Tags: example

cap, captain miss america

A day with my daddy

So, my parents and I went hiking up to the waterfall near their house. My mom and I actually climbed up the rocks at the waterfall, but ever since the time when I was ten and my dad fell in crossing a pond and dropped our camera in the pond (after making me give it to him so I wouldn't drop it if I fell!), he won't do those things.

But we had some very charming moments involving my father's pearls of wisdom. In the first case, it went like this:

Daddy: I found a diamond! Look everybody! A diamond!
Tea: That's quartz, Daddy.
Daddy: Quarts? That's a lot of diamond!

Then, the second one went like this:



I asked my father why he doesn't write stories for children. He said it's because he is a dreamer and not a doer. He said the world needs more doers. My mother said yes, on the rocks.

Oh, love my family.
cap, captain miss america

Tea: Purveyor of Bad Post-Apocalyptic Smut

Today, I found more unsent love letters, these ones to someone else entirely. I apparently used to fall in love way too easily. Although it's not really that. They're not to ten people or anything.

And one of them is in secret code.

I also found something that was such a relief to find. You see, in high school, I literally wrote a three notebook long postapocalyptic porno. There was a 'clean' version of it, too, that I wrote in college, that had a lot more relevance to the real world and less badly written sex.

Now, the second two books full of bad postapocalyptic porn have never been a problem. I know where they are, and they're rather laughable now-- they involve a girl who is chosen to be the sex slave to the son of a textile manufacturing plant. The boy apparently doesn't really want a sex slave but is told to choose one by his father, who thinks that he needs to be 'prepared' so he won't disappoint the ladies. But pretty much everyone else wants to sleep with his sex slave, including the adoptive father of the sex slave's twin half-brothers.

Yeah, so it's bad. Anyway, the problem is that the first book vanished while I was still in high school. I was mortified. Mortified because all the male characters were totally named for boys I had crushes on.

Yes, I am kind of ashamed to admit this.

I couldn't figure out where I'd lost it, and there were two possibilities, one worse than the other:

1) At school, where anyone could find it. ANYONE.
2) At my godmother's house, where my godmother would find it.

So I went several months being terrified that I was going to get arrested or someone was going to read it out loud at Meeting for Sharing (the non-denominational Quaker-Meeting style meetings my high school did every Wednesday), and several years wondering if one of my friends had it, and finally stopped worrying about it at all.

And then, today, I FOUND IT.

I FOUND THE SMUT.

I haven't read it yet; I'm a little worried, because I started writing this when I was 14 and my most involved sexual experiences involved learning how to give a blowjob to a popsicle and kissing the shortest boy in school. And it will be funny, but I must read it. And it will be hilarity. True hilarity.

In other news, I wanted to share some of my bad non-smut writing with you all. This is from the same era-- it looks like ninth or tenth grade.

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Thank you! I'll be here all week.
heaven

More Unpacking

I finished unpacking, sorting, and in some cases re-packing my shit.

Here is many photos of things I founds, with stories.

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That is all for tonight! It has been very interesting to go through all these things. Very interesting indeed and it is making me remember quite a lot about who I once was. It's good to have these things back with me now.
bets

Unpacking

Unpacking boxes, I am finding all kinds of things I forgot about.

Tonight, I was about to pack it in and go to to bed at about 1:30.

Then, I found the longest love letter I've ever written. It's a book. One of those blank journals? I don't even know how many pages it is. Definitely fifty; maybe a hundred. It took me a full three months to write.

I obviously didn't send it. I feel like Beatrice Baudelaire. And there is a very reckless, very hopeful part of me that is tempted to send it now, years after the fact, because I don't feel any differently than I did when I wrote it. I do about some things; I've grown up, I've mellowed out, I've become more pragmatic and poised.

But not so pragmatic that I throw out fifty-page love letters I'll never send. It took me till three before I put it down-- and I didn't finish it, mind. I set it down, skimming through the second half. Only skimming. Finding the part where I finally declare "I love you," a full three quarters through the letter.

I am finding poetry and stories. A novella, illustrated, that was another love letter to someone else, also never sent. Never given, I should say, it was meant as a gift and then somewhere along the way I realized the person it was intended for would never care that I had written a book for them and them alone. I don't know. Maybe they would. There was a time when they would have cared immensely.

It's pretty wretched prose now, though. I would be mortified if someone gave this to me.

So far, now that the love-letter-book is found (and oh, how telling it is, and wonderful to read the intellectual curiosity I had at that age at work and on a page and swelling with fervor to find someone else who understood it and challenged it without competition), the only thing not found that I truly care about is my Pez collection. What does that say about me, really, that the things with the deepest meaning to me as reminders of a youth well-spent are an unsent love-letter that took a season to write, a Ouija Board from 1920, my tarot decks, collections of juvenile writing, books, and my Pez dispensers?

Really, what does it mean?

The most wonderful thing about reading that letter is now I feel inspired to live up to being the person I hoped I would be when I wrote it. And oh, god, I want the person I wrote it to to be what they wanted to be.

Remember, all of you, even though this letter was not to you (because it was only to one person, so it could not be to all of you, and it was to someone I knew before the advent of this journal, and that rules out all but a select few of you), that there is something in the universe that is deserving of your deep and complete love.
cap, captain miss america

HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY

...or, the coolest thing that has ever happened in the entire history of civilization and before.

So my family is in Delaware for Easter. My dad and I drove down together after work.

Now, driving with my dad is an experience in and of itself. There's the songs he makes up, the legendary tale of "I'm a Real Truck," and so on, so forth. This time was no different from any others, and included such awesomeness as BLASTING THE PASSION MASS ON THE CAR STEREO OLD SCHOOL.

But that's not the amazingly cool thing that happened! The amazingly cool thing started out small indeed.

Imagine us, back in New York City traffic. My father starts talking about how the two buses in front of us are going to kiss. When my father says cars are going to kiss, he means they're going to get into an accident, but he is rather romantically-minded about the whole thing.

Tea: Don't say that!
Daddy: It's not that thing...what do you call it, persuasion something?
Tea: Performative utterance?
Daddy: Yeah, it's not that. It's not going to happen just because I said it. Otherwise, do you know how many times I would have won the lottery by now?
Tea: That's not exactly what performative utterance means, but I get it.

A little later, we are in the tunnel.

Daddy: You know how behind us, they squished all the lanes of traffic into two little lanes? I imagine there's a lot of joy-joy up ahead of us on the road.
Tea: Joy-joy?
Daddy: Yes, because when we get out of the tunnel, it seems so big and easy to drive. Joy-joy.

The joy-joy continued for the duration of the trip and made me really wish I had the phone post number programmed into my cell. Kind of like this...

Daddy: We're running out of joy-joy. We only have 125 miles full of joy-joy and we're 140 miles away. We're going to need to fill up on joy-joy. I think we need about fifteen gallons of joy-joy.

and this...

Daddy: Look at all the joy-joy in the EZ-Pass lanes!

and this...

Daddy: Uh, oh, look up ahead, there goes the joy-joy!
Tea: Maybe those people are getting off in Pennsylvania.
Daddy: Is that a performative utterance?

Anyway, pretty much every sentence my father said the entire way down included the words joy-joy. This is typical of my father.

About 30 minutes to the end of the trip, in the middle of me busting my lungs laughing until I cried at the blasted Passion Mass, my father lifts a hand from the steering wheel and points at the only other car on the road for miles.

Daddy: Tamara, look at that license plate.

It was a white Cadillac (I think? It was dark). Delaware plate. Says?

JOY-JOY

Daddy: That's perfomative utterance. Either that or when we're together, we have magic psychic powers.

I so wish I had had my camera out. I want to track this car down because it was the most unbelievable thing ever.
cap, captain miss america

Leaving is always the hardest part

So after feeling all slippish last week, I ended up going to visit my parents, which then always winds up making me feel better when Im there but worse when I leave.

I went into the city on Saturday and saw Colin, whom I love and adore, and that was really nice. Getting picked up off my feet every time I see him is kind of one of those things that, I don't know, picks me up. That and the very serious look he always gives me when he looks me over and gives me a nod and tells me that everything's better now that he's seen me and I look all right and he doesn't have to worry anymore.

We went to this art museum, after getting hopelessly turned around because the subway system has undergone a ton of changes in the past year, and went to one of the absolute coolest installations I have ever seen. It was a hall that had been entirely upholstered and built up so it was a gigantic pillow fort, with lots of little obstacles you had to crawl through. I was in absolute heaven, and we got out, and Colin asked me very sheepishly if we could go through it again. I don't think I've squeaked so much in such a brief period of time in a while. So much love for the squishy tunnel, as Colin dubbed it.

I kept thinking of that scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's-- the one where Holly is leaving for Brazil, and she says to Paul, "I love New York. Someday, I'll be back, me and my nine Brazilian brats..." And Paul asks her why she's leaving. It was the first time I had been in New York since I'd moved. The carpet store next to my building was out of business, and supposedly a gourmet grocery store is going in there. Hah. Wish I were still there to reap the benefits of that!

I really miss my New York friends. I don't miss the partying or the booze or the pretentious jackasses but I practically bawled when I had to leave Colin, and we were hanging with two of his friends at the time and I'm not sure what they thought about it.

Then I went home, and my mother fed me repeatedly. She always stuffs me so full that by the time I leave, I don't think I can look at another piece of food.

Yesterday we went shopping. My mother special-ordered me a new pair of shoes and bought me a new raincoat.

My mom also informed me that I get incredibly mopey every year around this time. I remember doing it last year and my senior year of high school, but not any times in between those, but she says it's been every year since middle school. So now I'm seriously thinking about that and wondering whether it's worth trying to live in a warmer, sunnier climate for a winter to see if that helps.

On the way out of the car at the train station, my mother gave me $60 and told me I needed a haircut. Thanks, Mommy! I know I look sort of shaggy but I didn't realize it was that noticeable.

My mom has February break in a week and she said she'd take me somewhere for a couple of days. On one hand, I'd like to, but on the other, I hate being away from the 'net for days at a time. It always makes me feel like I'm neglecting shit in the game, even this weekend I felt bad not being on during the day. I have to see if I can figure out a place I could go that isn't too far a drive from here and where I can get online. Also, this would mean getting Kitty back, which would be very welcome indeed.
cap, captain miss america

in response to deathrockboy

okay, i'm not going to get into the meaning of christmas or the history of christmas because i will no doubt get something wrong and haruspexy will return my gifts and buy me a dancing hamster, but i do want to touch on santa claus.

i really wanted to respond to this last night when i read it, for a number of reasons. i wrote my college essays in high school about my feelings about santa claus.

i love santa. i love santa even better now that i know he's not a real person delivering toys in a magical sleigh. i could never identify with magic. he became more magical to me once i was "let in on the secret," so to speak.

as a child, there was a radio beacon outside my bedroom window. every christmas, i would go to the window to watch for santa, and i believed the light was the nose of a certain reindeer who will remain nameless.

when i was eight or nine, my parents let me in on it. kids had told me santa didn't exist before, but i believed. i had relatives who worked at the sun when the famous virginia letter was printed, and i was very proud of that fact.

after my parents told me, i still believed. my belief in santa grew stronger, if anything. because here are these people, giving gifts, without want of thanks, without identifying themselves as the givers, with no wish but to see delight upon the face of a loved one. and there is this construct that is so enormous within our world, the huge collective belief that there COULD be a person out there who would give selflessly, for no other reason than to see children happy. and yes, it's done through material items, yes, it's led to a lot of commercialization, but it's done for love. and for little kids, toys very much embody love. toys are the thing you have, that YOU take care of, the thing that you can love and protect and stand defiantly for, even if adults often see a child's protectiveness of toys as the onset of spoiled brat-dom, to a child, toys ARE the children, and children have to be protective of them.

i buy a lot of stuff at christmastme. i love buying gifts. i don't care if the people i get them for get me anything in return, because that's not what christmas is. santa doesn't get presents. santa gives presents. i wish i could buy a toy for every single kid in the world, and i think that's a lot about what christmas is about-- a wish to take care of our own, a wish to take care of the world. jesus supposedly did that, and it doesn't really matter whether you believe that. santa takes care of us, too, albeit with material goods, and maybe things we don't really need. but sometimes we need things we don't need. i worked for a group called film aid for a while, they bring first- and second- run movies to refugee camps and show them on the big screen. we got a lot of shit from people who would tell us we should be working on getting them food, clothes, medicines. but i think things you don't need-- toys, presents, movies-- are often the things that most make a person feel like a person, and make a person feel like people care about them, and love them. even if the love is coming from someone you don't know-- a volunteer sitting in an office arranging a projection of a movie, or maybe a man in a red suit.