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// "IT FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME" \\
(( 04/05/02 anada519 ))
\) (/
The natives get restless when old changes to new. And I don't want to get
self-referential. Such juxtaposition in an editor's note.
This issue of Anada is dedicated to Justin Campeau, aka Khetel, aka former
Anada staff member, who is by all accounts in a hospital fighting leukemia.
Although it's not the first time Anada has been motivated by friends, family
members, or mere acquaintances fighting for their lives, it doesn't make it
hit any less hard. Sweet peace and best wishes.
--Gloomchen
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
TABLE OF CONTENTS
"I Am" by AlterEcho..................................................line 44
"First Their Before All Others" by Wellfuck..........................line 78
"First of This" by Silvermoon........................................line 96
"Feels Like the First Time" by Infernal.............................line 147
"Everything" by Pheeble.............................................line 269
"This Isn't So Strange After All" by TimR...........................line 292
"The Magical Gift" by Gloomchen.....................................line 311
"The First Time I Talked To the Guy Downstairs" by Pavement.........line 340
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"I Am"
by AlterEcho
You are in my head and you won't come out. And you know what? Maybe that's
where you belong, at the moment.
I promised myself that I wouldn't write about you anymore, but really, this
isn't about you. It's about me. I need to look after myself. It's hard to
believe that anyone is worth this much heartache.
I want you but I don't need you. What I feel for you will always be inside
of me, and right now I can still taste the bitterness, but one day, maybe
even one day soon, that bitterness will fade. And even now, I know my
desire is something that I can deal with, is something that I have dealt
with before. I will be the best person I can possibly be, but I will be
that person for me, not for you. And if that is not the person you want to
be with, then so be it.
Because I am content with who I am as a person. I will not apologise for
my shyness, or nervousness, or even my niceness -- that is all a part of who
I am. I am smart and talented and friendly. I will listen to your stories
and share your pain and do your dishes. I will make you laugh and sometimes
I will sit with you in silence, and watch the world pass. I will give you
good advice. I will believe in you.
This is me.
I am happy.
And that is a first.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"First Their Before All Others"
by Wellfuck
In the great accompanying crowd, fierce laocoon passed over the
highest citadel and from afar (he cries):"O miserable ones, is your insanity
so great, citizens? Do you truly believe the enemy has sailed away? Or
does anyone believe that the gifts of the Greeks are free from fraud? Is
this Ulixes? Either there are ... "
Yeah, and then he speared the horse. And then two huge ass snakes
came out of the water and doa'd his two sons and kicked the shit out of him.
Then they went into a temple by athena's feet. Then my computer screen f'd
up with all these f'ing lines for no reason. Then I translated part of the
aeneid. Then I educated your ass about a brother.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"First of This"
by Silvermoon
First you find yourself upon the end of timeless truth
then you lay beneath the sand to filter out your changing youth
First of Childs memory
First of friends you do believe
Oh of one yet two of time the end of all came in with rhyme
but yet the soul of Childs due is yet another lie of you
One of many but first of this
Friendship bound and Childs bliss
In and out of minds playful land
you reach and stretch and hold out your hand
but still you find and loss of grip
and down the sand your blood does drip
Chant the words of Childs play
let this be bound of blood today
Get out of mind you freak of fate
I must come forth and help relate
to the one who is of this
the first of love to which I kiss
The boy who knew nothing of so
and held your hand and then let go
no matter what the truth did tell
you found in love your soul had fell
Come with time the friendship grew
out with child in with new
Touch of clothes yet underneath
body sweats and heart does beat
Now with maturing youth has fled
And you seek and find the first in bed
But nothing ever remains as so
Your mind and bodies both did grow
Truth of this is yet a dream
the love of friends is meant to be
as with the sky and sea of blue
it's all a first when it comes to you ...
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Feels Like the First Time"
by Infernal
Sushi:
Couple months ago, with Dave, at Koto Buki. The most money I ever spent
on a meal. The texture and taste of raw fish in my mouth was about what
I expected. The surprise was my ambivalence toward it. I ate fishier
and fishier pieces, ending up with some yellowtail that was, well, just
fish flesh, maybe they'd whispered the word rice to it before plopping
it on the tray. Dave was amazed - he'd never seen anyone eat that much
sushi and not love it. If they hated it, they stopped at the second or
third circle of sushi hell. I just kept waiting to be repulsed or
amazed, and was neither. Gimme a swordfish steak -- cooked -- any day.
Metal:
"Trapped Under Ice." Scott Szabo's borrowed Metallica tapes. Bricks
were shat. Can you PLAY that fast? Can you DRUM that fast? It must
have been what believers say getting saved is like. I felt a puzzle
piece snick into place that I never knew was missing. Fifteen years
later, here I am, a metal casualty, permanently AWOL from the world of
Huey Lewis and Tiffany.
Beer:
Shit, I don't remember. My dad was young, we're talking really young,
when I was coming up, so beer was in the house since I was a tot. I do
remember him letting me have half a beer when I was seven, then telling
me I wasn't allowed to have any more because I strutted around the house
with that half-a-beer like I was King Shit (to the amusement of his
friends, no doubt, who were younger than my little sister is now).
"Drinking beer doesn't make you cool," he said, and hey, I remember it
to this day. He was right -- I've consumed tankers of beer since then,
and I'm still not cool.
Website:
God, it was a piece of cack. I made a logo that was dark blue on hot
pink. Christ.
Weed:
Jeff Wengerd and I used to drive around in his rusted-out silver Olds
after our shifts at Ponderosa. (I was in awe of him because he talked
back to managers, screwed waitresses, and when a dish wouldn't come
clean on the second trip through the dish tank, he'd throw it on the
floor and break it. Problem solved. He hung out with me because guys
like him feed their mojo on the awe of sixteen-year-olds.) We'd drink
warm Bud, drive around county roads, and listen to "Among the Living"
and "No Rest For the Wicked," usually not saying anything, just mouthing
the words to "Indians" and "Miracle Man" and sipping our beers. One
night he busted out a joint, and I thought I was descending into a pit
of depravity the likes of which is only seen in Jack Chick religious
cartoon tracts. Maybe by some standards I was, but the pot did little
but slightly amplify my beer buzz, and make my headache the next day
worse. To this day, I'm still not a friend of the weed. Which is cool,
I have enough shit in my life to spend money on.
Phone company:
some shady one that sold lame long distance plans to college students.
I never did pay them the $500 I owed them. If I ever run for president,
this will surely come back to haunt me.
Published work:
A really corny Biohazard story for the long-defunct Industrial Metal
magazine. I remember my hands shook when the phone rang and I knew it
was Evan Seinfeld on the other end. He'd been on MTV!
No, you know what, I take that back! My first published work EVER was
in 1988, for a review of a video game for my TI99/4A computer. The game
was a Missile Command ripoff called Barrage, and the review ran in
"Micropendium" magazine. I got paid $25 for it, which is still more
than I get paid for a lot of the music writing I do.
Proposition from a man:
Same Ponderosa, different dude. Steve Gray, the first open homosexual
I'd ever met in person, and flaming like the Chicago Fire by my
hometown's standards. Used to give me rides home, which I accepted like
it was some sort of social mission on my part to prove I wasn't a
bigot. One night he went the wrong way out of the parking lot, drove up
Seven Mile Drive, and put a quaking hand on my leg, trying to be as
nonchalant as he could. It was the one time I ever saw him act like
anything else than a haughty, jaded queen, and it was endearing, though
he still didn't make my dough rise or anything. I tried to be as nice
as I could about saying no, and he was gracious enough about trying to
blow the whole thing off and drop me off at home like nothing happened.
Then he told everyone at work we had sex, and I got ranked out like you
wouldn't believe. That bitch.
Unrequited crush:
Heather Miller. She listened to U2 and R.E.M. when no one else I knew
did, and never wore makeup, she smoked and drank, and she and her house
always smelled like dogs. I loved the hell out of that girl. I gave
her my Smithereens "Green Thoughts" tape and never told her one of the
songs was totally about her and me. When I was embarrassed about
getting really into old Aerosmith my senior year, she wisely replied
that "everyone goes through an Aerosmith summer." She was inscrutable,
weird, vaguely unwholesome, and I wanted her more than anything. She
even tried to get me to back off once, giving me a tarot card reading
full of loaded lines about "wanting something, or someone, too much and
trying too hard to make it something it's not." Heather was a
sweetheart. I saw her a few years after high school and she looked like
ten kinds of hell, latched onto the arm of some Cletus from the vo-ed
class. That sucked.
The one you've been waiting for:
Almost 19, hessian chick named Nikki, two K's of course, the night
after we made out under her boyfriend's nose at a Napalm Death show.
Her parents were away for the weekend. Did I wanna come over and hang
out? I didn't tell her it was my first time until afterwards, because I
guess I assumed she'd know. She may have, but she was really nice about
it if she did. We ended up in a year-long bus crash of a relationship,
and then she quit being a hessian and became this
duller-than-peeling-paint mall store manager who threw away her old
records and listened to lite rock. She had "Bleach" on white vinyl two
years before anyone knew who Nirvana was, and she smelled like
patchouli, face powder, car exhaust and sex sweat. How could I not have
thought I was in love? It still blows my mind that she could change so
completely. I guess that's what she'd call "growing up."
Time I felt like I was "growing up":
I'll, uh, have to get back to you on that...
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Everything"
by Pheeble
So that was the pain... his eyes were the only pain that she could
feel, the only pain she could ever know, they were her first memory, and her
last. From the moment she felt them enter her sphere, her past was lost in
a void, washed away, he became her sphere of reality, her world. Soft
fingertips carressing her jaw, drawing her closer, only a fraction of time
shared together. Deep blue pervading and searching for a reaction, a
feeling, a reassurance, a something that this was right.
Closing her eyes, she saw nothing, tears cascading, what she couldn't
believe, him, her, an eternity. Drawing him into the void, she closed her
arms about him.
For the first time he closed his lips to hers, and for the first time
he spoke her name, for the first time he said he loved her, and for the
first time they said goodbye... he was her everything, and her everything
disappeared.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"This Isn't So Strange After All"
by TimR
I just recently started a job, as in a real job, not a part time job,
I mean that proverbial first job out of college. I braced for it, hell I
had nearly 6 months to do so. It took that long to find my first "real"
job, but still I was expecting something to feel different, special, or even
dreadful. I was expecting something. I'll be damned but I didn't get
anything. I mean I literally don't feel like I've made some big step in my
life. I've been at this job for about 3 weeks as of writing this and still
it feels like I've been going in and working there for a lot longer than
that. College, now that felt strange for a little while, hell even high
school was awkward but this, this is natural. Who knows? Maybe sometime in
the future I'll feel differently, but for now all I can say is never expect
something, because you never know what you're really going to get.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"The Magical Gift"
by Gloomchen
I stared at the IRC window speaking to people I haven't spoke with in
several years. I reminisced with them. They remembered me. The old crowd
was still there, but they'd changed so much. Two had divorced; one had run
off to another network; others apparently only existed in my head or for a
short time.
Somehow, the topic came up, so I jutted in: "That was the very first
file anyone ever sent me over IRC, but it was on my old roommate's computer,
and he erased all of my stuff!" Suddenly, someone was DCCing me, and I
proudly forced my 56k to work with all its might to deposit the loveliness
on MY hard drive, where it belonged.
I stared at the file. I wasn't sure what to do with it. It wasn't
the same as the one I'd had before, although it was close. I asked around,
I checked search engines, and I finally was given proper instructions. Odd
of me to not be "in" on something so new and savvy. But when all was said
and done, the proper execution software downloaded and installed, and all
fingers glistening in anticipation, I double-clicked my new file and heard
that wonderful magic of the Transformers theme song fill my small apartment
bedroom.
That was my very first mp3.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"The First Time I Talked To The Guy Downstairs"
by Pavement
Does anybody else remember that godawful Cher song, 'If I Could Turn
Back Time'? I can identify with it. You see, I wrote a little something
about my cousin Sarah for ANADA #500. A couple weeks after that file was
released, I discovered that an honest-to-god mentally ill guy had been
living downstairs from me the whole time! I'll be damned. Talk about bad
timing.
I first talked to him about three weeks ago. Oh, I'd said hi to him
a few times, but I'd never had a real conversation with him. He always
looked a little too creepy for it and besides, he didn't seem particularly
interested in speaking to me. Fine by me, but fate had other plans.
I was probably reading a book or tapping away at a t-file when the
awful nic fit hit me. Time to feed my drug addiction. I slipped on my coat
and hat and walked down the stairs. Waiting for me on the porch was Mr.
Mentally Ill himself. Apparently, he'd had the same idea about 30 seconds
earlier. I asked myself what I was going to do. I couldn't just close the
door and go back upstairs -- too rude. I couldn't pretend to be going
somewhere, because it was about three in the morning. So I sat down on the
porch and said hi, lit a cigarette, and hoped he wouldn't say much to me.
He looked like he was about 45 years old. He was wearing an old
coat, filthy pants, and a wild look in his eyes. Had he slept in the last
week? Had he ever heard of a comb before? Would I have the nerve to ask
him these questions? No, no, and no.
He told me his name was David.
Pavement: Hi, how's it goin'?
David: Pretty good. Take a seat, man.
P: Alright. Cold night out tonight.
D: Yeah, sure is. I can't get to sleep. I never sleep.
P: How much sleep do you usually get?
D: None. Like I told you, I never sleep.
P: You don't sleep ever?
D: Nope. I haven't slept for years.
P: Well, that's too bad.
D: Yeah, tell me about it. I can't decide if I wanna stay up or just
take some painkillers and go to sleep.
[The astute reader will notice that David just contradicted himself.
Frankly, I didn't care to talk to him long enough to call him on it.]
P: Yeah well, hope you figure it out.
D: Me too. Man -- I go here, I go there, I go across the street, and
I go around the corner, you know what I mean?
P: Uh, not really. What do you mean?
D: I don't know, what do you mean when you go over there?
P: I'm not really sure what you mean.
D: Can I buy you a beer?
P: Thanks for the offer, but the bars are all closed.
D: Oh yeah. So what's your thing, man?
P: What do you mean?
D: I mean, like, what's your thing you do?
P: Um...
D: How do you make your life worth living?
[At this point, I'm puffing as fast as humanly possible on my
cigarette]
P: Well, I don't know. I work, I hang out with my friends. I like
books, music -- I make music sometimes.
D: What kind of music?
P: Electronic music.
D: Oh man, not me, I'm a ROCKER.
P: I like rock music too.
D: What about Kansas? God damn, what a great band. You like Kansas?
P: Not really.
D: Papa Roach?
P: I've only heard one song by them, and I thought it was horrible.
D: Hey, you know they're from Detroit, right?
P: No, I didn't know.
D: Hometown boys! Yeah, just like Kid Rock. He's my man!
P: Great.
D: Can I buy you a beer?
P: Thanks for the offer, but all the --
D: Oh, I guess I asked you that already, didn't I?
P: Yeah, I guess you did. Well, it's been great talking to you, but
I need to head off to bed now.
D: Alright, but stop by my apartment sometime and let's hang out.
P: Yeah, will do. See ya later.
D: Bye.
I went back upstairs and resumed doing whatever I was doing. Five
minutes later, I heard a knock at the door. It's three in the morning;
David couldn't possibly have the audacity to knock on the door, could he? I
resigned myself to the fact that it couldn't be anyone else. I considered
pretending I wasn't home, but quickly realized how unbelievable that would
be. So I opened the door to a panting, snow-covered schizophrenic.
Pavement: Um, hi, what's up?
David: Huh. Huh. How's it goin' maaaan?
P: Pretty good. Can I help you with something?
D: Oh yeah, you can help with somethin'. You seem like my type, man.
It's like, I think we're on the same level, [pointing to his
temples] up here man, you know what I'm saying?
[Jesus Suzanne Christ on a crutch. WHAT have I gotten myself into?]
P: Well, heh. That's nice. Anything else?
D: I was just wondering if you might wanna, like, get together and
hang out tonight.
P: I'd love to, but I need to get to bed.
D: Oh. Huh. Huh. You sure man? Sure you don't wanna get a beer or
something?
P: Well, the bars are --
D: Dammit! I asked you that already, didn't I?
P: Yeah. Well, have a good night.
D: Stop by, man. I'm SERIOUS!
I was serious too. Seriously never going to talk to him again. I
don't think I'd even gotten completely up the stairs when he knocked again.
I wondered if it would seem overly rude to ignore him this time. After all,
even a man as fucked up as he can understand that a person doesn't want to
be bothered at three in the morning. I don't know what came over me, but I
turned around to open the door again. On the way down, a frightening
thought hit me: this guy isn't HITTING on me, is he? Hitting on me in his
own twisted, schizophrenic way? Nah, couldn't be. But then on the other
hand, he did say I was "his type." Fuck, how do I always get myself in
these situations?
I opened the door. David offered no apologies for bothering me
again.
David: Hey man, think I could come up and listen to some of your music?
Pavement: I'll have to make you a CD sometime. I need to go to bed.
D: Oh. Can I buy you a --
P: The bars are closed.
D: Damn, I always ask you that, don't I?
P: Yeah. Now I need to get to bed.
D: Hey man, don't worry, I'm not usually this fucked up acting. Did
I ever tell you about my daughter?
P: No, but I need to get to get to bed, so --
D: Did I ever tell you I went to M.I.T.?
P: No, you didn't.
D: Oh yeah man, I'm an engineer. I used to work for NASA man, you
know there's some weird shit goin' on. Roswell and all kinds of--
P: Look, I NEED TO GO TO BED. I'll be absolutely sure to stop by
some time.
D: Woah, easy there buddy! Don't close the door yet, I'm just trying
to talk to you. Just trying to have a man to man conversation.
P: Ok, have a good night.
D: You like video games? I've got all the Maddens for Playstation;
every single fucking year. Didja ya know they let you be the '72
Dolphins and the '85 Bears? My dad used to play for both those
teams, and he's golfed with Gale Sayers, and...
P: GOOD NIGHT!
I closed the door and haven't spoken to him since.
POSTSCRIPT: Two days ago, I went for another three o'clock smoking
excursion. I wanted to avoid David as much as possible, but the urge to
smoke is a powerful one that I can't ignore. He wasn't on the porch. Whew.
My sigh of relief quickly became a WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE.
Two police cars and an ambulance were parked in front of the house. I knew
David was involved in this somehow. Two cops walked up to the porch.
Cop 1: We've got a medical call here. Is this 3151 XXXX Street?
Pavement: Yeah, but I didn't call you guys. You might want to check the
apartment downstairs.
Cop 1: Okay, thanks.
Something, curiosity probably, kept me on the porch to find out what
the trouble was. The paramedics and the other cop went into the downstairs
apartment. I waited for about 15 minutes, but they never came back out. I
went inside. Maybe he killed them.
Everyday when I get home from work, I look in his apartment window.
He must have something against movement, because I always see him in the
same position, doing the same things: playing Madden, eating pizza, drinking
beer, and unless I miss my guess, listening to Kansas over and over again.
I'm a magnet for crazy people and I wish I could figure out why.
Could I be a little loony myself, and these people see a kindred spirit in
me? Am I just too nice? Have I offended the gods in some way? Is it Zeus,
forever hurling lightning bolts of insanity in my path, just to pass the
time?
I'll probably never know. It's about 3 AM and I need to go smoke a
cigarette.
/|/|
( @ @)
) ^
/ ||| (c) 2002 Anada E'zine www.anada.net * Anada is cat-friendly.
/ )|||____________________________________________________________________
(__________________________________________________________________________)
