06.13.10

It was hard to not feel like a bit of an ass when, after trading phone calls disrupted by the relentless wind that perpetually haunts the coast here, Gena's hair dryer, and our general luck of never seeming to have a clear phone connection to talk through, Gena said off-handedly, "Well, I called my dad today, for you know..."

"For what?" I asked, immediately feeling like there was something I had missed.

"It's Father's Day." She laughed at me, already knowing my answer to her question, "Haven't you called your dad?"

Well shit. "No, I guess I should."

"You think I should get him something? From both of us?"

"Yeah, that'd be good."

"I was thinking of just getting him some beer."

I smiled, "Yeah, that sounds good."

So, calling my dad is on my list of things to do today, and I must say, it's probably the only thing on that list that doesn't feel like an obligation. Not that I worry it's going to hurt his feelings if I dont, we talk regularly enough, in fact, he's probably more up to date on my life and times here than just about anyone.

As I finished the mile and a half hike into town, and well into my exquisitely delicious breakfast at Clayton's, I fell into an on-going contemplation on a topic which I have wanted to write about for some time. Its basis was forged in the reading of David Gemmell's Sword in the Storm, followed by my own writing of a short story I titled Beautiful World, and my own aspirations and thoughts on what makes not only a good man, but a good father, and a good mentor. This idea, I've come to define as The Big Man.

David Gemmell's original Big Man was his character, Ruathain. A hulking celtic warrior who took it upon himself to raise his dead best friend's son, and rear him to unstoppable, uncontrollable, hell-raising manhood. Ruathain was a collossus of tempered fury on the battlefield, a virtual well of wisdom in terms of everything involving the pursuit of manhood, a loving father, and a devoted husband. Everyone, including his own wife, referred to him as The Big Man. It was a moment in both my emotional and literary growth that found root in my subconscious, and has since grown into one of the absolutes in my firm set of beliefs. Everyone needs a Big Man, and all men should strive to be one.

My own iconic image of The Big Man centers, as most of my masculine ideals do, on John Wayne. Growing up, he was my ultimate fictional hero, and still is, only he has some company now. When I think of The Big Man, I picture John Wayne, standing with his back to me on some hill, a campfire before him, silouetting his massive frame, head half turned enough to see his profile, a cigarette dangling from his weathered lips, cowboy hat pulled low, jacket collar pulled up high, his enormous hands buried in his pockets. What he is contemplating, I'm not sure, but I know it to be a myriad of things; the world beyond and what it offers, some lost love waiting for him beyond the horizon, the men out there who need a good ass kicking, and me, standing anxiously behind him. He half turns towards me as if to ask, So...you gonna saddle up with me?

Growing up, I was surrouned by proverbial Big Men, both literally (my dad is the shortest of the men in his family by a few inches, and he's a solid six feet), and figuratively. My grandfather is an enormous man, a college basketball star, a football and basketball powerhouse in the Army, and well into his adult life, lived about as hard as a man could live...starting his days at dawn, working all day in a solid manly job at a brewery, and partied his nights away, all the while being a good enough dad to raise three sons with good, tough heads on their shoulders. His larger than life presence and hulking frame are exceeded only by his ability to weave a good yarn. He's proud of himself, and he's proud of the things he's done, and he'll talk your ear off if you let him. At my sister's graduation, he held all of my friends in near rapture as he recounted the legends and lessons he's gathered in his life. He'll at once tell you a story so near to a tall-tale that you're sure he's pumping himself up for you, and end it with a self depreciating anecdote that lets you know he's a man who both takes himself none too seriously, but has a strong sense of self identity and humility. He's the original Big Man of my family, and conveniently bears a strong resemblance to John Wayne. There's little wonder as to why he was my hero growing up.

My uncles and dad are three guys that simply couldn't be more diverse in terms of interests and directions of life. My uncle Mike is a virtual template of all things manly. He's huge, with shoulders nearly as wide as he is tall, works twelve to fourteen hour days as an independent contracter, where throughout his career, he has worked almost entirely alone. When he's not building houses, he's out on a horse hunting. Growing up, he was almost unapproachable simply because he was so obviously many of the things I was not. I had no knowledge of wood, horses, or guns, and he wore cowboy boots at all times. In my eyes, he was the last living cowboy...and judging by the way he watches Lonesome Dove alone in the dark seemingly once a week, he'd give everything in his life to be just that. My dad has often said Mike was born in the wrong century, and I whole heartedly agree. He'd be much more at home living the life of a Texas Ranger in the Old West, living off what his horse and gun could provide him.

My dad was the direct opposite of Mike growing up. Books and games of strategy were his world, and thank god, because if not for him, I'd be quite a boring person. But despite his bookworm personality, he was a pretty solid athlete. Tough as nails as a wrestler, actually. When I hear his stories of what he would do to make weight, running around the gym in full sweats while everyone else enjoyed lunch, I know that at his age, I would never have had the self discipline to do that. In fact, I know it for a fact. I tried wrestling. It was miserable. Being good at wrestling requires a good deal of self control and self reliance. To face off against another person, one on one, with no teammates to rely on is pretty intense. I was much more comfortable on the football field, where if I made a mistake at defensive end, there was hopefully a hard nosed linebacker coming through to fix it. Nonetheless, there are many laughs and smiles at family gatherings when stories of my dad going fishing with Mike, and spending the time reading a book, most of the time not even bothering to put bait on his line.

My Uncle Dave, the youngest of the brothers, was a late bloomer. He was well under six feet tall up to the point of graduating high school, and then managed to explode up to a solid 6'4. He became a powerhouse of a volleyball player in college, and has continued to work out until his legs were the size of tree trunks. Being the youngest, he seemed to model himself off both his brothers equally. He's a die hard fisherman, nearly out-reads my dad (which I've found to be impossible, no matter how hard I try), taught himself carpentry, and is a school principle. I can only imagine how hulking and intimidating he must be if you are to fuck up in his school. The men in my family share a glare that can make your blood run cold (which they got from my grandmother, who is still one of the more formidable people I've ever met).

I've grown up in a family of Big Men. Big Men who are to a tee, almost entirely ruled by their wives...and I'm proud to say I've mostly followed suit. Whether intentionally or not, all of them have raised kids who are mentally tough, independent, and very aware of themselves and their identities...although, I'm probably a bit of a wild card, as I change identities like a girl changes clothes. Nonetheless, I'd still say that I've got my bearings on who I am better than most people.

Which brings me in the end, to a full appreciation of who my dad is, and the way he's raised me and my siblings. Despite working heavily most of his life, I was never short on "Dad Time". He brought me into his worlds of fantasy games and books, and his appreciation for a good war movie. I met all my fictional heroes and phillosophies through my dad, and learned a healthy respect for war and the men who fight it. Whether he meant to or not, he firmly established my desire and need to be a fighter, and as I managed to butt heads with nearly every person who ever saw things anything but my way through life, he's been a tireless mentor to me, acting as both a sounding board, and as a brick wall when I needed it.

He is, in all actuality, the toughest man I know. It started with something as simple as working two jobs to put both him and my mom through college, to when his at the time, best friend and boss hired someone else for a position my dad would have owned, he said fuck off, and moved us all to Ohio to start his own compnay. With some of the monumental set backs he's had the misfortune to befall him, I've never seen him waver in his beliefs or ability to maintain his place in our family as a fixture of solidarity. He has always provided a feeling of security in our family, and while being a shrewd businessman, has never wavered in taking his own calculated risks which most people would not dare to attempt financially. The times I've heard him raise his voice to a yell are few and far between, yet I've also found myself in his iron grip when I've crossed whatever lines he has placed. As I've grown into adulthood, I find myself appreciating more and more what kind of man he is. He's one of the few good men left, who will offer you sage advice while also never daring to tell you how to live your life. Whether it's in Joel's clear-charted course of financial success and well being, or my own wild escapes into the world of adventure and death-defiance, he's our most trusted mentor, and I know that to my sister, he is her ultimate guardian. Toughness is not something my dad portrays, it's something he silently carries and has demonstrated time and time again, and I feel that through him, I've found my own center of power. I hope that I too can face down all the demons of life as competantly as he has.

So, happy Father's Day, Dad. You're a Big Man.

02.11.09 (David Gemmell tribute)

I came across an old book today. A book which I have read religiously at least once a year since I was probably 15. I had been looking for a new book at the bookstore, and hadn't quite yet opened up to the possibility that there were more than two good authors in the world. I remember I was dispairing, and was resolving to just go home and re-read the books I knew I would love. It seemed every book I picked up was by an out of date, archaic author, or by some chick (women are generally not good writers, at least, in my opinion. Disagree with me if you like, and if you take it personally, my bad. It's my opinion, and I'm entitled to it).

At last, my dad walked up, picked up a random book (which by chance, happened to be a best seller), and handed it to me. "Read this. It looks good." He was right. There was a grey bearded old man the size of an ogre, wielding an enormous axe, cutting through a bunch of what could only be bad guys. It was written by a man I'd never heard of before, David Gemmell. It had a simple, straight forwardly ambiguous title: LEGEND. Fuck yeah, I bought it.

I went home and poured through that book faster than I think I've ever read a book on a first read. It was about an invincible army descending upon a mostly undefended fortress, and the men who fought to hold the walls. Every character that graced those pages was refreshingly real and unique...they were men with real emotions, real values, and real doubts about their own ability to look death in the eye.

There was Rek, the self-doubting and terrified rogue-turned-warrior, soon to be called "the Earl Bronze"(yes, that's awesome). There was Hogun, the Legion commander, the only officer who stayed with his men to try and fight for the fortress, knowing full well he was going to die doing so. And on the other end of the spectrum, there was the farmer Gilead, who fought for no other reason than it seemed like a good idea, and he hated farming. But above all of them...there was Druss. He stood eight feet off the page...he dominated every sentence and paragraph. I had never read anything like it...I'd never read about that kind of a hero before. The kind of fictional hero who would laugh at any guy Tolkien ever thought up in his head...the kind of guy who would have looked ridiculously too tough to possibly not survive the movie 300. To tough, so untouchable, with a straight forward code of ethics...oh yeah, and he was 60 years old. Half of the book you read about him cutting through a crowd of men, and then later, how bad he threw out his shoulder or knee in doing so. Druss was tough on a level I did not know existed (even fictionally).

So today, although I just read it last fall, I put it on my nightstand, and will probably spend the next four hours reading it tonight. The main reason being...David Gemmell. Over the past, what, ten years, I've read every one of his 30 something books, most of them repeatedly. Mostly because you just can't get much more word for word value out of a book. The man wrote barely 300 page novels which are always to the point, and they carry a similar plot line: a doubting young man gets pushed into a world of violence where death is almost certain, and along comes a grizzled, old, beaten down warrior to show him the ways of killing. The young man will meet a hot, crazy chick who likes killing too...and they take out some seriously bad dudes. Obviously I'm dumbing it down a bit...but when you get down to the core of what makes Gemmell's books so good...it's their simplicity. What makes them work, and what makes them so important to me...are all the different levels of morals and ethics which Gemmell thought to be important in terms of what it means to be a man. They are books that every young man should read in his defining years.

He died recently, a few years ago. I remember feeling like a true hero of mine had passed...as if Druss had really, finally died. I've always felt like the men in his stories are representations of himself...or at least, idealized versions. The men in his stories were what he thought a man should be: tough, uncrompromising, loyal, tough, infinitely faithful to the love of his life, tough, and did I mention...Tough. As. Fucking. Nails.

But perhaps the best story I've ever read by David Gemmell was an article he wrote for some random fiction magazine. In it, he told the story (in far more words than I'll use here) of a young boy who lived in London after WWII, whose single mother was what some people would call "loose" (which was probably akin to being the average 8th grade girl now days). Anyways, the kid was often teased and beaten up, was a huge wimp, and spent most nights terrified of the "vampires" that lived in the darkness.

Alas, one day, the kid got fed up with being bullied all the time, and punched one of his bullies in the face. The victim's dad decided to chase him down, corner him in an alley, and threaten to kick his ass...which probably would have happened...if not for a huge hand clamping down on the man's shirt. The huge newcomer picked up the other man easily, looked him in the eye, and said...

"Why are you pickng on that kid?"

"He...he was bulling my kid, B-B-Bill."

"Well, I was just on a walk with that boy's mom. How bout you get the fuck out of here and dont ever touch the boy again."

"Sure thing. Sorry, Bill."

Obviously, the kid in the story was David Gemmell. Thye man in the story was his step dad, Bill, whom Gemmell says used as the basis for Druss. A year or so later, while still kid, young David Gemmell woke up from a nightmare to find his step dad sitting next to him (probably looking tough as nails).

"What's wrong, son?"

"I'm scared of vampires. There was a vampire in here."

"Yeah, I know. But I broke that fucker's neck. I won't have vampires running around my house." (take that Twilight fans).

Gemmell says that after that night, he never stayed awake in fear of vampires again. In fact, he grew into a hell of a badas himself. He was 6'5, got kicked out of high school for starting a gambling ring, worked as a bouncer, and eventually ended up in journalism, where we worked until he got cancer and decided to write a book...Legend. Obviously he didn't die at that point, he was too tough. But getting back to why that story is my favorite, it's because it contains the line which I think best describes what kind of guy I want to be...and what kind of man Gemmell expected himself to be, and others as well.

He said that the world needs men like Bill. That there's always going to be the need for shepherds to tend the flock, to defend the world from wolves. They're men who are larger than life, won't back down to anything, and will defend what they believe in to the death. They're true heroes. They are, as he put it, Men who know how to deal with vampires.

Yeah, that's awesome.

I grew up with men of violence. I understand men of violence. It means that when I write action scenes and when I have violent characters, I have a very strong feel for it.

-David Gemmell

06.06.10

It's been almost a week since I last had Gena in my arms, and I'm feeling the effects quite keenly. Knowing that it will be weeks and months until I get that ache sated makes the emptiness more acute. Leave it to me to find a way to separate myself from her after I spent years trying to find someone who wanted to be there all the time. July and August will be the worst, as I'll be completely separated from my phone, computer, and other necessities of getting my Genaveve fix. It's going to be a long summer.

I got word I'd be allowed to head back to Ohio for the long weekend about three days before the last plane took off. I immediately regretted telling her I may get it off and ruined the chance to surprise her, but in the end, just hearing her freak out on the other end of the line when I called and told her it was a definite filled my soul with enough joy to make up for it.

I took the red eye to Philadelphia and got little to no sleep, since I had the luck of being placed right next to the bathroom, where there seemed to be a constant line of people. I think the people on that plane broke a record for most bathroom usage. By the time I got to Philly, I had been up for 28 hours, nothing new to me after what I've been through, but still enough to leave me sprawled out on the floor by the gate to my next flight with a spare t-shirt draped over my face. I'm sure I got some stares, but at this point, I can pass out on concrete with a helmet as a pillow (which I do on a daily basis).

When I finally set foot in Columbus, whatever burnt out feelings I had evaporated as I anxiously watched car after car come around the bend of the passenger pick up lane. I about ripped open the door to her car, and immediately went about trying to slip my hands through every inch of her clothes, and smothered her in more kisses than even her beautiful lips could take.

"Why are you wearing clothes?" I mumbled between kisses.

"I was in public! You want me to walk around naked?" She laughed.

I thought it over and with much resignation replied, "I guess not."

Not that it mattered, it was a problem solved quite quickly and easily within moments of walking into our little one bedroom apartment. The rest of the weekend was spent never taking my eyes and hands off her for more than a moment, as we visited my parents, brother, and my three closest buddies from college.

It amazes me how happy she has made me. After going so long dying for someone to share all the intricacies of my life with, finding her has proven to be an on going adventure of emotions and discoveries of the joys of true intimacy.

We met at a party, friends of friends who shared a duplex-style house on Capital's campus. It was my first summer completely out of school and football, and as stated before, I had little to no idea where I was going or what I was going to do about the mess I had made of things. But, I had come to two conclusions: I was done waiting for Christen to sort things out, and I was going to do something with my life that fulfilled me in all the ways I desired...whatever that ended up being.

Joel was at the time still in football, and that kept me in touch with most of my football buddies, and Nick's house was the spot most of us picked to either party our asses off, or pre-game for our future destination, and inevitably end up at for a late night post-party. The girls next door were often there, although most of them had boyfriends, and those that didn't hadn't caught my eye...in fact, for that entire summer, I can't think of a single girl making me stop in my tracks. Then Gena walked in.

She was beautiful, hot, sexy, every word I'd ever used to describe a girl who caught my eye, and more. She had an edge, and she had attitude...and she seemed absolutely indifferent to me (I now know from her, that when she saw me she thought: you were so handsome, I literally had to catch my breath...then figured you either had a girlfriend or had an STD). That's my Genaveve for ya.

With her huge, bright eyes, thick golden-red hair, and tanned, toned legs, it was impossible for me to keep my eyes off her. Like I said, she paid little attention to me. Instead, she was loud and wild, fast with the shots (reserved for she and her friends alone), with a constant smile, and a laugh that was infectious and loaded with fun.

I immediately had to find out who she was, and much to my disappointment, Nick told me she went to Ohio State, and wasn't sure if she was single. We drank for a while, and I tried my best to not be creepy and get caught staring at her.

We eventually made our way to a party down the street, hosted by some football guys, which was the first big bash of the school year, as it was still a week before classes started. Initially, upon hearing about it, Joel, Doug and I thought it sounded like a pretty good chance to hit on some new freshman chicks who knew nothing about me, and thus, carried no pre-conceived notions of what I was all about. Now though, was I watched her walk in front of me, I could do little more but nudge Joel and raise an eyebrow at him, which he returned with a nod. Gena was out-of-this-world hot, and everyone who knew me knew that my mind was made up for the night.

The party ended up being something of a let down for me. For the first time, I felt incredibly old, and inevitably ended up wondering if the eighteen year old girls and sophomore football guys wondered what my old ass was still doing hanging around. Suddenly, I realized I had moved past the college scene, and as I walked in the house and saw Gena looking at me, I wondered if she was thinking the same thing (a funny side note, she asked her friends earlier in the night who the "older guys", ala, Me and Doug, were).

After having waited in line at the kegs for at least a half hour, I had given up on the chances of finding a beer, and was anxious to round up Joel, Doug, and Nick to head back to where we had beer of our own, and I could drown my sorrows. I found Nick and told him as much, but he clearly didn't understand, he had been able to get beer just fine, and was talking to a pretty girl I didn't recognize, and wasn't even close to being ready to leave. A little pissed off, I saw Gena standing with her friends, actually looking like she too wondered what the hell she was doing at a party where she knew no one. With nothing to lose, I walked up and did my best to be charming. She at least took pity on me and gave me one of her beers, a huge gesture, considering how scarce the stuff was at this party. We made small talk, and I mostly resorted to talking to Jaimie, her one friend I knew well enough to talk to, and I felt at the time that she was mostly blowing me off, or at least, definitely not interested.

When we finally returned to Nick's, she hung around for a few minutes, then headed off with a couple friends to someone else's house that she knew. I watched her walk away, turned to Joel, and said with much regret, "Well there she goes...I'll probably never see her again."

I about lost my mind when, a few weeks later, back at Nick's, early into the drinking night, he mentioned to me that Gena was coming over again. I immediately felt some relief that I had dressed the part to impress, a button up shirt, I'd cleaned myself up in the past weeks, cut my hair and trimmed up the beard, and had my boots on. I always did well with my boots on. When she finally showed up, the familiarity of having been around each other before (and a better head start on the beer) made it much easier for me to approach her and talk to her...and much to my delight, she was finally receptive, and much to my further delight, she was flirtatious. I was in heaven, and regrettably, I immediately made up my mind to take her home with me...which she still teases me for to this day.

I learned she had just moved to Columbus, after transferring to from OU to pursue an art education major, a program OU had recently dropped. I really should write a thank you note to OU one day. Why she was interested in me is beyond me. I made little secret to being recently flunked out, working at a restaurant, and I also had the unfortunate luck of telling a not-so-appropriate story about another girl while she was in the room listening. How she forgave me for that, I'll never know. I hung around later than I should have, and while I did realize she'd never go home with me that night, I tried my best to get her to give in. In the end, I went home, and once again said something to Joel along the lines of, "Oh well, it was worth a shot."

But that wouldn't be it for me. I'd lost her twice already, and it wasn't going to happen again. The next day I made it my mission to track her down, and as much of a loser move it may have been, found her on Facebook, and sent her a message that was as obnoxious as possible, and asked her out...and for whatever reason, she said yes. A couple days later, we went to lunch at Olive Garden. It was my first real date in a few years, and I had a blast just sitting there talking to her. She was awesome...funny, so pretty it made me feel lucky just to have her there with me, and had two must-haves: a love of art and music. It was impossible not to like her. When the date ended, I held back on the goodbye-kiss, as I wasn't sure if we were there yet.

The next night, unable to get her off my mind, bored and lonely, sitting in front of the tv having a couple drinks, I texted her. The reply I got was...My apartment is full of smoke...is that bad? I went on to learn that she had gone out with friends, got the idea to make chicken nuggets...and fell asleep as they cooked, then burned, then filled her place with smoke. I told her yeah, it's probably not too good, especially considering she was feeling light headed. So, with a bit of luck (or bad luck on her side), I picked her up and took her to my place so she could sleep on my couch. I gave her a blanket, and gave her the last first kiss I ever plan on giving. I still view that night as a pivotal one in my life...things with her could have very easily gone another way, and she might have gone the way of the rest of the girls and friends I've had and lost in my life. But I remember going to bed thinking to myself I could get used to having her here like this.

The last almost three years of getting to know Gena has been a life changing and exciting adventure. She is the first and only for me in many ways, and while I may have fought it for far longer than I should have, her constant presence in my life has given me direction and clarity for the first time. Because of her, I no longer wonder what the hell I'm going to do with my life, now I'm actively planning. The security that she has provided me is incomparable to any other solidarity any other person has ever given me, including my family. How and why she's managed to stick around as I've unveiled my long list of faults, demons, and doubts about myself and my life is a testament to her own strength and determination to see things through with me...for which I'll be forever greatful.

I miss her every moment of every day, and in many cases, thinking about her was the only thing that has gotten me through some of the insanely near-impossible trials I have faced down in this past year. I'm not sure that I could have done this alone, and don't want to know where I'd be had she not almost killed herself via chicken nuggets. I should really write Tyson a thank you note some day.

I'm calling you to say that I'm gonna be
Anywhere you want, tonight and forever
I'm coming home to take, take us both apart
Put us back like one, and bleed together
I'm calling you to say that I'm gonna stay
Wrapped 'round your heart for time and weather
I'll never live...I'll never die...without you

-The Damnwells, Tonight and Forever

06.03.10

Some guy, somewhere, has some pretty big boots to fill.

We are all replaceable aren't we? Whether through the fault of movies, books, music, or just the need to be more important than we may actually be...we all hope that we are irreplaceable to the people we care about. Very few relationships in life last. Best friends, first loves...they always seem like it's going to last.

I can't count how many times I have looked at the people around me and thought to myself...these are the people, the friends, the relationships that will last me through my life. Today, I don't keep in touch with my best friends from high school...aside from Doug. The guys with whom I spent six years goofing off in locker rooms, from seventh grade to graduation, walking out onto the big field on a friday night, sweating even when we were just sophomores and most likely wouldn't get to play much more than a series or two...and the guys who I hugged and cried with in the cold at Thomas Worthington when that great ride ended three years later.

That was the last time I saw my first real love as well. We had broken up a few months earlier, and I had not yet gotten over my first real broken heart. But she hugged me through my soaked pads, kissed my cheek, and told me not to cry. I thought she was the one...she thought I was way too intense. She was right, but when I look back, it was worth it. I moped around for a year after her. Ran away to a school I shouldn't have even been interested in, trying to distance myself from Columbus, where there was still some lingering hurt left over. We never did much more than talk here and there after that night. Now, I have no idea what I was so upset about. I hear she's married now...or engaged...or something happy like that. Pretty sure to an Air Force guy...gag me.

When it stopped hurting, I don't really remember. Those feelings of heartbreak and abandonment were erased through bong hits and beer. My best friend was my roomate, Matt, and we partied like we didn't have class (we never went anyways), and we were the guys who everyone wanted to know where we were going, what we were up to. It was gratifying, it was great, and I don't regret any of it. I made friends there who I thought I would be friends with forever. I don't even remember most of their names now. I haven't talked to Matt in over three years. I hear he's married, or engaged, and settling into a nice suburban life. How boring.

When I think of the friends and girlfriends I've ditched throughout the years, I realize how easily I move on from things and people. I've always seemed to enjoy the weather of leavetaking. Whether it's being good on the rebound, complete detatchment, or just what everyone else does...doesn't really matter in the long run. Some guy, somewhere, has some pretty big boots to fill. Does he? Everyone has always seemed to do just fine without me. In fact, they all seem to radically accelerate their lives afterwards. Maybe I'm the guy who inspires you to get a move on with your life...how lucky am I?

But if we all patch up, move on, and enter new friendships and phases of life...how can we ever feel truly important to eachother? I know old friends who hear something about me probably react the same way I do when I hear about them...I shrug, and say good or bad for them, and continue with what I was doing. The fact that he and I once planned on living next door to eachother, putting our kids in the same little leagues, and marrying our sons and daughters off to eachother...that doesn't really matter anymore. No more than the fact that when I was seventeen, I made a promise to love a girl forever and planned to make babies for years on end. God how terrifying would that be? I definitely have some sort of guardian angel. But what if we don't move on? What if it's impossible? That no matter what we do, where we go, what we pursue...there's always that nagging voice in the back of our heads, or that sinking feeling in your heart, that's telling you this time...your shoes just won't ever be filled again. I've had that before. I think I'll have it again. I know I have it now with Gena...there will never be another for me, and I know that I recieve the same promise in return. I think that there are people in my life that will be there forever. Maybe I'll be right this time. Maybe not. At least I'll have my Genaveve.

He knew her and so himself, for in truth he had never known himself. And she knew him and so herself, for although she had always known herself she had never been able to recognize it until now.

-Italo Calvino, The Baron in the Trees