anne marie.

aim.

2009-12-19T10:28:04Z

them: With profound encumbrances of contemplation outweighing his focus and logic, obligations of seeing her was the only serenity that he could find to fit the crevices of the entire gap that had been keeping him distracted. He knew that many months, even years, had passed without a word of even the slightest bit of artificial conversation. After the remorse of allowing the aftermath of his emotions to completely engulf him, it was inevitable that he would falter into a state of guilt and unworthiness before her. Thus the reasons and motives behind hiding behind three - dimensional walls. However, after speaking to her just several days prior, an irksome sentiment of seeing her was all that kept him alive. His demeanor engulfed by cryptic aura as ebony, boot encased feet advanced slowly toward the entrance of her apartment complex, calloused digits hidden beneath the depths of his dress slacks as dark visage lifted to meet with the detailed contours of the home in which she lived. An uncommon feeling of awkwardness intertwined with tranquility and obliged him to transcend beyond exterior facades of such hesitance before he softly knocked upon her door the way he had several times before. He felt like a stranger within this environment; not because he had not visited her for several months, or years, but because he felt like he didn’t belong.

myself: Blue eyes were content on staring at everything and nothing in particular, the usually quiet petite actress could be seen in her favorite spot, her balcony. The vision she took in every night and every morning, or the ones that she could, always seemed to leave her breathless and numb. She liked this feeling of numb. She never was one to bottle herself up and wait to be shaken until she popped but this past week had been this wild roller coaster ride she forgot to put her seat belt on for. She was confused. The past was supposed to be exactly that right? The past. She always remembered people having the say ' The past will haunt you ' and at the moment it was doing it's job. She wanted answers and she had been trying to get them anyway she could. Her hands were reaching out and they kept trying to grab on to something but she didn't know what. Sitting in a chair, the breeze of the night made it's presence known as it whipped her hair in her face. She hadn't bothered to get dress after the bath she had taken moments earlier, a bathrobe tucked tightly around her small figure, her hair still slightly wet. And as she was about to close her eyes the sound of knocking was at her door and it shook her to her feet. She wasn't expecting anyone. But when was she ever? Everyone always seemed to come unannounced. Feet padded across the carpet softly, the sound barely audible as she reached to let the visitor in. " Andrew . . . " The name fell from her lips in a hush rush as she was surely not expecting to speak it. Her fingers curled around the door frame as she stood there unaware she was surely expressing her shock by her eyes alone.

them: Kindly noticing the astonishment that had seemed to veil her image of countenance, he felt the abrupt reaction of hesitance succumb his complete entirety and entangled with a hurricane of apprehension. Her cerulean gaze colliding with his darker one as vast sentiments drowned away any form of focus or anything relevant to it thereof, hesitance seemed to appear evident upon his chiseled features as the strong intuitions of just walking away buried within the depths of his soul. Could he have just walked away? After making it thus far, opening up to break out of his shell, merely only to fail himself once more and walk away? It was so much easier to run. Run away from the things that you would end up finding yourself beginning at anyway. Yet, wasn’t it so much easier to run away atleast for that moment to spare the despair that made everything crumble apart? Such ponderings resembling his outer core as masculine ease seemed to set adrift upon his powerfully defined form, his chiseled jaw line, lined with russet masculine hairs from the laziness that he partook during that meticulous week, clenched in habitual routine before attempting to transcend beyond her hesitance to build a foundation of common equilibrium and mutual ground. " Hi.... " was all that he could utter, his reverberations filtering throughout the air like a diffident symphony that was led by no conductor.

myself: She had been up all night with her thoughts in the cage she called her mind. She was positive it could be known with maybe the slight notice of bags under her eyes, her porcelain skin always use to be so free of stress that it had to be a drastic change in her appearance. She almost cursed her mind for playing games on her well into the night. So many questions had fluttered their way in only bringing their friends and staying the night. She was becoming something she feared she always would turn out to be. Lost. She couldn't stand that word and through her pride she would never utter it out in the open. She didn't want to be saved, or so she thought. Her petite frame seemed to feel smaller just under his gaze as she tried to get her barring and compose herself. Her eyes fluttered away from his own as she couldn't handle the heat. The bright hues of the sky moved down to the floor, her bare feet digging slightly into the carpet below her. She felt vulnerable. " Hey. . uhm, do you want to come in? " She was hopeful in her demeanor, her voice rising slightly almost in slight desperation that he was here to see her and stay for more than a quick hello. Opening the door, the space seemed to seem vast between them as she made room for him to enter her apartment.

them: Attempting so immensely to just not allow his pride as well as his walls to crumble right before mortal gaze, he was wary of mortal eyes upon his scars. He had set a truth of standards behind his past and it was not an advantage to his future. It was the crevice that prevented his future from becoming whole. He noted the vulnerability that had been stripped bare right before his eyes as his very own struggled to make attempts to contact hers, however his strained and chiseled image of countenance remained mobile and emotionless; a trait that he was able to pick up from minor lessons in acting. In some ways, he was thankful of his career, despite the fact that he was not involved in any type of work at the moment. However, on days of pondering, he despised his work for the truth always was covered up by skepticism and scrutiny. How could he have ever allowed his heart’s confessions to seep through his every pore when all the people relevant to his life doubted him of the truth? Such things always left a trail of cynicism behind his path, and throughout the antagonizing despair, he had learned and survived the crash. Nodding softly, the awkward silences instilling themselves between the two as his ample form brushed past her in slight and vague hesitance, nearly almost implying that he too, did not comprehend his presence there, let alone the motives behind it. Did everything truly deserve an answer And if this did have an answer, he prayed to God to know. " Sorry... I’m not bothering you, am I? " He wanted to tell her so much, yet left it behind the silhouette of his pride.

myself: She didn't mean to do it on purpose and she wasn't thinking through as the action took place but as he brushed past her she held her breath. It was true that senses have the strongest memory and if she took the time to keep them open, the smell he brought in the room alone would compel her to think of so much. Numb. She was forcing herself to be numb. There was no ill meaning behind her shutting down herself in front of him. After all he did come to her right? Like any other female in her position they would wait until the reasons were dealt out in front of them. And as she stood here she didn't even know what she wanted. Shutting the door behind them she turned to let her eyes find and fall on him once more that night. And it felt so wide, the space of air between them." Oh no. Don't say sorry, you're not bothering me. I was just being lazy anyway. " An awkward smile was gracing her lips lightly, the trace of it leaving her face as soon as it had arrived. " Do you want something to eat? Drink? " She was being polite and she knew the run of the game. She had been in this position before, playing the game until one finally folds in and breaks the gate and the flood would begin.

them: The moments of tension building amongst one another in empty drifts as each minute seemed to pass, the vague reverberation of a distant wall clock had ticked anonymously upon the stone and stucco walls that made her apartment complex whole. Truly, when was the last time he had been invited within the confines of her home? Serenely? His broad chest lifting in rigid breaths as each exhale exuded past parched tiers, his gaze sauntering throughout the empty chambers which felt like a distant loneliness that he had been feeling all the months that they had been away from one another, he finally averted hazel gaze to meet with hers, analyzing the gentle contours that made her porcelain image of countenance whole. The way the crevices lined the depths of her almond shaped eyes, the way her smile was not genuine, and the way she knew him all too well to know that he did not come here to drink one of her fine tasting wines. " I just -- I came... " Hesitance drowning away the best of his securities as he felt somewhat bare before her. It wasn’t the fact that she was flawless, or because she was beautiful in every way, but because they had shared the most sacred moments that he had never experienced before in his lifetime, and a part of him still remained with her. Procrastinating such profound confessions, he finally shattered the tension with a change of topic. He came to give her the best of his apologies..... why had he turned away yet once more? "Did you change something here? Put up new paintings? Is that your work? " He asked before gesturing towards the colorful hued portrait established centerpoint of the room.

myself: The tiny remnants of the girl she was could be lightly snapped up from the way her eyes tried to take everything in. Being someone that liked to take photographs and paint, she had a habit of being a people watcher. She would avidly sit down on a bench in a park and watch, her eyes like a camera lens making a movie only she could stop and rewind and watch all over again. It worked out in favor that she had a photograph memory and it also caused her to crumble too. With the man she easily was ready to give the heart that was now beating quite loudly in her chest to she was having a bad time not thinking about the memories she had tucked so deep in the shelves in her mind. She had promised herself she wouldn't dust them and take them out but as she stood there, hands twisting the seems of her strings that held the robe in place, they began to tell their story behind her crystal eyes. " Hmm? " She was being snapped out of it as he distanced the space between them by invisible walls. He was still in the same spot he had been in a few moments ago but it felt further away. She was tempted just to reach out and grab him closer, making sure he really was there. " Oh yeah . . yeah. It's nothing much. I have been having time off so I kind of have been diving in head first into painting again. " Her eyes had moved away from studying him to studying the work she made with her own hands. Every line on that picture was feeling, not just work. It was the running away that she did so well. She packed up her baggage and brought it to her paintbrush, pushing all her weight on to the thistles and creating her paintings.

them: Her creative art work was the essential reason why he had fallen for her in the first place. The way that she could sit for hours on end painting away her past reveries onto these blank portraits that were master pieces in the end was phenomenal, and she knew that she attained those skills as well. There was so much that his heart’s confessions wanted to admit, yet so much pride that stood in the way from ever allowing any reverberation to voice the despair within. When had he faltered into such a state of despair? And when did turning away ever become okay? His powerfully defined back facing her direction as hazel hues lifted to meet with the gentle stokes of paint that covered the entire portrait, he studied it candidly, engraving and scrutinizing every minor detail within the contours of his logic; for it was the only tangible item that he could take home with him other than the presence that she possessed. Because when it all came down to it, everything that had become him was now gone with her. " It’s really good... " masculine tones emerging throughout the air like a silent symphony, vague and nearly inaudible, his presence evidently appearing strained and burdened by the unspoken words his pride would never allow his heart to speak. for actions always spoke louder than words, and his actions spoke volumes of every sentiment ever shown. After a brief moment had passed, he finally turned, their environments succumbing him completely as he felt somewhat tranquil at the fact that she was merely only inches away, however frustrated that she was so far away.

myself: As he was studying her painting her eyes were doing their own once over on him. The ocean filled hues couldn't help but dance over every inch of him. And she was cursing herself under her breath for the way she was staring but she could not tear her gaze away. She hadn't been in the same room for months and now they were this close to each other, in her apartment nonetheless her eyes were making up for lost time. If anyone was watching her they could easily see her body language was screaming almost all that her heart wanted to. As his voice rang through the room once more, she swore she felt her heart jump. " Really? " No one came around anymore to see her paintings, hell no one even knew she painted. They never figured the actress that stared in a near porn like movie could paint or want to. So much assumptions made on her just by her looks alone. " Thank you. " She spoke softly once more that night, it seemed her voice barely made above a whisper when he was staring at her like that. " Andrew . . . " She spoke his name and maybee she only let it slide off of her lips to feel the way it use to feel. " . . I'm glad you are here. " It was the short of what she wanted to say when in between those simple words there was so much more underneath.

entry.

2009-05-16T20:10:38Z

In early June, we met under a cluster of mango trees near the valley. I was settled at the base of a smaller one with my black laptop, working on a screenplay, when he stumbled upon me. He smelt of cheap brandy, and his eyes were already lit under the five o'clock sunset. I immediately knew that he was an unwritten character in one of my stories, and that I had to see this one out. Another dangerous angel to darken the landscape of my fiction.

I would wake up in the mornings, after that first meeting, without knowledge of where I was. Sometimes we would be lying under crisp white linen after some impromptu road trip across the state, and once we woke in the ocean, the tide having crept up on us during the night. We would hide beneath the buzz of slurred speech and dark hanging lights on the weekends and watch the patrons at the local bars. We would marvel at that humanity; the race we could never quite understand, and one that we would never quite fit into. The interpersonal mix ups, the top-notch fuckery, and all of the obviously hidden agendas. He was too isolated, and I was too afraid. We were staring at our future, and the jungle we would have to struggle to survive in, and it was a daunting projection. And when he saw my eyes growing wide at the horror of these scenes, he would lean into me and whisper grand promises of hope ("We will show them all"), take me by the hand, and we would be off again to explore all of the same people in different places.

He was a man of great ideas. Talk of revolution and change, but with no contextual support. An unintentional idealist. He was the prophet on the street corner that was avoided with lowered heads and long strides, he was the pro-life activist that had never had a passionate back seat encounter, he was the man who would quote Marx without considering the economic consequence. But I could have listened to him for years. I wanted to be apart of whatever he was apart of. He was looking for the lost, and I was looking for strength.

I learned the most at night, when the alcohol had usurped his defenses. He was the type that would tell you all of the intimate details of his childhood, but never speak about the parents that broke him, the women that tried to put him back together, and the self that pushed him past the point of repair. It was obvious to me that he was trying to live in a fabricated kingdom, but I could not fault him as I lived vicariously through the characters I created, and the men that created me. Kindred spirits, we were, perhaps.

His intensity quieted my mouth, and quickened my thoughts. Wrecked with intimidation, I could but only wait for him to pry my mouth open. When the silence set in, and my eyes began to focus on my plate ware, he would re-engage me with an amusing antidote. But he never asked about my silence. He never questioned me. Either he already knew, or he simply did not have the capacity to understand. Regardless, I must have held my breath for that whole summer. Some invisible block was warning me against sinking in too deeply, against giving too much. If my will would not listen, my intuition would.

I never told him about the things that weighed heaviest upon me. The onset of fall, the chill in the wind from the west, and dreams of waking up beside some Dear Jane letter.

I must have been a fool to think that he would have thought ahead enough to write me a letter, warning me. I now believe that he awoke in the middle of that night, and felt spurned to follow the winding dirt road behind the little green cabin we had rented after a long drive across the dessert that day. He probably did not even look back. He probably just kept going, until he reached what he was being called to. Or maybe he just went out for a drink, and met some brilliant brunette who spoke with ease. But I knew he would not return. He was not the type to ever revisit his past, and I am sure he had drank me out of existence by the following happy hour.

It would only be eight months later that I would receive a call from a pay phone one Saturday from the neighboring city. It would be him. I would barely be able to hear his voice above the clatter of background clammer, but he would say he needed a place to stay. He would have been drinking, and his friends would have left him. But, for the last time, I would once again have nothing to say.

His story is left unfinished. Some mysterious character, whose motivation I could never pin down enough to write in with other characters; some circling plot. A fate I would never inflict upon my art, no matter how much it afflicted me.

I cannot say that he never crosses my mind. He does when I read some radical publication, and wonder if he would have taken it up or burned it. I think about him when I pass a traveler's motel, or when I see a spirited seven-year-old in the grocery store running from his mother. But most of all, I think of him in June, when the mangos hang sweet and heavy off of the trees above the valley.