The better half of 1994 was spent in helpless consumption and infatuated adoration of a beautiful young actress by the name of Miss Lana Breathcatcher. We at the time were living in Tampa, and over a course of months were afforded the luxury of becoming friends. This period was spent on late night telephone calls, fast food runs, outings with our circle of friends, and several uncomfortable moments with my dear Shara, who soon left us for the west. Had I the choice, I may have rested permanently in the bliss of such youthful simplicity and innocent discovery of trust and mutual admiration.

Minute 1: “Searching”

A lyric poem.

I would fall for you twice,

without blinking,

without batting an eye.

I would fall so nice,

without thinking,

with you blowing my mind.

I'm searching,

searching;

oh, I'm searching

for one true love.

I’ve been looking around,

it may sound crazy

or profound.

I, incredibly down,

a withered daisy,

am a clown.

I use all the wrong lines,

I read all the wrong signs;

I've been known to even

forget who I am.

I'm searching,

searching;

oh, I'm searching

for one true love.

I will be all right,

it's just a flesh wound,

a mental slight.

I will get it right;

I'll play a nice tune

by candlelight.

I'm searching,

searching;

oh, I'm searching

for one true love.

Minute 2: “Merely Exist”

A poem.

“I am sad too.

Too sad am I.”

Darling shine,

moon you light;

artificial waves

crash against

a speaker cage,

as I lie in helpless

adoration

of someone

somewhere

speaking;

you I could understand.

Minute 3: “Bordeaux”

A lyric poem.

Here's to the way you and I can just be,

pleased to acknowledge your existence with me;

I flatter myself thinking you love

to have a soul mate too.

Struggle telepathically to think of your face,

set before an idol of our feeling out of place;

I know it doesn't seem it, but believe me,

I've been thinking of you.

Just a little shaky, but I'll drive myself home,

forget how many evenings I've been

spending there alone;

I'd call you, but I know my tongue

would freeze after saying hello.

If you imagine faults, then I must be blind,

silence leaves me hanging on the telephone line;

I only hope that all I want to say to you,

you already know.

I still wish I could give you more,

but everything I have is yours;

if you ever need someone to care,

just tell me so.

Bottle up every last drop of your pain,

save it as a remedy for rainy days;

I'll pour it over rocks and tell you

everything will be okay.

Sleeping together while we're miles apart,

I listen for your breathing, you can

probably hear my heart;

I can't help but wonder if you're

dreaming on the other end.

You tell me you feel awkward,

as you honestly should,

I'm praying to God that I'm not misunderstood;

I don't mean to scare you, but I'd really

like to be your friend.

Sweet as emotion in the aftertaste,

the memory remains but the bitter is erased;

I know you'll get to like me if I don't

do something stupid first.

Maybe just a sip is going to sober us up,

and if I need your courage, then

I'll down another cup;

I'm safer not to try, but I can't

think of anything worse.

I still wish I could offer more,

but everything I have is yours;

if you ever need someone to care,

I'll quench your thirst.

Bottle up every last drop of your pain,

save it as the silver on the lining of the rain;

I'll savor it, and promise you

that everything will be okay.

Someone shakes the bottle and

you've got to explode,

I'll walk across the glass to

help you carry the load;

one of these days your emotion is going to show.

I wish I could protect you from the chill outside,

I know what it's like to want to

cover up and hide;

one of these days my sincerity will overflow.

I'll drink your tears like the finest wine,

and if you're ever thirsty, then I'll pour you mine;

let the salt bring healing in the stream

that softens your cheek.

Cry like a dam broken—spill is what you need,

drowned by the tidewater, tear lines recede;

I'll be there to just listen when

you don't want to speak.

I still wish I could offer more,

but everything I am is yours;

I'll be someone who cares

when you're feeling weak.

Bottle up every last drop of your pain,

if the potency stings, I'll drink the poison away;

I'll raise the glass and toast, and know

that everything will be okay.

I'll swallow up every precious drop of your pain,

and dine on reality, and know that it's in vain;

I'll sugar coat the mixture and ensure you

it will be okay.... It will be okay.

Minute 4: “Whatever You Want”

A lyric poem.

Let me begin first to say

I feel a most peculiar way;

I nearly understand,

I merely am a lonely man.

My thoughts are too irrational,

and I am too emotional;

my worlds so confused,

I don't know what to think of you.

If you could make it easy,

not torment or tease me,

I would surely be whatever you want.

So very uncluttered when I sleep;

fearless image I may keep.

It barely making sense;

rarely do you take offense.

My thoughts are too incredible,

my dreams are too intangible;

perhaps I should relent,

I don't know this was my intent.

If you could help decide

which fragment of me lied,

I would freely be whatever you want.

My mind sends mixed signals—my wires

must be cross; I don't care for obligation,

but it's been my observation that I miss you

so intensely, so immensely, when

your name isn't mentioned.

Consider how content I rest,

how certainly I have been blessed;

and yet how shaken are my nerves,

so little like what you deserve.

My thoughts are too intentional,

the bond so very powerful;

how eagerly I'm drawn,

without resistance—hopelessly gone.

If you would be so kind as to

explain to me my own mind,

I would easily be whatever you want.

Minute 5: “Kill Me Again”

A lyric poem.

Add another drug.

Run electrical wires

under the rug.

Toast up a good knife,

butter and all.

Jump the roof

and fall, fall, fall.

Conjure me up

a good spell,

nice and discreet.

Paint me a new face

to be obsolete.

Kill me again—

I find open graves with my face;

lick your lips with

a satisfied distaste.

Push me over;

I'm the corner boy.

Break me quickly,

Painlessly—

I'm your new toy.

Tell me something.

Give me more.

You seem so content.

I'm always so unsure.

I dig your attitude.

I dig your shades.

I dig the way you

have the strength

to dig my grave.

Kill me again—

sometimes I feel so out of place.

Fill me again—

I'll choke on your

cup of good grace.

Kill me again—

I find open graves with my face;

lick your lips with

a satisfied distaste.

Minute 6: “Soul Mate”

A lyric poem.

When you read my mind for the first time,

I found my equal in you.

When you had me die for the last time,

you left me with nothing to hold on to

more than a wish.

Sometimes I stare in your eyes

just to find what you're afraid to say.

Sometimes I dare to go blind,

and imagine our fears away.

As always, I hate to leave you.

I love the way you don't trust anyone.

I love the way you worry too much.

I love the way you've been

subjected to talk about me.

I love the way you seem what no one else sees.

As always, I hate to leave you.

Minute 7: “Pleas”

A lyric poem.

Please pay attention to me

as I spill out my heart.

Please promise me you won't

leave before I even start.

Please dismiss all of these fears

—right now I'm so afraid.

Please be all you appear;

betray no masquerade.

Hopes may come crashing at times

—I always land on my face;

I may forget all my lines,

confused and out of place.

Please... I can't breathe

for what you do to me.

Speak... I'm so weak.

You're everything I see.

Please think of me when

you rest gently in my mind.

Please color me so impressed,

if you would be so kind.

Please sing me softly to sleep;

my eyes close on your lips.

Please be the treasure I keep,

and fine wine that I sip.

I may seem lashing at times,

intentions so confused;

try to seem dashing at times,

and you still unamused.

Please... I can't breathe

with you so close to me.

Speak... I'm so weak.

You're all I ever need.

I (4X) wanna (4X) know you.

I (4X) wanna (2X)

see that you care.

I (4X) wanna (4X) hold you.

I (4X) wanna (3X) be there.

I (8X) wanna (3X) Lana!

1-2-3-4!

Please pay attention to me,

or I may softly die.

Please tell me what to believe,

and gently I may sigh.

(Sigh.)

Minute 8

Introduction to “Glimpse”, original journal.

“...and yet unable to begin with I. There is no I think or I feel a certain way about a certain person; there is only the simple undeniable fact that we are. No further words could suffice beyond the knowledge that we exist together.

“Indeed, there is no definite point where a friendship begins. There are only instances and events, which upon remembrance can help us to measure the development of emotions and ties. The bond itself is always there, only it remains for a time unrecognized, until slowly the realization comes that a secret place in the heart has been reserved from conception for that certain individual God has willed each person to find. I quite believe I may have found her.

“Had I known how difficult it would be to verbalize any of this, I would not have even made the attempt. But since I've begun, I will continue with my meager and inadequate words, in hopes that this book will one day strengthen the bond between my soul mate and I.

“The most significant factor making this writing so laborious an effort is that the mere thought of her is enough to leave me utterly speechless. As a writer, something that overwhelming is extremely rare, and merits treatment of utmost reverence and respect. There is a pure and irresistible fulfillment far beyond anything that may be communicated. That is what I now confront; I shall try my best not to insult it with my petty descriptions.”

Minute 9: “Make Me Believe”

A duet.

Sometimes I feel so unworthy,

as I'm futilely passing the years.

My ego is bruised by abuses and

my pillow is stained with tears.

Loneliness often surrounds me, as

the thought of you soothes me to sleep.

Some mornings I crawl to the mirror,

curse at myself and weep.

Make me believe (Let's make believe)

someone like you could love someone like me.

Make me believe (Let's just pretend)

that you'll never leave me.

No, I'll be forever your friend.

Sometimes it's easy to doubt you;

your words are hard to accept.

I'll understand your renouncement

…it's what I've come to expect.

I'd take your place in a heartbeat,

gladly consent to the strain,

surrender my soul to damnation

to offer you life without pain.

Make me believe (Let's make believe)

someone like you could love someone like me.

Make me believe (Let's just pretend)

that you'll never leave me.

No, I'll be forever your friend.

You're more than I'd imagined

possible—I don't deserve such!

I love you more than life itself,

(but that isn't saying much.)

Silence brings so many questions;

I'm never sure how you feel.

Hesitance breeds apprehension

—you've so much more to reveal.

My words betray that I'm anxious,

afraid of letting you near.

You're just as frightened and cautious

—it's so transparently clear.

Make me believe (Let's make believe)

someone like you could love someone like me.

Make me believe (Let's just pretend)

that you'll never leave me.

No, I'll be forever your friend.

Minute 10: “Every Reason”

A lyric poem.

In the privacy of the hotel room, I sit awake

in the light from the crack in the bathroom door,

praying one day I'll be as blessed as I hope

I can be, praying God created you for me.

I have every reason to love you,

you have a hundred reasons to leave.

You find every day another way to impress me;

you're much too perfect to believe.

Until now, my life has read like a bad, bad

movie script, burned by one too many cigarettes;

now you play every part of a brighter day,

and I still pray you stay until the end credits roll.

Oh, and I have every reason to love you,

and you have a hundred reasons to leave.

You find every hour another power I'm under;

you're much too perfect to conceive.

Minute 11: “Burn Me”

A poem.

So this is what it's like to be

banished from your sight;

so I've severed my self from

myself. So this is what it's like

to be vanquished by your light;

so this is what I'm finally

reduced to—

a fetal mesh of leprous flesh,

a cower and a bore,

a bitter taste of toxic waste,

an angel turned whore.

I could always use a bit more tribulation.

I could set off without any indication.

I could live, had I remote an inclination,

but I much prefer to here aver

the sweet association.

Oh, how graciously you burn me!

Minute 12: “Paint”

A poem.

Focus. For a moment

perceive me slightly less

violent than I become.

Concentrate for my sake,

and imagine if we became one.

I'll turn on myself and suffer through

compassionate understanding.

I'll beat myself red and harsh,

so you'll want to kiss and make it better.

We feed each other compliments like paint,

color ourselves mildly void

for the pale expression of interest.

I'll never be honest with you;

however much I'd like to,

I'll never be clever with you.

To confess is the last thing I'll ever do.

You'll never be less than everything to me.

Minute 13: “Helplessly Nothing”

A lyric poem.

I'm watching you sleep,

you twitch at the dream,

you're halfway in the closet,

I'm halfway in the scene,

you fight the feeling,

halfway open your eyes

to smile at my gaze, only

halfway in surprise,

and I wish I didn't

have to hide,

but I'm careful not

to threaten inside;

and there is nothing,

there is nothing,

nothing but you.

i is helplessly in luv....

Minute 14

Excerpt from a letter to Path.

“...I've been spending a lot of time lately with my friends. Delia is the one person on earth I feel comfortable telling anything and everything to. And she's the same about me. She feels terribly guilty if she keeps something from me, until she breaks down and tells me and apologizes. I tell her my innermost thoughts as often as I think them. I worry that she won't always admit when something's bothering her. Like if I talk about Lana too much.

“Lana is undoubtedly my soul mate, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her, but for now that's impossible, because she's too young (don't worry though, I'm not robbing the cradle this time), and is for some strange, subconscious reason terrified of relationships, which makes her that much more incredible, because she's never had a boyfriend. For that matter, she's never had a guy for a friend at all—she doesn't trust them. I'm so privileged—no, blessed—to be the first guy allowed to know her as a friend. I understand her better than most, because she thinks the same way I do—it's uncanny. She's an actress, and writes amazing poems, and has the most beautiful singing voice, and is the cutest, most adorably petite and precious thing in the world.

“Okay, so maybe it's obvious that I'm in love. Truth is, I love Delia and Lana nearly the same, but in different ways and for different reasons; I'm glad they're my two closest friends. I would hate to ever have to choose between them.

“Which, in a subtle way, I may be doing. Lana is moving in July to a place called Tequesta, remarkably near West Palm Beach, where my brothers currently live. Since I have no obligations, I'm ready to get on with my life and move away from home. So Jason suggested I come to West Palm with him, and he'll help me settle into a job there. Which means that I can still see Lana fairly often. And as much as I'll miss Del (I'll be morbid!), I can still see her when I visit my parents. This way Lana will have some sort of security where she goes. I think I've pretty much made up my mind.”

II. Demystification: Minutes 15-51

Her sudden move east prompted my own relocation to the Palm Beaches, where my brother was in convenient need of a roommate. Once again in astonishingly near proximity, Lana and I came to almost depend on each other to merely survive the mundane, yet increasingly oppressive realities of growing older. As my affection for her grew, so also did her apparent fear of closeness. The culmination of those anxieties was the sudden and absolute dismissal of me from her surroundings. I was left then to only uncertainty and hopeless self-examination. And a heart which only its creator could mend.

Minute 15: “Traded With A Star”

A lyric poem.

When you were formed,

polish and a gleam,

you became the warmth,

and underneath, a dream;

mother nature's never been so kind,

must've been a mix up in assembly lines,

you're celestial body redefined,

fearful symmetry that burns my eyes;

traded with a star,

traded with a star

struck lover in a poet-tree,

falling from the ground

to where horizons meet,

rushing forward anxiously

to kiss and greet you.

Minute 16: “Eternity”

A poem.

Haven't seen you in

what seems an eternity;

that would explain my

sudden

loss of will. I've lost

my appetite,

and I haven't

strength to speak;

I just sit here all day.

I need to see you;

I'm dying.

You took away the

most precious part

of my will to live.

Minute 17: “Never”

A lyric poem.

I have never seen you looking

less than beautiful,

but maybe it's just me.

I have never seen you looking

less than wonderful,

but what I say,

you don't believe.

So sue me if I'm head over heels.

So sue me—love is blind.

So kill me for giving compliments,

but I was far from far too kind.

I have never known you

to be less than fabulous;

to me you are a dream.

I have never thought you

any less than marvelous,

but that may just be my extreme.

Forgive me if I'm far too impressed;

it happens every time.

Please excuse this bit of sentiment,

I really didn't think you'd mind.

Minute 18: “Separating Weather”

A poem.

Twilight, I wish, replaced now

by streams of what could have been,

could someday be snow;

several thousand drops unaccounted for,

as the loneliness of an entity entirely separate

from so forlorn and longing a soul.

Desperate in understanding

and frustrated utter compassion,

the ocean's unfamiliar stabs

throw themselves relentlessly

to the gothic capitals of slab,

in a final vain attempt to provoke

the unwilling imagination of a once

romantic dreamer.

Minute 19: “Purple”

A poem.

Waiting in the

purple

colored light

of the lightning

flashes

in starry sky,

watching

the silhouette of

a telephone...

you said you'd call,

but that was 1:26 a.m.,

and it's now been over

an hour.

Minute 20: “Cartwheel”

A poem.

A spontaneous laugh,

childlike,

uninhibited;

my soul cartwheels with emotion.

Minute 21

09-20-94.

How torn have I become! Ripped and maimed beyond recognition beats nervously and spasmodically my abused heart. How essential to the root of heart is listening, yet inaudibly does either party speak. The sweet pain of anxiety lodges itself singularly into my weary side to carve into the gap of my soul an all-encompassing question mark. How long shall so taunting an affliction be endured? How relentlessly should a mere human be reminded of his constant misery?

Minute 22

09-23-94.

My pining for her increases with every breath! Nightly am I stricken by the throes of a longing so intense as to crown itself the determining force behind every variable. On each subsequent introduction to an overlooked aspect, my intent is renewed and fervor redefined.

Tonight, for the most convenient and fresh example—tonight I could have retired in contentment and rest. To hear my love admit a desire to be so sought by someone! To be assured that she is after all human, and capable of the emotions I would respond to...! Love means more to me than perhaps God himself intended.

Minute 23

09-29-94.

...and to now find out that she looks anxiously to the end of my day for occasion to speak with me! To now absorb and bask in the confidence she would scarcely have imagined months ago, as her approving tongue frees and her inhibitions seem to relax. So certainly and reassuringly does she now inflect that my hope is ever restored.

Minute 24: “Blush”

A poem.

And now my face hurts

from smiling so wide,

the sole manifestation of

the happiness inside.

Split second—overwhelmed,

you write your name in blush;

so tongue-tied, twisted,

I could never smile enough.

Minute 25

10-10-94.

Undeserving though I may be, imagining her with anyone else defeats me. Such a divine and perfect jewel would by comparison extinguish the brightest star. Her radiance, unparalleled, leaves its evidence as an illumined monument, attesting to the timeless and infinite beauty of God's brilliance.

Minute 26

Elsewhere, a brief encounter….

A couple came into the store today. They continued a conversation as they strolled in and studied the architectural displays of books stretched across the tables. His eyes followed her steps as she neared the counter to inquire as to whether we carried a specific meditation. I, having no inventory, replied that her search was less than hopeful. She nevertheless made her way down the aisles, while the kind looking elder leaned toward me and repeated the title five times, as if by the last it would suddenly become familiar. He then proceeded to himself scan the area in assistance.

After twenty minutes with no luck, they settled for a small book of jumbles, which, she informed me by polite conversation, the gentleman had made his pastime for the past several years. She added quite matter of factly that this accounted for his extreme intelligence. A contented grin crossed the man's face as he added, “That's why I married her.”

Minute 27

10-11-94.

Another day. The eight-dollar alarm drowns out whatever she was saying and the underside of my brother's top bunk comes into focus—a memorized photograph of Dorothy tucked carefully between two of the boards. A deep stretch, a charismatic sigh, and I re-envision some distant objective to persuade life to continue as usual. “Someday,” I reassure myself, “this will all be worth it.”

Minute 28: “Mellow Day”

A lyric poem.

I rise to see your face,

the nightmares erase;

oh, it's going to be a mellow day.

Love, I do,

the beauty in you;

oh, it's going to bleed a yellow-gray.

Tomorrow may not come,

today's the only one that really matters;

oh, it's going to breed a “Hello... stay.”

Minute 29: “Promise Me”

A lyric poem.

The waterfall of raindrops drowns

the roots of sunny trees;

imagine years from now, you crawl

across the bars to me.

Today I sit without you,

singing off the balcony;

it's much more pleasant

to create such an expectancy.

But now I sit and watch the splashes

fill the court with sound;

I choose one drop at random,

follow it from sky to ground.

Just promise me that you'll come back someday,

I know you didn't have the choice to stay;

I'll still forgive you for the many times you leave,

just swear you're always coming back

—just promise me.

Minute 30

Undated entry.

My spirit weighs heavy of late. The realization that Lana's place in heaven is not yet secure unnerves me. The mere suggestion that she is too perfect for this world ignites my tragic imagination and grips me with a morose kind of fear. Far too often I find myself wondering if I could survive were God to take her from me, or if I would truly lose my will to live.

The burden of that sadness intensifies without end to hear her say that she just doesn't believe. The very foundation of my existence, the very fabric that is my self immediately loses relevance in her limited sight, as her discernment comes not from the Holy Spirit, but from a perception based entirely on having no foundation.

This she calls open-mindedness, but it is in fact having no stable mind at all, as there can be no understanding apart from love, and there can be no love but that it is grounded in truth. Truth, in turn, must come from its source, and not from fragments of interpretations which invalidate each other.

Minute 31: “Blur”

A poem.

The most frustrating thing

is this blur I can't get through.

The most painful thing

is not me,

but the pain I cause you.

And I would die to give you life,

but the fingers of doubt grip your neck;

I would cry to make you see,

it isn't only me you reject.

Minute 32: “Good Bye & Good Night”

A lyric poem.

I am sick with the thought

that you may not want to be with me tonight,

and it makes me sick just to think you've slipped

through my fingers and through my life.

Now if you say that you love me,

I'll know that you're only being polite;

and all I can think to say...

good bye and good night.

Minute 33

Elsewhere, another lost romantic.

I circled the counter as she smiled and nodded to the deaf man that I would take over. He gratefully handed me the napkin with a few lines of broken English scribbled on it. Beside a phone number was a name—Patti—and above it was written “Need to see you. When? Where?” I looked at him and smiled with perfect understanding. ”T.J.,” he tried to say, pointing to himself. I nodded and picked up the receiver.

He watched my fingers intently while I dialed, then waited nervously as I counted the rings—1… 2… 3… 4…. Patti's voice was not the sweet, feminine one I had imagined, but that makes no difference to a deaf man. “Machine,” I mouthed. He quickly shook his head and motioned for me to hang up. A little disappointed, he smiled, signed “thank you,” and hurried away.

Minute 34: “Colors”

A poem.

Today I don't feel a thing.

I woke from half a dozen

layers of hell

and remembered:

a house with

terraced steps

a green hill

a blue sky with

white cloud

and you.

Minute 35

Undated entry.

You want more. “More” you say, as if by some phenomenal means you may rise above our paltry, monotonous lives to obtain some instantly gratifying dream. “More” you ask for, without the slightest notion of what that entails.

More? Blasphemy! You who have never loved, what could you possibly know of a word you toss around so carelessly? How blind you are to imagine anything past fulfillment! There is no more than the intimacy of true companionship.

Indeed, the mere fragments I've suggested betray nothing of my intent for you.

Minute 36

A thought.

The most perfect rose must have the sharpest thorns.

Minute 37

Undated entry.

Gatsby, old fellow, your mistake was to yearn for the intangible, the nonexistent. You created perfection without the possibility of surprise. How misled you were, dear friend, and how much more have I learned from your account, that my story may after all end itself in enlightenment.

The balance you overlooked was to dream without expectation, to hope without concern or ideals. Maintain only a partial image, allow time and circumstance to add their own details.

Money is useless without the heart's earning, yet how easily is the heart distracted by luxury. Win her in poverty and in humility, then when at last the time comes, will she not be that much more tolerable? Know you not, Sir, that only those unsuspecting of the fairy tale are fit to live it?

Minute 38

From a letter to Delia, never sent.

“...my intentions are thus acted out as I pen this unstructured rambling. Sleep is uneasy, days unsettling. I rise. I wake. I contemplate. Chained emotions, unrewarded, plague my soul. Often I consider giving up, moving somewhere far away where I might forget everything that was, and all that is now might consider me lost.

“This world terrifies me. It all moves so fast and so relentlessly. How can I survive in a place with so little concern for what is beautiful? I fear turning cold. I fear that I may be of no consequence, that I haven't the power to save anyone from their own destructive nature....”

Minute 39

Undated entry.

Tonight I allow myself the realization that no outcome should be anticipated. As patience will soften no stone, neither will endurance guarantee its intention. The wishes I've entertained to this point have proven to be nothing more.

Minute 40

Undated entry.

It is no longer my intent to gain the affections of she who has become my life. For indeed, she should never have been given so immense a role. Not only because it was never her interest, but also because there is a much wider perspective I'd lost sight of.

The emotion is, of course, uncontrollable; I now find however that my will was not necessarily that of my Master's. Rather than asking His blessing on my preference, I now become open to the possibility that He may better understand what my future holds.

Minute 41

Undated entry.

I may as well be dead. It is so with her. She kills me with each arisen opportunity. And why should she not? To feel the absolute power of control must be exhilarating. I open my heart, she dashes it to thousands. I've allowed myself to become the concentration of her misguided anxieties. So deeply have I expected nothing in return that she deems me truly unworthy of the slightest reverence. Without hesitation, she berates me with an onslaught of accusations and insults. I understand now how thoroughly she despises me, though I can guess no reason.

Minute 42: “Whisperwind”

A lyric poem.

Silent but for whisperwind,

quiet breathing through the drift again,

cover shifting over trace of hymn;

and you're there, oh,

and you're where?

Drawn on from a moon glide,

dim constant on the loon side,

softly settled in a safer place to hide

than the outside.

Shim-shim-shimmer in a sacred shrine,

halfway glimmer of a crystal pine;

rhythmic blinking, rocking chair, train,

and dark sky,

and I feel fine.

Minute 43: “No One Can Be That Strong”

A lyric poem.

And now I'm convinced

that you mean what you say;

I'm past deluding myself,

believing things are better this way.

No one can be that strong—

everybody needs someone to hold;

I believe I was wrong to think

you'd prefer me to being alone.

I'm nearly impressed with how

you never give the slightest bit;

you clearly protest the way

our lives could have the tightest fit.

How could it have gone so wrong?

When did your emotions turn so cold?

It seems you were right all along;

I sincerely hope you’re happy all alone.

Minute 44: “Afternoon”

A lyric poem.

My will to live lies in a casket afternoon;

we leave the memories in a basket of perfume.

I can't remember if you've died or just moved on;

either way, the fact remains,

I wake up and you're gone.

The only time I see you now

is when I close my eyes;

mourning bites like murder

into daylight's right demise. Hazy,

never certain whether you or I who bled;

from the way I feel today, it's apparent

at least one of us is dead.

Minute 45: “To Lana, Upon Leaving”

A poem.

Sh@mble, frag me nt, sh^ard of shatter,

bits ~~of hits~~ in fumble scattər,

tumble, stumble, spin and splatter,

whirlwind in bŬmble tatter (!)

}-----> Beat, defeat, replete with flutter,

discontent, com_pletely clutter;

bent, dissen~~t, delete,~~ then utter

unrelENting stammer-stutter (!)

Incīte, invoke, invite, embĭtter,

conde~~sce~~nd, berate, trash-litter .

Hate, belittle, patter-pitter;

Minute 46

A thought.

Eve chose not Adam. Adam chose not Eve. While in perfect fellowship with the Creator, He chose them for each other. And neither was evermore alone.

Minute 47

From a letter to Delia, never sent.

“...these past few months have beaten into me so many different emotions that I can't remember which of them I needed you to share. Instances all seem so distant and vague. If there were ever times in my life I wanted more than anything to hold someone, they were certainly recent....”

Minute 48: “Christmas Wish”

A lyric poem.

I'll admit that I thought of you

a hundred times today;

it still amazes me, the distance that's grown

from just a few seconds away.

Never thought in a million years

it would ever end like this.

Merry Christmas; I guess you got your

Christmas wish.

I can only imagine what this

season's been like for you,

but I know it could never compare

to the winter that froze me through.

You know I love you, and I know that you don't,

so I can cross you off my list.

Merry Christmas; I guess you got your

Christmas wish.

Minute 49

Undated entry.

Where shall I begin? It was at the outset my intent to record every event concerning her to the most vivid detail, but I see that I have failed. I had meant to keep a sort of chronicle, in reference to which our time together could be immortalized. It now appears, though, that most everything which occurred in those days bore significance only to me. It therefore profits no one for me to recount what took place, save perhaps for the therapeutic effect of self-expression.

This, then, shall read more like a diary than a documentation. In it shall be only those recollections which I hold most dear. And, certainly, the negative shall be given equal treatment, as it has had such a profound impact on who I have become.

Minute 50

Undated entry.

I cannot after all this time escape the traces of her. So integrated was she into my everything that everywhere now is a trigger. Any song which played over those months will reinvent the scene where it was last heard. Certain words, numerous expressions... indeed, anyone with curly brown hair or pale skin will reinforce my longing for her. The way a wind can blow or a surf can crash brings back that late afternoon we happened upon an isolated beach, and the image of how beautifully she fit with such serenity distances me further. The words “WASH AWAY”, carved into the eroding sand, symbolize infinitely more in hindsight.

Oh, that she would only call! If I only caught word of how she might be doing, I could perhaps rest easier. But the uncertainty of her well-being destroys me. Has she no fond recollections of our time together? Harbors she no hidden feelings whatsoever? How, after so intimate a friendship, could she not in her weakest moment wish once more for my companionship? I do not comprehend.

Minute 51: “Twice Removed”

Undated entry.

And so I removed myself, in every possible way, from her life. Exactly one month after our last interaction, I was gone. There was no phone call, no note, no last visit to officiate the end of our friendship; we simply were no more. If ever she changed her mind, if ever she tried to contact me for any reason, I have no knowledge of it. Through a mutual friend, I did at one time hear that she asked how I was doing. I presume she was informed of my leaving, most likely after the fact. I can't help but wonder if she was affected in the least. Perhaps she felt abandoned? Perhaps she never really believed it was a possibility? The price of not knowing often seems unbearably high, but the state of her emotions allowed for no other option. I could endure contempt no longer. Whatever I chose, I was dead. And so she removed me, in every possible way, from her life.

Aftertaste: Minutes 52-83

On Christmas Eve of 1994, I quit my job, packed my car, and left Lana and the Palm Beaches behind. Days later I found myself in Nashville, Tennessee. Wounded and uncertain, I spent the next few months trying to understand and accept what God was allowing me to go through. Slowly my fears dissipated, and despair gave way to the hope of restoration in humility. I still miss her on occasion, but I can at last smile again.

Minute 52

Undated entry.

How could you? I reread every line you ever wrote, rethought every word you ever said, trying to understand how you could separate us so entirely. I remember your exact words; how unexpectedly they came and left me truly breathless. With one sentence, one suggestion, my hopes, my security, my very purpose for living was utterly destroyed. After offering you everything I could ever become, I was left with nothing but a penny with a star cut from the middle and the most thorough rejection in history.

How could I not be mired in confusion and self-loathing? Was I such a horrible burden that I could be no longer tolerated? Am I so repulsive to behold? Have I no redemptive qualities whatsoever, that you could know me so well and never develop the slightest attachment?

It makes no sense. It goes against every bit of logic I can fathom. You called every evening. Our visits were as frequent and sure as the nightfall. You told me every meaningless detail of your unfulfilled life. We were so united, so kindred. We smiled, we laughed, we were tormented and morbid. Your voice was more familiar than my own brother's. I felt closer to you than I ever suspected possible, and you seemed to genuinely care for me in return. How then could you not hesitate, indeed, how could you choose to sever your tie to me, who loved you more than anyone?

Minute 53

A prayer.

My Heavenly Father, how gracious you have been through this! How perplexing that I could have overlooked how necessary such a relationship was. I see now through talking with Julie, your faithful servant, how well this fits with your plan for my life, and how much good has come from it. Had it not been for Lana, your child, I would surely not have left Tampa so soon, nor would I have entered the working world; my securities would be intact. I would have remained slow to interact with society, and would have remained uninterested in theologies and religion. I surely would not have ended up here in Nashville. Every blessing now and to come has been prompted by my friendship with a single, unbelieving girl. And I was so consumed by the pain of loss that I failed to acknowledge it.

Father, I gladly and without reservation leave what remains of her—be it only these frequent memories—in your powerful and capable hands. How profound the realization that I had heretofore never known rejection. How painful to you must a lost soul be! With such in mind do I now delight in the suffering you allow. How could I see clearly without it?

Your ways are incomprehensible and perfect. Your dealings are with such unimaginable wisdom. I will never again claim to know your mind. Let my fulfillment be in you, and teach me the humility by which I can know your grace. I more than accept that I may never see her again, I praise you for the prospect! You are the sculptor, and I the uncarved stone. Chip away with whatever may break me most precisely. For I see only what I am, while you know what I must become. I submit my will to the pain you must bring about in the process. I know that it will never be more than I can endure.

I do have a request, if I may be so bold. You know, my Lord, how deeply I have held regard for this child of yours. I have been willing to sacrifice every area of my life for her. If I have found any favor in your sight, my King, and if you are willing that I might ask one final blessing from you, let it be this, that you might choose her for your Kingdom. Reach out to her with an unquenchable yearning to find your Spirit. If I never hear her name again, if I am never again permitted to rest my gaze upon the lovely features of her face, if the thought of me never again crosses her mind; allow me at least to rest easy in the knowledge that she is safe in your care. I know this is not too much to ask, my God, because I know that you love her with a deeper measure than even I can ever understand, and that is already in the infinite depths.

By the intercession of Christ Jesus, through the sanctity of life in His blood, Amen.

Minute 54

01-10-95.

As could be expected, my regard for her has changed immeasurably. I know that I can easily live quite happily entirely without her. It makes even more cognitive sense to do so. But, oh, how I still so intensely desire her companionship.

Not even in a remotely physical capacity. To be quite honest, she was one of the last people on earth I could have conceived sensuality with. My draw to her was infinitely deeper than so insufficient and fleeting an emotion.

At the time, I knew only that I was irresistibly attracted to something, though what it was eluded me. I now believe it was that we were in every aspect kindred. That is to say that deep down, at the very core of her being, I recognized a completion of myself. Every moment with her, whether void or full of activity, was utterly radiant for the mere acknowledging of her presence.

If she only could be freed from the guilt and shame that blinds her, if she were only brought to the understanding which stems from knowing the grace of Almighty God, she might one day understand the passion with which I so intimately yearn for her.

Minute 55

01-12-95.

Word is that she is now more fully developing an identity of her own. If I recall correctly, that will manifest itself a bit further as contempt toward those who make themselves vulnerable. That is to say, the more sacrificial the love shown, the more she is able to safely lash out and wound. After all, did I not promise to always be here for her?

I figured today that I could call the answering machine, remember her voice, then hang up. After my initial shock at getting a human voice, I stammered for my next thought to carry on an intelligible conversation with Lana's mother, whom I should have remembered was home at that hour. I suppose I was groping for anything left by calling, but I was still genuinely interested in her life since my departure. I was rewarded to hear that she hoped I was well, with which I might flatter myself by assuming I am at least a slightly fond memory.

I've been reading a book by Lewis Smedes, in which I am at the moment completely enthralled, concerning male-female relationships. That, coupled with the entirety with which Shawn and Julie coexist, is a constant reminder to me of the friendship I have from the beginning sought.

Minute 56

Undated entry.

I can't help remembering the night we worked on your science project (or was it English?). You gave me more that day than I feel I could ever return. Unless my mind has since rearranged the events, I would say that was about the time you set Paddington on your own doorstep for me, because you weren't sure which apartment was mine. I'll always see your face as you opened your door and gestured for me to take him—you positively beamed!

In the evening you began your project, quite convinced it would take no time at all, which it may not have, had you the vaguest notion of your intent for it. After a while you allowed me to drive you to the store in search of ideas. You were so beautiful. And you were particularly kind to me that evening—I would say intentionally and consciously so. Oh, and I never did take the money for the things I bought. (I do, however, still posses three containers of Mucilage.) You stayed in the car while I ran through the rain to bring back an umbrella. Then we stayed up until around one or two, poking pipe cleaners through blue sponges, and you cut yourself trying to make a hole in one of the squares.

As I was leaving, hands full of food and gifts—and this had happened only twice before, both times after saying goodbye to Shara—you hugged me. You hugged me because you wanted to. And the girls at work the next day wondered why I smiled so broad!

Minute 57: “Had You No”

A poem.

I then stopped to consider

my relative shallowness.

Would I be so intent if, perhaps,

you were esthetically altered;

were you not to remain the perfect

youthfulness of frame?

With a pause long enough

only to remember your smile,

I would love you if you gained 200 lbs.

I would love you if your skin were melted away

or your limbs severed.

Had you no lips to kiss, nor ears to whisper to,

I would still suffer you.

Minute 58

Undated entry.

I weep now as though death had claimed you....

Oh, I miss you so much! I look at the very few pictures—one I stole, two clipped from newspapers, and the one your mother gave me in the cardboard frame—and I cry miserably, because I so well knew those very expressions, and I no longer see them. You truly were everything to me; you were the most beautiful thing my life ever knew. I would have done anything for you; I wanted to give you everything. In your company I lost my insecurities. All sadness disappeared. For the brief moments we were together, I was happy.

And the night you asked me to stay! How could I ever forget that? I slept underneath the dining room table; you slept by the glass door, not five feet away. We fell asleep between comments, as children do at slumber parties, or sharing rooms with siblings growing up. In the morning I stared at your back while you slept facing away. I wanted so badly to touch you! To just barely brush you with my fingertips—my dearest sweet friend!

Minute 59

A prayer.

Father, you know I want her more than word, thought, or emotion could ever express. But I know that your will is perfect and trustworthy, and if you've not chosen her for me, help me to praise you for it. Lord, if you have in mind to bless anyone so richly as with her, let him know how immeasurably graced he is.

Let him be everything she could ever imagine a desire for. Make him passionate and loyal, upright and sympathetic. Make him alive in catering to her every need. Let him be wise and stable, yet with the reckless abandon she is so drawn to. When she grieves, let him comfort her. When she rejoices, let him multiply her joy! Every attribute which I so dearly love in her, let it be met with empathy and understanding.

Above all, my God, give him a heart for you, because without you none of these qualities exist. Let him seek your will above his own, that I might know she is in the tenderness of your care. And impart to her even a taste of your Holy Spirit, that she might finally experience the love I have always wished she might find.

Minute 60

01-31-95, 12:32 AM.

Do forgive me child; I find myself longing for you after all! After so respecting your desire to be alone. After seeing your tremendous fear of intimacy. After wanting nothing more than to be available to you, I now suddenly become quite selfish. I am very nearly angry with you for meeting my affection with cold indifference.

Oh, you occasionally slipped up and showed regard, but I was far more tolerant than should be expected. I am not the genderless altar boy I became for you. Masculinity bleeds into every facet of my being! I'll not deny myself further for fear of threatening you. You were quite obviously blind to my sacrifice regardless.

I am capable of romance that would make you shudder! One kiss would have you consumed with conflict; five minutes of your time, you would be enslaved. Were you confused by a smile, imagine my silent breath on your untouched neck; imagine my arms and body with a tight lock around your tiny frame! Believe me, love, you have never known such warmth.

Minute 61: “Charmer”

A lyric poem.

Charmer, you conspire against my trust,

weeding through emotional disgust;

you wrap yourself around my tin heart,

and soften me with tears—I turn to rust.

Legend, you control me with your words,

suggesting to me images unheard;

you drop me like a saucer to the ground,

and sweep me under carpet, undeterred.

Princess, you monopolize my themes,

firmly pressed, embedded in my dreams;

you near me like a scissor to a quilt,

and one by one come undone the seams.

Minute 62

Undated entry.

I did suppose I would make it through the day uncommonly happy without you. After all, the mysterious girl in the long dress held my attention rather well since last night's dance. She was everything you wished you could appear. She seemed so content in the foolish whims she entertained. I thought perhaps I might find someone else after all. Someone who, at the very first notice, prompted the edges of my mouth uncharacteristically upward.

But there I was tonight, heart pounding a bass line, hoping she would return—hoping I could forget you entirely. Then, as the deep smoke thinned, a flawless outline carried itself through the otherwise uninteresting crowd. The figure bore an uncanny resemblance to a girl I spent so much time previously adoring. The height, the dimensions, and especially the bushy curls of long, dark hair, all evoked frozen memories of you.

As quickly as it had stolen my attention the night before, the mystery girl's image was again replaced by your own.

Minute 63: “Torture Me So”

A lyric poem.

As the music plays

and I try, try to forget;

the smoke filled room

reveals the flicker

of a faint silhouette.

I'm still in bondage to

another, other time;

if I have to kill, I will,

to get you off my mind.

How can I let you torture me so?

How can I leave if I can't let go?

Where can I move if I can't move on?

How can I color the black and white

picture you've drawn?

Minute 64

Undated entry.

Why could I not have ceased existence when I had wished? You have so utterly destroyed me, I haven't the desire to continue. How shall I expect to again become alive with this void so apparent? Of course there are moments I feel I can survive alone, but moments later memory finds its trigger, and emptiness again strangles my will from me. I am rendered useless. I can imagine serving no good. My eyes pierce the dance floor, the lights, the people. Rather than enjoying the entertainment of night, I find myself articulating your criticisms of my being too serious. And my defense remains that I am too introspective. And that, to your innocence, is a threat. But my intents for you were noble.

I never ceased watching you. I sought the intimate secrets of your heart through your innermost unconscious reactions. I wanted to know you, deeply, wholly. Why were you so afraid of me? Of yourself? Indeed, were those the primordial fears, or were they the mere symbols of something deeper? I wanted to know; I wanted you to know, but you were never quite honest enough to confront these things. And I was so near the truth that you pushed me away.

Oh Lana, it tortures me that you were able to be this long without me. That you haven't needed me, that I haven't heard from you is more painful than you could ever know. My concentration is shot. Everywhere I look, I see you. No matter how loud, I hear your voice. I think of you as often now as when we were close. You never fade. You never lose your standing. Your significance remains integral to who I am and what I know.

I have a love impossible for you to understand. I've denied it, ignored it, and now I attempt to forget it, but it’s so difficult. It gets unbearable at times. I care so much that I no longer know what to do. How much easier it would have been had I never known you!

Minute 65

Virtually unrelated entry.

Meanwhile, in another time zone...

a simple argument against masturbation.

Man's body is not for his own pleasure, but for the woman's. Man's delight is in the body of the woman. (Gen 1:27, 2:18, 24; 3:16; Pro 5:18-19; 12:4; 18:22; SOS 1:2; 2:16; 4:12, 16; 5:1; 6:2-3, 12; 7:6, 10, 13; 8:10, 12; Mat 19:6; I Cor 7:2-5, 9; Eph 5:22, 25, 28, 33; Col 3:18-19; I Thes 4:4-5; I Pet 3:5, 7)

“And those who are Christ's have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.” Gal 5:24

Minute 66: “A Moment Of Fiction”

A lyric poem.

I'm finally alone with you;

I stare unbelievingly.

I'm richer than any man

to touch what's in front of me.

I've waited so many years;

you've waited a century.

I've given you what I could;

you've given me everything.

Throat white as the gown you wore,

much coveted diamond ring;

exceedingly so much more

—my cake and my icing.

I want to know every last detail for sure;

I can't believe wicked me, entrusted with

something so undeniably pure.

You're everything.

You are everything.

Minute 67

Undated entry.

Even so, you shame me. Taken into account even those areas where I have more noticeably persevered, and remembering even your shortcomings in contrast to my strengths; your innocence nevertheless deems me unworthy. You can be called only the purest of unadulterated gold. There is simply no word potent enough, not one unspoiled by association, to honor it with such use as in connection with you. Communication finds its failures and limitations respecting any possible correlation.

You are absolute mint, inexpressible. To comprehend your purity is abstract, your virtue, impossible. To imagine skin no eye has seen, a body no hand has touched. The most private and well-preserved secret—sheer and complete virginity! I become overwhelmed at the prospect. I am faint with longing. I am immobile. You are a diamond formed over a thousand years.

Minute 68

A prayer.

Oh Lana, my dearest of loves! I wish so much that I could apologize to you. And to you also, my God, my King. For all the while I was given ample opportunity to demonstrate my King's character to my love, and yet so desperately failed.

Dear Lana, my sister, there was no Jesus to be found in me. His are not the attributes of envy, pride, or condemnation. There was so much Ryan in those days, and so precious little Holy Spirit. The selfishness, the judgment, the stubborn arrogance and foolish ignorance; those were the human areas I'd not yet surrendered to Christ my Savior.

It was my influence you rejected, not my Father's; I implore you to separate the two! Jesus is gracious and forgiving, compassionate and pure. If you found anything at all appealing in me, it was certainly what very little of His Spirit I allowed in.

I am dust, my friend, my love. My only desire is that our Savior abolishes whatever trace is left, and fills the vacuum with His perfect love and flawless understanding. Only He can make me a new creation—in the image of His own upright character—and redeem what is otherwise a pathetic and useless waste of flesh.

Please, please forget that Ryan ever existed, my beauty, my gem, and fix your precious gaze on the face of my God, the Sovereign Lord.

Minute 69

A memoir.

You did at times wish to please me. I refer specifically to early on when you offered to tape any of your music for me. I did very much want a copy of Bjork, as it reminded me of our first dinner together. On several other occasions, the majority being in Palm Beach Gardens, you tried to impart insignificant (though surely not!) kindnesses on me. Like preparing that horribly vinegar saturated salad with Grapenut seasoning when you worried that I didn't eat enough. And that night as we walked down the row of shops, when you raced me to the bubble gum machine for a Wolverine tattoo. You nearly giggled with delight to offer such a stupid thing.

That laughter in your voice was so precious to me. It spoke more audibly than you ever realized. Even without knowing your thoughts, I did recognize a special laugh you had for me—usually at my trying to appear sophisticated. Your deep eyes would spark, and the tip of your tongue would press against your pearl teeth in a burst of suppressed emotion.

I also reserved a shine for the mention of your name. Delia noticed it long before we even met, when I would speed to her each day with anticipation to ask more about you, to hear anything at all that would help me know you. Even over the telephone she heard my smile—”What about her now?” she would ask, and I would giggle in reply. How often giddy I was, and how happy with you.

Minute 70

A memoir.

It was already dark outside when Delia called. So it caught me unexpectedly that she wanted me to drive out to Tampa, to Lana's apartment, where she and Cat were already waiting. But my reluctance to be seen was won over by the excitement of being invited to her home, and I was quickly on my way.

The directions led to the computerized gate of an exclusive complex, and I called to be let in. As I rounded the corner, my three friends were walking through the parking lot to greet me. We were presently inside for a quick tour and an introduction to her parents, then out again into the evening air for dinner.

I followed to the patio in a bewildered daze. A single flame cast shadows through the glass tabletop. The four of us sat around it in a bashful silence. Cat tried to make small talk. A very slight wind carried the crystal sounds of a neighbor's wind chime through the bushes. Del and I smiled shyly, noting the romance of the atmosphere. Lana carried out a small stereo and played “Big Time Sensuality”. I was smitten with her by candlelight. Her skin was a pale glow, her dark hair and eyes highlighted with night. I was enchanted and lost.

A bit later, we walked around the complex, stopping for a spell to swing in the pavilion near the forest-hidden stream—me with Delia, Lana with Cat. We continued shortly past a dark wooden bridge, the sort from folklore of ogres and gnomes, which had on the blacker end another swing, where I momentarily sat alone, the others too nervous to throw themselves into such heavy shadow.

Past another row of cars, behind a garage, we found a small picnic area and settled in it for a half hour or so. Cat and Lana semi-circled the building several times in no regular pattern. I jumped from table to rock, from rock to bench, from bench to sand; then the whole path over, with neurotic consistency. Delia sat in the darkness, swinging, thinking as I was that even this site was fuel for a romantic's imagination.

The entire night seemed mystical to me. All too soon we were back inside, watching the clock, begging parents for just a little while longer. It became tradition to watch the last few minutes slip by. Lana could usually win an extra half hour with a kiss to her enviable father. But inevitably I would have to leave and drive home, placing mile after mile between us. I hated to leave her. I very quickly learned the meaning of the expression that “parting is such sweet sorrow.” I, more than any man, can attest to that.

Minute 71

Undated entry.

Every night I stare through the warm, black thoughtfulness to rest my gaze on a small cottage. The geometrically angled, cylindrical house has two small windows and one even smaller door. Above it rests a slightly off-centered cumulus. In the daytime, an angry sun shoots its orange rays straight out towards the yellow house and the heartbroken gingerbread outline, with beads of rain streaming down like alien legs from the single cloud. One small flower rests at the bottom of the hill. Every night I notice this cottage and this cloud, and occasionally I remember its origin.

Lana and I were so awkward that evening. It was probably the first time we were alone in the same room. There was no one to minimize the lulls in conversation so frequent to us. She did have, at least, a plan. I would paint on a shirt for her, she would redecorate my old, black sock-hat. Had we not the paints, I suspect the silence would have been increasingly more uncomfortable. As it was, we just laid there on her floor, barely speaking, me reinventing Scapegoat and her painting a glow-in-the-dark house and cloud.

This hat she begged me to throw away... every night, it catches my eye. Tonight, specifically, I remember its origin.

Minute 72

Undated entry.

How much sweeter are the memories as lost treasures than as a chronology. Each memory now prompts another; our day of thrift store hunting, our trip to Busch Gardens for Nicole's birthday, running out of gas late at night after "Food Not Bombs". The way you would only accept french-fries if I left them on the ground and walked off; that dinner at the restaurant with your family.

Ordinary, mundane things with you are so meaningful to me. The everyday times with you are more special to me than entire summers with anyone else. Years without you slip by unremembered, but every minute we spent together is nearly canonized in my mind.

I remember the way you lit up to see me show unannounced at a second performance of “The Wizard of Oz”. I remember so much; each instance deserves its own page, perhaps its own volume. But I don't know how safe I am to allow the scenes to replay in my theater of recollections. What good could they possibly do now, if I never see you again?

Minute 73

02-14-95.

I am of course too obstinate for the better of anyone. This being St. Valentine's Day, I consider my own situation in regards to interpersonal relationships. Here I've been several days holed up in an antique cottage on the outskirts of Nashville. I can honestly claim no friends by individual consent or mutual admiration. There remains but one girl who wholeheartedly and sacrificially holds hope in my existence. So certainly I did telephone to exchange sentiment with her, as morbidly as was done the year preceding. And with sufficient justification, said sentiments were fond and sincere. Yet….

I retain, and even accommodate such an intense underscoring of passion for a hope I myself entertain. That hope, against all odds and consideration, that my beauty will awake to the realization that she is, after all, a potentially disappointing loss. At that, I wonder if I care even mildly in the manner begun with introduction, or if I simply delight in the challenge. That I still think, much less mull over her, confuses me. Do I reside in hope or denial? I question my own sincerity. Tastes this journal sweet with the blood of romance, or does it now border on indulgence of some psychosis? Who am I to answer? How am I to know?

Minute 74

Undated entry.

There is still that one person who calls homes to only hang up. That is none other than the one who collects matches to socks and hides keys for hobby. Well, this little mysteries did suit himself to call a day earlier than the good Saint himself did usually practice. Like a housewife, therefore, I listened between queries to the split second of rhythmic sound patterns. But, neglecting my patron to the near point of discontinued communication, a very short fantasy unfurled itself. The sensation was an even more familiar silence, not as delicately rehearsed as the previous hallucination (which is definitely the absolute wrong word), but welcome as a more favorable option of suicide. Regardless, the cord still tangles its curl into the wall upon setting downward the receiver.

Minute 75

Thursday, 02-16-95, 2:35 AM.

I'm so little of anything without you. I've lost track of everything and grown so irreversibly apathetic. I have no will, no plan, no goal. I've barely an explanation for why I persist in waking each day. I am completely broken. Everything for me is so devoid of meaning. The single possible reconciliation is God's call on my life. Yet, as of now, He remains silent, watching to see how I survive. I call out to Him, but receive no answer, only a resounding “Wait.” I must continue, but for now it is without heart, because mine is numb.

As much as I despise this vague hope I've been trying to deny, it is either that I believe you will return to me or I wish it. Both implausibilities devastate me. It would be so much easier to finalize the end myself. If I could only write and tell you that you'll never hear from me again. If I could only reject you—shut you out completely, make myself impossible to find. If I could lose myself in someone willing to accept my kindnesses, I could perhaps forget you. Perhaps even come to loathe you for so many months of anguish and torment. It would be so much easier for me. But as with everything else, my Lord only permits me to wait, as I pray for your salvation.

Minute 76

Friday, 02-17-95, 1:28 AM.

You were wise to reject me, beloved. When I now honestly examine myself, I see the unlikelihood that you should have remained content for long. I am faulted beyond remedy. To love me would require more of an effort than you may be capable of; I, with all my limitations, merit no worthiness.

Beyond this poet's heart is a monstrosity. Physically, I am repulsive. This bloated face under unmanageable hair is supported by an overtly crooked spine. My frame is underdeveloped and sickly underweight. My face contorts into an off-centered smile, revealing tooth-decay and infected gums, and narrowing my eyes into slits. My skin is excessively oily and covered with too much hair. My hands crack and bleed. My fingernails are too short. My toes are too long. One eyebrow lifts higher than the other. My legs are bowed. I am frequently ill. My throat gets scratched and parched. My neck and jaw make a scraping sound. Pigment dots my skin. I am a truly hideous sight.

And my personality does little to compensate. I am irrational, possessive, compulsive, obsessive, jealous, bitter, overbearing, proud, obstinate, selfish, unjustly arrogant, perverse, and corrupt. I am a beast who will not mystically transcend my torment.

You were wise to reject me, my absolute treasure, my love. To merely accept me would require more grace than you should be expected to possess. To love me be would be an injustice I'll never ask. No woman on earth should be so unfortunate!

Minute 77

Tuesday, 02-21-95, 12:34 AM.

I've put away her picture finally. I've taken down the glow-in-the-dark house and cloud; folded it up, tucked it away. If I am ever to be truly free from the bondage of her memory, my romantic and sentimental tendencies must be denied. I'll no longer attach myself to the things she once touched, the gifts she gave, intentional or not. Nor will I again view the written evidences she penciled. It has been nearly three months since we were friends; I must persuade myself to continue without the hope of her ever coming back. It becomes clear that I can be content only entirely with or entirely without her. I have no choice but to live entirely without.

Of course, I shall continue to pray for her redemption. But the instances in which I allow myself to intricately relive every detail will greatly diminish. I could consume myself with past and finish this ridiculous journal by elaborating on each day we spent together; but I have never known Lana Breathcatcher to be anything other than a futile pursuit. Quite true, I will always love her; but there is a fine line separating patient endurance from fruitless obsession. I no longer benefit from acknowledging her. Besides, I shall in the end quite likely torch this account.

Minute 78

Saturday, 02-25-95, 11:56 PM.

This precisely marking the third month of our separate ways. Nirvana's version of “Jesus Don't Want Me For A Sunbeam” making it abundantly clear that the loss is still felt. Me now sitting in the back seat, blinking airport lights while my brother and his wife lean in and rest on each other. Me sitting now at the Grocer Deli at three in the morning, amongst self-conscious jesters, politely wishing they were home. She, for all I know, carrying on thoughtless of me. She, for all I've heard, remaining only to linger in the references I try continually to overcome. Me plagued with impossible paradoxes for reconciliation.

I should have known early to enter the priesthood! How welcome would such preposterous vows be! So preferable to what instead became. Who am I that I should pursue marriage anyway? Paul, the Apostle, was wise in pronouncing it better to remain unwed. My focus should be on my Father, and on His saving grace. A companion is an unnecessary burden I should do well to avoid.

Yet....

Minute 79

A confession. Sunday, 02-26-95, 1:29 AM.

You always did complain that you never knew me. It was right of you to say; you never did. I admit now what I hid from you—what I hide from everyone; what I had hoped could be forgotten. That being my hypocrisy. Understand what I have just said. I AM A HYPOCRITE. I always have been. There are thoughts and urges I struggle with not so easily overcome. Some I not even struggle with, but knowingly submit to. Particularly mental and sexual, though certainly not limited to that.

In seventh grade, I would angrily tear pages out of my friend's dirty joke book, but then alone raid the cupboard of Victoria's Secret catalogs at home. Earlier still, my brothers and I would frequent the shops in downtown Phoenixville to buy comic books, knowing full well the “adult” magazines were nearby displayed. In Lake City, I took active roles in three youth groups throughout the week, yet I stayed up to the early hours of morning to peek at the only partially scrambled Playboy and Spice channels (30 and 98, disrespectively).

I carried the tendencies with me into Tampa as well. I led Bible studies for girls I never hesitated to hunger for. I used lingerie ads as the models to sketch faceless nudes, dismissing it as art. If anything could be given a perverse innuendo, I had the imagination and the capacity to do it. I had also the terrible, terrible shame of such secrets pent up inside me.

And in the midst of this I spent a week with Angel! She became my second kiss the first day we were together. I was introduced then to a darker, twisted world of open perversity and unashamed display. Her entire existence was saturated with overt and distorted sexuality. She had no reservations changing clothes in front of me, her parents the next room over. With doors wide open, she would pull me to the ground in longing and passion (if I may mar the word). She singled out male and female alike whom she had “been with”.

I was tempted beyond my own belief to use her. I found within me violent touches of sadism and transvestitism. I found that only spiritual discernment—my flawed and tattered devotion to God—keeps me from wicked acts of rape and promiscuity. For sure, I was given ample opportunity to cave and submit. Praise God for whatever it was that kept me from giving away more than I could get back.

And it was in the wake of such an intensely physical relationship I then met you! (That is where I was when you met me... I'm sorry you didn't know; you could have cut me off then and there and I would have perfectly understood.) What a stark contrast was someone so petrified of being close! As her insecurities compelled her to all but abandon morality, yours cushioned you with layer upon layer of distance and cold indifference. Mine, meanwhile, could so easily express itself in either extreme. It was at times difficult to establish the appropriateness of my eccentricities.

I do have a dark side. Darker than most people imagine. But where the trespass increases, there does the grace also increase. I have never claimed to be entirely moral, nor would I consider myself pure enough to have anything outstanding to offer any forthcoming bride. But God is a God of forgiveness, grace and inconceivable miracles. If only in His sight, I know that any guilt is unnecessary, because—through the blood of Christ Jesus my Savior, in whom is all my faith, hope, and love—I have been made clean. For this I worship Him; He is worthy of all praise!

Minute 80

Tuesday, 02-28-95, 1:29 AM.

Certainly I never expect to see her again. How much less then would I ever assume she could be happy with me. The Resurrection itself was not so miraculous. I can see it though. For sure, we would both necessarily overcome our respective shynesses, but the veritable connections and potential covalence would, I suspect, more than compensate. I found never any difficulty in imagining our now intermittent lives then intermingle. I've pictured always her ever-youthful expression inciting irrevocable laughter from the gaze and bewilderment of the bashful old man I've become.

These were thoughts with no different origin than those of my initial admiration, being also strengthened through discourse and interaction over a brief period of months and daze. This aforementioned spell offered substance to such dreams of intimate trust and unbridled openness for unity. I never, I suppose, could have impressed enough the incomprehensible delight and fulfillment she brought to me. She, however, did often admit (with which I now somewhat agree) that our time was on her behalf selfish, which was the single most meaningful appreciation able to be expressed. Were she ever to regain that selfishness...

I shudder at the prospect.

Minute 81

Sunday, 03-12-95, 10:07 PM.

Tonight I burn all that reminds me of her. The house and cloud, the Thank You Star, her hand written pleas and my hand written agonies. The shots of Dorothy, the picture I stole, every left over piece of sentiment I'd been foolishly saving. I'll no longer endure such a ridiculous attachment as I have come to know. How ludicrous to visit my hometown and feel tainted by her absence! I'll no longer cater to the delusions I've so harbored.

So as I personally take the initiative to summer and close this unpleasant volume of the Akashic Record, the ashes of its contents return to the source from which they were derived. A source of which I, sadly, am no longer a part.

And now it appears that the only warmth I ever felt was from the open flames of everything she ever gave me.

Minute 82: “Mourning By Candlelight”

A lyric poem.

Strike a match in the earliest middle of night

to see what I've been thinking about you;

focus on the features of a

toy bear in the candlelight,

and wonder why I kept it there without you.

I wonder if I'll always still think of you?

I wonder if I'll always feel linked to

someone so far gone?

I wonder if someday

you'll say I was a friend to you?

I wonder if you ever wish we hadn't done

everything wrong?

The flame slowly dims as it burns into the holder

that I now remember you once helped me buy;

it's the metal one, the sun I chose

because it made me think of you

—how crazy that I had it all this time.

I wonder if I always will think of you?

I wonder if I'll ever lose this sinking feeling

little things trigger?

I wonder if today you're still

ashamed that I was close to you?

I understand I'll probably always wonder

--well, that figures.

Minute 83

Late ’95.

You’ve done it. All those songs you listened to, all those ideas you were so envious to have, you’ve become part of it all. How critically you wondered who could hurt anyone so badly... well, you’ve done it. So welcome to reality. Welcome to anger and bitterness and frustration and reaction. Your name is forever attached to a tangible body of work. You’ve so mortally wounded someone that your legacy will never be forgotten. Somewhere some young girl is reading this as an abstract concept, the way you once would have, wondering who it could be about. I hope you’re able to see the absurdity of it all. I hope you enjoy your part.