You weren’t brought here to confront anything, sweet, sweet angel of honey, I swear this to you. Please stop crying, resume your deep, worrysome panting once more.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
~ Thursday, May 24 ~
Apr. 7th, 2011 | 05:23 am
He quoted Bo Burnham while we were having sex today.
Things I Will Not Forget About Tonight/This Early Morning:
You’re a river.
His reaction to my comment about the third Spongebob tattoo.
Getting beer spilled on me and subsequently rubbed off by two different drunk girls heavily apologizing to me.
“Since Tuesday, this is pretty much all I’ve been thinking about.”
“I just wanna…take you home with me.”
Hannah becomes a psychopath who is obsessively documental and analyzes everything like they are situations and characters in books. (For instance, the fact that even though I am completely enamoured and kind of swept up, part of me still can’t decide whether or not he isn’t actually just totally full of himself. Most of me insists upon totally sweet, overwhelmingly charming. But there is doubt.)
The crazy, crazy music that was on the entire time we were making out in his room, (in between plays of “For Emma, Forever Ago”).
That passionate, intense make out session.
“Is it just me, or do we have a ton of physical chemistry?”
Drunk girl asking if we were dating, awkwardly avoiding the answer by glancing the other way and drinking my beer. He didn’t really vocalize, but she goes, “You are? Good.” That kind of thing. So…he told some drunk girl who will never remember it, that we are dating. In all likelihood just to get rid of her. TRIUMPH ANYWAY!
Became addicted to a new drug. It’s called, “Charlie Sheen”“Connor Braa”
“You’re just so damn adorable, I don’t even know what to do with myself.”
His perfectly imperfect self up against mine.
His laugh. Oh my god, that perfect, sweet, serenade’s worth of a laugh.
Apr. 26th, 2011 | 01:47 am
I guess this sounds like some kind of ridiculous or another, but it inspires me just to look at him. This past month has brought my soul the most intense moments of creativity and spark, in whatever form they choose to come in when they come, but it’s unfortunately fleeting in solidity. I guess, I’m doing lots of guessing. And I guess it’s just that the spark remains all day, all night, but the words only come properly when I can see his face. They practically force their way out of my mouth when he cradles me in his arms, the arms he seems to be sure that I’ll return to when he’s near again, but where can I put them when I’m in such a position? No where. Because in those moments, I want nothing more than to lie right where I am and never move again, except maybe to adjust myself and coo when he whispers that he loves me, just because he’s thinking it. And when I leave him, when I sit alone in the dark with tea that reminds me of him in a cup that reminds me of me, I scrape the remnants of these moments for anything beautiful, but I simply can’t put it into words.
How possible is it to put something like this into words? How can words exist for the bitter-less, sweet, sweet fortunes he pours over me every single day? There simply can’t be a way for me to elegantly describe this feeling that has hit me like a collision. I am a truck against a wall, or I am a wall against a force, or I am the mangled body stuck between, death coming blindly and sourly. It’s utterly indescribable, this feeling I’d truly begun to lose faith in entirely, after spending all of my life thinking it was something other than what it really is. Love, I guess I have to call it. It isn’t what we all think, it isn’t anything really, until it sprinkles its magic on top of our soft, sleeping heads and tightly locked eyelids. And then it’s exactly how it feels physically. It’s the drop of anything, a jump off of something spectacularly high or the jump in a safe bed during a half-dream of stepping off of a curb into nothingness.
How possible is it to put something like this into words? How can words exist for the bitter-less, sweet, sweet fortunes he pours over me every single day? There simply can’t be a way for me to elegantly describe this feeling that has hit me like a collision. I am a truck against a wall, or I am a wall against a force, or I am the mangled body stuck between, death coming blindly and sourly. It’s utterly indescribable, this feeling I’d truly begun to lose faith in entirely, after spending all of my life thinking it was something other than what it really is. Love, I guess I have to call it. It isn’t what we all think, it isn’t anything really, until it sprinkles its magic on top of our soft, sleeping heads and tightly locked eyelids. And then it’s exactly how it feels physically. It’s the drop of anything, a jump off of something spectacularly high or the jump in a safe bed during a half-dream of stepping off of a curb into nothingness.
It helps me to see his face. Sometimes the words that bleed from my ears and dangle from the tips of my hair can find themselves again in my solace, when normally they only come out to play when we play together. One afternoon we made the crazy, motion-filled kind of love we make and I let him fall into a delicious sleep because I could see the exhaustion in his chest cavity. I sat on the leather couch at the end of his bed- I guess this was after he moved that couch to the opportune position for setting me and taking me to some other galaxy with his soft mouth and piercing stare- and I wrote. I wrote in red ink, about the smell of sex in the air and how many pennies it would be if I had a penny every day until the day he leaves. But I’ve got to be done thinking about that day. There are more than a hundred left before that day comes around and I dread it with every fiber of me, but I take comfort in the fact that I know it will hold its own beauty, even in sadness. But I won’t wait for that day to make the realizations I need to make. I won’t wait for the day he leaves to come to profound conclusions about my love for him, about how I won’t forget him, even easier than he insists he won’t forget me, and about how I could follow him to communist China and sleep in makeshift shelter in a ditch within a ditch, and I’d still be happy next to him. Just to be able to lay my head under his collarbone, both body parts perfectly shaped like they were formed in some alternate universe to fit together just right in this one.
So sometimes it helps me just to look at him. It helps me to understand that I can’t wait for death or departure or dimmer feelings to come, and I can’t wallow in the fact that one or two or three of those will inevitably come to us. My profound conclusions have been made and now they must be shown, and it helps to see his face while I try to decide how to show them to him properly.
The way he speaks, the things he says, the laughter when we collide in any way- how can I absorb these things without laying down in my solace and imagining our future? It’s not a future I rely on, nor is it a future I anticipate, it’s just the future in my mind; one I’ve wanted my whole life and now I’ve found the person I was meant to imagine it with. I can’t ignore his misty eyes in our painkiller heart to hearts, and I certainly can’t ignore the way he wakes up next to me with a morning-drizzled “I love you,” before any other words can come out. I can’t ignore the identical shades of our eyes or his radio voice saying, “Beautiful blue-eyed children.”
The way he speaks, the things he says, the laughter when we collide in any way- how can I absorb these things without laying down in my solace and imagining our future? It’s not a future I rely on, nor is it a future I anticipate, it’s just the future in my mind; one I’ve wanted my whole life and now I’ve found the person I was meant to imagine it with. I can’t ignore his misty eyes in our painkiller heart to hearts, and I certainly can’t ignore the way he wakes up next to me with a morning-drizzled “I love you,” before any other words can come out. I can’t ignore the identical shades of our eyes or his radio voice saying, “Beautiful blue-eyed children.”
Yes, Connor, yes we would have beautiful, blue-eyed children. But for now we are those children and our beautiful blue eyes can wait a decade, maybe two, to welcome any distraction to what we’ve found. Beautiful, blue-eyed children are we and society says you’ll leave me and find something you’ll like better, because it will be fresh and unfamiliar, but infinity says that every day we’ve spent has been fresh and unfamiliar and will continue to be so. Please Connor, please, if it isn’t, please don’t stay. If one day you wake up next to my body and find that you love its curves simply because they’ve lain beside you for so long, please go and never return. Because I want more for you. I want more for my beautiful, blue-eyed, childish lover. I want it you to have everything.
So yes, it helps to see his face. It helps to see his smile because it’s more than just imagining it. It reminds me of all of these thoughts, all of these constant thoughts that swim from the veins in my toes up to the veins in my skull, damaging me further because to love something this completely, this wholly, is to give yourself away and risk the pain of watching yourself drop off of the edge of the earth. But here I am, a child in my own right, an adult in no right but maybe one or two, loving completely, the man who seems worth waving to myself as I fall into outer space, waiting to hit a different galaxy so that maybe, for a brief moment, he could love me again in some alternate reality.
But the worry of losing him is far from my mind. It exists only because it must, only because it does, but I cannot, and will not dwell. Our days aren’t numbered in my brain, because our possibilities are endless and I refuse to let percentages and likelihoods stifle the creativity brought to my fractured soul when he cradles me in those arms of his. Those arms that he is so sure I will return to. He is so sure he won’t forget me.
May. 2nd, 2011 | 03:09 am
every single piece, every part and every port with our future boats lying in between docks, in between sand bars, in between sailboats with sails taller than our bodies could ever hope to be. every potential situation, every place we could end up, i love it all. i love the thought, i love watching it happen.
i love his sheltered family, i love seeing his sanity and wisdom fawn over their strange habits and highlighted conservative obligations. i love spending time near them, as their visible naivety may be false, and even if it isn’t, they are beautiful people in spite of it. it’s a wonder what little has to be done to make me feel at home somewhere- they do whatever it is.
my problems concentrating on single words, single phrases, certain inflections, when neutral milk hotel plays over my thoughts with a twang of amplified feedback that melts the music around my bony little fingertips. my bony little finger tips cover him at all times and it never gets old, it never gets tiresome it never falters and it never ceases to conduct some kind of massive electricity when it happens. always it happens.
in the last few days more has been done and said to convince me that i’ve found it. i’ve really found it. this is the it i’ve been remaining young for.
sweet, really, to recollect our first kiss using our lightly absinthed lips, but sweeter still, is his comfort in telling me that he feels like he’ll be sick, his tone asking me what he should do. sweet, to lead him up the stairs and out the door, to let him breathe oxygen without menthol and without black licorice undertones. sweet and oddly no kind of strange, to tip toe through the gate and bring him to the side of a dark house on a dark block and let him bend and welcome sickness without worry. to rub his back in gentle circles without saying a word, without asking how he is and without commenting on anything because ear drums rarely reject noise more than they do at points like that. to let him be sick by my feet, on grass on dirt, to continue to rub his back and massage his terrors up through whatever tubes they move through.
sweet, to hear his face with the moon across it, tell me through acid breath that i’m just wonderful, to hear him thank me for doing nothing but stand and rub, to hear him say that yes, he feels much better and yes, he’d like to go inside and lay down. better feelings just come so rarely. better feelings than the feeling of leading him to a bed, nestling his head in my lap and wrapping him in heat, anticipating immediate rest, kneeling over his eyelids and whispering that i love him before he drifts off- better feelings than that, come so rarely.
absinthe lingers and today, so did the kind of love that we shared last night, through this morning. i awoke on top of him a few times, as that’s where i ended up sleeping, and his distinct air spoke to me minimally, when the energy was found. even when he doesn’t have the energy to speak, he always opens his eyes. if i move too much or adjust myself noticeably, his eyes open to see me and there has yet to be a time when a smile doesn’t find him. he thanked me, sweetly. it meant so much to him that i did so little for him, the night before in his sickness. i could do it every night.
the sun had been born for a short time when we snuck out this morning, it was odd to be sneaking out of my house and into his, as opposed to the opposite, of course. we arrived and slunk into bed as soon as we had the chance, and i left us at our strange angle because i loved it. i loved every small piece, every little bit of what was transpiring between us. what is transpiring between us. there is nothing about this i don’t adore with every fiber of my being. he told me how it was the best idea ever for him to bring me home with him. as it always is. i’m patiently waiting for some kind of downside because i’ve come to see it as an inevitability, but i’m surely coming to see it as an impossibility. where are you downside? you’re certainly not all the way up here where i live.
my weekend was full of so much. it was full of a wonderful tv show we’re sharing, it was full of expensive laughter, full of me being made fun of.
“you opening the fridge and forgetting that you were going to make coffee is like someone laying down in their bed and forgetting that they were going to sleep.”
full of- so many times we couldn’t do it any more, waking him up with it just for the love and not for the satisfaction, his bed, his sheets, manson appreciation, french press, sunshine, a walk, a walk together, such comfort, such adoration, such everything. my weekend was amazing. my connor is amazing. i’m in such a dire situation.
i love his sheltered family, i love seeing his sanity and wisdom fawn over their strange habits and highlighted conservative obligations. i love spending time near them, as their visible naivety may be false, and even if it isn’t, they are beautiful people in spite of it. it’s a wonder what little has to be done to make me feel at home somewhere- they do whatever it is.
my problems concentrating on single words, single phrases, certain inflections, when neutral milk hotel plays over my thoughts with a twang of amplified feedback that melts the music around my bony little fingertips. my bony little finger tips cover him at all times and it never gets old, it never gets tiresome it never falters and it never ceases to conduct some kind of massive electricity when it happens. always it happens.
in the last few days more has been done and said to convince me that i’ve found it. i’ve really found it. this is the it i’ve been remaining young for.
sweet, really, to recollect our first kiss using our lightly absinthed lips, but sweeter still, is his comfort in telling me that he feels like he’ll be sick, his tone asking me what he should do. sweet, to lead him up the stairs and out the door, to let him breathe oxygen without menthol and without black licorice undertones. sweet and oddly no kind of strange, to tip toe through the gate and bring him to the side of a dark house on a dark block and let him bend and welcome sickness without worry. to rub his back in gentle circles without saying a word, without asking how he is and without commenting on anything because ear drums rarely reject noise more than they do at points like that. to let him be sick by my feet, on grass on dirt, to continue to rub his back and massage his terrors up through whatever tubes they move through.
sweet, to hear his face with the moon across it, tell me through acid breath that i’m just wonderful, to hear him thank me for doing nothing but stand and rub, to hear him say that yes, he feels much better and yes, he’d like to go inside and lay down. better feelings just come so rarely. better feelings than the feeling of leading him to a bed, nestling his head in my lap and wrapping him in heat, anticipating immediate rest, kneeling over his eyelids and whispering that i love him before he drifts off- better feelings than that, come so rarely.
absinthe lingers and today, so did the kind of love that we shared last night, through this morning. i awoke on top of him a few times, as that’s where i ended up sleeping, and his distinct air spoke to me minimally, when the energy was found. even when he doesn’t have the energy to speak, he always opens his eyes. if i move too much or adjust myself noticeably, his eyes open to see me and there has yet to be a time when a smile doesn’t find him. he thanked me, sweetly. it meant so much to him that i did so little for him, the night before in his sickness. i could do it every night.
the sun had been born for a short time when we snuck out this morning, it was odd to be sneaking out of my house and into his, as opposed to the opposite, of course. we arrived and slunk into bed as soon as we had the chance, and i left us at our strange angle because i loved it. i loved every small piece, every little bit of what was transpiring between us. what is transpiring between us. there is nothing about this i don’t adore with every fiber of my being. he told me how it was the best idea ever for him to bring me home with him. as it always is. i’m patiently waiting for some kind of downside because i’ve come to see it as an inevitability, but i’m surely coming to see it as an impossibility. where are you downside? you’re certainly not all the way up here where i live.
my weekend was full of so much. it was full of a wonderful tv show we’re sharing, it was full of expensive laughter, full of me being made fun of.
“you opening the fridge and forgetting that you were going to make coffee is like someone laying down in their bed and forgetting that they were going to sleep.”
full of- so many times we couldn’t do it any more, waking him up with it just for the love and not for the satisfaction, his bed, his sheets, manson appreciation, french press, sunshine, a walk, a walk together, such comfort, such adoration, such everything. my weekend was amazing. my connor is amazing. i’m in such a dire situation.
To the days of deals we never saw
Burning strong, chances we’ll watch forever knowing we can’t touch them, can’t taste the reward
To crumpled writing, sticking photos, ripping straps and the couch too cold, too unfamiliar
To the violence in passion, maddness constant, existence with question among question
To whatever sounds like a lie, to whatever lies to sound like truth
And to an agreement we will never come to, unfortunate in gaping volume and overwhelming pressure
To a life I hope is there for us without compromise.
May. 10th, 2011 | 11:20 pm
I can’t even support it with my strength. That’s the problem. This is the most monstrous, real thing I’ve ever come in contact with, romantic or no, and I don’t know how to handle it properly. I’m genuinely overcome with everything I’ve observed in these last two months. It’s overwhelming to fall in love so quickly and to be so fucking certain that it’s love. We’re two very intelligent people and we’re both extremely realistic in how we view relationships.
At one point my life I would have considered myself a romantic, but shortly after my relationship with Nick began, I was romantic only in writing and in hope. But my optimism was none, my cynicism regarding “love” was strong. My view of what that “love” was supposed to be was so distorted and warped and disgusting. And that’s what I believed. I was romantic no longer, and I remained that way even through my first date with Connor. We kissed and got along so well, I knew it was something different but I still wasn’t sure. I was way more than willing to find out, but I wasn’t sure of it. I wasn’t even one hundred percent sure of it the second night, when the other 99.9% of me was already stumbling tummy over neck or whatever it was I said to him that one time. I was still waiting to find out that he was too good to be true; full of shit.
But I was done for.
I was absolutely done for.
Just like he was.
So how is it? How is it, that these two smart people, mutually and incredibly down to earth in their perceptions of romance, can be so sure? How can they be so positive that they belong together? How can they both feel, without having said it to the other, that love isn’t even the right word, but that the right word doesn’t exist and love is the only proper alternative. The only vocal equivalent to this out of control feeling that doesn’t even HAVE a vocal equivalent. How can we both know that? How can we both feel that simultaneously and immediately understand when we discuss it?
How can we agree on everything and how can I fit in so well with his right wing family and how can I feel at home in his arms no matter where the fuck I am? How can I be so unbelievably comfortable with this boy who I’ve only spent the better part of the last TWO MONTHS getting to know? How can I be so eager and willing to literally spend the rest of my godforsaken life, getting to know him?
I want to know everything, I want to know it all. I want everything he tells me he wants. He wants to know me, every inch of me, he’s the person above all other persons who wants to hear my problems and my woes and my pain and my joy and every significant (or insignificant) thought in my head. He wants a future, he wants to come back to me. He wants to come back to me.
And in the nights when I lay in his dark bed with him, when no one but he and I know that I’m there, and when we’re getting ready to fall asleep but everything just feels too perfect to miss out on, he tells me how he imagines it would be really fantastic for me to be there with him. For me to be there. For me to follow him where he goes.
this
If not the one who carries the ever-coveted, fondly distributed behaviors of domination and submission. If not the one who makes other eyes seem empty and dull, truly dull. If not the one who joins seamlessly with you in a vandalism of senses, a slippery overstimulation. If not the one who breathily exudes the kind of inhalents you crave, be they oxygen and cleaner oxygen, or, (more often than not,) the ones with a flavor you recognize. If not these men, may it be the one who- slyly! mind you, so slyly, teaches you that a tender touch is not something to be achieved purely physically. Touch and vigor blend boldly, and if you are ever in a place where words are all that can be felt between you, may he be able to hold your neck in his outstretched palm, regardless. May it be the one who does not survive next to you, but with you. So intent to remain in your grasp through greyscale and technicolor, that your singular emotions bleed onto him. May he stealthily remind you, obviously remind you, ceaselessly remind you, that you are the image of disbelief in his eyes. May it be the one who saves whatever part of you is struggling; it is a part with exhausted wrists and bruised knuckles. It is a part that your torso and legs can no longer believe in. This part…this part takes your being completely out of the equation. It is purely vision without thought, a continous, longing stare up to safe ground. And thought without vision, a threatening combination of fear and desire of the seemingly endless fall below, that certainly does end, very abrubtly. May he be the one with hands at your waist, steadied on treacherous lower ground with a gracefulness you have never found in anyone else. You will not find it again. May it be him.
Hannah, why didn’t you ever go back and read these?
Sep. 20th, 2011 | 12:26 am
It’s nice to be writing again. Nice to have achieved massive personal growth in the last 48 hours alone. It has been building itself up for months, and here it is. Finally, I feel hope and optimism. Note to self: remember these days when you feel like hell in the future.
We’re making our dreams come true instead of letting me singlehandedly dash them. I refuse to let that happen, because I refuse to hurt him beyond repair. I’ve come close, and Hannah how could you? Hannah how could you do so wrong that he insists a million times that he’s done? Hannah how could you ever loosen your grip on what he gives, shares, knows, does? How could you drive him to say that he’s just another stupid boy who fell in love with you and let you do what you do?
Hannah how could you? Why did you feel so out of sorts? Why did you spend years of your life thinking you belonged out there? Waiting for the man who could change everything?
You’re the one changing everything. He is the inspiration. He is the one who showed you how poorly you treat yourself.
How wrong you always are. He loves you.
He loves me. I can’t wait to see him again in 9 days! Already scopeing the interwebz for a cheap round trip ticket to Berkeley for his birthday next month.
We’re strong, mature, grounded, and in love. We got this.
We’re making our dreams come true instead of letting me singlehandedly dash them. I refuse to let that happen, because I refuse to hurt him beyond repair. I’ve come close, and Hannah how could you? Hannah how could you do so wrong that he insists a million times that he’s done? Hannah how could you ever loosen your grip on what he gives, shares, knows, does? How could you drive him to say that he’s just another stupid boy who fell in love with you and let you do what you do?
Hannah how could you? Why did you feel so out of sorts? Why did you spend years of your life thinking you belonged out there? Waiting for the man who could change everything?
You’re the one changing everything. He is the inspiration. He is the one who showed you how poorly you treat yourself.
How wrong you always are. He loves you.
He loves me. I can’t wait to see him again in 9 days! Already scopeing the interwebz for a cheap round trip ticket to Berkeley for his birthday next month.
We’re strong, mature, grounded, and in love. We got this.
May 8th, 2012
I just want a total change. That’s coming this summer, on the education front, and I see no reason to not include the rest of the issues I have. I’m gong to enrich my life in more ways than one, and I’m so excited to see how that betters my mood, and my brain.
I have the motivation to make HERE and NOW a better time for me. A better place to be. Connor and I have gone through a lot in the last few weeks, and that has only made my efforts easier. When it came down to changing my pace or losing him, I changed. Instantly. Immediately. Because our relationship (and more importantly, our friendship,) is so much more important to me than any stupid thing that I’ve let hold me back over the years.
Hannah is different now. Better. Happier. Ready for life, instead of waiting around for life to conform to her.
