Before and After

A Man and his Girl



A Letter Never Sent


I've realized the world is filled mostly with little girls and little boys really; children.

First there are the little boys.
These “dicks” are unpredictable, of course, perhaps air the girls’ laundry, make fun of their stomach, shoes, nose, or ass in a bar so that the girls feel challenged, i.e. believe they now have to “earn” his gaze by “working out” or losing weight, then want this guy as a result – these girls get highs of these cheap thrills, but the highs don’t last very long. The sexual and superficial gratifications with the “challenge” and “unpredictability” last as short as minutes and at most 5 years. But invariably, they go away. Guaranteed. And with that departure, the little boys and little girls hurry with restless urge from one passion to the next. One fuck to another. Girls get jealous and cry about the boys they lost. Little do they know, they cry out of envy and jealousy, not love.

These are the little girls.
Little girls want a guy who will cheat, challenge, and abuse them. Little girls want dick and negligence. Little girls stare at themselves in the mirror for a boy’s approval. They only want what they can’t have. It's not that they don't want marriage with children. It's that they can't handle something so powerful and mature. This is the type of girl you are, a child, no different than the majority, who thinks the aforementioned attributes of “little boys” represents “love.” Even worse than the boys, little girls like you are also hurry from passion to passion, mistaking these temporary passions for “love.” For example, you just leapt out of a four year relationship just like that after making incredible promises; you just gave up so quickly - you'll do the same thing with him, guaranteed. Little girls also get off using one person as a crutch, like you did with me, finding someone else, and then they, you, "take a break" to figure out if it's a good thing to leave me.
They like you, use people.

Then there are the real men.
Real men know what love is.
And love has nothing to do with attraction or repulsion, passion or excitement, adventure or challenge. Those things feel good but are not the best of things, because we don’t spend our lives with those things. We couldn’t. After all, nobody spends 80 years with that giddy, dainty lustful feeling, and rightfully so. It’s not possible to be attracted to the same person for a lifetime without hard work. Love is about commitment – I speak of the type of thing most children like you – can’t handle – or may ever be able to handle.

You left me for a little boy. A little boy who went after a girl who already had a boyfriend. He knew this yet he persisted and persisted, and you turned into a little girl; you acquiesced.

So let me tell you about a real man….

A real man, on the train with his woman, before he leaves for college, kisses the warm tears rolling down her cheek, comforts her in the street when you collapse, missing him, and when you’re all alone in the world, have no friends, nobody understands you, your parents emotionally abuse you, a real man listens and supports you, even when it discomforts him to do so – at one point he calls up your parents and pleads with them – he fights his ass off for you, takes trains home on weekday nights for you after knowing you suffer without him. He deals with your screwed up family, your suicidal mother, seeks approval of your French father all the while getting screamed at – why - because he knows that deep down in places you don’t admit about, but can see it in the way you react in your eyes, his father’s approval makes you proud. He does this because he’ll do anything to make you happy – he cares, a trait not often exhibited by little boys. A real man will walk, crawl through a blizzard, on a weekend during his freshman year in college while his peers are far, far away getting drunk every night and having sex with random girls – he’ll brave his biggest fear; high school nostalgia, by dropping off a valentine day card on your high school locker – while other boys are in other states chasing after a future life, dumping their high school sweethearts, he stayed home for you, didn’t leave for a scholarship in Texas, he dumped all that just for you, not that he regretted it or made you feel bad for it. He didn’t join a fraternity because you didn’t want him too. Sure the whole future world may teach him it was futile, but that doesn’t matter right then. Nor does it not matter that the relationship wasn’t perfect. It’s the principal, something only men have. He’s too good of a guy. Unlike others, he doesn’t need perfection, he’s content with what he has.

A real man hitchhikes hundred miles after getting in a car accident, abandoning his classic car on the turnpike, just so he can be there for the end of your mother’s funeral. He prays every night on the beach that summer, to the stars, that he can ease the suffering and the pain that you feel, end the helplessness that pervades ever phone call he has with you. He waits silently on the other end of the line for the woman you’re becoming – even in the darkest of times, he stares up at a poster of France and dreams he will one day be there with you, even though he hates France he loves you. Sits in the stairwell and comforts you when everyone else is out partying, not because he is “attracted” to you or is “passionate” about you, but because he cares about you and he cares so deeply about your feelings. He dreams of the woman you will become, and uses those dreams to get through the hard times. A real man rents a car and drives 600 miles, on impulse, through three different countries, just to see your face. Then he in trembling desperation tells you his feelings when you claim to be in love with someone else, only to be scoffed at over and over. He makes mistakes – say taking what he had for granted because he is genuine and real. But he has nothing to apologize for. He sang for you when you were sad, wrote you letters when you were lonely, gave you massages and expected nothing in return. He taught you to drive stick shift, bought you your first car because he knew you like that type of car even though you screamed at him when it broke down, he even tried to fix it; he taught you how to kiss, introduced half of the feelings you feel, gave you a new life, and taught you everything you know about music. He helped you grow up.

During collge, little girls, sluts, confront your man and tease him or tempt him, once going into his dorm room and taking off their clothes, one even offers to have sex with him, he never, NEVER acts on these sluts. This is far more incredible given he may be attracted to them, because he is human, but he doesn’t LOVE them, a mistake you make. For, you seem to think it is wierd for someone in a relationship to, once in a while, dream or fantasize about someone else ? Imagining yourself in an intimate situation with someone other than your partner is normal-and then some. If you don't understand this fact about human nature, you will keep divorcing your husband because you mistake ATTRACTION FOR LOVE. Childish jealous little girls and sluts get off challenging his loyalty - they wants a real man but for the wrong reasons - they want to see if she can tempt him away from you, these girls. But his commitment and service to you outweighs childish sexual fantasies. All around him his friends cheat on their girlfriends, then the cheaters tell the girls they love each other on the phone. He witnesses this, it’s all around him, he’s like an anthropologist, witnessing horrifying things. His peers tell him to dump you, forget about you. The majority of boys, under those constraints, stray, mostly in secrecy but a real man doesn’t Never. Not once. And you know what’s incredible. A real man suppressed his urges and instincts for a love he may not entirely grasp or understand. But he has faith that he one day will. He does this for love. That’s power.

That is confidence.

So that is why I spent about 20 minutes every morning for seven months crying my eyes and heart out after being abandoned by the girl I served for a scumbag. It is so unjust that you look at me as week or insufficient due to this, it is not because I am just overly nice or overly weak, but because I am strong and so confident and committed, losing you was like a death, but even more so when you were lost not only in flesh but in spirit. When you leave your man, he stays against all wits, he fights the urge to leave completely, he comforts you when you talk about your new guy, he listens when you tell him the new guy makes fun of your for the way you look and may drive you into an eating disorder.

Then your stepmother, a woman I fought so hard to make happy, a woman whose wedding I attended says “abandon him when the dog dies, cuts ties with him after your dog he’s taking care of dies” That is when he’s just about had enough.
You proclaim “I love Jason. Jason and I are doing great!!” This is why he cries and starts to lose hope. Not that you would understand. Not that you could understand. You're just a child.

Because Jason cheated on you multiple times, or did you ever tell your family that while they were telling you to cut ties with me forever (after your dog dies of course). Did you tell her that after he cheated on you you went and had sex with him again? Or did you neglect to mention that part. And how DARE you tell me the sexual details of your relationship with this ass hole ; what incentive do I have or did I ever have to hear about your sexual positions with these guys, your swallowing whatever, about your "skillz."

But there is hope for me. A grown woman wants a real man. And there are thousands and thousands and thousand of women, mature women, beautiful women, who want a man like that, someone who will take care of them, someone who they can trust no matter what happens – these women, like the real man, are a rarity, but they are there and usually find each other, they are far more lovely than the little girls – and when these people meet, they’re relationship surpasses attraction, these people become soul mates and stay through sickness and in health – good times and bad. This is the type of relationship we had. You followed my lead, but now your following the lead of your slutty, drunk, childish girlfriends.

Your peers have influenced you in the worst way, and what was once a special soul, a beautiful human being inside and out, delicate but strong, has become nothing but dirty laundry. Now instead of selflessness its lust, “hey babe, hey hun, chill out, peace out, hey dudes" etc., etc., and all the other "chill" shit Jason taught you, I fought for 4 years to help you but a guy who abuses you and cheats on you teaches you more. Now I don't see anything beyond your "chillness", and nobody else wants to because the only reason they hang out with you is because of THE WAY THAT YOU LOOK. All the compliments, the obsession with your appearance, the belly ring, the crying to me about Jason pressuring you about your flabby stomach; you're right you've changed, changed for the worse, and you want someone to appreciate you for the wrong qualities apparently, started blending in with the scene I described, the outside. You were once altruistic, devoted your time to soup kitchens, alleviating others suffering, listening, volunteering your compassion and understanding, even if it was just to make people smile... Life was a “bowl of cherries,” you had a pair of green pants with a few stains. Now you’ve got a whole wardrobe of pick ups and hand me downs and innuendo flirtations, all about you appearances, and your bambina bullshit.

You child.

You find more amazement in learning about marijuana than you do about significant, noble things. You left a creative sensitive compassionate guy – you left him for a boy that can kick a ball into a net. You have become more impressed with a soccer jock who needs you to correct his English papers, remember, he’s “only smart matched with you.”

So you can go off and see for yourself the difference I speak of. You can go and get your heart broken the way I have. Dump him for someone else or he’ll dump you for someone else. Either way, learn the heard way, and chase after the guys who "challenge" you. Like a feather in the wind, that’s the way attraction works. Do you understand?

I’m tired of crying, suffering, wondering, and hoping for your sake. That’s the real type of fighting – the type of dedication and soulful redemption we seek in the deepest of places. No words of mine could ever supplant your understanding. They are unnoticed, unrewarded, even scoffed at by you. You laugh but mostly ignore – take it as a plead, not a truth. Your eyes glaze over, wisp away on your train of content that you have “a friend” in me and a “lover” in him, both misconceptions, especially the later. You tell your “girliez” you are my friend like it’s a goddamn prize in a popularity contest. And the paradox becomes how to communicate with you on why I cannot be friends with you. Again words, thoughts emotions, song, poetry are all fruitless to you. You only respond to jealousy, an emotion you have nearly forced me to succumb to, and I can not in good conscious spend my time making you jealous or being jealous, a decent human being does not live in envy. And that is why it hurts, that is why I can’t be your “friend.” That is why I don’t know what to say on the phone when you want to be friends.

Think about it, if you’re even capable.

You are drifting into a different life, a 5 year long phase of emptiness and immaturity, you abandon your past self and the real man who “reminds you of your dead mother.” Never mind I cradled you in my arms and comforted you when it happened, when others told me to leave, no, when they weren’t even there, Including your father and stepmother who told you to get over her death. Tell me, where were the jocks when she died. Where were your girliez. Where was everyone. Even your grandparents were gone. Never mind your father called me up crying asking for advice as to what to do when she died. Nevermind I helped you blow out the birthday candles on your cake, and covered you in the rain, I fought to bring down the walls, every day of my life for nearly 4 years, the walls you proudly proclaim are tumbling because some jockcock has challenged you. You listened to your 700 online acquaintances when they told you to dump me and fuck me over. What in God's name did I ever do to you or them to deserve such a verdict.

So much for faith, so much for self-reliance, so much for “love,” so much for strength.

I’m too young, I’m too passionate, too healthy, but I’m too tired, goddamn tired of girls like you and your fucking games and formulas, as an old friend recently told me, why go though it? To get a girl like you again? It is no longer worth it to even try to make you understand. Worn on the outside like a snake skin, I need to shed, not change. Rebirth in journey, not in spirit. You need to make deeper changes, unfortunately. You were abused as a child – you will carry around that baggage your whole life. And I was willing to work with you through the long run, help you and support you in every way I and only I can. But enough about you. This time I’ll do it this time for myself. I trusted you, fought for you, and thought that we could date others, but keep that special bond, nothing else would compare. We would always love each other. But then you told me you “don’t love me anymore.” I realized you’re not capable of loving. My “not knowing who I am” was a false confession brought on by your psychological manipulations and my heartbreak. But it is all over now. I know exactly who I am.

It’s done. There’s nothing to reflect about – especially in regard to you.

I am damn proud of who I am and what I believe in. The fact that no one will convince me otherwise is a testament to my strength, confidence and security, the type of things that blow away in a stiff wind with the tempting whispers around your little-girl ears.

So you can go on and say you “love” Jason, and tell yourself that you “don’t love “James” anymore to your family. They’re all screwed up anyways. Your mother, god bless her soul in heaven looks down on us and knows differently. She knows how many girls Jason has had sexual relations with, how he cheats on you, how he spent a year of his life, persisting and persisting and persisting, while he knew we were together, knowing we loved each other, he kept on persisting at you using his little boy tactics, and as soon as you had sex with him, he started cheating on you. Isn’t that textbook. You are too stupid to see that. So you went ahead and cheated on him, but worst of all, you now say that you love him now more than you loved me. No words can mine can describe how wrong you are and how sad that makes me. But it is all over. No more conversation, no more slutty teasing, your games with me are over. It is all over now.

And you know what, I have never touched another girl in my life, I have kissed one girl once this past December. All the others were lies, fruitless, lies, Amsterdam, lies, Juliet, like the song was a lie, because I care about you so much, but I’m tired of the games and jealousy. It’s not who I am. I can't play danger, I need a sensitive compassionate woman who will appreciate for who I am, and you can't do that, Time will heal my heart but teach you that behind words are meanings, and like all the other little girls in the world, by the time you grow up, all the real men the best of them, will be all taken by girls who grew up before you did.

So you can go fuck your jockcock "boyfriend" for all I care. You know what, for the first time, I don’t give a shit. Go rent your apartment in Venice this week and fuck him long and fuck him good. Betray your father and move to Ohio! I want you to give everything up for him, break every rule, change everything about yourself. That way, when he breaks your heart you will burn and go through the same miserable catharsis you have forced me to go through. You’re his flavor of the year. He's slept with over a dozen girls, he's said "I love you" to each and every one of them... You're just a footnote in his life. So you can sculpt your body tighter and tighter, sclupt away, go running and pierce all parts of your body and spend 3 hours a day straightening your hair and doing your makeup for him there is bound to be another body out there for him. Did you honestly think that you were the one? Do you honestly think lucky #14 is going to be the one? There are bound to prettier girls and one day, a beautiful woman, inside and out, for him when he changes his ways, in very long run, women will even compete for him. Keep blocking me from facebook, but remember to keep sending me those giggity emails, I’m just a tally to your list, another faceless name, so keep sending me your travel email updates with your bubbly, fake sentences detailing how wonderful your new life is and how much you hated the girl you were. We’ll see how long that lasts....

* * *

When you were 15 years old and I was 17, we went deep into the park and into the woods and I inscribed our names on the log and gave you that promise ring. I taught you something special. We taugh each other something very special, commitment, precious tears of innocense and youth, and unbound faith and trust in each of our young hearts for better or for worse. And there were no games or corruption or the festered need to impress anyone or portray ourselves happier that we were. It was just that moment and it continued for years. You learned that there was hope in the world beyond the abuse in your household and that hope made you strong. Now I teach you somethign else... one day, 5 months, 1 year, 3 years, 5 years, you will change for the better, you'll grow up, revert to your pure, past self, and realize the world is filled with nothing but trash and dirty laundry. Scumbag asshole jocks are a dime a dozen. You'll realize that love is the stuff that keeps people together through the hardest of times when attraction and passion are nowhere. When you're week and scared and helpless love will keep you strong, the type of love that isn't just muttered at a height of an orgasm. You'll realize the jocks you dated just used you as arm candy, nothing more, nothing less. And they'll laugh at you or ignore you when you cry... and you will grow out of your phase, your childish curiosities and temptations will expire, memories will haunt you, ironically you're dog will have died but you'll return, dirtied up, using me as your crutch, you'll 'a come knocking at my door. You'll love the innocent, caring, passionate women you were when you were 15. The makeup will wear off and the ditry sex will lose its value. You'll realize the world can sometimes be a dark and lonely place. That there are few men willing to guide you and lead you and protect you out of those woods and into a fulfilling, happy and successful life. And when you realize this, you will be wise.
I’m the one's that sorry now.
Because when you get there, I'll be gone.

You swallow that a while, █████.

NJO: Originally posted on the blog Feathers of Steel at liberabit.blogspot.com.

The German Backpacker.


SION, SWITZERLAND.
Switzerland's supposed vastness frightens a foreigner, but its geography, mountains aside, is simple and the trains which traverse its cantons are strikingly effiecient - in a few hours you can cross the entire country. With an youth pass, approximately 250 dollars for two weeks, you can ride its trains indefinitely, exploring its towns, cities, valleys and countryside.

My program gave me the pass and a free weekend, so I decided to take a quick train to Geneva to catch the auto show. I stayed overnight in a small french town called "Sion." The story follows from my hostel there.
I waited at the counter for 15 minutes, then entered a frenchie dressed in all black, smelling of cigarettes, with an expression of a sad puppy dog, worried I would scold him for being late. He said something in french, then german, then english. Unlike Italian-switzerland, I immediately notice more reception, more friendliness, people are less matter of fact, not so much kind as gentle. I went to the bathroom to wipe all the yogurt I spilled in my backpack. Yogurt is cheap and convienent in Old Europe, but has a saran wrap cover, and as a result, is not the best to stuff in a bag amogst books.

I entered the 4 person hostel room, old orange blankets and bunkbeds. THe hostel was completely empty, save a few backpacker hangers on. Sunday night, in the dead middle of Swiss Winter, in a small town 3 hours southeast of Geneva. Thought to myself, is a sunday night and I don't have school tomorrow. In fact, Im three thousand away from everything I know. I felt free, but too free, the type of space-time feeling that made me miss having priorities and deadlines. I was grown up, and made a conscious decision to be so far away. What am I doing here. In this place. At this time. nostaliga took over. Back to reality, I scanned the room and there was a man scrunched overhimself snooring. Looking around 30 years old, couldn't tell if he was American or not. Appartenly, all the backpacking got the best of him and he fell asleep sitting in his bed, map and pack still on his shoulder.

It turns out his name is Herald, he is from East Berlin, Germany. and for the first time yet, I made a local friend. Story of Ticino, really, emersed in Lugano, and no significant deep convo, but meet a wandering German in the mountains... Harold is a 24 year old college student on "vacations," spending two weeks backpacking down throught Italy and Sardinia. I told him I wanted to see downtown and maybe grab a bite to eat. His stillness meant he wanted to go too.

The french receptionist with crazy black clown hair reccomended a place downtown, I expected ski-bums and swiss blonds and breweries, distilleries, what I got was an abandoned city block with one single french pizzaria. Herald and I acquiesced. Fate would bring us to more than just food.

Harold and I immediately started talking politics. His English was good and I tried to speak slowly so he could understand, often times i felt like i was going overboard, but he never gave indications except for facial expressions, though he did tell me he barely understands American Engligh but understood me quite well. but he often gave me a blank stare, the kind of stare that is ambigiuous between a. you look fucking ridiculous speaking so slowly - I understand what your saying or b. I am smiling because I don't know what you're saying - tis polite to smile.

Harold and I were both well educated young lads on a jouney, adept in political and sociological matters, and engaged with our surroundings, secure with our views, experienced in debate. Biggest difference was he was German and I was American.

He used the word "reunification" alot, often relating to the collapse of the BerlinWall. He struggled to produce vocabulary words, often pulling out one of a dozen pocket dictionaries. He was curious to a point, about the American political structure, but unsurprised at my confessions, again giving me that goofy ambiguous gaze. He understood archaic American concepts like the electoral college system. And he knew a hell of a lot more about America than I knew about Germany.

I have always wanted to tacklet Hitler with a German, but didn't know how to raise the subject. So Harold just went on talking about the division in America, especially related to Bush. It could be the language barrier but I do believe Europeans have an innocense to them about politics. The differences between the East Berlin and the West Berlin, however great, are nowhere as near as huge as the differences between West Kansas and East Harlem. These myopic sociocultural contrasts amaze europeans. And they haven't the slighest clue about how grand they are. Harold was fascinated by the "partisanship" in America. For in germany, ther are the christian democrats and the dems, slight difference really. Then he mentioned an incredible small minority of neo-nazis. There was my chance to bring up Hitler.

"some People in the US call Bush Hitler" I said.
Harold scoffed.
"that makes HItler's actions not as bad."
I asked him more bout the German conception of Hitler.
"We are ashamed of what happened, but we are tired of being labeled as the Hitler-generator country. We don't want to be remembered by this event."
Then it got really interesting...
"But I cannot, help being German. I was born here. I did not choose to be."
Harold began talking about how divided Germany was, how there was a subtle sense of shame about the country, their flag isn't as glorified, their history is debunked, the berlin wall collapsed, but its just a wall. Ideologies still burn in hearts and minds. families "don't fly german flags in their flowergardens." "If you see a guy with a germany flag on his shirt, you think it's wierd." Seeing all the swiss flags in switzerland, I can understand where he is coming from - but I found his observations so somber, so cynical, unfortunate. Could it be because he was from East Berlin. Or maybe his age. Is Germany really that confused, ashamed, lost.

We spoke about euthanasia, and eugenics, both words he had to look up to tell me about. Those were too of the most shameful acts of nazism, according to the Berliners. Harold was adament about a person's right to terminate his own life and I gently challenged that assertion, his moral stubborness, with the rhetorical quip, "what if that person is not able to make a decision." Harold put down his wine glass and gave me that gaze of his through those emo-german glasses, and mentioned the terry schiavo case. he helped me understand how poweful ameican politics were. Could I, could any of you, name one german moral issue today.

Up came Nietzche, and his "god is dead" assertion. Both Harold and I agreed it was missaplied by the German Socialists. Nietzche wan't a nazi, which led to another one of my realaizations. We both shared common conservative grounds. Whereas there was a form of German political correcntess, i.e. not allowed to appreciate romantic era poetry and art and music because it was a precursor to nazism, also in America we can not appreciate certain forms of literature because they are, well, a precursor to racism. To some, Naturally, anything from 1860-1930 in Germany was a cause of nazism. To others, anythign written by a white man in the 1940's does not include the necessary cultural obligation of the supressed black female. Harold was nostaligic for the culture, not the politics. He was a young leftist, simple in his decscription of foreign affairs, on common grounds with me on logic, different in our application of that logic. And he made such moros observations about the current situation in Berlin.

Such morose correlations between two travelers using the equivalent of a third grade vocabulary. Funny how that works.

NJO: Originally posted on the blog Feathers of Steel at liberabit.blogspot.com.