December, 1995

Arwen, age eight wrote this in her diary someday in December after Christmas (for those of you who can't read my articulate writing): "Now today after lunch my MoM was bosing me around. My DaD is is going to pick us up today. And I now we are going to have lots of fun."

White-Knuckle Rage

Generic, whiny songs,
Murderous incantations,
BLAST this day and age!
Teenage punk-angst-bullshit,
I want to die sometimes.
Or murder something,
But then I've turned into
One of the whiny bastards.

I don't know. Evan liked it, so it must be okay.

Fatal Consumption

Pink on blue, he's so into you.

The paint is opaque. The texture suits the attitude he carried. It was smooth but unpredictably rough in rare patches. He's been painting for months, but the picture keeps changing when he returns to pick up where he left off. He's frustrated by the change. Why did it have to transmogrify? The blue would be deeper, the pink would be too bright, but tomorrow they were both too dull so he had to paint over them again.

Again and again he dwells on the sin.

Frayed curtains winnowed by the wind, flick, flick. A dust storm comes but he doesn't see it. Into the house, into the sullied water, freckling the painting, and into the congealing palette and then into his eyes. It's rough, it scratches. His eyes become bloated and pink. But it's still there and it's still changing and he's still there clawing at it with the paint biting under his nails, digging deeper, piercing to pain.

He's destroyed it.

Destiny was satisfied, but the boy, unable to cope, grabbed a gun and shoved it down his throat. Bullets, tearing, searing down a raw gullet to a stone-hard stomach. Burning, boiling, blood coughing. Waking, struggling but bleary-eyed and ambiguous, where do we go from here? His fingers wrap around the splintered leg of the easel.

What easel?

There was no painting to begin with.

Perception

I admired a boy. He was direct, frank, and gregarious. I enjoyed his company, his charm was delicious and his smile sweeter still. His confidence was great but not overwhelming. I envied his manner and wished I could come off as so cool. Sometimes I felt weak when we were together. Not self-conscious, simply wholly engaged. All else was frivolous to me. I wished that I could speak so deftly. I didn't dwell on it, but I often felt like I came off as a daft-cow.

He admired me likewise but I was oblivious. I came off as independent, forthright and encouraging. He saw confidence in my manner and heard it in my tone. He was intrigued at the affect of caffeine and how the articulate words came so fast when I discussed something of interest. He envied how I could be merry without merit and smile without stimulation. He wished that he could be as passionate about certain things and as quick to raw wit as he saw in me.

I knew her name but I hadn't ever spoken with her. She was loud and boisterous, especially when explaining the latest sexual escapades involving so-and-so and what happened when the drama escalated with various abused substances. I saw her as smug and annoying. I avoided her because I assumed if I were to befriend her she'd bring me down with her ecliptic drama.

She knows my name but hasn't been formally introduced to me. She sees me as cocky and impetuous. I seemed abrasive and curt, primp and curdled, and very cold. She was glad that we weren't friends because she was sure that I'd bring her down. I seemed quiet most of the time, unfriendly and dispassionate. When I did speak from what she heard I came off as sardonic and crude. When I smiled and laughed she thought me sarcastic and wry.

One boy thought me beautiful; another thought me plain. One girl believed I was sensitive and kind, another believed me angry and uncivil. Someone held me at a distance because I intimidated him or her. Someone else thrilled at spending time with me. Whatever you're impression of me, I see myself through your eyes. I can only hope the portrait you paint is something that makes you as happy as you have made me.