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Friday, September 10, 2010
It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time
"A learning experience is one of those things that says, 'You know that thing you just did? Don't do that.'"
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Your Secret Is Safe With Me
"They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."
You would never tell anyone your full name. No matter how much people begged, you always kept your middle name a secret. You told me that once somebody knows your full name, then they own a part of you that you can never get back. I thought that was complete bullshit. And I semi-knew you thought so as well. You just didn't want to admit you had "trust issues." Keeping your middle name a secret was a way to keep people out. If they didn't know your middle name, they really couldn't know you. It was the last line of defense.
I admit now, I thought you were an idiot. It was probably the only time I did but I felt justified. I was not given a middle name and it was something I've always ached for. I was denied something that helps identify who I am. You were given this extra name and you kept it a secret from the world.
When the time came for you and I to go our separate ways, me back home for the summer and you off to boot camp, you gave me a letter. You made me promise three times that I wouldn't read it until I got back home. I kept my promise (which was something you taught me) and waited until I was back in my room in Provo to read it. It was about four pages filled with your "seizure-esque" handwriting. I had also promised to never tell anyone what was in that letter, another promise I have kept. And while what your wrote has got me through a lot the past three years, nothing mattered more to me than the very end.
Under the word "Sincerely" you wrote your name, your full name. I know what you meant by doing that. It was something neither of us could say using words. A secret finally revealed to someone who understood the significance of it.
To this day, I have never told anyone your middle name. The way I figure it, it's not mine to tell.
So don't worry, love.
Your secret is safe with me.
Love you.
-Banksy
You would never tell anyone your full name. No matter how much people begged, you always kept your middle name a secret. You told me that once somebody knows your full name, then they own a part of you that you can never get back. I thought that was complete bullshit. And I semi-knew you thought so as well. You just didn't want to admit you had "trust issues." Keeping your middle name a secret was a way to keep people out. If they didn't know your middle name, they really couldn't know you. It was the last line of defense.
I admit now, I thought you were an idiot. It was probably the only time I did but I felt justified. I was not given a middle name and it was something I've always ached for. I was denied something that helps identify who I am. You were given this extra name and you kept it a secret from the world.
When the time came for you and I to go our separate ways, me back home for the summer and you off to boot camp, you gave me a letter. You made me promise three times that I wouldn't read it until I got back home. I kept my promise (which was something you taught me) and waited until I was back in my room in Provo to read it. It was about four pages filled with your "seizure-esque" handwriting. I had also promised to never tell anyone what was in that letter, another promise I have kept. And while what your wrote has got me through a lot the past three years, nothing mattered more to me than the very end.
Under the word "Sincerely" you wrote your name, your full name. I know what you meant by doing that. It was something neither of us could say using words. A secret finally revealed to someone who understood the significance of it.
To this day, I have never told anyone your middle name. The way I figure it, it's not mine to tell.
So don't worry, love.
Your secret is safe with me.
Love you.
Mean it.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Conversation with an Almost-Priest
It was my second time on a train.
The first time had been only a week before. An overnight trip from St. Petersburg to Moscow. We were taking the same trip but in reverse.
We rode coach because, despite the stereotype of rich Americans, we were dirt poor. The coach car was broken up into "compartments" like you see in the movies, except it only consisted of two walls with two pull down beds on each side. There was no door. The wall opposite of the compartment was lined with two pull down beds, one above the other. These were even cheaper seats.
There were nine of us: Dani, Amaryiah, Victoria, Katy, Miki, Maggie, Sharla, her husband Tharon, and myself. Since there were four to a compartment, one of us would have to be alone. I volunteered. While the vacation to Moscow had been fun and relaxing, it did define alliances a little more clearly. There was this subtle tension in the group underneath everything else. I went to my compartment and set up my stuff on the lower left bunk.
Two people, one guy and one girl came in, both in their mid to late twenties. They were dressed in all black. The guy wore a black t-shirt and baggy black pants with chains and rivets attached to them in no seeming order. His hair was black & red, neither of which was natural. The girl, a thin pale thing, wore tight black pants and a black tank top with a red bra. Her hair was long and naturally black. Both had piercing and tattoos. They saw I was American (it's sort of hard to hide) and in very broken English, explained to me they were a goth metal band. They were on tour and their bandmates were in another compartment. They gave me their business card, which was useless to me since it was in Russian. They left to be with their other bandmates while I pulled out my book, an English translation of The Brothers Karmazov.
The fourth member of the compartment walked in. He was also dressed in all black, but not like my other "bunk-buddies." He wore the white clerical collar of a Roman Catholic priest. He was in his early thirties, wore glasses and his brown hair had already begun to thin. He glanced at my book and asked me in accented but unbroken English if I was American. I told him I was and that I was an English teacher in St. Petersburg. I asked him how he knew English. He told me he was originally from Germany. He had learned English while he was in school, before he entered the Seminary. He wasn't a full priest yet. He had spent the past four years in the remote parts of Siberia doing missionary & humanitarian work. He was on his way to St. Petersburg to become an official priest.
The only knowledge I had on Roman Catholicism was what I learned from dating a Catholic named Sage the year before. I had been to Mass a few times but I was content with my own religion and didn't bother exploring any more than was necessary. I asked him if there were many Catholics in St. Petersburg. He said there were many. It was the second most prominent religion there, after the dominating Russian Orthodox. I had been to a few Russian Orthodox churches in St. Petersburg but hadn't seen any Catholic ones. He told me of the Catholic Church of St. Catherine that was on Nevsky Prospekt, the longest and most famous street in St. Petersburg. I had been there many times and made a mental note to find the church.
We began to talk about a variety of different subjects, including the concept of good & evil, who or what God is, and how there was a great need for more kindness & understanding in this world. The conversation turned to the subject of love and trust. He told me about his brother who still lived in Germany. His brother and his girlfriend had been living together for over six years. Once he asked his brother why he doesn't marry his girlfriend. He brother told him that even though they loved each other, they didn't know what the future would bring. It was easier for them to stay unmarried because they were unsure if things would work out if they got married. My companion looked at me with frustration. He repeated what he told his brother:
"Love is needed in a marriage, yes. But it needs more than just love. It needs work. Love alone cannot withstand the problems that will come up. You have to be dedicated to each other enough that you're willing to work when things get hard."
It was then that the lights were automatically dimmed, signaling it was quiet hours. I thanked my companion for the conversation and wished him luck. He thanked me as well and gathered up his things and left to the bathroom.
In the morning when we arrived in St. Petersburg, I packed up my bed and things in silence. The goths & the almost-priest did the same. I grabbed my bag and walked towards my group in the compartment next to us. As people shuffled by us to get off, they asked me how my night was. When the almost-priest walked past, he smile and waved. I smiled and waved back. I told my friends I had spent the evening having a conversation with an almost-priest. Somehow that didn't surprise them.
Love you.
Mean it.
The first time had been only a week before. An overnight trip from St. Petersburg to Moscow. We were taking the same trip but in reverse.
We rode coach because, despite the stereotype of rich Americans, we were dirt poor. The coach car was broken up into "compartments" like you see in the movies, except it only consisted of two walls with two pull down beds on each side. There was no door. The wall opposite of the compartment was lined with two pull down beds, one above the other. These were even cheaper seats.
There were nine of us: Dani, Amaryiah, Victoria, Katy, Miki, Maggie, Sharla, her husband Tharon, and myself. Since there were four to a compartment, one of us would have to be alone. I volunteered. While the vacation to Moscow had been fun and relaxing, it did define alliances a little more clearly. There was this subtle tension in the group underneath everything else. I went to my compartment and set up my stuff on the lower left bunk.
Two people, one guy and one girl came in, both in their mid to late twenties. They were dressed in all black. The guy wore a black t-shirt and baggy black pants with chains and rivets attached to them in no seeming order. His hair was black & red, neither of which was natural. The girl, a thin pale thing, wore tight black pants and a black tank top with a red bra. Her hair was long and naturally black. Both had piercing and tattoos. They saw I was American (it's sort of hard to hide) and in very broken English, explained to me they were a goth metal band. They were on tour and their bandmates were in another compartment. They gave me their business card, which was useless to me since it was in Russian. They left to be with their other bandmates while I pulled out my book, an English translation of The Brothers Karmazov.
The fourth member of the compartment walked in. He was also dressed in all black, but not like my other "bunk-buddies." He wore the white clerical collar of a Roman Catholic priest. He was in his early thirties, wore glasses and his brown hair had already begun to thin. He glanced at my book and asked me in accented but unbroken English if I was American. I told him I was and that I was an English teacher in St. Petersburg. I asked him how he knew English. He told me he was originally from Germany. He had learned English while he was in school, before he entered the Seminary. He wasn't a full priest yet. He had spent the past four years in the remote parts of Siberia doing missionary & humanitarian work. He was on his way to St. Petersburg to become an official priest.
The only knowledge I had on Roman Catholicism was what I learned from dating a Catholic named Sage the year before. I had been to Mass a few times but I was content with my own religion and didn't bother exploring any more than was necessary. I asked him if there were many Catholics in St. Petersburg. He said there were many. It was the second most prominent religion there, after the dominating Russian Orthodox. I had been to a few Russian Orthodox churches in St. Petersburg but hadn't seen any Catholic ones. He told me of the Catholic Church of St. Catherine that was on Nevsky Prospekt, the longest and most famous street in St. Petersburg. I had been there many times and made a mental note to find the church.
We began to talk about a variety of different subjects, including the concept of good & evil, who or what God is, and how there was a great need for more kindness & understanding in this world. The conversation turned to the subject of love and trust. He told me about his brother who still lived in Germany. His brother and his girlfriend had been living together for over six years. Once he asked his brother why he doesn't marry his girlfriend. He brother told him that even though they loved each other, they didn't know what the future would bring. It was easier for them to stay unmarried because they were unsure if things would work out if they got married. My companion looked at me with frustration. He repeated what he told his brother:
"Love is needed in a marriage, yes. But it needs more than just love. It needs work. Love alone cannot withstand the problems that will come up. You have to be dedicated to each other enough that you're willing to work when things get hard."
It was then that the lights were automatically dimmed, signaling it was quiet hours. I thanked my companion for the conversation and wished him luck. He thanked me as well and gathered up his things and left to the bathroom.
In the morning when we arrived in St. Petersburg, I packed up my bed and things in silence. The goths & the almost-priest did the same. I grabbed my bag and walked towards my group in the compartment next to us. As people shuffled by us to get off, they asked me how my night was. When the almost-priest walked past, he smile and waved. I smiled and waved back. I told my friends I had spent the evening having a conversation with an almost-priest. Somehow that didn't surprise them.
Love you.
Mean it.
Monday, September 6, 2010
You're a Puzzle I Can't Solve
Your last message has me worried.
You said you were having some issues and you couldn't talk for a while. You said you would explain it all later. I don't want to pry into things that aren't my business, but now knowing what's going on or if you're even okay is torturous.
You probably think I'm being silly. We barely know each other. Or rather, we don't know each other well enough to warrant me worrying like this. We see each other for two hours once a week and most of that time is spent pretending to be other people. It hasn't given me much to go on and texts exchanged at night are providing me with very little insight. You're like this puzzle that I'm insatiably intrigued by, partly because you are a puzzle I can't seem to solve. So many people I can read and figure out fairly quickly. After that, if I continue to spend time with them, it's because I like them. It's that initial intrigue that catches me. It's liking them that keeps me. But you, you continue to perplex me. I can't figure you out. And the harder I try, the more intrigued I become.
What I'm trying to say is no, I don't know you.
But I want to.
In no uncertain terms, I want to understand you. I want to figure you out.
Because I have this feeling that you may be one of the only people really worth figuring out.
Love you.
Mean it.
You said you were having some issues and you couldn't talk for a while. You said you would explain it all later. I don't want to pry into things that aren't my business, but now knowing what's going on or if you're even okay is torturous.
You probably think I'm being silly. We barely know each other. Or rather, we don't know each other well enough to warrant me worrying like this. We see each other for two hours once a week and most of that time is spent pretending to be other people. It hasn't given me much to go on and texts exchanged at night are providing me with very little insight. You're like this puzzle that I'm insatiably intrigued by, partly because you are a puzzle I can't seem to solve. So many people I can read and figure out fairly quickly. After that, if I continue to spend time with them, it's because I like them. It's that initial intrigue that catches me. It's liking them that keeps me. But you, you continue to perplex me. I can't figure you out. And the harder I try, the more intrigued I become.
What I'm trying to say is no, I don't know you.
But I want to.
In no uncertain terms, I want to understand you. I want to figure you out.
Because I have this feeling that you may be one of the only people really worth figuring out.
Love you.
Mean it.
I Can't Explain It
"Where do I get my ideas from? You might as well have asked that of Beethoven. He was goofing around in Germany like everybody else, and all of a sudden this stuff came gushing out of him. It was music. I was goofing around like everybody else in Indiana, and all of a sudden stuff cam gushing out. It was disgust with civilization. "
Love you.
Mean it.
-Kurt Vonnegut
Love you.
Mean it.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Thoughts On My Numero Uno
Have I talked about Sean yet?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
His full name is Sean Thomas Kendall. We call each other Numero Uno because at the time we became really close, I already had a "best friend." We needed another term to title our friendship. Sean suggested Numero Unos out of the blue and it just stuck. Even after that "best friend" turned out to be a no-good lousy bastard, we still referred to each other as Numero Uno.
Sean taught me what it means to be fiercely loyal. He's been there for me when it felt like no one was. He's always there whenever I need help or a pep talk or just someone to listen to me. He was there when my life changed forever. He was the first person I called when everything fell apart. He came over as soon as he could. He helped me pack up everything I owned and tried to stay positive the entire time. He's one of the very, very few people I talk to every day, either through phone calls or texts. I know that if I were ever in trouble or I needed his help, he'd be there for me.
In return, my loyalty lies with him. I've been by his side, fighting whatever/whoever tries to hurt him. I've been there for him when stupid girls start causing drama or just make his life harder. There was this one time where I literally threw a girl out of his house because she was starting to cause problems. It was the closest I've ever come to punching someone. In retrospect, I really should have. After I physically removed her from Sean's house, I told her that if she ever hurt Sean in any way, I would bring her the rapture. That's a true statement and it applies to anyone and everyone.
I've had people ask me if I've ever considered dating Sean. I've thought about it but I don't think it would work. We have a really good thing in our friendship. We need each other to be our friend and nothing more. And while I do not deny that Sean is attractive, he's just not my type. He's a great friend but I could never consider him a boyfriend.
Sean knows me better than pretty much anyone else. The best example of this was from a conversation we had in Wal Mart:
Kelly: I fell in love today.
Sean: Really?
Kelly: Yep. His name is James.
Sean: Oh, cool. What book is he in?
We do have some moments where we jokingly ask each other why we're friends. I've lost track of how many times he's called me ridiculous or how many times I've called him annoying. It's such a randomly matched friendship. But it works. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Love you.
Mean it.
Yeah, I didn't think so.
His full name is Sean Thomas Kendall. We call each other Numero Uno because at the time we became really close, I already had a "best friend." We needed another term to title our friendship. Sean suggested Numero Unos out of the blue and it just stuck. Even after that "best friend" turned out to be a no-good lousy bastard, we still referred to each other as Numero Uno.
Sean taught me what it means to be fiercely loyal. He's been there for me when it felt like no one was. He's always there whenever I need help or a pep talk or just someone to listen to me. He was there when my life changed forever. He was the first person I called when everything fell apart. He came over as soon as he could. He helped me pack up everything I owned and tried to stay positive the entire time. He's one of the very, very few people I talk to every day, either through phone calls or texts. I know that if I were ever in trouble or I needed his help, he'd be there for me.
In return, my loyalty lies with him. I've been by his side, fighting whatever/whoever tries to hurt him. I've been there for him when stupid girls start causing drama or just make his life harder. There was this one time where I literally threw a girl out of his house because she was starting to cause problems. It was the closest I've ever come to punching someone. In retrospect, I really should have. After I physically removed her from Sean's house, I told her that if she ever hurt Sean in any way, I would bring her the rapture. That's a true statement and it applies to anyone and everyone.
I've had people ask me if I've ever considered dating Sean. I've thought about it but I don't think it would work. We have a really good thing in our friendship. We need each other to be our friend and nothing more. And while I do not deny that Sean is attractive, he's just not my type. He's a great friend but I could never consider him a boyfriend.
Sean knows me better than pretty much anyone else. The best example of this was from a conversation we had in Wal Mart:
Kelly: I fell in love today.
Sean: Really?
Kelly: Yep. His name is James.
Sean: Oh, cool. What book is he in?
We do have some moments where we jokingly ask each other why we're friends. I've lost track of how many times he's called me ridiculous or how many times I've called him annoying. It's such a randomly matched friendship. But it works. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Love you.
Mean it.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Unfinished Poem
~Note from Kelly~
I was cleaning out some folders in my computer and I found this poem. I wrote it in June, though I have no memory of writing it. It's still unfinished, mostly cause I don't remember where I was going with it.
I guess my phone woke me up.
A text sent from Facebook
to tell me someone commented on a picture.
It tore me from a dream about the impossibility of family
that I still don’t understand.
I’m hot and sweaty.
My Superman shirt is clinging to me
but I guess that’s what you get
when you sleep with a ten pound furry dog
who insists on always laying right next to you
all night.
I remember there was a wedding in my dream
but the weather sucked.
It was hazy, foggy,
a sickly tan hue hung everywhere
but the wind was howling in every direction
I was cleaning out some folders in my computer and I found this poem. I wrote it in June, though I have no memory of writing it. It's still unfinished, mostly cause I don't remember where I was going with it.
I guess my phone woke me up.
A text sent from Facebook
to tell me someone commented on a picture.
It tore me from a dream about the impossibility of family
that I still don’t understand.
I’m hot and sweaty.
My Superman shirt is clinging to me
but I guess that’s what you get
when you sleep with a ten pound furry dog
who insists on always laying right next to you
all night.
I remember there was a wedding in my dream
but the weather sucked.
It was hazy, foggy,
a sickly tan hue hung everywhere
but the wind was howling in every direction
and I didn’t want to go.
to the wedding, that is.
And not because of the weather
but because I hate weddings.
that’s a fact
to the wedding, that is.
And not because of the weather
but because I hate weddings.
that’s a fact
(not just a dream fact.)
Besides, in my dream
Besides, in my dream
my cousins were in town for some reason
and they all had a million and one kids
I had to take care of.
Don’t get me wrong, I like kids.
Just not that many.
and they all had a million and one kids
I had to take care of.
Don’t get me wrong, I like kids.
Just not that many.
My dad was angry in my dream.
I’ve been dreaming about him a lot lately.
In every one he’s mad.
I don’t know what that means,
if it means anything.
It’s almost noon.
I should get out of bed.
I’ve been dreaming about him a lot lately.
In every one he’s mad.
I don’t know what that means,
if it means anything.
It’s almost noon.
I should get out of bed.
Love you.
Mean it.
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