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| I feel angry, I feel hurt, and betrayed. I need to wrap my head around it, I need to let go of the grudge, let go of the anger and the hurt of the past three years. Today was the first step. Things felt like they were going so right with us again - we never really had any closure; sure we were 'single' again by label, but there was still the daily texts, the talks, the good times. And then there were even bad times that made me realize why it was over to begin with. But there were the good times, amazing time, when this boy with his writer's heart let too much in against advisement of his own conciousness; let too much in to a heart that had been stabbed and ripped by the individual. Seeing this in other I would call it co-dependence or low self-esteem; seeing it in myself I felt it was destiny if only things could work out, would work out, some day.
Two weeks ago I was continuing the process of reading and learning more about myself; and I learned that I made mistakes in our second go-around. I hurt you, held things against you. And while you did do a lot of shit to end it, to fuck everything up, I never before saw, clearly, the role that I also played in this. I changed myself and conformed to who I wasn't, tried to make myself palatable and consistent when I am random and expressive and - for some - uncomfortably geeky and obsessive at times. But when I changed that I added a codependency to the mix that was never in me to begin with; and I made sure it was a solid mess. I also held over grudges from our previous attempt at a relationship, and no, I didn't let anything go. One mistake by you was not a singular instance, it was a pattern.
I wanted to present this to you. I wanted to, at the very least, have an honest talk. We never got a fair shake the second go-around. We both had major accidents that consumed our second fall and winter, and no matter how you phrased it on the phone this morning - we didn't really try. I felt like I did at the time; I still never felt like you did, at all. And then we went to lunch, at a nice restaurant we used to go, and they played the music that always brought us together. The songs playing were uncanny, and we both on, both sweet and charming, and we kept texting and talking growing closer and I felt something in me burning for you - until you stopped calling, stopped texting, again. Out of the blue, again. I spoke to you once, at a coffee shop this last week, and asked what was wrong - you clammed up, but not before nearly making fun of me for thinking something was wrong, not before laughing it off, not before attempting to make me feel like an asshole for caring. Fuck you.
I left there, knowing that I never closed things with you. Friendship someday? Maybe, in some day far away, but I can't promise. I know it won't ever go back to what it was. But for now, I decided that we needed to have a final talk, a final discussion where I would tell you what I need and the space I need and why. But you told me you were dealing with too much personally; that it was all-consuming and you needed time to think - and that this was personal and had nothing to do with "us" or "our relationship." Again, I put you first. Instead of thinking of what I needed, truly needed, to communicate to you, I didn't want to make whatever you were "dealing with" harder and pile this on to, so I thought to wait until you called me to tell me things were better; we would talk then, and I would remain bottled up.
And then it happened. I woke up, logged on to my email, found a friend request from you on Facebook, and noticed your status as "in a relationship." We spoke on the phone at a little before 8am on a summer Saturday morning. You had met someone, it was "complicated", but things were going well. It was "preliminary", but still. How the fuck you don't have the energy or desire to speak decently to your supposed "best friend" but you have the energy to start a relationship with someone new - I have no fucking idea. That hurts. You tell me I'm the most important thing in your life, but I am easily cast aside when you can turn your focus on someone else you can be surface-level with. I had that talk with you, then, in the morning, telling you we needed to truly have time apart - a few months at the least. You seemed shocked, surpised. I can say I hurt, but I am fucking glad I am doing this. I need to regain who I am, what I want, and an emotional stability independent of your mood swings or your self-convenienced efforts to get close when you feel like it, and far away when it's not worth your effort.
I am doing this for me. When it comes to us, I've never done anything for me exclusively if it was the slightest bit of hurt or inconvenience to you. That has changed, now. I need to do this for me, and be away from you, for me. I don't care what you do. I can't, any longer. I don't want to become that person who is jaded about love, and to accomplish that, I have no choice but to become jaded about you.
I fully know what I'm worth, bitch, and it's a lot more than you ever allowed me to see. Goodbye. | | |
| Lots of times I do things that, later, I have no ideas why I did them. I’ve done this for years but have only been aware of it most recently. I laid on my bed and tried to search for rationality; at the time this exploratory search of my head’s inner workings seemed so important that I actually turned down the tv, even though it was only a mild background noise for the aimless web-wondering performed just before dawn. I think I planned this trip because of the excitement. Maybe. I’m not quite sure if I wanted to travel; I’m not quite sure if I wanted to get back with him or back at him. But why did I agree to go on this trip with him? I dumped him – he was cold, distant, and brought more anger into my heart than love – but what was the draw. I tell myself that I “know what I’m worth, bitch”, but do I really? Am I lonely? I want to play it cool. I spent days putting the decision for the trip off. He asked me about it a week ago. He said I brought it up in conversation, and I did, but for awhile there I sincerely thought that he was the one who brought the trip up. We went there once, after we broke up the first time. I told him there, over dinner on the wharf, that I was moving on and no longer interested in pursuing him. We had a mutual break-up almost a year before, and we kept playing this odd game of cat and mouse. But we broke up, then spent a ton of time together. A ton of fucking time – slumber parties, dinners, weekends out bumming around the city and enduring the heat. But I was tired of the game. He had personal problems, I knew this. So many personal problems. And I knew that. And then, on a wharf, I told him we were just friends and staying that way; but I still wanted more than anything at the time to have him back. I came back to Phoenix, started dating a boy; it was getting serious. And then I go over to his place – even after our wharf conversation – and we drink, we watch movies and then we fuck. We’re back together. We got back together and the fun stopped. The slumber parties and the constant texts stop. The cute playful demeanor stops. Everything goes back to the way before. So, almost five months ago, I dump him. We’re done – and I have no desire to get back together. But then we plan another trip. We plan another fucking trip. To the same place. In the days before I gave him the answer I could think of nothing but how great it was going to be, how fantastic it was going to be, spending time together … why? | | |
| Hey everyone,
New, regular blog established at http://sharoute.wordpress.com
Over at WordPress you don't need to log in or join a new community or anything to read or comment. Hope to see you all over there!
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| A little over two years ago I sat down on the concrete steps of a
little corner church a bit before 10am, on a Sunday. I took out my red
spiral notebook and my pen and begun writing, starting for the first
time a serious journal. I was still a bit tired from the Heineken and
smoke consumed the night before, but I felt otherwise very alive, very
different, very apart of the city and the people that were surrounding
me for that week by the shore.
Back home, my friend Brandon was busy editing the first of many "final
drafts" of "Coffee House Christianity," a book I had spent the better
part of the year previous writing. Those notes in the red notebook
would later be expanded on when sitting on the balcony or in the lobby
of the youth hostel, listening to Linkin Park playing on the radio and
enjoying the ocean breeze. I kept writing on the bench where the waves
meet the shore on the pier, and inside the Burger King next to Jack's
Surfboards when it was too cold. I also wrote in the Shorehouse Pub,
and in the Longboard Pub, an old establishment where Hemingway would
write in his final years and where a young Robin Williams would perfect
his comedy routine.
Many of those writings became part of the final chapter of "Coffee
House Christianity," later retitled "Churches, Pubs & Hostels." The
rest became the first entires for a blog titled the same, this blog
that you are reading now.
Earlier tonight, I was sitting reading over the last two years of
entries on this blog, and am amazed quite frankly at the level of
depression I displayed, the level of yearning and anger, the level of
emotion and even at times raw honesty -- such things that for one
reason or another, I would never feel comfortable writing about on here
again. I wrote about being so angry that I feel I could tear down a
complete house with my bare hands, and it pains to remember that
feeling, though I know alot of people could relate. I wrote about
stuggles with purity, struggles with gay porn, -- and I hid in the
closet the good first year or so of this writing, until everything just
broke and I had to get out there what I needed to share.
I got many criticisms, but I also got alot of love, both from good
close friends and even from people I have never met. You all will never
have any idea how much I appreciated and needed that comfort, love, and
support, in that desperate hour.
You all saw first hand how I hated God yet loved him passionately at
the same time; and how I cried out for someone just to fucking love and
hold but then turned around and relished in the quiet moments of being
alone, being myself.
You all were with me through my struggle with church and pastors, and
the often very vocal criticism of both, and then the humility that came
with the loving of people again. When I think back to the spiritual
dynamic of these last two years, I am amazed, stressed, and then
relieved. Writing -- this blog -- was a huge outlet for all of that,
and many of you read, commented, supported, prayed, offered a word,
called, emailed, or instant messaged. From the deepest regions of my
heart, thank you for that, and thank you for allowing me a place to
vent openly and honestly about everything that has happened.
Through this whole time, you have all followed the progress, slumps,
renewels, and visions of Monsuun Ministries Inc and Project Forever.
You have watched the book go from again and again revised manuscript to
finished publication that is available through an artists collective
that has been born out of visions and ideas written about on this blog.
This last summer, you all were with me as I ventured out yet again and
spent two weeks traveling through Orange County, San Francisco,
Portland, and Seattle. I remember blogging from my Uncle Bill's house
and Ryan LaRue's apartment in Portland, writing about how much the
lyrics of Blindside's "About A Burning Fire" were speaking to me; and
in San Fransisco about how much Jimmy Eat World and Death Cab For
Cutie's music accompanied me throughout long drives up and down I-5,
Highway 101, and PCH.
Most recently, you have all been with me through my move to Tempe, near
Sky Harbor, to a new house where you could see the airplanes. You have
been with me as I came to terms with my sexuality and my faith. You
have grieved with me at the sudden passing of my dear Uncle Jim. You
understood and felt heart beats merge when I wrote about the end of the
Hostel, and then a return to a Huntington Beach I no longer recognize.
Now, the future holds so many more things, so many more things to write
about and be excited about. There is more about Project Forever, there
is the Israel trip coming up in less then four weeks, and there is the
move to Seattle. There is so much much much more.
But, the time has come when I am entering away from a very dramatic,
very intense, very meaningful two-year period, of which I have grown
into a new person; holding memories of a time period that will forever
shape who I am.
The last part of that Huntington Beach journal, and therefore the last
paragraph of the book, said that I had to put everything behind, but
live on in the memories while searching for something new. In that
paragraph set on the end of the pier, I ended with putting on my back
pack, taking one last breath of deep ocean air, and walking back
towards the city lights.. I ended my last entry with taking another
deep breath of ocean air and walking away from the city lights ... to
... somewhere.
I feel that it is no coincidence that a significant time of my life is
coming to heavy resolution and heavy change -- all with a interesting
and challenging future -- at the same time that a place that has meant
so much to me has now been lost. H.B., as I have known it and as I have
called it a metrophorical and physical home to my feelings and emotions
and thoughts of the last two years, is gone, as is this time period of
learning and growing in these particular ways.
With that, I feel it only symbolically and emotionally appropriate to
end this blog here. I could cite all of my side reasons -- details
about the fact that I have just let too much out personally and wish to
curb everyone's access to my life, for awhile at least. That I am tired
of getting into conversations / debates which I post on here. But in
reality, it is time. I am a writer, and I will never stop writing (more
on that in a second), but having such a deeply open forum for so long,
and long-enduring the consequences of it, I have but two options: 1)
Keep the blog going, as I have the majority of the last month or so --
and not write anything really personal on it -- but just give updates
on Project Forever, big news, etc, or 2) Let it serve as a solid and
intregal piece of my personal life that I have shared with others, and
keep the integrity of that time period and that honesty intact, without
watering it down from this point forth.
I have chose option 2, obviously. There are some places where I will
still write personal things, but I am done with that here. The real
life stress and nosyness it is creating is too much, and again, this
time period of my life has come to a close, and so this blog shall as
well.
Again, thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, emailed,
etc with positive notes. I have met some amazing people on here, and
kept in contact with even more -- and I love all of you I have
interacted positively with. If you are interested, email me and I will
keep you up to date on when I set up a permanent blog again, just know
it won't be as personal as the last two years on this one. I have never
expected to meet so many friends through this, and alot of you have
made my life richer. I do not mean to leave you behind, just please
understand.
Also, from a good chunk of email and comments I get from annonymous and
sometimes not so annonymous people, I know some who read this struggle
with the issue of homosexuality, rather Christian or not. Somewhere,
you found some hope and encouragement, and I want to continue providing
that for you, and the reassurance that Christ does love you and does
care for you, despite what many of His "followers" would like you to
believe. I have a specific blog I use to write about this issue, so
again email me if you would like the link. Again, I am not putting it
out there because there are just some people that I am not comfortable
with reading about such issues. Let's keep it in the family.
Finally, I do continue to blog about my upcoming Israel trip, and will
be writing a good deal about it when I am there and when I get back.
That blog, if you would like, is
http://www.xanga.com/overisraeliskies Feel free to
subscribe. It is a tempoary blog, but I should be posting on there
about when/where I will be blogging at next.
Finally, thank you again to all of you who have made this a positive
experience and allowed me to work through all I needed to work through.
Though it's only a blog, we are all real people, and your affection and
love will always be appreciated. It was a privilage being apart of your
life.
Much love to you all,
Jeff Nash
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The light turned red and we were again alone north from south, and
after we passed Jack's, the old buildings that were some of the last
remnants of pre-millenium Huntington had been cleared and a new green
wall stood in their place extending all the way down to Fifth Street,
triumphing the arrival of a new beach-front shopping development in
2007. The people who cheer this do not understand Huntington; I was
hoping that I could somehow keep this beach from the wolves and
cone-lickers and keep feeding them chunks of Newport and Laguna until
their bellies are full from their own selfishness and lack of heart.
But, no.
At Fifth stood Java Jungle, spared from being taken over by imminent
domain by no more then eight feet. "Here it is, turn here." I don't
tell Tim where we're going but it is silent that he understands. We are
driving to the place I call home more then my home. The houses on each
side are a mixture of old two-room bungalows and new multi-million
dollar condos, and the street looks worn. The power lines here are
still exposed and you car still shakes when you drive over the
manholes. It is dark.
We pass Orange Street. "We're close, it'll be on the left." Soon
enough, just before Olive, the Colonial Inn Youth Hostel looms large
and dark over our car, almost imposing in its size and proximity to the
dark street compared to the homes around it, and the balcony prounces
out over the porch below almost coming to a hover above Fifth. Tim
looks at it, "I recognized it even before you said anything." He makes
a u-turn and we park in front of the porch. The old yellow surfboard
with the sign still hangs from the balcony. I get out of the car and
walk over to the for sale sign to take a brochere for love's sake, but
they are empty. I look straight up. It is running at less then half
capacity since the fire, and half the rooms are dark.
"I spent alot of time on that balcony." I look up there and
concentrate, and can still see the wetsuits and towels hanging from
there, and can still see Tom, Ryan, and myself taking long, drawn out
puffs from Ryan's hand-carved wooden pipe from Sweden, taking in
lung-fulls at once, after having returned from endless games of pool
and pints of Heineken at the Shorehouse Pub down the street. That pipe
was later stolen by a youthful photographer from France, and he also
stole my shampoo. In following conversations, the Swedes and I never
spoke highly of him again.
Tim and I light up a clove and walk down Olive, still littered with
crunchy leafs, cold winds, and out-of-place pieces of broken sidewalks.
It took me a few minutes to get myself oriented again, but on we were.
A few blocks on and we reach a cul-de-sac blocked in by new
development, concrete pylons, and a grassy field. Walking across the
grass there stands the Shorehouse, and the market across the street
that is owned by the Japanese man who loved that he got to speak to the
international travelers everyday.
We walk the steps up to Shorehouse, and I forgot to remind Tim that
usually a night does not pass by here when a fight doesn't break out,
and an angry man in a black outfit just stands there and stares me down
while I order from the kind but forceful lady behind the coutner. You
can tell that she is sometimes "mom" to these boys. I order a pitcher
of Heineken. "I'm sorry love, we stopped carrying that." I guess you
wouldn't understand unless you heard how I bragged about the
Shorehouse's Heineken on draft to all my friends and let them know it
was the best Heineken around. I guess you wouldn't understand unless
you knew that was the beer of choice for the hostellers and travelers
and it was the core backdrop to all our conversations. Instead, we got
Fat Tire. We sat there and talked at a table near the one I used to sit
at, and Tim kindly listened as I reminisced a long while about the
Huntington Beach that is no more.
But at least there is still Java Jungle, its coffee and ocean view
tables framed in many of my writings and also in any story retold by
Mark Soloman of his own life. Later, we got out of the car and listened
as the waves of the Pacific grew louder and more fierce, and then
walked past two gruff men standing outside the coffee shop to get
inside. Java Jungle has always been half surf shop, half coffee shop,
but now there was t-shirts over the bakery case and surfboards stacked
where the espresso machine and syrups once were. One of the men walks
back in. "You fellows looking for the coffee shop?" I turn around.
"Yes." He responds, "Don't have it no more, sorry guys." I take one
last look around before the Jungle is probably torn down too, and look
at Tim. "What was that saying about you can't go home again?"
I take one last look at what used to be, and take a deep breath full of
ocean air. It's been two years of stories, but I know now, I have to
leave my hostel, my international friends here, my coffee shop, my
special pub, and my Huntington Beach behind. But it, too, lives on in
the friendships and ideals founded here and that continue on, and will
continue on, even into Seattle. My life was forever changed here, and
while the places are gone and everything has and will change and the
city is no longer my escape and no longer knows me in turn, alot was
learned here and for that I will always be thankful. With that, I put
my jacket back on, turn around, and walk away from the city lights. | | |
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