me...

Hug. It seems to me that we should do something about this word. i appreciate its familiar tone, but it also sounds rather trivial. What about those close encounters of body that linger for hours afterward? The word embrace attempts to supplement, but it's so far removed from the colloquial that it's better suited to paperback romance or Mel Brooks on Mad About You. Let's usurp hug from the Locutus of Perk, and allow it real meaning. ...Or, if we find the trite sound inevitably desultory, let's enact a new word, like mearn. Upon consultation, my six-year-old brother suggests simply redefining pack. Either way, it's time to remedy this! Everyone talks language, but nobody ever does anything about it. posted by Arthur @ 7/12/2002 07:18:00 PM	Friday, July 12, 2002
You've got to put down the duckie if you want to play the saxophone. posted by Arthur @ 7/11/2002 12:12:00 PM	Thursday, July 11, 2002
To emily on her 19th birthday, Hey, you. It's been four years now. i miss you wicked bad. i try to make heads and tails of us, but it's like testimony after a car crash. Maybe you had the right idea - surrender to an arbitrary imagined representation and move on. If i am evil, for instance, i guess you could be crazy. Though you know i've never been the actor you were. And yes, losing us was traumatic, but isn't that part of living? You introduced me to The Prophet: "If in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, / Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, / Into the seasonless world where you will laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears." And if i gave up the memory of you, then i would give up the memory of me, for as it is, i imagine our childhoods walking clumsily down that yellow-tiled hall, away from us, together. But i don't mean to lecture the new you; she no longer listens to our hearts, nor the love we discovered. i do not know her and do not wish to. i only mean to speak to my emily. The pensive, caring, radiant, brave-hearted girl who wanted to keep me for ever and ever. Even if she only remains in my mind, even if this is the most selfish thing i've ever said, i'm sorry. i'm sorry for everything i ever did that hurt you. i'm sorry that i didn't believe you. Love is a hard thing. How could i know that the girl i'd been searching for, out of all the guys she could choose, would really love me? The hardest to learn is the least complicated. We both had our young-love bunglings, and her posthumous behavior trumped any of the most inhuman hurtfulness i could possibly imagine, but back when it really counted, back when we were we, i treated you horribly. i am so, so sorry, love. i imagine, if you were still here, you'd want to know what's been happening. You predicted i'd be dating some beautiful actress. Well, instead, i went for a smart dancer, a sexy artist, and, despite my better judgement, a wide-eyed sorority girl. i could postulate all kinds of theorems, but the point is, they never work out. i wrote some short stories, then failed the class. i wrote some poetry, then vowed nevermore. i wrote a play called The Promised End, about the courting rituals of humankind to concept, but it's probly not very good. i hear you telling me, theatrically, "I bet they're all wonderful". And now, finally, the last boxes are closing, the last friendships are palling, and i am off to California. There was a time i knew why - maybe you'd know - but all i've got now are why-nots. You told me once that when i moved to California, i shouldn't be surprised if i opened my door to find a familiar, rain-drenched girl. i know that's no longer possible, since you are no longer possible, but please please don't worry. Your love holds me always, like the morning after you scared me so and i held you until we were late for class. Rain, Love, and Music, Peace, Love, and Harmony, me P.S. - Due to my unfortunate understanding of this emotionally inept world, it occurs to me that if Emily ever found this letter, it could be a huge pain in my ass. So, let me recommend Robyn Hitchcock's masterpiece "She Doesn't Exist Anymore" and assure you that these days i couldn't care less. posted by Arthur @ 7/10/2002 09:00:00 PM	Wednesday, July 10, 2002
Pop Monday: They say we hurt the ones we love. A lot of people must love me a lot. Cam, Sarah, and Alison, all, in their own ways, bailed. A lifetime of this and when i get over readjusting, i don't care. A lifetime of this and i forget what it was i hoped people could be to one another. July 16th, no concert. July 17th, due west. No more ridiculous Puritanical hypocrisy. And no more Love. Catch-22. posted by Arthur @ 7/08/2002 06:05:00 PM	Monday, July 08, 2002
So i slept 15 hours last night, tore the sheet off all four corners, and dropped The Emperor on the floor. i think i should probly deal with this. In going to California, i am giving up Chuck's birthday. i'm giving up a lot of birthdays. It's fine; i already got his gift, and birthdays aren't really different from other days... which i also won't be there for. But Matthew will. And Matthew's old enough to take good care of him. Matthew. i won't be here to teach him to drive. He won't be around to talk my ear off about girls, or school, or computer games. But i can talk to him online. And it'll only be a few years before he comes out. A few years. i may not see my grandma or grandpa again. No more perfect mashed potatoes on Sundays, pumpkin pie, or awkward Reader's Digest jokes. He was the only one who liked me with emily. Why do i feel like i'm leaving her? No. Not her. The girl. The New England Christmas. The big papa chair by the snowy, frosted picture window. Children. Whereever she is, California is too far. But all i'm good at is dreaming. So maybe i'll dream on the screen for a while, and she'll dream with me. i'm sorry, Emperor, but i miss her already. posted by Arthur @ 7/07/2002 10:14:00 PM	Sunday, July 07, 2002