chandra chandra

And then somehow repair, she returned in December, and it, she was beautiful. Things were as new again, no doubts or fears or recriminations.
Kissing her was like kissing a vagina - she used only her lips, brushing, enveloping. She complained that I used my toungue too much, penetrating her mouth.
We had a fight one night. I told her I could stand her anger. She didn't believe me. I prodded her to release it, to expose me, that I could take it; I wanted to know all sides of her. She looked at me, squinted her eyes and spat "you caused your father's suicide. You drove him to kill himself."

hates photos. (or the photographer?) She was often sick those days. We took a roadtrip to Los Angeles. I stayed with my brother, she stayed with her Aunt. She was ill, severe fever, when we left, and became worse immediately upon arrival. The last night there I stayed with her at her aunt's house. I looked after her a bit, she was on the mend. We both went to sleep. In the middle of the night, I awoke to her touch, light groping, stroking, so sensual caressing me. No words were spoken, I didn't touch her. She worked the both of us into a frenzy, and we had terrific healing sex.

When we arrived back at Swarthmore, our perspective shifted. I was feeling strange, dropping in midyear. I spent a lot of time with her, right off the bat. In the middle of January she recommended we spend more time apart, we spent the rest of the semester breaking up.

April we had our harshest fight. She was stuffing bagel in her mouth while I was trying to tell her why I was angry she hadn't waited for me. I threw the bagel down on the floor. She slammed me across the face. I slammed her back. She attacked me, I bear hugged her to stop the fight. She called the operator and protested domestic violence.

April 14, our first anniversary, we share halibut dinner, I read her a poem. Things are tense, she puts me on conversational autopilot, I'm pissed - she doesn't have the energy for me anymore, we finally called it quits.

We tried to be friends, her stipulations were that I share none of my poems with her, and we share none of the details of our personal lives.

Chandra liked to fight in public, or maybe we just saved our most dramatic moments for outside the dorm. First of May, we had a twenty-five minute clash on the lawn of Swarthmore, people walking by and furtively avoiding glances at Chandra's tear-streaming face. She told me I was deluded and sick, that she knew I was going to die before I turned twenty-eight, and that I was repugnant to her.

What bothered her then about me was my insensitivity - insistence on pursuing my vision, when it might impinge on other people's space. One basis for her argument was the time I djed pub nite - if I am performing a service for people, I have to respond to their needs, or else it sucks. She went out of her way to tell me how shitty everyone thought it was. Over and over again, everyone hated it. Everyone thought it was horrible (they didn't, or else some were just being nice to me). What are you trying to prove? So that's who I am, I can say nothing more than I have to do what I want, if I am djing, or else there is no pleasing anyone.


Chandra was prescribing administration of other people's needs such that self-assertion came across as insensitivity. It was a debate between art and service. Play your vision, or for the crowd?

chandra | swat | life

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