to afternoon [about half]

[some scribbling from the notebook that managed to make a web appearance. you don't get the paragraphs that came before, and there aren't yet paragraphs after. so goes life, suckers]

And that’s all I’m looking for—someone as relevant as me. I want him to walk up into my life, cut in line in front of me at a coffee shop and turn, embarrassed, to smirk back at me in apology when he realizes his mistake. I’ll smile back, saying nothing, half-smiling with some twist of my lip that looks more awkward than natural. We’ll continue checking each other out while paying for our cardboard cups of mass-produced sludge, while doctoring it with non-fat milk and pure cane sugar. No reason for bleaching it; natural is better.

Form there, from that counter of sugar and milk and napkins sitting in pools of cold, half-evaporated coffee-spill, he’ll work his way into my life through smiles and great sex and conversations about where humanity is heading or whether Snickers are better than Milky Ways and then we’ll sing theme songs from TV shows in the early 90s. And, suddenly, he’ll be as relevant to me as I am to myself.

I’ll be distracted, bifurcated by him. He will melt my world away just by touching my arm. His whispering into my ear will make me hard. Tugging my toes will make me smile. He’ll touch me perfectly. And just when I need it, just when the conversation turns a bit too angry, he’ll remind me of his relevance, that he’s above it all and we’re just riding here, riding a wave of existence, multi-faceted and likely beyond our comprehension. All we can do is give in to the current and flow where the world wills us.

brian u. on my roots

"I feel like if you bottled the Minnesota accent and gave it to each kid on his 5th birthday, it could end war."

--Brian U.

We still might disdain WI for all that cheese, but you're right; we're generally a peaceful--if funny-talking--people.

the best ever

This award goes to my good friend Tommy Z. Many an asshole hath posted a bland and meaningless MySpace comment just for the fuck of it. Hi, sweet-ums! I miss you!! Love, Rebecca XOXOXOXO!!! Or some shit like that. It's disgusting.

It's also tasteless, which my good friend Tommy Z would surely object to. Above all, we must have taste and tact, Tommy Z might say. I think the following MySpace comment left on my profile by Tommy Z himself really exemplifies his taste and his tact:

Sep 21, 2006 9:30 PM

Jeffey Moores,

I'm at Joe Markell's Marie has no idea what to say except do you know that your hair matches your shirt!? Can't wait to see you next! Kinda drunk now...

Tommy Z.



That's right, Tommy Z. Have another drink.



Oh, just kidding, Tommy Z. I miss you guys!

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO!!!!!!! ~Rebecca

options

It's 3:57 p.m.; I'm sitting at home as my living room fills with actors and playwrights about to rehearse for a reading in Brooklyn. My friend Gemma is one of the playwrights.

But Marshall and I want to do something. We can't decide between the following:

1. Hanging around and watching fringe theatre performed in our living room
2. Wander around Chelsea and the Village watching people
3. Taking a bus to a beach
4. Going to piano bars in the village and making asses of ourselves

It was upon pondering this list that I stopped short--suddenly realizing that I'm dealing not with what to do but with what not to do.

If some philosopher hasn't said it before, then one should probably say it soon: A life of such choices can easily grow pale when all you are faced with is choices. Over and over. I remember, as a child, following all the choices someone else was making. How carefree was that? Do you want to watch Full House or Dukes of Hazzard? Do you want to play on the Slip-n-Slid or run through the sprinkler?

Adulthood brings less structure, more choice, more freedom. It's exhausting.

a letter

Dear Person From Long Ago,

I remember that you smelled like Dove cleansing bars—innocent and creamy. Now I fill my palm when I shower, create a lather, and wash with your scent. I had forgotten until recently that you used to wash only with Dove. I remember your small white bars in zip-lock bags.

My torrent of emotions for you has never ceased completely. Now, it trickles, usually indecipherable from the conscious parade of my workaday life. But there are waves of remembrance like those slippery dreams you can’t quite remember. A tick. A tock. Just a flashbulb pop.

There was the slow movement of the Earth when you were around, a soupy inconsistency that wrapped around me a bubble of you. The rest of life, life without you, lacked the vibrancy necessary to hold my attention.

There were the dive-off-the-deep-end conversations that challenged the person I had been. Though you weren’t the only catalyst, my transformation to adulthood owes you a drink or two.

There was that first realization of jealousy. I coveted the life you led, thought it could be my own, began growing dissatisfied with my life’s selections because I wanted to start shopping in the catalogue of yours.

There was the offer, my challenge to what I thought I wanted out of your life: travel, a trip that would take us, together, on our next bold move.

And, to pour a life lesson over the entire situation, you denied me my challenge. Or, rather, denied me your participation. I was on my own, by force, eventually to realize the power you had had over me. I would move on to tame it, to learn from it, and to cherish the hell you put me through.

I saw you most recently two years ago. All hot and fresh but more calm, a bit older, a few more faint, handsome lines around your eyes, generally at peace until your heart itself was broken by the one you loved at the time. You turned to me, cried, slept on my floor, and eventually left to continue the odyssey that is your life.

Now, I’m sure you wear Nike’s wings proudly, jetting about, maybe writing your poetry or smoking your weed. Maybe selling out to the man for months at a time before wriggling out of town for a few months with a backpack and a foreign language you’ve never studied.

I no longer give you the permission I once did—to affect me, to make me swoon—but I expect I’m about to see you again soon. How will I handle your presence? How will you handle mine?

Love,
Jeff