The title is related to the series of pieces I’m writing, which is a compilation of journal entries, poetry written during the period that each journal entry was written, and an explanation for the journal entries because they are vague description sof what the character was feeling, with little about surrounding events. In order to understand the peice, you have to read the ones relating to it. But what I decided to do since you’re not the first person to get confused is to add them all up together and just try to put the peice into a coherent whole before I post any more so that the puzzle peices will just come together. Thanks for the review.
Non-fiction / Big Red Book, The reality
I had moved into a new house with my family at the end of that school year, and Stan had helped us move. My father said that since we knew the owner and might buy the house, we were painting the rooms. I still remember, before the last peices of home were stripped from the old house, we made hurried adolescent love in the bathroom while my parents took a load to the new house. Stan and I painted my room together, spending hours alone in the sparse and empty house, listening to an old radio. Before a single scrap of furniture made it the new house, we had sex on the bare carpets of my new bedroom. I still remember his skinny white body in only jeans, his wild dyed-black hair a mess atop his head. Watching enviously as he stood on tiptoe to reach the ceiling in his six-foot-two form.
We painted the inside of the closet with that same intense cobalt blue, and before we covered the white surface we wrote words and sayings. Painted our names in a heart with an eternity symbol. To me, it was like we painted our love for eachother in that room. We put ourselves into it, and it was ours. Everything we had we shared, everything we were we shared. I couldn’t see where I ended and he began. It was my first love. My first, foolish love.
It was summertime in the valley of the sun. School was out, and Stan was gone. It had been an eventful year of opiates, pot, psychic intensity and sexual experimentation. I guess we both felt we had to make up for missing the sixties. But after all the wildness and excitement, the friendships made and the bridges burned, the summer came like a cruel anticlimax of dissapointment. Once he was gone, I secluded myself, and stopped getting stoned. I didn’t see anyone. I felt my life must stand still while he was gone. I fasted for a month from soda pop, fast food, and red meat; I swam, walked, rode my bike, listened to music, meditated, read, and wrote. I didn’t associate with any one outside my family. I was somewhere in limbo between torment and transcendence. I think I felt that torment was transcendence. I stayed up all night and slept all day; obsessively awaiting in breif, monitered calls; fixatedly writing him love-letter after love-letter almost every day. When I finally came home, and I saw he had read and kept all of them, my heart almost burst. He came with two rings he bought with my father’s bus-money and a promise to love me for eternity. We thought we knew everything, we thought we found our happy ending. It could never have been so.
My heart questioned
You answered
You always know the answers
“You know why,”
He said, and I smiled, tears filling my eyes.
“Yeah, why?” my typical response.
“Because I love you.”
And the world stopped turning.
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SGES reviewed Version 2 -
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In the opening sentance I don’t think that you need the word “had” just leave it with “I moved…” The had is implied with the past tense of move.
I like your descriptions of him. the skinny white body, ect. “adolencet love”
“Everything we had we shared, everything we were we shared.” This sentance threw me off, you may want to think about rewording it.
We are the same age I see and in that I also recongize my own youth. haha, opiates and missing the sixties. I think that what you are writing is in a way universal with our generation. That is pretty cool I enjoy seeing tha manifestation of these things in what we write. I can feel a part of this whithout ever having actually expirenced exactly what you are writing about. I like that! I like it alot. I mean in a lot of places the writing could be tightened up, but that feeling and force behind the words cary this alot further than it otherwise would have gone.
This also throws me and you should prob re-phrase this: “obsessively awaiting in breif, monitered calls; fixatedly writing him love-letter…”
This is intensely confusing. I have no idea what any of this means: “en I finally came home, and I saw he had read and kept all of them, my heart almost burst. He came with two rings he bought with my father’s bus-money “
decent job. Needs some work. I love what you are trying to say and your insight.
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jonaustin1481 reviewed Version 2 -
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This is personal stuff, more akin to a diary entry, and not really publishable. Its the kinda thing that may be important to you and written for your own purposes. That’s its value – to you.
artofstocks reviewed Version 2 -
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who ever wrote this should get an honorable mention. great read and keep up the words.
RoadHousePress reviewed Version 1 -
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How does the title relate to this story? You have the skill to draw your reader in but somehow it doesn’t end on good footing and I had to go back and re-read several times and still did not know what to make of it. Did this relationship dissolve into the landscape of youth? Something is missing in this piece for me. I do however like your voice in this.
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