the notebook

Hey.

Hi.

I just wanted to say something. I'm so sick right now. So very sick. It is my belief, probably residue from years of conditioning laced with a Scientologist's mind, that sickness, most sickness, is psychosomatic. Meaning that it is self- inflicted and is most likely due to the life conditions I have built for myself, both consciously and unconsciously. Sickness is merely me reminding me to find again the strength to confront… me, inevitably.

That being said, I have wonderful friends. I refuse to judge them. No matter how low and stubbornly they anchor themselves in a world of non- confrontation. In return, I experience the love they find for me, especially in times when they can't muster itself up for themselves. I think I do the same. That is, love them more than I care to love myself at times. In my way. In my gradient. In my fashion.

So last night, so very ill and ready to proceed with my night as I would any other, Loyal set me up on the couch and suggested we watch a movie. Oh come on! I'd rather… gotta go walk to the store… gotta walk Giant… you know, not sit on the couch and be sick. So what if I haven't slept? It was important to get up and have a meal with Chuck. Share music. Share a loud smile.

Anyway. Here we are. The Notebook. Of coarse. Loyal, my love falling in love friend, would choose such a movie.

I was promised tears. Promised, "You have no idea, just watch." As the opening credits rolled I knew that I was going to love it. Gena Rowlands. Nick Cassavettes. Love them. Now I was certain it would be more than sap.

I'm not gonna tell you what happens in the movie. I'm not an asshole, for those of you who haven't seen it. But I will say, alright, no tears weren't streaming. Maybe I'm an odd ball. But I did feel the urge to immediately start the movie over when the credits rolled at the end. And then, I did the unbelievable. I slept. If you know me at all, you know I cannot sleep easily. But I did last night.

Tonight, after I stumbled around this town walking my dog looking for these ingredients for my drink concoction I make when I'm sick, I was drawn to watch it again. I had to make sure of what I saw the night prior.

It's kind of like hearing that one song for the first time. Just the hearing of it. Then finding the lyrics. Reading the words while it's playing. Giving it yet another listen, paying close attention to the drums, the chord changes. Imagining when it was written. Who it was for. Maybe you. Maybe me. Listening to the harmonies. Hearing the choices come alive and touch. It's like holding hands.

You can't deny a genuine man. And you can tell when they are. When they are utterly, truly and undoubtedly: genuine. See, it's not that bad. Cause genuine will always find genuine. You know when it's there. Cause you got it, too. Just that fucking genuine passionate yes! Break my heart, sweetheart. Love me real.



In one of those nutshells… it's the makings of old classic movies. Those classics that weren't lined with today's cheap and cool. Splendor In the Grass. A Place In the Sun. The Notebook. Movies that really tell a story of love. The crazy everything about it.

Yes, you're allowed to throw up now. But wouldn't it be even cooler if you just fell? Ridiculously, angrily, passionately and utterly genuinely?

I'm feeling a bit better now, for those of you who are wondering.