Author: D'jaevle

Being Right Isn’t Always the Right Place to Be

Let me present a couple of theoretical situations:

NE decides that after she has her first child, the nature of our relationship would need to change.

OR

NE decides that the best place for her is the west coast and that she needs to move to California.

—

She has the right to make either of these decisions. Not only does she have the right, it may even be in her best interest to do one or both.

But that wouldn’t isolate me from feeling upset about the decision. And not just upset – uncertain, unhappy, even angry. So despite it being her right to make the decision, despite perhaps being the right decision to make, you have these emotions to deal with.

This is the position I have placed NE in. Where I am right, but she isn’t necessarily, wrong.

I can’t apologize for it; to say I am sorry for doing the right thing would be a lie and would only add confusion to an already complex set of emotions. The trouble is that while I should not apologize for the decision itself, that does not mean I shouldn’t apologize when I make a mistake in the handling of the decision. And no matter how hard you try to handle a situation correctly, some situations simply don’t have a right answer.

Spoken Mastery [uneditted]

Everything here, in this place, is filtered, edited.

It is part of the charm of this medium, that perfection may be attempted. Attempted, but never attained. Because it is that drive for perfection, that constant editing, molding, shifting of ideas, that continual desire to see it better, that ensures it never will be.

***

Here, uneditted. One take, one try.

A taste of imperfect perfection.

Catch of the Day (Answers)

Melanie, I absolutely understand the need to test yourself against the edge of the right words during a day filled with inconsequential moments. It is the cold shower to wake up (or, honestly, most of the time it is just a splash of cool water). Sharing commonalities, especially the harder-to-own truths we try so hard to keep from slipping from out fingers, is intoxicatingly intimate.

Ki Two, I do not know how well-thought out my posts really are. I believe our lives are filled with epiphanies of sorts, especially if you are open to them. The tricky part is holding on to them. They can be so ephemeral, wisps of smoke in our hands. I think you say it best when you speak of thinking. Perhaps that is my issue – I do not consider most of my thoughts to be all that deep. But then, I consider most thinking to be too restricted, and not truly thinking at all. Escaping the lines we’ve drawn within ourselves is the trick.

Freya, it was from your site I received my first link. I can recall reading your words and taking joy in that fact that you enjoyed my writing enough to connect to me. Style and voice are almost one and the same, for me. Here, the inflections of my voice are found in my word choice, the tenor and tone set by never-as-clever-as-I-think blog titles. All of my poetry before I hit college rhymed (ABAB, ABBA, AABB). The words slipped off my mind’s tongue in singsong chants. Most of it was utter trash, but damn, it sounded good. Substance followed style, and for years I tried to find a real voice. By the time this blog opened, I had finally found true comfort in how I write. Thank you for your words.

Lea, I am back. Did you really think I would not return?

Anonymous, so I’m just doing all the writing you’re too lazy to get around to, eh? I’m taking you’re name down, Anonymous and you owe me. Do you make a good pasta salad? Naked?

Nauthyinaustin, is it heaven for NE? I cannot speak for her, but from my understanding…she considers herself very lucky. And not simply because of the dual relationships she lives in; she has found two people who, pardon my self-modesty, are rather exceptional at being the type of people they are. As for the details of that conversation with Bear outside the dorm…well, some things must remain in the dark. I like to tease NE with what she doesn’t know about that conversation, and that would ruin the fun. But to answer your real question, the laying of a foundation that has allowed our relationships to survive – it is simple as this: absolute honesty, with yourself, and those involved.

Chelsea Girl, you are not kidding; I have some truly atrocious typos. Not to mention my habit of leaving out entire words that I write in my head but somehow get dropped by the time they reach the screen. I have done a bit of writing this last month, and in my upcoming posts, your insights on my writing will play out; you know me too well.

Nancy Dancehall, life is amazingly cyclical. If it is your will that you have a chance again, make an imprint of your intent on the world and see what happens.

L.G., you are more than welcome. I think you will find that you are much more than adequate with words. If fear of judgement, that somehow your words will stack up less to others, is what keeps you from writing, than you are misguided. Never ask forgiveness for your words. They are a gateway, one that belongs to you alone. As long as you inhabit respect for yourself when you write your words hold value.

Introspectre, girl of hotdog buns and silly things. Writing has never been a chore for me because I never write for others.

This is not to say I don’t write to elicit a certain response from those who read, because I do, all of the time. I write to see which words capture the imgination, which lines linger in the minds of others. But I always do it for selfish reasons. For my own edification, for my own needs. There are times I feel like I have to write, that I need to say something, anything, but this is good for me. Because if forces me to continue to practice at something I enjoy, to find something new amongst the old.

Magicknyx, there are sweet addictions. I do hope this is one of them. Desire is the blood of life, and I am glad you are drinking from its cup.

Beatnik, you have hit upon the act in which I strive – that words live, that they sketch in the contours of thought and ambition, an act of creation that is as much inspiration and instigation.

Sabrina, thank you. The lines between poetry and verse are thin for me. It is only a matter of space. The sound of silence, the pause between breaths.

Stiletto Girl, I do not truly view myself as an exhibitionist, as I seldom write to be vulnerable, except in a more visceral sense. But I do see this blog as a story of sorts. I am curious to find out if what comes next.

Secondary Introduction

I always want more.

More than that, I want to want more. I want to be insatiable. I want to be lean from hunger, let the weight of my desire hang heavy inside of me. I want it to drive me.

Can we be too comfortable in our excellence?

I don’t want to be comfortable. I don’t want to be at ease. Periods of rest become months of sleep, a drowsy lethargy towards life. Being good isn’t enough. Because you will disappoint yourself. No matter how good you are, those moments when you are not wondering if you really are as good as you think, you are thinking that you should be doing better than you are.

It always comes to this. Words and words to hone my knife, to give courage enough to cut away my pretensions. I take a savage glee in slicing deep, slipping the knife under my skin and peeling it back to see the marrow of who I am. I move fast, least I pause to consider the possibility that there is nothing under the surface, that I will cut myself into nothing.

But that won’t happen. There are already words to replace the ones I have cut away, already new, fresher ideas to settle over myself.

I want recognition, I want validation, but I don’t want to ask for it least it sour the taste. I want it heaped upon me, the riches I so obviously deserve.

That laughter in my eyes you always see? It is because I find myself endlessly amusing. Because it is hard for me to take myself seriously. Because I know the secret to life, and it is that everything is fucking ridiculous.

I want to be unique. But only to myself. I want to privately know how special I am, because if I leave it unsaid, it can remain true even in the face of evidence to the contrary.

***

Do you see who I am to be, yet?

Honesty is not simply saying what you think, it is questioning why you think it.

My knives are sharp, children. Don’t come too close.

Class Attendance

When I first began writing for this blog a year ago, it was for one real purpose – to have an excuse to write. I love writing. I love the power of the written word. And I love what it makes of me.

It was to be an experiment. Could I post consistently for a year? Write enough, speak interesting enough, believe enough, to do it? More than a diary, it became a sampling of my private life. The things I think of, the places my mind goes.

And I have succeeded, I believe.

I’m an intensely private person, which may seem at odds with having a blog detailing my private thoughts. A blog that anyone, with the proper inclination, can read. I hoard my time and my thoughts selfishly. But sharing these words, here, with you, is different. It isn’t the anonymity, which is a thin veil at best. It is the potential of this space.

So what’s next? I’ve debated closing shop, moving on and finding other diversions. Because certain elements are so deeply ingrained in me, I fear some of my themes grow repetitive – that I’m not learning anything new in the constant examination of those ideas that fascinate me.

This blog sphere moves fast; I’ve lost count of the bloggers I’ve grown to love who came and went in the last year. And I wonder how quickly it would take for the sands of the network to wash up over my words.

But no, I don’t think I am done. Not yet.

I am going to take a small month-long break. To determine what it is I am to be in the coming year.

In the meantime, I invite you, you who read me daily or occasionally, to leave a note on the door while I am gone. You’ll see the picture just above this post. Tell me why you read my words. Tell me why you write your own. Ask me a question, or make a suggestion. Share a memory inspired by something you read. Hate me, adore me. This is your chance to speak to the wolf and the man who shares its skin.

I promise to answer each note upon my return.

And then decide who I am going to be next.

Sex Life of a Doorknob

Staying with a poetic theme, here is something I wrote in college. As you can see, I have a rather warped sense of humor.

***

The sex life of a doorknob
is a peculiar thing, indeed
I’ve never seen them having sex
yet even doorknobs must have a need

So callous people are,
when opening a door
they twist, they yank, and then it’s done
and they regard the knob no more

How must a doorknob feel
used everyday like so?
No loving caress, no soft spoken words
no tangible afterglow!

Next time you rest your hand upon a doorknob
it is possible you might find
letting your hand linger there,
is an act from you most kind.

Master

You have only this moment to decide.

Are you still thinking?

Too late. My hands are already around your neck. I can feel your breath catch under my fingers, your heartbeat against my palms, the heat of your skin a warm reminder of the life I hold. In that moment of hesitation, I saw the truth and made the decision for you.

It is dangerous, this game we play. The rules are silent and each move is made in the space of a breath (if breathing were to be allowed).

To your knees you are driven, my hands implacable, immovable. My voice has become your voice, your thoughts. I am over you, beside you, inside of you, willing your body into a state of expectancy and readiness. The gift I am to bestow on you requires complete compliance. I leave no room for regret in the process, only the determination.

Are you with me yet?

Try harder.

Put yourself in that space. It does not matter if you close your eyes. The words brand themselves into the darkness you seek to hide within. The only guideposts in a land empty of meaning, they lead you to the same place everytime. You dress yourself in the clothe of routine, the face of the familiar. You seek to numb yourself with the practiced ease in which you greet those who think they know, but it is the comfort of the condemned.

For you, my hand is steady and my knives are sharp. For you, I will cut quickly, so that the nerve endings remain intact. I want you to feel what is under your skin, under the protective lining of your beliefs.

Still not there?

You are not subliminated or subsumed. You are measured, manipulated, and made. You are the paintbrush of an artist, the words of a poet, the inspiration of a visionary. You are drawn, written, believed in.

You are a sin to indulge in, a moment to be experienced, an implement of intent. You are a skill underused, but often practiced. You are my craft in form, my faith derived, my artform, my belief, my self.

You are my mastery.

The Girl I Didn’t Marry

Everything we say is a story. The jokes we tell, the complaints we utter; our histories shared, our promises made. We unravel our lives in our heads with an audience of one. We make our friends accomplices in the fictions of our lives.

Good stories, stories with meaning, are not true or false. They contain a self-honesty that does not require belief in a system of truths. They simply exist as a voice. And if it speaks to you, you may be changed forever.

You can read the first part of how I met NE here.

***

Let me be absolutely honest here. Under normal circumstances, NE would have been way out of my league. Not only was she beautiful, she could dance (a weakness of mine). She ran in entirely different social circles than I and was well known to almost everyone in my graduating class. At that point in my life, I was still becoming the social person I wanted to be. Even with my growing self-confidence, I knew, and she knew, that I shouldn’t be able to get her. (Today, I don’t see anyone as out of my reach – but back then I still had a lot to learn about myself.)

So why did NE keep coming back every night?

I had social proof in the form of the group of people who were always hanging around my room. I had romantic proof in the close relationship and I had to another member of the group – an attractive girl who would later create upheaval for NE and I.

And she was vulnerable. Not only was she emotionally reeling from a recently broken off relationship that had been so intense she had essentially locked herself in her room for a couple weeks (this was before we met in person), she had a need to be liked by everyone.

My last semester at college was my best. During those months, NE and I became an interesting team. In the evenings, we would host card parties. At night, we would talk.

But there were complications. NE was sort-of dating her high school sweetheart, Bear. It was during our discussions about him that our initial lines were drawn. Yes, we were intimate. But there were a couple of activities that would be off-limits. I don’t think NE believed we would be able to stick with them.

She was half-right.

The first time I met Bear, we sat on the steps of the dormitory and talked for a couple of hours while NE slowly went crazy inside the lobby. I explained to Bear how close NE and I had become and then made it clear that I wasn’t going to try to take her away from him. We talked about what it is that I offered NE, what role I played in her life.

I’ve never met anyone quite like Bear. Smart, handsome, confident, and the most giving man I have ever met in my life. He was devoted to NE and wanted her happy. We were two people who shared a passion for a single person – NE – and we found common ground that has since become the foundation for the best relationship in my life.