<< : 2003-09-10 :: 1:38 a.m. : >>
Desperatly seeking James Dean, and a Street Car called Marlon Brando.

Have I ever been in love? I can't answer that question, but it rattles around my skull and body, like a lose quarter. I don't have roots, just the the dug up ground, where roots use to be, but over time, and new trees, the older roots have abandoned my name,and my viens.

I don't know affection, and in the abscence of it, I've become sarcastic, bitter and over compensating. I can't look within my mothers eyes and see love, only the vagueness of a broken spirit, used up by time, and insult after insult. Am I becoming her? My sister is in the same vicious chain. Seeking self love in starvation and over doing things for the sake of self satisfaction. Loving an abusivley confused child for a husband, who tortures her when it serves his ego.

My first romantic thoughts were towards men like Elvis, Luke Perry, Marlon Brando,and James Dean. Towards a song like, "She's my sweet cherry Pie".

Now, that I'm older, I am still as confused, fustrated, and awkward as a young girl. Desperatly seeking passionate souls, like Marlon, or James. Not giving in to anyother idea but the Grandeur. No even now, I pine at James feeling as though in his time, I would have been the unoticable, funny girl, who was well liked, but hardly noticed by men like him. I would have pined silently a far from him, believeing that had he noticed me, I would have loved him as no one else could. I'm sure not a thought most of us haven't had. I would have thought, that my love would have been more special, because no one could feel for him as I did, his pain, his artistic demeanor. I would have understood. That my love could have made a difference, as must woman always protest by their difficult,and brooding men's sides. I would have suffered quietly, posting pictures of him on my wall, crying into a cup of chamomile tea, and spilling thoughts over onto my poetry. Screaming at my mother, that she could never understand, he was different , real, extreme, and passionate. I'd be waiting tell I'm eighty for him, for any other man who'd be a second choice, settling, and spirits like ours never settled.

I hadn't the courage, my lovers had though. Not I! I was silently passionate in Journals, drawings, in friends, whispers, and put sweetly in those dreams of us. In those tears of, "never will be", I was free to love him and all that I had decided he was. He was the dream, painfully beautiful, as I saw a part of myself.

Making believe in a much nicer world. I had dreamt up with romanitic bluesy dances, sultry glances, poetry readings, and motorcycle rides. He would always bring me to life, and I would bring him that kind of passionate peace, that satisfaction can only bring.

It is always in their eyes, it is always that certain something in the eyes, and it grabs me, like a thuderbolt. Just as Mickey, from "The Godfather", had stopped on that dusty backroad in Sicily, taken back by his soon to be first wife, and knowing that's it, that's her. In one look. Perhaps I am a romantic, but a passionate, brassy romantic, none of that "mushy sentiments" if you please.

My lovers Like Julian Mcmahon, Jason Behr, and Gerand Butler, where the closest I'd get to love in this time and day. Men don't stand, "taken", and say that's the one for me, not ever, not for me?

Perhaps it is something I will never know and always long for, but whatever it is, I will write about it, dream for it, with my journals, drawings, songs, dance, and Chamomlie tea.

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