Scintillating beginning (blog)

Who are you?
This is not an easy question for me to answer. I'm a student right now, and that role makes more sense to me than anything else ever has in my life. I like to think I'm intelligent, but honestly school is one of the few things I've ever managed to figure out. The rest of my life could stand to be improved.

I am usually a very kind person, oftentimes to my own detriment. I'm not saying it's bad to be nice, but in romantic situations I usually fall deep into that category of the nice guy that you want to tell everything to but not actually ever date. Maybe I'm being hard on myself, but it seems like I'm always someone's second choice or just their friend.

Don't get me wrong, I like having friends. I would just like to have someone who at least thinks I'm pretty cool in a "hey you're hot" way again. It's happened before, and I know that I'm not like this bad-looking guy that I used to think I was (though I still have moments of doubt), but sometimes I get tired of seeing everyone else in these happy relationships.

This is starting to sound like I'm not happy, and I don't want to give that impression. I am happy, I just want a little more out of my life. I don't actively seek out romance usually, but I do meet women that I'm interested in. Also, I feel like I probably have these ridiculously high standards which I should mention maybe.

I've joked about my high standards before, saying "I want someone gorgeous, kind, brilliant, and a little bit crazy." I am not a Yankee, a Laker, a millionaire, Hollywood actor, or someone else who can pick and choose who they want to date, but I do have standards. It's not exactly the way I joke about, though; it's more like I am particular about who I get serious about, if that makes any sense. I never wanted to get married just because I was lonely, though I am sometimes. I felt like I had to figure me out before I could get serious with someone. I would prefer someone who reads books, laughs easily, laughs at my jokes, challenges my mind, and thinks I am a little cooler than I think I am. (Now this is a personal ad.)

If it's not obvious from this post already, I adore women. I learned from my mother that women can be very special people. I talked earlier about having friends, and I much prefer having women as friends to men. I'm not saying I can't be friends with men, but women are so much easier to talk to about life in general than men for me. I love having women as friends, so maybe I tend to jump there quickly before I consider them as something more than a friend.

That's another thing I want to address before I close. I don't like the phrase just friends. Obviously, sometimes that does mean "I don't like you like that." For me, though, if you are my friend, truly my friend, there is something about you that I like, or even love. I've been writing about not finding romance, but maybe my romances are my friends. I take something from every friend I've ever had, whether it's a phrase, a joke, a style, a story you told me, a book you recommended, a movie we saw together, that trip we went on, or a new way of seeing the world that I was too stupid to see. (That's another thing I like about women: they're really good at letting you know how stupid you are.)

This post is part of The Scintilla Project.

Platonic Valentine (poem)

A lot of things went right with you

The things that didn't were all me.

That's what I want to tell you

That it's all me. It's not your fault.

You were so kind to me

When you could have laughed

You listened to me, even when I didn't make sense.

You listened to me after, when it wasn't you and me.

I didn't realize how good a person you were, until it wasn't you and me.

I may think I'm smart, but you knew how smart I wasn't.

At least in the ways that you were;

Your world view and acceptance of the complex problem that is me never ceased to amaze me.

I saw you get hurt after me, but I knew I had never hurt you like that and that I never could.

I thought I was so smart and that I could explain everything to you;

I thought the world was full of logical problems that could be solved.

How little I knew and how much I've learned.

I still see things you would have liked and almost buy them for you,

but then remember we're not together anymore.

Make no mistake, I do not pine for you

I know it worked out for the better, the best even

I know you are happy and this makes me so too

The incredible occurrence of meeting you was not the innocent coincidence it seemed at first.

This is my platonic valentine to the miracle of your friendship and a heartfelt dedication to your kindness.

I Hope It Happens Again (Poem)

I know I probably didn't mean a lot to you

I know you've probably forgotten me by now

I know your life is probably fine

And mine pretty much is too.

On nights like tonight

When I'm by myself and it's raining outside

I think of you and our time together.

I know it's odd, 'cause it wasn't very long

I know it's strange I still think of you;

You weren't mine then and you never were

I still think of your kindness to me

You bought me dinner and laughed at my French

We shared our drawings; We walked together

It just doesn't make sense that I still think of you sometimes.

I've seen you since that day, talked a little even

I didn't think you would remember who I was or seek me out

I was just a random person you had met

But we did talk of things that people who just met sometimes don't talk about

It's just words, but it wasn't to me

I wondered why you told me some of these things.

I may never see you again

Would I even know you if I did?

It seems so long ago

And maybe it was

But I still remember your face sometimes, but then it's not there

It's better to remember it for the serendipitous event it was

And just hope it happens with someone else again.

Sometimes I Remember

You may have hurt me; This much is true.

You were in the wrong; that much is clear.

I still miss you; I know it's sad.

I read you my poetry; I know it was bad.

You didn't laugh (too hard), so I was overjoyed.

Though you broke my heart, I shouldn't have tried

To hurt you, too, though I was just hurt more

Trying to hurt you, I was glad to be bad at it.

Being a spiteful person was something I didn't relish or enjoy.

I'm not proud of being the seeker of revenge.

I truly wish you well, but it still hurts you see;

I thought I was past it, but it still lingers with me.

The pain I felt did not dull quickly

It slowly went away, but not too swiftly.

I've been happy since and lived a good life.

I've not sought discord and I've been good to friends.

I've loved since you, been hurt since then

I wish I could forget you

But sometimes I remember.

Fiction story Part 2

This is a continuation of the last story. There are some details I'm still working out. The basic ideas are there for me, though, and there are some story points I have in mind. 
I almost faint again after he says that, but he catches me in his surprisingly strong arms and slowly lays me back on the bed. I look up at him as if seeing him for the first time again, unsure of what he had meant. He must see how afraid I am, because he looks concerned.

"I expect some memory loss is to be . . . expected . . . after so long of a slumber as you have endured. We shall remove the rest of your bandages and see about reintroducing you to the world, my dear." He reaches under the bed again and returns with a needle. "Please do not be afraid," he assures me, "I mean you no harm." Something in my gut urges me to trust this stranger I only just met. I let him approach the bed with the needle. He injects a small shot into my arm. "This should refresh your parched throat and aching stomach, as well as enhance your equilibrium." I do feel refreshed as the shot takes effect. The good doctor then tells me to stand up, if I can.

After I'm able to stand, he grabs one end of a bandage and starts twisting it away from my body. As he does so, I revolve around in circles; this motion makes the removal somewhat easier. Almost dancing around in circles, the bandages were slowly coming off. "Yes, there we are," he quips, "I should dare believe you would have enjoyed this game as a little girl." I wonder at his sanity still, and my own for a moment, as I had no memory of any childhood as a girl.

As we finish unwrapping the bandages, I feel lighter. I stop twisting and I stand naked and disoriented before my benefactor. As I look down on myself, my form is not as I remember it: I appear to be a young girl.

As I swoon as much from exhaustion as shock, the doctor grabs a robe and catches me in one motion. He consoles me as he wraps me in the warm cloth.

"There, there, my dear. I should dare say this is the first time you have had a chance to stand on your own in quite some time. Come this way and warm yourself." He leads me to a room to the left of where I had lain, a room I realize he entered from when I woke up. There are ceramic cups scattered across a small table and a roaring fire next to some wooden chairs. The furnishings are nice enough, but this room doesn't look like a room in the same building as the room we just came from.

"Sit next to the fire," he gently recommends. I do like he says and sit down on one of the wooden chairs covered in a hand-sewn seat cover. My doctor rushes to the table and quickly pours a drink from a jug he retrieves from underneath the table. "Here, drink. It will warm you up some." I am hardly of any mind to refuse his assistance, although a smarter person might have refused a drink from a stranger. Still, I couldn't help trusting this kind old man, though in my memories, I had never met him before the last several frantic minutes.

The cup is not hot to the touch. As I drink it quickly, thinking it will be cold, it becomes hotter on the way down. I shudder slightly at the change in temperature of the drink, and my new friend barely suppresses a guffaw.

"Ha! Yes, it quite a strong drink to one unaccustomed to the kick. Not the strongest I have, mind you, but it will wake you up." I look at him with a confused look and he suddenly seems embarrassed. He frowns and then goes over to the right corner from where we had entered. He takes an old blanket covering off the wall, revealing a metal wall behind it. He pushes a button and a refrigerator opens. He takes out a little bit of food and puts it on a plate for me.

"This is not much, but it will suffice to feed you for now." I don't recognize the food, but it looks like fruit. I give them a try by his recommendation and they actually taste pretty good. I eat quietly as he watches.

"There's a girl," he says, as I finish the plate. I didn't realize how hungry I had been until he offered me food. I'm still not used to being referred to with a feminine pronoun, but I can't object as I look like a girl.

"As I said," he continued, there is some expectation of memory loss. I notice you are . . . disoriented . . . and that is okay. You have been asleep for a long time. I will offer you what assistance I can to restore your memories and learn what you may have forgotten. I have a library in the basement," he looks at a rug not far from where I'm sitting, "and these books will serve you well in your merger back into society." I still trust him, but I am increasingly confused.

"You should clean-up and prepare for the first of your lessons, though I will mercifully start slow."

He directs me to a small enclosed space not far from the table. It was a metal box that I hadn't noticed that reached the ceiling. The door creaked open revealing a rusty floor and walls. There were some openings in the ceiling.

"Not the most ideal conditions, but adequate none-the-less." He frowns again as he looks into my silent face. "Well, yes, I suppose you desire some privacy. I will leave you to it." The look on his face is so sad, but I don't have time to worry about him because I'm dealing with my own tenuous grasp on reality at the moment. I step inside the box and remove my robe, discreetly placing it outside the door. If I hadn't been shocked before, I am now, as I see my naked body. I decide to try to adapt and trust my "father" for guidance, if that's who he thinks he is.

Fiction Part 1 TBD

This is something I've been working on for a while, but have not worked on in a long time. I've read some books that change my attitude towards some of it, so I'm coming back to it with a fresh viewpoint. I've thought about rewriting it in the third person, but I don't know that I want to give the guy a name to begin the story. I guess I could just use pronouns.
Again, some of these are based on actual events, while this one is obviously not.
Edit: Worked on some tense stuff and changed the tone. The narrator's tone didn't seem consistent from the introduction to the body, so I've changed it some.


I'm 32 years old and I live by myself. I work at a huge retail chain and I have no life. The money's not great where I work, but the hours are long. At the moment, I'm walking the ten miles to my one bedroom apartment, because my morning shift at the store is over. It's raining and my car is in the shop, and the buses don't run today, and I can't afford a taxi. When I get home, I have a few hours of television to look forward to, before I stay up late on the computer and wake up tomorrow to do it all over again. My glasses are wet, just like the rest of me, and I can barely see. I could cry and no one would know, because it's so wet; and I want to, because it's cold and wet, and I have nothing to live for. I resist the urge, because men aren't supposed to cry, or at least that's what my father always told me. He didn't tell me that my life would degrade into a pathetic string of events just uneventful enough to be short of a tragedy, but also so devoid of activity that it couldn't be anything else. I'm thinking of these things as I cross the street to get to my lonely quarters. Trying not to cry, I pull my hands close to my shivering body. I barely have time to take my last breath before the oncoming car hits me. This should be the end, but it's not.

I wake up, enclosed in a space so tight I feel claustrophobic. Around me is a glass enclosure not unlike an oxygen tent. The glass is arranged in plates that seem to be intricately wedged together with a series of bolts. I'm wrapped tight in what seems to be medical bandages; they cover my entire body, though I feel like I can move. My head is also wrapped up with a heavy object on top of it, like a makeshift helmet. I imagine I'm in a hospital. Surely I'm hurt if I'm wrapped up like this. My body feels lighter than it was, and looks lighter from what I can see, no doubt a result of a period of convalescence. I have several tubes hooked up to my body as well. Although my body is lighter, my head feels heavier. I seem to have more hair on my head, another indication I have been out of it for some time.

As I wake up, alarms sound and machines begin to stir. From my left, an elderly man enters the room, but he doesn't look like any traditional doctor or nurse. He's wearing stitched-together clothing that looks homemade. He has large glasses and looks at me with a shocked expression. The old man quickly checks the beeping machines and motions me to stay still. I try to respond, but I've lost my voice; it's probably been since I was awake. The machines he's working at frantically are rusted and look more like appliances than hospital equipment. I stay lying down like he told me to and watch him closely. He pulls levers and presses buttons until I feel a pressure in the atmosphere lifted that I hadn't even noticed. I feel freer, but I still remain in bed. My new elderly friend presses a final button and then seems content to watch me in my clear prison. As he watches, the walls of the small bed area begin to buckle and the interconnecting plates move apart. Instead of a hiss I hear a pop, as the bolts slowly unscrew and the plates separate.

The walls slowly complete their separation and pull apart. As I'm exposed to the naked air for the first time, my caretaker slowly walks up. He enters the bubble and slowly reaches under my bed to pull out what looks like an oxygen mask. He places it around my face and head; then he begins to remove the tubes that are connected to my body. There is not an unbearable amount of pain as he removes the tubes, but I wince just the same, weak as I am. I feel a little afraid of my apparent savior, although I feel vaguely safe. He puts his hands to my covered forehead and seems satisfied by what he feels. At first I think it's a simple medical gesture, but I soon realize he is showing concern. I've never met this man, but I guess he cares for all of his patients.

When all of the tubes are finally removed, the doctor cleans the small breaks on my skin. The skin that is treated looks like it's healing already. When this gentler application is finished, the elderly man finally speaks.

"I'm going to remove the dressings on your head, so I just need you to sit up for a moment, okay?" He speaks as if to a child, and I wonder what state I was in when I arrived at this weird hospice. I nod my head, even as I do as he asks; my earlier attempt at speech had been met with a lack of success. The man carefully removes the bandages from my head until I feel a slight jerk to my head. The helmet I felt earlier had been removed. Then, he starts to remove another layer of wraps and stops to talk to me again.

"If you are up to it and sufficiently refreshed I will remove your breathing assistant, so I can get all of the tape off, all right?" I indicate that this is fine, even as I continue to notice the peculiar nature of his words. The good doctor removes my "breathing assistant" and continues to undo the trappings of my medical enslavement. As he finishes this procedure, long locks of dark hair fall to either side of my face. I felt like I had more hair, but I must have been under a long time for my hair to get this long. The doctor put a hand to my chin and inclined my face to meet his. His face is lined with the marks of age, but it was clear he had once been a handsome man. He looks at me compassionately and addresses me in a most particularly strange manner compared to what I had ever been used to.

"Good morning . . . daughter."

Poetry/Fiction "I Wish I Could Lie Tonight"

I'm going to start posting some fiction and poetry writing. Some of this is based on actual events and some of it is obviously not. 


I Wish I Could Lie Tonight


I wish I could lie to myself tonight

And say I don't miss you at all.

I wish I could lie tonight

And think I didn't mess it up with you.

I wish I could lie tonight

And say that none of this bothers me at all.

I wish I could remember when anything went right.

I wish I could forget when I met you

And how beautiful you looked that night.

I wish you didn't make me smile

I wish you weren't so damn cute

I wish I could forget how much I'm fond of you.

I hope you will see me again

But it probably won't matter by then.

You'll have met someone else

And maybe I will too

But she won't be you.

I don't deserve someone

who makes a room glow like you do.

I heard music playing on the night I met you

And it's not because we were in a crowded bar.

I can't say I liked you then

I just knew that maybe you could be a friend.

But it looks like I messed that up too.

I can't lie tonight

'Cause it wouldn't be right

I can't lie tonight

'Cause I don't want to hurt anyone else.

I can't lie tonight

I'm gonna miss you for a long damn time.