me again, future wife

Hi, you.

Two in one week.  Feast or famine with me, baby.  (There were originally three typos in those two sentences.  I’m an overachiever.)

I’m still not a big fan of sending out all of this stuff and not hearing back from you.  Though being ignored might actually be good training for marriage, so…

Here’s the thing, FW…

You know me.  I’d dope on the floor and I’m magic on the mic.

But I also like to talk about writing.

A lot.

Seriously.

And I mostly like to talk about MY writing.

I find me endlessly fascinating.

Not really.

Well… a little.

So it would be good if you are a writer.  Or a reader.  Or, you know, adore me and are willing to humour me.  It would also be great if you rocked a kickass ponytail, but that has little to do with this.

On the plus side, I’ll write things about you.  And for you.  Anytime you want.  Anything you want.  You know, if you like that type of thing.

If you don’t…

Then I’m probably just a piece of meat to you.

And I am NOT going to put up with that.

For more than 2 or 3 years.

So I started a new writing project.  I am turning my novella into a screenplay.

I know, I know.  I was originally going to write it as a screenplay.  But, really, I went with a novella just so I could tell people that I wrote a book.  Mostly girl people.

What?

Maybe I thought you would be one of those girl people.

Don’t roll your eyes at me.

That shit’s not gonna fly when we get hitched.

Fiiiiine.

I’ll find it charming.

I hate you.

Fiiiiiiine.

I don’t.

Yeah.  A screenplay.  I love love love writing dialogue.  And screenplays have always been the format that feels most natural to me.  Half a page into this one, I was smiling like a fool and wanting to hug Final Draft a little.

I can’t believe that I had forgotten how much I loved it.  I gotta say, I’m pretty excited about this, Future Wife.  I’ll let you read it when it’s done.

Playing with the beginning of a word doodle:

not all
dangerous curves
come with
a warning sign
especially if
your eyes
are closed

Not sure how I feel about it yet.

So, you go back to being all elusive, and I’ll go back to trying to decide which I prefer between The Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” and Dylan’s “Shelter From The Storm.”

Rock on.

Love,
Peter

it’s not friday

he decided
long ago
never to walk
in anyone’s shadow
if he–
wait
that wasn’t him
he decided
long ago
to never like
girls he could
like
really like
and he’s
never admitted
that
it was after
a breakup
the
breakup
and
yes
this one is
about
her
at least this part
anyway
he thought
feelings
could have
ceilings
(and that
word doodles
could have
accidental rhymes)
if you wanted
if you needed
but
then
he was wrong
it happens
infrequently
‘and who is playing
the cure
that isn’t curing
shit’
so
for all his plans
to stay
outside
of the fray
he found himself
in
and
making stories
out of glimpses
so perfectly
captivating
really
and seeing things
he wasn’t
creative enough
to even wish for
and so
completely
sucked
in
he’d long been
worried about
well
aware of
letting
his guard down
never once
considering what could
happen if
it was
her guard
that came down

4th open letter to my future wife

Dear Future Wife,

Hey.  Been a while.  (Since this one and this one and this one.)

I should warn you that I MAY have watched a tiny bit of You’ve Got Mail the other night.  And you know what that does to my e-mail writing.

Well, you don’t know that yet.  But you will.

If you ever show up.

That movie makes me want to sit and type impossibly long emails, where I try to be as clever and charming as possible.  Where I spend a half hour reading it over before hitting “Send.”

And where I spend another hour re-reading it in my “Sent Mail” folder.

Pouring over every word.  Debating what I should have changed.  Beating myself up for one phrase that will probably go unnoticed anyway.

Fuck. I love that.

The problem is…

Who wants to read that shit?

And worse, I get all “FUCK yooooooou” if I don’t get a reply that involved as much time and effort.

I’m a treat, right?

It’s all Meg Ryan’s fault, really.  As most things are.  (At least she’s not a brunette with long hair — that would make it worse for me.)

I was telling another blogger the other night, that texting and IM’ing has ruined e-mail writing.  (Yes, I know e-mail ruined letter writing, but I’m not Amish, so what do I care?)

I love words.  I love the challenge of using the perfect words, in the right order, to express EXACTLY what I want to say.

And how I feel.

I love reading words sent to me and the power that they can have.

Even the silliest, most mundane, things can be fun in an e-mail exchange.

I want to tell someone that I am trying to find the ideal winter coat.

I want for her to ask what I am looking for.

I want to say, “I want a coat that when I wear it, it reminds you of feeling safe and warm, and brings back memories from your past that are so pleasant, yet too elusive to put your finger on, and you think I look like I could have stepped out of a cigarette ad, and you love it even though you hate smoking, and when I come in from scraping and clearing the snow and ice from your car, you want more than anything in the world to be a couple hours late for work because we are playing lumberjack and high society woman whose car broke down.”

And then she’ll say, “J. Crew catalogue.  Page 32.”

Also, Future Wife, I think we should get hitched before 2011.  Because if that movie is correct, the world is going to end in 2012.  And I have a list of things I want to do with you that will take at least a year.  (Or two weeks and a case of Gatorade.)

By the way, the first time I saw the ad for that movie, I was in bed with my glasses off.  I read the screen and thought “It was predicted by the Mayans” actually said, “It was predicted by the Wayans.”

And I was like “Really?  The dudes who brought us White Chicks?”

In the meantime, I will take comfort in knowing that I can now watch my girlfriend Sofie Allsopp online. (For the record, Sofie doesn’t know she’s my girlfriend, but I gotta think she’ll be pretty thrilled when she finds out.)

Keep your stick on the ice.

Love,
Peter

-ps The whole me watching You’ve Got Mail thing, that stays between us, right?

the street heats the urgency of sound

i know it
in that moment
fucking well right
i know it
when
your breathing
changes
you are so there
with me
you try
to try
to resist
i try
to try
to give a fuck
about that
your faux protestations
have been recorded
the time for that
is
done
i’m a slutty sailor and–
you start
to tell me
as i push you
up against the wall
picture frames
askew
judgment
always
questionable
die
necessarily
cast
i pick you up
hands
mouths
allowed to do
what
hands
mouths
sometimes
need to do
we fall
on the bed
together
finally
fucking finally
your costume
strewn
now
all over
your foot
in my hand
my lips
inside your ankle
then
up
kiss
then
up
lick
then
up
suck
then more
and more
and more
and
more
face to face
you know
in the moment
my eyes change
you know
you have me
no longer
just
leggy methadone
legit
you have me

for now

you know this

i once said
your breasts
make me believe
in a higher power
and looser boxers
but not to you
probably
i
say stuff
sometimes
you know this
but
i like
to mix it up
talk of
capacity of love
when not
fuckingstunned
by your eyes
pretty
phrases
inspired by
and meant to
impress
you
know this
sometimes i wait
for a reply
to words unsent
though carefully
crafted
loved
you know
this
is not
those
meant for you
if they were
yours
i’d tell you
i miss your
touch
like a phantom limb
but that
will remain unsaid
i know this

one of those posts you think is going to be GENIUS… until you actually write it

january

“I’ve known you for an hour and a half and you are already the most exasperating woman I’ve ever met.”

“Time would move faster in a prison camp for me too, buddy.”

“I think I hate you.”

“You sicken me.”

“Oh no… we’re going to end up getting married aren’t we?”

“Shut your dirty mouth!”

february

“Well, sir, we’ve been together for a month.”

“Seriously? Wow…”

“Every day has been a treasure for you?”

“I must have shot a pope in a former life.”

march

“Sometimes, sweetie, you don’t think you like something. You fight against it. You deny your feelings. Then one day you realize that you are just being stubborn for no good reason. So you give in and find that… you love it.”

“Lady, you’re talking about green beer, aren’t you?”

“*Hic* Maybe.”

april

“Does my ass look fat in this?”

“No.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“Uhm… your ass looks great in that?”

“I shouldn’t have had to pull it out of you. You should have said that right away. You know that picking the right dress for this event is crucial. Why couldn’t you just do this for me? Why?”

“You’ve never quite grasped the concept of a phone conversation, have you?”

may

“You think Alvin and Simon made Theodore do their homework?”

june

“You love me.”

“Only you can make that sound like an accusation, woman.”

“I have a gift.”

“You have something”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

july

“I… uhm… heard you singing ‘Jump Around’ in the shower.”

“And?”

“I can no longer see you as sex partner.”

“Unless you have eyes in the back of your head I don’t see how it’s…”

“House of Pain? REALLY?”

“I’m the cream of the crop. I rise to the top.”

“I… need to rethink some things.”

august

“My crap it’s hot.”

“I have that effect on the womens.”

“You change meteorological patterns?”

“Two… three times a night, baby.”

“What’s it like in your world?”

“Hmm. Kinda nice, really.”

september

“Hey, chickiepie, doesn’t today feel very… first day of school-y?”

“Yes.”

“I love that feeling.”

“Yeah.  It’s great.”

“Everything’s cool and fresh and new.  Anything is possible, you know?  And I just–  Wait.  You are getting ready to ruin the moment for me.   An age joke?”

“Me?  Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean, going to school during the Great Depression must have been rough, you deserve all the happy memories you can muster up.”

october

“Did you eat all the candy?”

“…”

“The chocolate bars?”

“Uh… Nooo. No I did not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe that says more about YOU, lady. Maybe you have trust issues. I do not appreciate the accusations. At all. And if we are going to last as a couple, you are going to have to learn how to–”

“You have chocolate on your face.”

“It’s nougat.”

november

“I want a milkshake. And since I am in my jammies, I want you to go out and get me one.”

“Go in your jammies.”

“They have a hole in the crotch.”

“You’re a delicate flower.”

“Shut it. Now I know that it’s your birthday next week.”

“True…”

“So in exchange for the milkshake run, I will give you a special birthday treat–”

“Yes!”

“– but it can’t include special costumes, special acts, watching a sporting event, my friend Katie, or me cooking for you.”

“Now I’M bummed and need a milkshake too.”

“I almost feel bad for how well that worked.”

“Oh!”

“No video camera either.”

“Fuck.”

december

“You really are a frustrating woman.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You just… Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“Use your words.”

“What if you don’t like the words I choose to use?”

“I’m not afraid of you, man.”

“It’s just… Here’s the thing… I want to fucking marry the shit out of you.”

“Oh… Okay!”

“Yay!”

“You can’t wear your Adidas to the ceremony.”

“I loathe you.”

i gave the post this morning a c-, so you get a bonus post

is it
too snug
yes
yes
good
she tightens
more
even silk
can hurt
and burn
wrists
lashed
headboard
more solid
than he
expected
tables
turned
on
breasts
then lips
then hair
tracing
down
down
from his face
exquisite torture
what she’s always been
really
he struggles
against
restraints
against
her
a control freak
out
her hair
falling
and
tickling
his stomach
and hips
and
yet
he strains
against it
she
fucking
loves
that
teasing
pleasing
briefly
teasing
more
hair
then lips
then breasts
tracing
up
up
to his face
and further
he kisses
her stomach
instinct
desire
she slides
down
down
a little
she leans
into his ear
it’sjustfuckingstarting

rough outline of something that will hopefully be much better when i actually write it

The speakers made that sound.  The one where the volume is way too loud, but the music hasn’t kicked in yet.

And then it did.

The opening chords of The Cult’s “Love Removal Machine” punched him in the face.

He turned it up louder.

Thank you, i Tunes.

He had no idea what the fuck the song was about.  He never had any idea what the fuck any song was about, really.  But removing love seemed like a solid plan.

And the song is kind of kick ass.

He could use some of that.

She described it as a “mutual dissolution of a relationship.”

He described her as a bitch.

He didn’t mean it.

Often.

He nodded along with each drum beat.

Today, suckers.

Today he was throwing open the blinds and letting the sun in.

Screw her, you know?

He had been mourning the unmournworthy for far too long.

And apparently it had led to him making up nonsense words.

He was going to shave.  He was going to wear a white t-shirt that was still… white.

He was going to call that pretty girl who slipped him her number a couple of weeks back.  The one who laughed a little too loud, took french fries off of his plate, had never heard a Springsteen song, and quoted Family Guy to him.

Maybe there was no rush to call her.

But the other stuff…

Seriously, chick didn’t know Springsteen.  Not even after he sang most of “Atlantic City.”

What’s that about?

He jumped in the shower.

He sang “Atlantic City.”

Back in front of the mirror, he took one more look at the beard.

Rugged!

And then he shaved.

He started recognizing himself again.

He winked.

He could feel a little swagger returning.

Hello, my old friend.

He walked to his closet.

No.

He strutted to his closet.

He picked out the only outfit that he suspected was moderately stylish.

Jeans, button-down shirt, sweater.

He threw them on his bed.

He pulled on his Homer Simpson boxers.

Just ’cause.

He started singing “Return of the Mack.”

He realized he didn’t know the words to “Return of the Mack.”

He got dressed.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

He did the Billy Idol lipcurlgrowl thing.

He went to his baseball cap shelf.

He spotted it.  The perfect colour combination — and broken-in-ness — for the outfit.

He put it on.  He looked in the mirror and –

Fuck.

She bought this cap for him.

The only cap she ever bought for him.  She said it was kind of a “can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em” thing.  He replied with a “you can lick anything you want, baby” thing.  And that somehow worked.

He sighed.

iTunes betrayed him.

Wham’s “Careless Whisper” started.

He had no idea what the fuck the song was about.  He never had any idea what the fuck any song was about, really.

He looked back at his bed.  It had been his favourite location lo these many months.

He could almost hear a narrator talking about a “turning point.”  It sounded a bit like the J. Peterman dude from Seinfeld, for some reason.

No.

No.  He was doing this.

He turned and left his house, slamming the door behind him.

Five seconds later, the door opened and he came back in.

He slowly walked over to the shelf, took off her cap and placed it gently back where it belonged.

He took a deep, slow breath.

Then he grabbed an old school Phillies cap and put it on.

As always, he pulled it low over his eyes.

He walked out into the sun.

That Family Guy-quoting broad really has an amazing ass.

about… me?

So I was recently informed that I don’t write enough about myself on this blog.

That seemed… odd to me.

Partially because I am a raging (and adorable) narcissist.

But mostly because I always felt as though if you read me, you know me.

You know?

I think there is more of “me” in my word doodles than the more journal-y bloggers put in their posts.

Maybe that isn’t clear.

Maybe I don’t want it to be.

So I thought I’d try writing a post about me. And, if it doesn’t blow, I’ll post it AND use it as my “about me” dealie on here. Two birds and all that. So if you are reading this, I have decided that I don’t completely hate this post.

I likely hate it a little.

I figure a good place to start is with some questions I am somewhat frequently asked:

Are you like THIS in real life?

First of all, I always take that as a compliment. Regardless of the inflection and/or judging eyes.

Am I like this? Well I do talk like this. But more mumbly and with a Canadian accent. If I talked to you in person, you’d recognize me from my writing, I think.

IF I talked to you.

Because, well, maybe I wouldn’t.

I’m not super outgoing. I’m not shy. It’s more of a dislike of being the center of attention. Despite the fact that I think everyone in the world should read my blog and fawn all over me. Kidding. I think everyone should read it… and give me money.

If there is a large group of people at a party, you’re more likely to find me on the outskirts of the group, shooting the shit with one person. Arms crossed. Making snarky comments.

And if hugging breaks out everywhere, you’ll see me cringe. I’m not a big hugger. Well that’s not true. I’m not a big hugger of people I am not romantically involved with. Or related to.  And only my niece gets hugs, really.  Sometimes The Monkey too, but hers are accompanied by “You’re a pain in the ass.”

A buddy of mine is a hugger. I see him once a year and he hugs at the beginning of the meet-up and again at the end. I think that’s excessive. Unless we just won the Superbowl — on a pass I threw to you with no time left on the clock — you should back the fuck up off of me.  (I think that’s why he goes for two hugs.)

I’ve been known to say to people, “Yeah, this hug has lasted long enough. Get.”

(I sound delightful, right?)

So, yeah, I am sometimes like this in real life.

And other times not at all.

Why are you single?

I feel like I answered this a couple days ago.

And my anti-hugging rant in an earlier paragraph may also factor in.

Also, between you and me, being a romantic idealist in a tiny town with no dating pool is not awesome.

YOU wrote a book? Really?

Yes. Fucking read it.

Do you REALLY think you’re as adorable as you say?

I’m sorry.  Can you repeat that?  I was busy marveling at something cute I said or did or thought.

Really though, is ANYONE as adorable as I claim to be?

Well, yes.

Me.

What was the question?

Why did you start a blog?

I wrote a post about this a couple of years ago.  I skimmed it and it seems reasonably accurate.

Originally PeterDeWolf.com wasn’t going to be a blog though.  It was going to be something of an online writing sample.  (Which I suppose it is.)  And I was going to do a separate blog called “A Certain Understated Stupidity.”

I got lazy and only wanted to work on one thing.

The blog blog was going to be anonymous.  I’m still not sure how that would have affected my posts.

Also I LOVE to write.

Love.

And I love talking about writing.

You can sometimes distract me with talking about a nice ass (or an actual nice ass) or a discussion about sports, but otherwise I can talk about writing for days.

What/who are word doodles based on?

This is my new official reply.

Word doodles can be based on:

1) Women I am involved with on some level.

2) Women I have been involved with in the past.

3) Idealized woman I hope to meet in the future.

4) Anne Hathaway.*

(*Varies sometimes.)

The fuck ARE word doodles anyway?

Poetry’s riffraff cousin.

Who are these characters you sometimes write about?

The ACN is my amazing niece.

The Monkey is my (not so) little cousin.  She lives across the street from me.

The HRC is my (occasionally) delightful ex Jen. And sometimes I just call her “Jen.”  You know, cause that’s her name and stuff.  I have other exes, but she is the only one who admits to reading here, so I have to say nice things about her.

What has surprised you most about blogging?

That people read my blog.  For real.

When I started blogging, only Jen read my posts.  Then she paid off a friend of hers to read too.   And, really, that was about the level of traffic that it deserved.

That I now get lovely emails from people from all over the world blows my mind.

Some other tidbits…

brandy and I are not in a secret romance.  Never have been.  Leave her alone and stop asking.

Jenn is not my ex Jen, so you don’t have to Google that anymore.

if you found the words, would you really say them?

streaks of red-orange sky
lead the way to his destination
the kind of empyrean perfection
that
always
made him think
of her
always
it often made him
reach out to her
but not this time
she was sitting
beside him
already
she had
caught him
looking
and smiling at her
twice
her seat tilted back
her pretty little foot
up on the dash
who in the fuck
has pretty feet
anyway
she looked
to him
to be more
in the moment
than anyone
he had ever seen
he was jealous
sort of
he was in awe
completely
he had never been
in the moment
like that
he didn’t think
she picked the music
he had pretended to fight her
she had made a face
at “nightswimming”
he had fought the urge
to just
give in
and give her
whatever she wanted
for about four seconds
he decided it was time
he pushed the issue again
to put up some
testicular facade
she gently reminded
him
that he once told her
that the song
made him think of
a girl
he knew
a millions years ago
he cringed
he tossed the rem cd
out the window
“had that since college”
he said
all too proud
of his show of devotion
“when I was in college
we downloaded music.”
even evil glints
in her eyes
melted him
maybe especially
he loved talking to her
in a car
because
all her words
were his
just
his
she turned back to her window
her head moving to the music
leers
cheers
whispers
and tears
he was staring at her leg
unabashedly
he was smitten
unfuckingdeniably
through the clouds
almost persimmon fingers
beckoned them west
highway sign
10 kms
to their destination
his stomach
turned