Your hand hovered in the air, measuring my reaction before it leaned on the next chord, the one you’d apologize for. “Out of tune,” you said, and I smiled, saying nothing, letting you believe there wasn’t a slipper conch of a listen. You thought I was waiting for something to happen, there, with your music.  As if I were waiting for the tide of your song to pull me somewhere.  You thought I was waiting for something to click. When would I tell you how much I loved it? 

I couldn’t speak.  I want this, with you, forever.  I wasn’t there, beside you anymore, not really.  I was forward, full of know.  I wanted more of this. 

When I’m around you, my words are too small.  They don’t weigh enough. I’m languageless.  I watch movies with you instead, the ones that have courage on tap, the kind that make my mortality heavier. All I can think, in those very moments, how can I tell him?  So I don’t say anything because you need to feel the weight of it in your hands, with my pulse right there, yours for the taking.  You need to know it without words, by the fact that when I want so much to run away, I don’t.  I stick.

I knew it the other day, walking in the rain, while I rounded the corner of 42nd Street.  Right there on a street corner, the same one I’d passed and waited on so many times before.  I began to cry, knowing if you were there, you’d hug me and secretly think, “Man, she cries a lot.”  And you’d offer me a napkin thinking, “Man, for a woman who doesn’t need napkins…”  And then I’d hit you and hide my face in your shirt.  You wouldn’t really know what I was crying about.  You’d try to solve it.  It’s one thing I never want you to solve.

I knew I’d have to say it face down, my head buried into a pillow, but I decided not to, rationalizing, “they’re just words.”  Show him.  But words mean sometimes.  Words have weight because they last.  It’s ironic that a raconteur can’t give you her words because she worries you’ll see them as “just,” or “only,” and that’s not the four letter word I was going for.  You’re my hope.  My friend.  My equal. 

You’re the one who makes me face what’s hard, the worst parts of me, the things that take courage.  You inspire me to hold the weight of my fears, and I hope I can somehow accrue, can somehow show you something, at least a portion of how you’ve changed my life.

And to answer your question, I don’t know what you played for me on your guitar, or if I liked it.  What went through my mind at that moment: you are a blessing in my life, and I know it seems strange, but I just know, the way I know surprise endings in movies, that I’ll spend the rest of my life encouraging you to play those songs to me, the ones without words.  I usually don’t take to music without words, but around you, it’s all I’ve got.  I don’t need the words: I already know them.



  1. This is the most pretentious blog I think I will ever read. It is self – congratulatory to the point of being unintentionally funny. Every post seems to sream out loud, "i am such a hip and sophisticated person, somebody tell me how great I am right now."

    I mean seriously, "when I write something brilliant I sometimes kiss the screen." Yikes! Get over yourself.

  2. deathbeforedisco:
    What comes across as pretentious for you, actually translates to "well written." Today, everyone has a blog (and by default, they are self-indulgent). I check up on the ol' Greek Trag everyday and have yet to find another that peaks such regularity. Why? Most blogs are so mundane, trite, thoughtless and in all, desperate for englsih-language critique. That includes spelling errors. If you are putting your thoughts and feelings out for the world, do make them cohereht, interesting and thought-provoking. If you find that pretentious, I'm sure we'd all love a writing sample.
    Bonne Chance.

  3. This author does have good command of the english language and the basic grammar is fine. That however doesn't translate into honest writing. Everything is so tediously crafted to portray the image of the young, rich, cultured, socialite. It's fancy words, fancy clothes, and fancy parties. But there is no meat to it. It's about as meaningful as Entertainment Tonight.

  4. deathbeforedisco:
    I think you miss the point. Generally, blogs are self-absobed tributes to oneself, unless it is a political blog or some other type of forum, like They are simply forums where people get to express whatever they think or feel, relate experiences, ideas … whatever. A lot of what Stephanie writes can be about clothes, shoes, trips to fancy places, and the like, but that's just an aspect of it all, just as that is an aspect of her. To say that her blog has no meat would be incorrect. You may not like the way she is or what she has to say or the way she says it, but there is substance in there, just as there is substance to her.

  5. As a acoustic minstrel who plays mostly instrumental tunes…I dig it. They can be more lyrical than you know. Set the pace, paint the scene, touch and go…

  6. I was string boy for a guitar player once. Every time a string broke, I'd run across the stage with a new one, hand it to the artist, and run off the other side. Not a bad job. Hey, there was free music AND I got dental.

  7. that feeling of just wanting a moment to continue forever. and it's not really the moment, but the feeling in the moment. it's amazing to find it. thanks for the story.

  8. I do agree somewhat with deathbeforedisco. Some of these essays seem just an inch or two away from being an Avril Lavigne song.

  9. What's wrong with Avril? She's too teeny, too poppy, too juvenile? She writes some poignant lyrics. I admit, I like some of her stuff. Heck, Elvis didn't write his own songs. Avril's easy to criticize. So is this blog. Open your mind a little, perhaps you'll see some deeper meaning.

  10. This post made me feel like part of your life…in the best possible way. Thanks for the window in to something so meaningful.

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