I found this on my ipad in the pages app as I worked on the schedule for this week at the theater. Forgive repetitive content and misspellings. I did not edit. Just copy/paste.

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Why I decided to forego Shakespeare, just this once.

Having played Caliban in a highly acclaimed comedic production of The Tempest, I was faced early on with a decision with which many actors grapple: what more could I do with this character? If it is not a matter of finances – and it is not – then with very little distance between productions of the same play, would I not simply be rehashing a role that I had already dedicated a good deal of energy and commitment? Dale is a terrific director and he has helped me grow by offering me many varied roles, but often he has trusted my instincts to the extent that I have felt he had no motivation to challenge me to do something different. This role, while the direction will be from a less experienced hand, is a challenge of monumental proportions. Scenes of torture, betrayal, madness… All of which Dale would place in the hands of Jeremy, but never in mine.

The Tempest. A show with an ancient tradition.

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I never knew I wanted Enid. In my lonely twenties, I found myself desperately trying to define myself as other than my previous self. I have always been cripplingly self-aware. I consciously sculpted myself into something more social in ninth grade. I left behind concern for grades and study and followed desperately a path of classclownship. The intended effect of increased attention from girls succeeded in some respects. I was now the eccentric and fascinating best friend instead of the irredeemably nerdy best friend. I was rewarded in high school at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Thanks, Katie. Without you… I would probably still be a virgin, maybe even a priest (not that kind). Sure, everyone remembers their first kiss, but mine was an awakening. I wanted Katie. And I could have her. But we both knew we wanted something else as well. And without Katie the would never have been Amber, who defined my ideal of woman without ever trying. Hell, I never even saw her breasts until years later, when I cheated on Enid. I mean Clare. You’ll understand when i get there.

Amber was not what I would have looked for in a woman, and maybe she suffered from the neighbor as friend syndrome to some extent. But I wanted her so badly. She went with Scott pollard to the dance because… Well, I never asked why. I want to believe it was to be near me, but it may have been nothing of the kind. Or worse, because she wanted to be near Kregg. I dont know how he and I became friends, but he hates meow beyond what is reasonable. I did not betray him, but he thinks I did. Reminds me of Bjorm but maybe ill get to that later. Probably not. I only journal when I’m stuck. And horny. And nostalgic. I’m rarely the first, always the others.

Kregg went with Jenny, who was standard beautiful. Blonde. Fit. A smile that belonged in a frame, perfect teeth, blue eyes, high cheekbones, flawless toasted marshmallow skin. I went with Katie, who had asked me because I was funny in class. And smart, probably. But I could not have been beautiful then, could I? Amber seemed to come along as an afterthoughts with Scott, and old friend of mine one grade behind. Did she fuck him? Part of me thinks so. She was not virginal, but she kept me at a distance. She couldnt be farther from me now. She married Eric and had his kids. Maybe they’re prefect together. How would I know?

I wanted to be with Amber then and always will. The feeling is one of extended arousal. She turned me on sophomore year when my lust could ruin worlds and I still haven’t come. At least not in her presence. Except that one time

We had a toga party where ray and I babysat Ryan. He’s a rising star in opera now. And I’m still reminiscing. I wore briefs and a sheet and cursed my fat body much as I do now. I hid from the group at large hoping amber would come find me and praying she wouldn’t. She did, but even my incomparable skills at awkward seduction led to nothing more than silences and occasional ill-conceived attempts at brooding language. She went back upstairs. She wanted both of me, and I only wanted her to want the secret identity. He was private. Everyone had access to the superhero and he couldn’t love her the way I did. He was only a lure.

I wanted to jerk off in the basement thinking about her, just to be free of it. But I was afraid to get caught. I’d even fantasized that she would catch me and be overwhelmed by the raw sexual energy of it and fall into bacchanal bliss with me. If only we drank or smoked weed. Later that would lead to something.

After that, we had the party on the pool table, the sleepover that nearly led to a three way with Amber and Katie. If i had been bold (then, I thought it was the same as being an asshole rapist just to cop a feel or even make a subtle move) the stories I would have today. The freedom from self inflicted sexual repression. Amber and I had our moment of romance novel head touching mutual longing. Famously, my words on the subject were “this complicates things”. We had the fancy dinner party at katies house. She wore tights that covered rose patterned panties. I touched her and finally kissed her mouth after what felt like months of dating. And she still seemed reluctant.

I visited her late at night and begged her to skinny dip in her parents pool. Her swimsuit was brown and had ripples in it, one piece and showed only what I needed anyway. Acres of Italian porcelain that made up her hips, her calves, her neck, her back. The bridge of her nose that she thought was a flaw that I couldn’t resist touching, kissing when it wasn’t weird. I never cornered her.

We had the super bowl at Scotts where i caressed her stomach for hours, occasionally letting my hand slip up just enough to touch the bottom of her bra, never daring higher or lower than her belt line. The best I could do to express my deep desire for her was to whisper whether she could feel “that,” my euphemism for my 17 year old rock hard erection against her back as she lounged on me. She said no. Crushing.

Even years later, when i was more or less cool. We went back to the darkness of mikes parents basement, and after seducing her by – get this – pouring mountain dew down her bare arm and licking it off. In the car we all drove in. She wanted me even after that. I fumbled to caress her from my “sleeping” position on the floor. She was above me. Far above floating in the carpet somewhere north of me in the dark. And when she accepted my caress in the dark, I hamhandedly pushed my hand down her shirt and finally felt her breasts. It was not sexy, but I needed it so desperately. Eventually, she grew irritated and moved away, I pursued and she moved to the couch. With Kregg.
.
Hours later, he reaped the benefits of my prior seduction.

These are poems I created for Marcee, with the dates, in chronological order. All of them were written under duress, meaning I needed to have a gift for her, and these were the best I had. They always express me, but don’t really speak to feelings I had for her, certainly not at the time of writing. I wrote them to “my love” because I did not feel these things for her, but for what I hoped she was to me, even knowing that she was not. She never appreciated them, but I know you will. So I give them to you, now.

10/16/08 – We had just started dating. She asked if I would write her a poem while she was away on business.

The Promised Sonnet

Of all the poetry my heart intends —

the honeyed words, all lush and sickly sweet —

there is some part of me that still forfends.

Mere letters seem and unctuous deceit.

 

And no such half-willed effort you deserve.

Feign I duplicitously win your heart,

so full and true my eagerness to serve

when we remain some miles and days apart.

 

No, words cannot be my sole gift to you,

though what more I can bring you may be hid

from me. My own self-doubting would eschew

all but a petaled flower on your lids.

 

Since I would feign my words offend you much

Perhaps you’d settle for a simple touch?

 

07/17/2012 – or somewhere thereabouts, when she complained I did not get her flowers.

 

A Sonnet Rather Than Flowers

My love, no long-stemmed rose is she, that langours,

trapped in glass, nor could she grow in gardens

green, amongst the crimson blooms of anger.

Her love is more than color, more than ardent,

 

more than soft-spun gold of wanton promise

and stands alone within its solitary,

perfect luminescence, spectrum-less

to worthy eye alone is seen, and nary

 

leaving trace to any sense, yet constant

as the earth itself beneath my feet,

which threats to sublimate at any instant

if a kiss from her sweet lips it might entreat.

 

When love is light and moves the earth as hers,

my heart’s delight and rapture it assures.

 

07/17/2013 – Our first anniversary of marriage. I wanted to do nothing, but was inspired by the idea of a “paper” anniversary.

 

To say that paper’s strength is fleeting

and but a year to celebrate it is enough

is to forget the weave of wood the lies beneath

and ties together so many strands of life

 

Gold is malleable and silver can be shaped

even diamonds, under pressure, can be made fragile

but paper is binding in its fragility

and paper can hold the words my heart cannot

 

Paper lacks blemish, like the blank page,

an unexpected adventure

 

and paper can ignite

like my soul when I hear your voice

when I am weary, far away

 

Paper presents a gift

Paper births plays and poetry

 

So, when they say

our love has turned to paper

rejoice that it is new and light

 

and still so much remains to be written