It’s a voice that slays us, her tone dark and mysterious, her vibrato delicate and succinct. Yet snide. Flippant, even, cause fuckers, she’s not going anywhere.

This is what pulls our hearts out of our chests.

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The first spot was a curve on her cheek near the corner of her lips. It would only appear when she was smiling a certain way.

I have this picture of her reclining on the chaise with her head thrown back on the pillow in laughter. It’s horribly composed, and I can hear her telling me how weird she thinks she looks in the picture, but it captured the expression perfectly.

The smile wasn’t particularly alluring. It was goofy even. But that’s what I loved about it. She was this angel, this siren, this muse to the world, and I was the only one who could see her like this; cheeks pulled back, giggling uncontrollably, burying her head in the pillow from self-consciousness whenever I pointed out the spot and tried to kiss it. I was the only one for whom she let her guard down, even if only for a passing moment. It was so adorable and intimate at the same time.

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There’s been a smattering of good music lately, but this is the song that haunts me; Love and Greed by Magneta Lane. I added it to my collection on the 12th of October, and it’s already in my Top 20 Most Played. By no means is it the best song on the album; it’s just the one that hit me the hardest.

To hear it as a track by itself is a little out of context. It comes as 7 of 10 off Gambling With God, their latest album, and the songs leading up to it charge at a much faster pace. The dramatic change of tone between the verses and the chorus are effective in subtly drawing you in, against lyrics that should be screamed more than anything else.

My favourite part is when Lexi says, “I don’t want recycled love / if I did I’d pour wine in a cup / and get all liquored up / and fucking crawl in front of you” when the guitar and bass stop, and it’s just Nadia doing the bum-ba-da-bum-ba-da-bum-ba-da-bum underneath on her toms.

It’s stuff like this that makes rather plain looking Lexi Valentine so goddam attractive, very much in a Karen O kind of way. I guess you could say I have a fascination with Lexi swearing, because she does it so infrequently.

So…

I gave this song to Darren, and he sent me back this reply:

shit this song is on auto-repeat right now…. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Darren’s the only person in the world who sees love the way I do. John knows me in every other way — logic, mindset, emotion, personality, habits, taste — but he doesn’t understand my love, which is a big part of me. The only one who understands is Darren¹ because we share the same quixotic ideas about it. It’s as if we developed this romantic attitude as a backlash to how our fathers (brothers, who also look the same) raised us with such aloofness. This ideal is how we bond.

One time he told me he can’t wait for the day when we’re at his house with our girlfriends, and we’re playing Cranium, and we’re just…happy.

This is how I know he’s the only person who hears this song the same way too.

1. Not even my girlfriends have come close to understanding, aside from Bronwen. [↑]

My family always ask me if I’m dating anyone right now. They assume I prefer Caucasian girls. I tell them I don’t mind either way (the other side of “either” being Chinese girls). That’s when they warn me about mainland girls. Chinese mainlanders are commonly viewed by Hong Kong people as being low-class, crude, and provincial. It’s said that even if a girl from there is pretty, they lose all attractiveness as soon as she opens her mouth. On top of that, they’re gold-diggers, just looking for a way to get money or a green card.

They tell me I’ll be fine as long as I don’t marry a mainland girl.

My grandma used to tell me to find a Chinese girl, because Chinese girls treat their men better, or to find someone who loves me more than I love them. She’s filled with all sorts of funny aphorisms, like “Women are to be loved, not hit.”

I’ve never been one for pure nakedness. I love to see clothing on a body. It says so much more about personality and mood, and that’s so much more attractive than plain physicality. Not to mention how well it can emphasize the curves on a woman’s body.

Some of my underwear has sharks or skiers on them. I wonder what that says about me.

I’ve been blessed with friends who paint, sculpt, carve, design, sing, and compose, and I’ve been fortunate enough to find a printer and framer who are artists themselves in what they do. Even though they have different mediums and ways of expressing themselves, they’re all driven by a sense of passion. Some can explain where it comes from, some can’t, but you can tell it’s rooted deep within their beings.

Passionate people have always attracted me. When you talk to them, you become filled with ebullient energy. You feed off each other, like a dialogue of ideas and inspiration.

It’s warming. It’s moving.

Together, you become something that’s greater than you are by yourself.

The first thing I notice about a girl is her face, but the eyes are what hold my attention.

Big, round, and pure. They’re the ultimate sign of femininity, because they convey innocence, youth, vitality.

Sometimes, the most intimate and personal thing you can do — from having a conversation to making love — is make eye-contact.

It became painfully obvious that my turn-on of girls crying is related to my own penchant for sad lovemaking.

I’ve always liked the idea of bringing someone from tears to blissful physical pleasure. Like make-up sex without the fighting.

A girl was able to do that for me once, so I’ve always wanted to be able to do it for someone else.

Either that, or my sadness is mingling with my lust.

I’m sitting on my chaise in the dark, Macbook Pro in lap, curtains open to the snow outside. Every now and then, the wind catches a loose patch of snow, and it sounds like sand dragging along the ground outside. If you close your eyes, it’s like you’re sitting on a beach at low-tide under a night sky.

I haven’t done this in a while.

The show is over. There’s supposed to be one more interview next week, but at least I can breathe now. I’ve finally had time to clean the house, which is probably why I feel comfortable enough to write.

There are icons for movies on my desktop, ones I’ve started watching but haven’t finished, because I haven’t been able to emotionally invest in them. I did, however, get a chance to watch Cidade de Deus which is the best movie I’ve seen in months, and Constantine, purely for the Tilda-Swinton-as-angel factor.

I realized that I like girls who look like boys. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m gay.

On a sticky, I seem to have written “a small pair of skis”. I don’t remember doing this, or what for. There’s also a phone number there with no name. I want to call the number to find out who it is, but I’d just hang up if someone answered and that’d be rude.

I should call Dan. I should reorganize my photos for appropriate backup. I should be practicing Tai Chi. I should be having more fun. I should be filling out my thought record worksheets.

But right now, I should really be in bed.

The leaves start to turn before they drop.

It’s finally cool enough to sleep with the window open again. I wake up refreshed, a little chilly even, with my blankets wrapped to my face.

Maybe I’ve been single for too long, maybe I’m being romanced by the fall yet again, but there seem to be cute girls everywhere lately.

i felt disconnected all day. distant. disjointed. another bee in the hive. i don’t know why.

when i stepped outside getting off work, it was grey, breezy, devoid of sunshine.

the bass in my ears moved me. driving the beat of my heart. walking my feet.

the sun slowly came out, mixed bittersweet with the clouds.

and then you showed up. black and white across the street.

i kept my head down as you walked by, careful not to ruin that perfect image in my head. it was enough to keep me going. to make me smile when the most i could feel all day was neutral.

i love you but i don’t know you.

“Jeff?”

A voice calls me into the back from the waiting room.

As I get up, I notice that her eyes are dark against her fair skin, almost black. They’re piercing, but gentle, never intimidating. Her face is kind and welcoming, full of youth, like the younger sister of your girlfriend.

I follow. Her hair is pulled back in a neat, braided ponytail. Wrapped around the curves of her body is her dental gown, and she looks like a small, sterile package of energy. She asks the usual questions, speaking with unrivaled confidence. It’d be intimidating as well, if it wasn’t for the control in her voice.

Even after I’m seated in the chair and the ultrasonic scaler starts to whirr, I’m surprisingly calm. The unique buzzing, spinning, squirting, sucking sounds begin their symphony.

She rests her forearm on my chest for leverage as she works on the posteriors.

I start to wonder how appropriate it is, if anyone has ever spoken out. Or have they not had the heart, like me?

I feel objectified.

As she works, she makes one-sided small-talk, saying every word with conviction. With her tools in my mouth, I answer only in mumbled positives and negatives. She goes along the arch systematically, molar to molar, lingual to buccal.

I want to see her eyes again, to take a closer look at what struck me first. To avoid making an obvious, darting glance, I preemptively look where her eyes will be soon as she follows her predictable path, and wait.

Her eyes arrive, and I look away. It’s too uncomfortable. I’m peering into the world of another who’s distracted, not returning my gaze.

Her physical intimacy was innocent, I assume.

Mine may have been less so.

I want to take the bullet,
The one aimed straight for your heart.
I want to meet the wolves halfway
And let them tear me apart,
But that’s not the way they do it here.

I want to lay on the tracks,
Feel hot steel screaming at me.
Expose the bones on my back,
Let me show you what I mean.

Yeah, it’s a different kind of love.
I want to climb barbed wire fences
And warm our hands in blood.

And this is my gift
Asking you to fix my ruined hands.
And it’s a gift that keeps on giving,
And right now it’s all I have to give.

I want to write the perfect song,
And play it just for you,
While you are tangled up in sleep.
I need you more than I’ll ever know.
Until I stop breathing,
My lungs will take you for granted.

—Thrice, In Years To Come

I remember a time in my life when I was scared about love. A set of rather adolescent experiences in high school, of which I only now find myself comfortable speaking frankly, had caused me to cling to an unattainable ideal. In Lolita, Humbert Humbert well describes such a happenstance that similarly “made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance throughout the cold years of my youth. The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today”.

Eventually, I had given up my ideal, but still felt forever tainted, regretfully breaking more than enough hearts in the process.

And as fleeting as the entire experience was, it still enough to galvanize, to make me want to take that bullet, or let the wolves tear me apart. Being tangled up in that mad love, the love that goes against reason or better judgement, softened the stone in my chest, and it felt like I was finally alive.

Gimmie a girl who can make me feel this way.

The Thrice = Love Series

1. Introduction
2. The Journey
3. As The Crucible
4. Rock It
5. The Rush
6. Far From The End

Entertain the hope that somehow you’ll escape me
Weld the bolts and close the iron gate
Drink deeply the illusion of your safety
My how wishful thoughts inebriate
Masquerade and revel in your opulence
Writhe unfettered by your stabs at ignorance
Swim through hues and whispered tones of heresy
A dozen strokes to run your blood cold enough to believe
Remember me
You look so surprised to see me here
Hells black wings did I over perch these walls
For stony limits cannot hold me out
And now you all die

—Thrice, The Red Death

And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever

—Edgar Allen Poe, The Masque Of The Red Death

It’s simple.

Gimmie a girl who isn’t afraid to ROCK THE FUCK OUT to this song.

The Thrice = Love Series

1. Introduction
2. The Journey
3. As The Crucible
4. Rock It
5. The Rush
6. Far From The End

True friends stab you in the front
Keep you from getting what you want
When one more fix could kill you
They help you realize that
You’re more and less than you first had believed
You’ve so much to give and there’s so much you need
Shortcuts through graveyards and a brand new way to breathe
Three thousand miles just to learn
All that’s gold does not all shine
And helping words aren’t always kind
When one more kiss could kill you
They help you realize that
You’re more and less than you first had believed
You’ve so much to give and there’s so much you need
Shortcuts through graveyards and a brand new way to breathe
Three thousand miles just to learn
How to let my guard down

—Thrice,The Beltsville Crucible

When you look back at the problems you faced a year ago, they seem insignificant compared to the problems you face now. Finding out how things end up, and seeing the path that your actions have paved, makes everything passed seem simple and logical. Even knowing this, I still look back on a time when I was faced with a troubling dilemma, a situation where I continue to wonder what I may have done differently. At the time, I brought my troubles up to Darren, a person with whom I could always confide without being judged.

His advice was to give no advice at all. He told me that he understood how I dealt with my problems, being one to always weigh the options carefully, and that he knew I would make the right decision. Perhaps being his older cousin, the one he himself has always turned to for advice, made the situation strange to him. Nonetheless, it was the first time I had experienced such a trust, and it was heartening to know that someone respected me enough to put his faith in me before I knowing what my choice was.

I admitted this to John, and he told me that the worst mistake he could make was assuming that I would make the right decisions. As he put it, it’s his job to keep me in check and make me constantly question the things that I do. Of course, he always presents things tactfully, so he doesn’t end up hurting more than helping.

Neither Darren or John is more correct than the other, because it all depends on the relationship. You need some friends to understand what you do. You need other friends to stab you in the front. I know I can count on Darren to accept my decisions, and I know I can count on John to give me the honest truth when I need it. The important part is the respect that goes both ways. Without respect, an opinion is meaningless. My introduction to the dominant/submissive lifestyle has given this even more significance.

Gimmie a girl who I can respect enough to understand this, and who can respect me enough to be her crucible.

The Thrice = Love Series

1. Introduction
2. The Journey
3. As The Crucible
4. Rock It
5. The Rush
6. Far From The End