A do-nothing tough guy is always to avoid sexual contact with a priest.
A sharp-dressed stickfigure is always carelessly penny-pinching.
A local politician near his bad daughter is always carelessly gentle.
A midget related to a nutcase is always secretly curvacious.
A vibrator is always mud-wrestler-like.
A cardinal number is always funky.
Another brumsky is always sought-after.
A peaceful shy brownie is always accurately hairless.
The male bonding is always well-thought-out.
A pitbull in bed with corduroys is always sought-after.
A suspender is always ostensibly tomboyish.
The Angel of Equations is always faggy.
An All Cows Eat Grass is always faggy.
The Texan is always sharp-dressed and faggy.
Peter Sellers is always stupid fresh.
An underhandedly dreamy tossed salad is always two-faced.
The red wheelbarrow is always inexorably bitchin'.
The red wheelbarrow is always faggy.
The red wheelbarrow is always myself.
The red wheelbarrow is always gentle.

hmm. this week was alright ba. juz that the thing that i mentioned during last blog still goes on. yups. got back my english. i didnt fail, thank god for that! my lit only got a pathetic 69 for overall. wth!! today's chinese oral went unexceptionally well. i tot i was gonna fail cuz i haven been listening to lessons in class since.. well since the start of this year. since the teacher discriminate mi. she has terrible breath too. it's kind of poisonous. so beware her. and stupid mr lee has got some mental problems man. he suddenly change mi and cherie's seat. i change with jeckann, cherie change with ivan. he like puposely wan to sabo mi wan lo. wth. idiot! then now i so lonely. hais. muz be his gurlfren ditch him then he come and take it all out on us. humph!!! yups. juz a short blog. a lot of problems too but i shan't put it here as i wan to erase it out of my memory. tulos!

To try to take three years of my life –- step back, examine it, condense it, try to make you understand how I felt, how much she meant to me, how much she and I were as one seems almost disrespectful. It reminds me of how a blind person would feel when someone tries to explain to them the concept of colors.
It's out of your league. You will never know. But for the sake of everything, I will try.

It's easy to forget that you have loved someone too.

+ + +

I really wish I could invent a romantic situation and proudly tell how we fell in love at first sight in a sultry, amazing way.

Last time I checked, McDonald's does not qualify for any of the above. A McDonald's is not a conduit for romance. Congestive heart failure is another matter. But that's a whole different thing.

So we met there. Sue us.

No bells. No heavenly choir. No angels from up on high with lace and hearts and the "thump thump" of my heart.

My first impression of her was not ... flattering. I thought she was kind of a bitch.

The next time we met, I heard her laugh. And that was it.

It began.

Within about eight months, she became my best friend. We wrote notes to each other every day. We called each other. We went to different schools, but we would hang out at lunch. We were like two schoolgirls –- giggling and laughing and dancing and singing and just living.

We were tight. People thought we were going out. We would look at one another and go "ewww".

My love for her didn't grow. Or gradually build. It snuck up on me and kicked me in the back of the head.

I woke up one day. And started crying. I wanted her to be with me.

I kept this secret to myself. It was agony to see her all the time and be in love with her ... and not be with her. I was scared to tell her. I couldn't risk losing my best friend. I just couldn't.

Six months passed.

And then I told her. One day out of the blue. My friends were getting annoyed. They started yelling at me to tell her. So I did.

She started crying. And told me that she felt the exact same way I did. And all this time she was scared to tell me.

We both cried and held each other. Anxiety, nervousness and relief washed through us, lingered around us, and plunged into the earth we laid on, gone forever.

I remember kissing her for the first time the next day, on a hill in the woods. Spending all day there kissing and hugging and laughing.

She was my first real girlfriend. And the first person I ever kissed. And the first person I ever made love to.

She was my whole life for three years.

Notice the past tense.

We aren't even good friends any more, really. Sometimes if you split apart violently enough from a person, you break out of each other's orbit – possibly for good.

I see her two days out of the week. We're in a band together. And we hang out with the same people. Our relationship is like a watered-down version of the care-free love we had for each other. We hold ourselves back when we talk and laugh and smile.

There is a big wall between us.

And we look at each other. Torn between our past and the fact that we still obviously care a hell of a lot for each other.

Life is full-circle. You end up where you begin.

We are back to hiding from one another. Back to lying to ourselves. Back to ignoring what we really feel.

And it scares me a lot. Because I still and will always love her. And I know she still loves me.

It makes me sad. But I know I can't climb over that wall for her.

I also know she won't climb it for me.

 

women are justified in their caution concerning language and literary forms,

[Dr. Evil voice here] Rrrright. And your capacity or raison d'etre in justifying this concern here is ...

but the association between phallic language, Father Law, and poetic form -- particularly poetic meter -- can be dismissed out of hand.

I'm not sure who would go and say iambic pentameter = Peter North. But you did almost say "cock," so I shall continue reading this paragraph.

 

Our current misunderstanding of poetic form derives from two sources. The first is our habit of restricting form to the sixth of its American Heritage Dictionary definitions: 'Manners as governed by etiquette, decorum, or custom'; and formal to 'following or adhering to accepted forms, conventions, or regulations.'

Apologist alert! Apolgist alert! Dig into the dictionary, pick a meaning. Don't say form is, say, a word weighted down by meaning and is co-opted by differing philosophies. Go right to the kitchen-and-the-bedroom definition. And do we really think that a dictionary would outline what poets refer to as "form"? What does the dictionary say about "lyric" or "narrative" or "rhythm"? If this were one of my freshmen English comp students, I'd write "Wow! Really good!" in the margins, all proud and all, but for an actual literary critic, this is a ratfuck. Which means this sentence and paragraph is leading us, like a heavily scored Julia Roberts movie, to where we must feel and think about the experience at hand.

 

Tracing the word beyond its Latin roots in forma ('form, contour, shape'), we reenter the female realm of creation.

Wha? Contour and shape = female = creation? My cock, for example, as I look at it now, has a form, a contour, a shape. Is that a formal cock?

 

The O-grade form of its Indo-European root, mer-bh, gives us the Greek morphe ('form, beauty'), as well as, ultimately, morph, morpheme, morpho, morphosis.

Hate on, Hata. Hate on.

 

Morphosis (from Greek morphoun, to form) is defined as, 'The manner in which an organism or one of its parts changes form or the manner or order of its development.'"

Yes. To morph means to change form. Form has to be present in order for there to be change. I get it. It's all about what the form is in the first place. If it's a boring form, one that adheres to, as Williams calls it, "aestheric dogma handed down," then this entire project called modern American poetry is an emperor without clothes. I get it. But, if the forms we are using -- nay, utilizing -- turn out to be valid -- which, I will say here and now, are valid -- then our project is not only form-ful, but more valid than a freeze-dried, gynophobic exersize in divide-and-conquer, history- rather than tradition-invoking rubbish.

This link to The Breast Cancer Site is one of the things I do daily. This site also links to The Hunger Site, The Child Health Site,The Rain Forest Site and The Animal Rescue Site. Every day I go to one of these sites and "click" to help fund mammograms, feed animals, save rainforests, etc. It isn't much, but with taking care of my own family coming first in my life, at least it is a little something. They will even allow you to sign up for a free daily email reminder to go and click. I click on one and then the site offers me tabs to click on for each cause. I can't do much more than this for any of these causes, but at least it is a small something I can do. And I can and do tell others about it when possible. So, I at least try and make a difference, even when it's just small baby steps. Maybe one day when my children are grown, I will march again, or collect names on petitions or organize fund raisers. Till then, I just click, but I do click daily!