all got our hands underneath something that makes us happy, I hope we bring it home every night and serve it up for fucking supper. I hope there are more of us - not us, you understand, but that there are more people to rely on for other things, that we always know where to go. I don't mind being lonely but I've always hated feeling helpless.

It was a good movie. Maybe I'll write it sometime.

I miss you. I wish I were there, I wish we were talking out loud about this. I know I'm only making half-sense but that's because I'm missing you, you make me make sense, I need you to bounce off of, to keep me from turning into Dona Quixote right this second and having people laugh at my horse. My jealousy is crawling all over my skin because you get to see each other two weeks before I join the party. I'm thinking about what I want to do with my life and it's gotten so much bigger every time I turn to look at it. Writing, yes, but there are things I write about more than anything, and they have to do with relationships of every kind because I think that's the center of everything, everything I don't like about our little rock in the center right now.

In other news, I give a good haircut.

Love.

Wrestlemania!

See, I likee the blog, because I think we write more, and more random stuff to each other, using it. Though yes, my email is also empty - but you know, it's often empty. It's only occasionally that you girls appear in it. Tess sends out her random internet links and little photo thingys and suchlike, but she does that anyway. And the blog gets me writing, because I feel like an ass if I haven't posted in the last day or so. And then I write. And everyone rejoices.

That's my side. Not that I'm going to force you or anything. 'Sides, I'd probably keep it up, and you girls would just have to promise you'd look at it so I wouldn't feel it was disappearing into internet neverneverland.

Tess, honey. Move. You're going batshit insane, and that's no good. You do, however, have to be willing to take crap jobs in between regular corporate work while you're job hunting, or ye olde rente will not be paid. You should cobble together a little miniarsenal of crap jobs. Waitressing and retail and coffeeshops and the like. And then you should explode Jesus.

Wait, what? Meh.

Taravitch . . . relax. This is Chris. You're not trying to prove anything to each other - you're experimenting. Experimenting is a ridiculous amount of fun. Also, because you do know each other so well, there's very little that can happen that won't simply be funny if it doesn't work. I mean, I've gotten into S&M a little bit, and here's what happened there: he bit the inside of my thigh pretty damn hard, and the little noise of pain I made sounded like a different sort of noise, and afterward there was a bite-shaped raised welt on my thigh.

The next day it turned into a bruise the size of a fist. His fist, not mine. My fist is way too small for this bruise. This bruise would bend my fist over, call it his bitch, and spank it.

But it's not like either of us were embarrassed by it, it was just a miscommunication and it turned into a giant bruise of doom. And so we're laughing about it. We've bumped each other in the head - I've accidentally kneed more than one guy in the balls while throwing a leg over - I've had my hair pulled and VERY awkward positions attempted. There are things that just don't work - but if you don't give them a shot, there's no fun to be had. This is like that. You're trying to add some fun via the teasing route, which is awesome. And if it doesn't work, okay, there's tons of other stuff you can do. But neither of you is going anywhere. It's not like no sex equals failure. It's Chris. You've had sex with him a lot. You will have sex with him a lot in years to come. This particular time is an experiment, so roll with it. It's not the sum test of your sex life for ever and ever amen. You know?

You know. I'm just saying.

I miss you girls. Taravitch, honey, would you leave me a key somewhere or an open door or a nice neighbor? I'm going to need someplace to crash and apparently Tam's got God's own level of company in the area for her graduation. Also, I will weed your garden and try to discover where you keep your secret store of badass juice. I want to run marathons! I want to run more than three miles, for example, but nooooo . . . Tess, are you going to watch her? And bring bananas and Gatorade? Will you take pictures of the bananas and Gatorade, and oh, I don't know - GIGI??? Maybe? A little bit? And then I will be home on the first. And I will smother everyone in kisses.

Love.

Violence and anime

Here's the thing. I went out today, to go check out Mission Impossible III, just because I haven't taken myself to a movie in awhile and I felt like some action-adventure-style stuff. And Phillip Seymour Hoffman just scares the living shit out of me, you know? It occurred to me that I really don't like the bloody stuff, for the sake of being bloody, I don't like the fucked-up sadistic shit we conceive of to do to each other. I was thinking, there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do to save one of you girls from dying - there would be no need to make it a weird and twisted death. Death would be enough, you know? Anything past that is just so unneccesary, and cruel, and it's so strange to think we revel in it, sometimes.

I'm weirdly contemplative about this right now because of this class on utopias and dystopias. So many people are locked into this idea that if you don't get to have exactly the life you have right now (which for most of them is boozy and full of American Idol and lots of shopping), then you can't have a utopia. Whenever we come across some sort of utopian idea that might work, with a completely different social structure, they think it couldn't happen, because man is warped and besides, they don't have TV.

But all I ever wanted was that strange, over-the-top sort of brotherhood, sisterhood, family aspect, that group of people on whom you depend, and to not question whether it was good or bad to help it. Just to always be helping it. Which makes me even MORE of a communist! Oh, man, I'm on a roll. Just thinking how wretched it is to be stagnant. I hate that. I think that's part of the need to keep moving. Everything is fascinating at first, but I like it to stay fascinating, and it seems the longer I'm there the more it becomes flawed, or I do, or we do together. Relationships, jobs, everything. Gotta keep moving somehow. I don't know how I'm going to do that.

Sorry. Weird pseudo-intellectual state. In other news: I suck at pool, and so does Topher. We would both like to be badass pool sharks, and he sort of looks like one, bending over a cue with a cigarette clenched between his teeth and one eyebrow drawn it while he's concentrating, but then he scratches and the whole thing just gets shattered. I don't even look like a pool shark. I look like someone who can't hit the fucking cueball half the time.

I sound irritated. I'm not. Just watched Final Fantasy, because I saw the latest cool version with Jason, and man, the old stuff sucks. I'm mad at guy who keeps defeating all the bad guys, because he fights with a gun, and what kind of badass fights with a gun? I mean, really.

I really don't like guns. I think they should take them away.

Part of Mission Impossible was set in Rome, and I had walked along this wall where they broke into the Vatican a million times, and I was so excited to see it I nearly wet myself. The guns made me think of it. No guns in Rome. I felt so safe there. I hate that someone has more power than me for no reason. If they go earn it, fine, but fuck buying it. That's cheating.

I still sound irritated. I'm really just drunk. Don't you worry.

Love.

Happy Mother's Day

To the first one, and to us little demimères, the best we know how.

The sex talk is ongoing and everything always involves all of us, Taravitch. I think Tess and I tend toward the same attitude (as in, I want it, I need it) for different reasons, whereas you've always been in sort of in the 'eh, sure' sort of category. Our behavior is markedly similar, though. That's odd.

My address for now is 6120 S. Ellis Avenue, #3S, Chicago, IL 60637. If any international spies are reading this, feel free to send cash donations and/or illegal substances.

I'm hurting just now. My head aches, I've been working all day waiting on evil mothers and their bratty little children, and I have a midterm due tomorrow that I can't quite bring myself to care about. I'm really horribly apathetic about school lately. Hard not to be, when you're as good as done.

I come home June 1st. Be around, be my girls for a bit, for I miss you dearly, and I think some general petting of all and sundry is in order. Also, I am attempting to interview with Kaiser Permanente. Rock. The money issues, they continue - I'm sorry for the shoddy job, Tess. I know you don't know really what you want to do as yet, but can we play with this a little bit? Can we send you out to meet cool people that you might like, even if you don't like the jobs they have, just to, you know, get in the mind of the thing? I know an awesome lady whose job you would hate (she's a financial analyst) but she herself is a rockin' cool Zen aikido master with this thing for feeding her ducks on time. Eh? Eh? Does that not sound like the name of awesome? Yes it does. And every time I talk to her I get all excited and start thinking of wild and crazy things I could do for a living and she'll go - well, actually, there's this and that person you could talk to . . . and she'll introduce you to them. I went wandering around Rome with a bunch of her friends. She's kind of like Charlotta, but . . . a financial analyst. You know.

Must to continue procrastination for midterm.

Tara. I am buying you new shoes for your wedding. Not for the wedding, you understand. For the pavement afterward. Or maybe for the wedding. That dress covers 'em, yeah?

Must . . . eat . . . Thai food.

Love.

How My STD Scare Became Awesome

All right, so the boy and I had a weirdo discussion a few days back, about how something is up with his cock and he's not sure what it is. Nothing painful, nothing scary, just, as he says, "nothing I've seen before." What it is, looks like a hickey. And I know what you're thinking, but none of this was my fault.

So we make an appointment to see the Student Care Center, separately, because our classes require funny things of our scheduling. And I go into the doctor, and I explain what's up, and that neither of us are in any pain, and that I have no symptoms, and I describe his symptoms (no, I did not use the word 'hickey,') and she gives me this look, and asks when the last time I was tested.

Ah . . . December. Right? Yeah. December.

She snaps shut her little doctor folder with this unholy smacking noise and actually laughs at me. "All right, you go away. He's coming in this afternoon? Let's not even bother, then. You go on with you, this is nothing."

I'm, I'm just . . . being . . . careful. Responsible? Something like that.

"That's very cute, dear, but really. Go on with you."

So I went on with me, and you know what? It was great.

In other news: I went to the gym and have been sticking it to the man, got an awesome review on my latest draft and still may not be getting honors. And I'm beginning the job hunt in the Bay, so we'll let that decide, okay, Tess? If I get some fantabulous job starting in June I don't want to hear any of your yap about my not coming home. 'Cause you know you want me.

Also . . . you're not screwing up, sweet girl, you've just never done this before. It's okay. You'll get ahold of it. All the faith, every bit, in you, always. As to the sex . . . I think you and I should have some talks about this. It's always been a thing for both of us, and we've approached it in different ways and we've never really talked about what we learned from fucking it up now and again. It would be good to get a handle on why, and what we're looking for, and also - something I've been noticing lately is that the presence of sexuality scares people. Not sex, sex is totally cool with everyone, but the actual smoky little connection and the power behind it is terrifying. To everyone. I can't figure out if that's a necessary thing or a societal weirdism, but it would be good to know. I'm spending a lot of time lately figuring out the moments that I disagree with a social anomaly, and what the best way is to approach it. Because simply to do differently never quite cuts it. You have to figure a way to get what you need without hurting anyone else, and that's always the rough spot.

One of the reasons I'm very glad Topher came along when he did. I'm about to come home to a lot of old relationships that I behaved badly in, and it's good to be grounded in the notion that I can have the sort of relationship I want, if I approach it rightly. I'm even glad to be leaving him, in a strange way. I can't quite get my hands around that one. But I am. And by the bye . . .

A horse named Troll is NOT allowed to physically abuse you, and use you for semen deposits! I refuse! Adamantly!

Taravitch . . . how go the finals? I would come run the Bay to Breakers with you if you wouldn't kill me with your awesomeness. And, you know, if I weren't coming out at the beginning of June. And I had money. But mostly if I had your killer thighs. And she conquers mountains . . . with a baby stroller . . . and we call her Tara-viiiiitch!!

Love.

Crumpets + Marmalade = Crazy-Delicious

Okay. It's official. We do not have a blog. We have an ongoing communal. A commune, if you will. We are communists!

Not bloggers. Communists. Got it? Good.

Tess, starry one, shall I come home at the beginning of the summer instead of the end, so that we can apartment hunt together and perhaps tickle some sanity into you? I know it's hard, baby, I do, but there's only so much you can worry about it. Let us roll with it together, I will sell a kidney and be your sugarmama. Live in my house, I'll be your shelter, just pay me back with one thousand mornings of you waking up in your thong underwear squinting at the curtains and craving a bagel. Yeah? I will totally come home earlier. Nothing's holding me here but the prospect of an easy job through the summertime.

So here's what happened to me yesterday, okay? It was a good day, the sort of day that picks you up by the scruff of your neck and shakes you vigorously and dumps you into a vat of dementia. Rock.

First. I watched Comedy Central and made this commune. Then I had drama and played games all day in drama, and watched two guys (one an Italian football player, the other a slow, droopy sort of cinema geek) be gunslingers in an improv scene. YES. And I won playing Scorpion. And then, in another class, this guy who I have met frequently through various people shows up. It's a seminar class. I didn't know he was in it. But cool, that's all good. And he asks for a ride downtown, so I oblige, and I find out I'm giving him a ride to his improv show. And he buys a half-tank of gas, which is great. So fuck, I'll watch improv. It's free, too. Saucy.

And then he buys me dinner. Which is really good tenderloin and portobello mushrooms and little fried onions and bleu cheese and tomatoes. Soooo good. A little sketch that he bought me dinner, but whatever, I'm grateful.

Improv is lots of fucking fun.

And then I go home. And I want to talk to Topher, but he's not around. He's playing pool with his roommate. So I go, hey, it's nine o'clock. Maybe I should apply for that arts grant that's due today. Sure. Brilliance. So I crazy-fast pump out a cover letter, a resume, writing references, a timeline of work completed, and a writing sample. Done - at the stroke of midnight. I am sooo good. Someone give me a pony.

Sara races by me on her way to Scav Hunt. There are screams and shouts of "Where's your hall pass?" coming from the quads. I'm feeling pretty delicious.

Tenacious D comes on the radio as I start up the car, singing the tribute to the greatest song in the world. I take this for an omen that I am going to get laid tonight. I am right.

In the rain, walking across the midway, I see this floating pair of jeans and white T-shirt, bobbing around in a rhythm I know. Topher's got this weird sense of balance, I think his spine's misaligned. He sort of bounces on his knees and moves his torso with his legs. I pick him up and take him home.

And he hands me this envelope with two folded pieces of paper inside, and it's just a little rambling he wrote the other night when he left me sleeping at three in the morning to go write some poetry down, about people crossing each other on their way to other paths, and how with the swift intimacy and the fear so many people put into it, we are often not certain if it was good. But this, with me, he looks at as a connection of an intense sort and he is less lonely for it, as we are both fully inside it. And we talk a little, about that, about us, about our past failures with loving people without wanting to be with them. And we hold each other for a very long time, and we both cry a little, remembering. "I miss them," I say, and he whispers, "So do I. But you should always be close to people, Tei." I hiccup. "I know. I wish they knew." And his hands are on my face and he's kissing me and we make love all night and fall asleep with his nose in my ear.

And now I'm eating crumpets.

Love.

My sweet girls.

My thought is this:

We have our trials, just now, and always. And instead of giving the tentative little emails, I thought, to keep a record, that belongs to us, so we can look back and see what we've done. I'm scared, I am - I may not be getting my honors though my professor loves my thesis - some sort of politics in the university, and a man I've never met. (Always men. I swear, when we found Giavanna was a she it made me pretty sure the baby wasn't going to ruin anything for Tara.)

And I'm graduating. And my mother. And I'm coming home at the end of a long summer, and we will see if any good can come of it.

The other thing . . . I've decided I spend too much, in time and money, on excesses in my life. And I should stop it. There are a few things that I always wanted to put energy into, and instead I go for long drives, or read the same books over and over, or (cringe) watch bad TV. Or get laid. That I've definitely been doing, to great effect, lately - which is fantastic but the man's a poet, and I'm put to shame by his dedication to time for writing. He woke up in the middle of the night and left me sleeping to go write for a few hours. He called the next day all excited about what he'd done and I thought I hadn't done that in a long time. Jason, too, he does that. Taravitch, sweet girl, you manage it too, but you never make me ashamed of myself. You're almost my excuse for not doing it - I think every time I don't want to do something I think, well, that's one of the other girls' domain.

So. Someone give me a task for tomorrow. Running or reading something particular or writing something particular or job hunting or anything at all. Give me a little mini-quest, just for me. I think that's part of why I did this, too. So we can all push each other a little more.

Except Tara. Tara pushes herself hard enough. Tess and I are going to have to give you tasks like, "Make yourself a cup of tea and think about lotus blossoms for an hour." Yeah. Like that.

Love.