just back from seeing the notebook.
the first hour was atrocious, i almost walked out — after that it got better and by the end the story had decent potential. i’d rate the movie ok, and i’m intrigued about the book it was based on. the movie could’ve been much better though, and it’s a shame, since the story is pretty powerful even in its flawed presentation in the film.
well damn.
hbo split season 6 of sex and the city into two parts… and part two isn’t out on dvd yet.
so close to the end, but not quite there yet :-/
pretty insightful series, too bad i wasn’t able to watch it before going off to college…
i think i understand women a bit better now, or so i tell myself. year 20 is turning out to be a turning point of sorts, one could say…
euro in 10.
Lately…
most recent reading: Things You Should Know By Now, Built to Last, Good to Great (in progress), My Life (yet to start)
movies: The Terminal (surprisingly good), Stepford Wives (bleh), Fahrenheit 9/11 (very well done)
television series: seasons 1-4 of sex and the city (insightful)
12 days until i fly out to europe (!)webcam swinger moviesfree movies bbw pornnude hollywood movie scenesfrom scenes sex moviesfree xxx movies amateurmovie anime pornmovie free galleries lesbianmovies gyno Map
Why are they called poetry ’slams’?
Anyone know?
In other news, switched over to Firefox 0.9 today. And by Holland in the last post, I meant Holland, Michigan, not Holland as in the Netherlands in Europe.
LSAT pwnd.
I need to find time to catch up on Movie and Books reviews… Harry Potter 3, Along Came Polly, Garfield and bookwise, Letters to a Young Catholic and Thief of Time.
New user photo too. Taken in the kick-ass weather out by Holland after the LSAT.incest clips free moviemovies free xxxxx free job directory movie handmovie fuck clipsgynecology movies examshandjob clips moviepussy movies hot blondejar head the movie Map
As usual, poetry at 2 am in the morning… let me know what you think of this one…
i fell in love with an image
she was beautiful, innocent and true
she looked quite a bit like you
except for one small sorrow
she wasn’t real, alas
this led to more than small sorrow
many a tear did i cry
and many an hour did i try to understand
why you were the way you were
why you acted the way you did
where was the girl i had fallen in love with?
where was miss beautiful, innocent and true?
sometimes you had her laugh
sometimes your eyes would sparkle just like hers
but then after a moment, the light would fade
a stormy cloud of sorrow would reign
i fought against the mists
tried to pierce my sorrow
tried to pierce your sorrow
i succeeded but recoiled aghast
it was then that i realized
i would never find her
she was gone forever, the girl i fell in love with
for she had never been
yet every so often, a wisp
a shade haunts my memory
and i smile at the sweetness
of what never might have been
He was in a rush that morning, more than the usual rush that occupied the mad dash from apartment to campus. He only had a few minutes to go in, grab his standard soy chai with cinnamon and then make haste to the stately brick buildings that would occupy the rest of his day with classes. Long stride after long stride, he made his way down the sidewalk, laptop under his arm, dressed in a blue polo and slacks. The morning was fair, with a hint of sunshine trickling down through the mostly cloudy skies.
He opened the door to Starbucks and went in, his eyes darting to the menu that hung above the counter. Quickly he found the item he wished to order and recalled the proper Starbucks-speak way to request it so that the barista could fill the order as soon as possible. Impatiently he stood in line as the few people in front of him placed their orders with, what seemed to him, the most careless lack of haste he had ever seen. The first was an elderly man, with what remained of his hair gone a shock white. He had obviously lost his taste for fashion a long while ago, for he wore plastic yellow sandals, a Hawaiian shirt and dress pants. Strange. Behind him there was a worried-looking middle-aged woman, wearing a black business suit and talking in hushed, anxious tones on her cell phone. And finally, right in front of him in line, there stood a young boy, who was probably a freshman at the local college, judging by his proud sweatshirt, backpack and rather laid-back look about him.
The line moved, not briskly, but it moved nonetheless. He placed his order and paid when the time came, and while waiting for it be filled, took a seat at a table and opened up his laptop and checked if he had any new e-mail. Nothing. He closed his laptop again, glad for the high-speed wireless Internet that enabled such wonders of rapid communication and stood at the bar, looking at the baristas with eyes that said, would you please, if you could, hurry up. Unfortunately, the baristas were in no mood to hurry on anyone’s account that day and his soy chai came by in what felt like an agonizingly long five minutes.
His laptop firmly in the grasp of his left hand, he grabbed the chai with his right and headed straight for the exit to Starbucks, head down, arms hunched, with a determined look about him as if he were going to reach back in time and find those lost minutes that had dared to escape him.
He was almost at the door when a voice that lay at the edge of recognition called his name. He pretended not to hear, for he knew he had no time today, not now, not with his second year finals — the most important ones — just a week and a half away. He opened the door, triggering the electronic bell to give its standard greeting/farewell tone that signaled yet another customer was entering/escaping the bohemian lure of Starbucks. The voice called his name, prefixing it with an “Oh come on” this time and a more insistent tone about it, bordering on annoyance. Resignedly, he turned away from the half-open door, his chai in hand, its heat already beginning to penetrate the cardboard, reminding his fingers that what they held was in fact, a very hot beverage. His left hand’s fingers felt complacent in comparison, only having to contend with the pleasant warmth of a sleeping laptop.
His gaze, torn away from the door beyond which lay the new day of freedom and responsibility, landed upon a table in the back where sat the owner of the voice that had hailed him. It took a him a moment to recognize her, for he hadn’t seen her in several years, but her voice had not changed. She looked older now, yet was still beautiful in her own way, but somehow had lost that air of youthful innocence that had made her so different back then. Her eyes were as expressive as ever, however, and shone with a dangerously playful light, as always. At last stepping away from the door, which closed quietly, its metal hinges well oiled and not squeaking in the least, he nodded at his old friend, displaying recognition and took a few steps towards her. She smiled, he smiled, and soon he was at her table and took a seat, placing his laptop down next to him and freeing his right hand from the ever-growing warmth of his cardboard-encased chai.
“How have you been?”
“Busy. Very busy. But it’s good to see you again. It’s been what… three years? four?”
She nodded and sipped at her espresso, which he noticed she had taken in a ceramic cup (what might be called a “real cup”) as opposed to his haste-induced plastic Styrofoam cardboard-encased portable beverage unit.
Feeling the minutes tug at him, he managed a glance over at his watch, as inconspicuously as possible. He swore mentally, for knew he was now doomed to be late. Oh well, so be it.
“And how have you been? What brings you up north?”
He might as well pretend to care, and he found, not too surprisingly, that he did actually care, though he had buried it a bit deep.
“Family. Visiting home. It’s funny I should bump into you, you wouldn’t believe who I ran into the other day…”
Her sentence drifted off into the air, beckoning him to ask the inevitable question as to who it was his old friend had seen. A moment’s pause to heighten the tension and then he gave into the temptation to ask.
“Who?”
In reply, she said a name, a name that he recalled he had told her a long time ago, half-serious and half-in-jest. At that time, when they were both scarcely halfway through their teenage years she had laughed at him for even thinking he could know that name. It was the name, he had said back — what was it, ten? eleven? something on that order years ago — it was the name, of his future wife, or so he believed.
“Right.”
His reply dripped with sarcasm and cynicism and a general aura of disbelief. He had no time for games and he knew his old friend was one who was playful. The mirth in her eyes and her half smile alerted him that something was up. And he was already late. He stole another glance at his watch. He was going to be very late if he wasted time here much longer. His idealistic days were over, buried in his undergraduate years, so he had long ago decided.
“No, I’m serious. And uh, she said well, she told me, well, I told her I had a friend who had once asked me to let him know if I ever met anyone with her name because, and she didn’t laugh at this, which surprised me, because he thought that was the name of his future wife. Instead, she was very calm. Very calm. She said she thought she knew the name of her future husband and wondered, just out of the blue, if it might be the same as the name of my friend. And you know what? This sounds crazy but yeah, it was your name. Which was really weird. Believe me, I didn’t believe it at first and thought she was pulling my leg or something but no, she was for real. I really think you should meet her, she’s definitely your type, you two would get along really well, really well together.”
He looked meticulously at the top of his chai, the white plastic cover with various warnings embossed on it. WARNING: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT. He peeked in the little hole on the top and looked at the milky brown liquid inside.
“Uh…”
“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but you know — you were the one that told me that miracles happen and that you just gotta believe and you saw how things turned out for me and my husband and you remember how stressed out I was about everything before then? I think this is your miracle, and I don’t think you should pass this by. You gotta meet her. And I’m serious, I’m serious serious serious.”
“Alright. When?”
“How about right now? She’s over there on the sofa in the corner.”
His old friend was pointing somewhere behind where he sat. He felt time come to a slow stop as he turned on his stool and cast his gaze backwards at the sofa. Perhaps he was merely dreaming, perhaps things of this nature simply did not occur in real life. Yet, in the moments, the precious few moments while he turned and did not see, he found that he did not have room in his heart for doubt. His idealism, so long buried, had come to earth with a vengeance.
The sofa was an old one, with golden pattern woven green tapestry. Its armrests were worn by patrons that would come by over the years to enjoy a book and a cup, and a few ancient spills were yet evident in its fabrics. There was a polished dark walnut table in front of the sofa, with scattered magazines upon it. Also resting on the table were a pair of sneakered feet, tied with crisp new white shoelaces. His gaze followed the feet up to legs, which were wearing tight washed out blue jeans, but were shapely and pleasing to the eye. He then ran his eyes over a thin waist, clasped with a black leather belt, leading to a button-down black shirt over which chestnut locks of hair led down from shoulders. His gaze finally made to a elegantly framed face, with piercing eyes that immediately locked with his.
She was beautiful. He found himself, strangely enough, resonating with her in a way he had never resonated with anyone before. Classes, studies, being late, and all that now felt deeply irrelevant in this moment. He got up off his stool, went over, taking slow careful steps, never breaking his gaze. Her eyes were all aglow as well. The two of them could feel a connection between them that both of them had known themselves to be seeking all their lives, but they had never found and thus had never known what it was they were missing.
He quickly found himself in front of her, and she rose as he approached. This time he found that time had flown past, that he had not felt the seconds spent walking in the slightest. “Hello,” he said in his rich baritone, “I’m,” and here he said his name. “You are…?” he trailed off, letting her finish. Her eyes sparkled, her lips opened and she spoke, saying the name he had long hoped for but never expected to hear. They shook hands, and then, abandoning what was mutually felt to be unnecessary formality, embraced. It was a reunion of souls.
The embrace lasted a few seconds and they parted, running their hands over each other’s arms as they came apart. They could still feel the lingering touch of the warm embrace. She looked up into his eyes and sighed gladly, and together they turned, making way for the door. They paused a moment in front of his old friend, smiling at her, their eyes shining. They bowed their heads ever so slightly and his hand clasped hers. He opened the door out of Starbucks, and she went through. As he left, he looked back once more at his old friend, nodded in gratitude to her and waved with his free hand.
She smiled as she watched the door slowly swing shut on its well-oiled hinges. It was good to see them happy. The enter/exit bell rang with its electronic tone as the door came to a complete close, and she found herself alone with her espresso. She looked at where he had sat, and noticed he had left his laptop behind. She smiled. It would have to be returned later; she would have an excuse to ask how he and the woman who bore the name of his future wife were faring. Using both hands, she raised her cup to her lips and sipped at her espresso, savoring the strong, rich taste.
True love comes along so rarely it couldn’t populate the earth in a million years, but it does come along, even if rarely.
“True love comes along so rarely it couldn’t populate the earth in million years” is from the poem, “True Love,” by Nobel Laureate W. Szymborska.
