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29 April 2007 @ 11:23 pm
I burped up the last of my steak and potatoes. A good, hearty, Irish meal. I could taste a hint of blood in the gaseous escape. An art I had perfected many times over.
I thought about Lucy. Small, fragile Lucy with the ginger hair. I thought of her eyes, the color of Casco Bay before the late summer hurricanes roll through.
I thought of her nostrils and how they flared when she exhaled - a slight twinge only detectable when in the proper vicinity.
I thought of her tiny fingernails, cut to the quick, scraping at the earth, begging to go whichver way the next windstorm would blow.
I looked down at my own hands. Tired and worn, an "L"-shaped scar between my thumb and pointer. A mark that betrays me until this moment.
Some things in life are not appreciated until they are stirred up in the subconcious several years later. I am appreciative of Lucy and what she gave me.
Before her, no heart had ever beat so fast in my presence. No female had ever called my God-given name with such ferocity.
I burp one final time, tasting the blood.

Tasting Lucy.

----That's something I wrote a while ago and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I know in my head what's it about but I don't think it come across clearly in that small bit of writing. I think it may have potential to be more than a few paragraphs. If you read this, leave your comments/let me know what you think.

Spring is upon us here in southern maine and soon I will fix the chain on my bike, and plant my flowers outside and get my knees dirty from leaning over the side of the dock down at the harbor. I hope you do the same.

21 March 2007 @ 10:53 pm
Your squishy face,
your googly eyes,
I wish you'd take me by surprise
and join my life in Portland, Maine
where animals are free to reign.
I'll buy you sweaters
and peanut butter bones.
I'll give you eye-drops and
provide a home.
I won't care if you shed on my couch,
I won't even whine when you bark to go out.
We'll go for walks along the ocean.
I'll rub your belly, you'll lick my chin.
Q-tips in your wrinkles won't be that bad,
we'll console each other when feeling sad.
I know a lot of folks say "ugh"
when looking at the breed of pug.
But I promise you, pup
if you come to play
I'll never, ever give you away.
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also, sometimes i lie and the piscataqua has a story to tell. i'll relay it on the sabbath.

22 January 2007 @ 08:22 pm
I am loved.
I don't have friends, only family.
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I am a reflection of my surroundings. I am surrounded by warmth and bursting hearts. Someday I will die knowing I had a great time.

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12 January 2007 @ 04:07 pm

Originally uploaded by tedancin.
I have a bunch of things I need/want to transcribe on here. I found some of my older stories and whatnot, and would like to put them on here, as well as bind them together in a small book-form.
Until then, here's a picture and a "survey" both of which I told myself I wouldn't post on this journal.

Apparently, because I have a flannel shirt on in this picture, I'm "assimllitating(sp.)" to the Maine lifestyle. Or, so I've been told.

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04 December 2006 @ 11:41 pm
I. It is within the mechanical workings of a heart that barely beats without a dose of reality and some complimentary caffeine, that she knows I am a good person.
Is this awkward for you? Because I can certainly play this game for the rest of my life.
I refuse to support the tight-lipped rally whenever you set foot into what you deem "entitlement"
and i REFUSE to stand-by and watch while innocent bystanders are the tokyo to your godzilla.

II. There are times when I would give everything just to see you walk across the street barefoot at 2am because you thought my house was yours. The knotty knuckles that would dole out the cherry-red popsicles in the summer heat of our south shore suburb; you knew you loved me, you just didn't know why.
If I could kiss you on the forehead and hold your hand for just one more second, i would give up ever thinking that I won't continue on when I expire. You won't ever realize how much someone you didn't really know means to you until you remember that blood will always be thicker than water.

III. Across a sea of tolls and turnpikes, I know that soon another fever will be close to breaking. I'll bring the wet rags if you remain in a state of opacity. I don't want to disappoint you with what I really look like when you open your eyes. I'll recite a book of dickinson's finest, while standing on a chair over the bed and ringing a cowbell with one hand.
This will recreate that time we spread out in a pasture of wheat and locked joints. "The end," that big thing looming ahead will come early for you, but not until I clear the white basin of red phlegm and plasma, and tell you that I'll be ok with a garden and your notebook.
20 November 2006 @ 07:07 pm
I would have tried to jump the pickup over the median, but it is my father's and I didn't want to leave him with a big bill.
(the city of boston is hard on the uninsured)
selfish vehicular homicide.
A give and take between my life or rubber and steel. I guess I thought we were both equally important since I'm sitting here typing, and Ma. plates are currently in Me.
Nothing means more to me than knowing I mean something to someone.
It's a hard way to be when you wake up feeling like you've disappointed that someone for not being what they want.
I'd ask for a million choices but these days it takes at least two to get by gracefully.
I'm on the wayward, the straight and narrow, the yellow-brick.
I'm choosing what I need and hoping you can whisper into my subconcious about what I should do with what I get.
There's no better time to prepare yourself for the life of not knowing you're dead.

                        We're all ghosts.
It was on the flight home from Los Angeles, that god damned city of god damned
angels, that i knew things, for sure, were different.

And it wasn’t something new and it wasn’t anything i shouldn’t have been
expecting, it was just...well, you know...

There was a time that my hand melted around your palm and the knuckles weren’t
yours and mine - but ours. And we were once in love like only best friends can be.

I went to visit you the same 22 year old girl that had been left behind to
mature in Boston. You, well, you were just far beyond your years the second I
stepped foot in the terminal. Even our hug "hello" was off.

Palm trees couldn’t shake this feeling. The one place i had always dreamt about visiting, perhaps settling down in, was ruined the second that embrace was terminated.

You found burning man, and hoola hoops, and hippy hair and Paynie. Fuckin
Payne. The forty-five year old weathered excuse for a man who wooed you with
promises of a life in L.A. and London, (his hometown, ya know, in case you didn’t
hear him the first forty-five times he mentioned it.)

So yeah, I'’m bitter. I could tell things were different the day we learned to surf. A
wish, or, I’ll even go as far as to say it was a dream of mine to someday try and
surf. You, however, complained that the water was too cold, and you couldn’t catch
any waves, and Brandon, our instructor, kept checking out your ass. Well, for
goddamn sake, you should have gotten over it, sucked it up and just done it, if not
for me then for the sake of the state, because really, you’re nothing if you don’t
“hang ten” in southern california.

Thinking back now, I just want to freeze time, you know like those clocks that
have cranks and need to be wound? Well, I'’d quit winding us up and I'’d let us stop
right where we were, a chance to evaulate what exactly was going on.

Sometimes, I kick myself for being so patient with you. That’s what friends
are for, of course. Sometimes, though, you pushed me to the limit.. Friends don’t
make friends worry.

Or, do they?

Sometimes, well sometimes isn’t all the time, and all the time I loved you like you were blood.
I will still never get over the feeling of playing second fiddle to you.


The one with the magnetism. The one all the guys adored, and crooned over, and layed
out their magic red coats for you to walk across puddles on. Meanwhile, I got the
splash of mud in the face.

I loved you but I hated you. Maybe that’s why we ended.
Not because of something I did, but perhaps we were too enamored with hating
each other that it just couldn’t continue in the path that it was digging.

I remember the spur of the moment trip to Wisconsin. Or, our road trip to Niagara
Falls and Pittsburgh with a stopover in Amish Country, a place I so wanted to go. I
have pictures of all these, but what good are pictures when your memory wants
nothing to do with associating itself with them?

You slept with the first boy I ever had a crush on in colllege. You knew exactly
what you were doing, too. This, however, was before we were friends, and instead
of pushing us away from each other, it only drew us closer and closer together.

Five years we clung to life with each other in mind. The “mini-mental
vacation” you took to Mclean never once made me think of you in any other light
other than the glow you surrounded yourself with .

I know I screwed up. Screwing up probably isn’t even the right word to explain
what I did. I hate you for letting me fuck you over and I hate California for telling
me what was true. I hate the words “*deravaun seraun” and I hate James Joyce for
being right.

*the end of pleasure is pain, taken from a James Joyce short story.
Current Location: on a rug
Current Mood: coldcold
Current Music: goodbye desolate railroad