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Starting January off with some light reading.

Picked up "According to Doyle" (aka, "Poker Wisdom of a Champion") at a local bookstore. No expectation that it will help the game, but I've heard a lot about Doyle's colorful past and thought I'd read some of that first-hand.

Reviews are certainly mixed, but did actually pick up some new ideas that fed directly to a slight change of style. A point that Doyle makes often is "play the people". I have been compiling stats and taking notes on people, but realized I have been playing the stats, not the person. Online, of course, there are limits to what you can read in a person, but a focus on getting a read on the psychology rather than establishing a baseline of metrics certainly made playing a little more fun today.

First session of 2010 did not show particularly promising results, but that was entirely due to my old nemesis: the all-in machine. Guy joined the table and immediately began throwing his chips all-in 5 out of 6 pots. On the third orbit I landed a pair of queens and decided to call. He had a pair of kings.

So, not going to fault myself for that call. I don't think it was a donkey move. And then the rest of the games earned that money almost all the way back. Had plenty of playable hands and the focus on player psychology led me to play (and win) some pots I previously would have left alone, and lay down at least one pot I would previously have pursued, rightfully it turned out.

Back to the book: reviewers typically fault Brunson in general for being too self-promotional, and this book in specific for lacking in actionable "wisdom" as it's alternate title suggests. But this one isn't self-promotional at all, other than being about his own experiences, and the wisdom he's exploring isn't technical and isn't intended to be technical. Although written as a series of articles for poker magazines, the effect is a memoir. There are insights to be found, at least for players of my caliber, but the real intent is a historical insight into the culture of poker as told by someone who has been at the center of it all, writes with keen understanding, and does have something to communicate to a younger generation.

In fact, it's a lot like reading a poker blog, although most of the "entries" are considerably more interesting and/or helpful than most of the blogs I follow. stefan/damon. 2030.

wherein damon can't tell the difference between what happened and what he wishes had happened.


skewed

You went to war and there was death around you, all the time. The rules of war were nothing you recognise, save for the copper smell of blood and the blank panic that raged across the troops' faces. You knew about that and maybe you had always known.

You struggled to focus through the mud sludge fog of your brain. It would only take one event, one night to lose sight of who you were before you had left home. You lost yourself somewhere in the fields; the swamp; the blood-soaked field; the hospital ward.

But the war isn't the reason for why you are the way you are.

Stefan's hair is fanned out across his forehead. He's licking at the rim of his coffee cup and his hair is standing on end. You catch yourself staring at the cut on his lip, the cut you put there. When he licks it you feel faint. The flesh knits together in triple-time and the cut vanishes. Molasses-honey-coffee-boy, he is the most tempting thing in this world.

Kiss Stefan's face. That's not his face, that's your wrist. You're really losing it. Your perception is all skewed. His voice is coming to you now like bad radio reception is to blame. You would say you miss him, but that's just not you. You don't miss anything anymore. Go to bed and he's already asleep. Walk up and down the hall to keep yourself awake, until your limbs start to ache. Wake up in a twist of sheets and he's gone.

Being in love: it's painful, pointless and overrated, just like you told Vicki. It's the hard honest truth. It's impossible to fall asleep without his weight under your arm. You've been stranded. You smashed your watch because the ticking was driving you crazy, it reminded you of teeth. Scotch doesn't do the job it used to. You can’t get smashed; you can’t even get dented. And you’ve tried your best.

The two of you were together. That part wasn't just in your head.  You were together for years. An intense beginning equals an intense break-up, and this break-up has lasted years. Unless it really was just in your head, in which case you are fucked up beyond repair. You remember to hope that you are not idealising your brother. You hope this isn’t just a symptom of the eternal life.

You had a rushed crushing feeling in your chest like you had drunk too much soda too quickly, saying hysterically, "Fucking cocksucker, that's how you want it, see if it makes a difference to me." He was looking at you, confused like he had no idea what you were talking about. The motherfucker, as if he had the right.

Your heart doesn't get broken anymore, it gets pieces torn out of it so by now it is just ragged. There is a stitch in your heart for everything Stefan has ever said to you. You haven't needed stitches for a long time. Being a vampire means you heal quicker than anyone else. It's proven both a gift and a curse. There is a joy in forgetting what's happened to you but unfortunately you remember everything.

You remember the snap of necks. You remember the freezing creek, how it iced the two of you up to your necks. You remember that you lost one shoe at the bottom and you never found it because it was too murky. You remember the feel of his skin under your hands. You remember the faith he had in you, in both of you, how you would outlast everyone you knew.

You didn’t make a move on him for so long, so afraid of it being thrown back in your face that you didn’t try. You were scared that Stefan would be scared when he realised that you were scared. Stefan, who is standing here in front of you, now, so solid and cut out so perfect against the Virginia skyline.

At night, the stars are so visible it’s almost painful. You can't look at stars the same way you did before you killed more people than you can count.

But this is one of the more important parts. You went and met Anne Rice. It wasn't long before she figured you out. She was born for it. You offered to turn her but she declined. You let it go because you couldn't help but have a begrudging respect for her. She was a powerhouse of knowledge, full of stories and ideas.

She said she would create a character based on you. You read all about Lestat and the things he did. You're sure that you're a lot better-looking than Tom Cruise. Especially the blonde look that he could just not rock. You can't be blamed for the costumes in that movie. You did tell her that you and Stefan didn't prance around in frilly get-ups and getting in touch with the homosexual undercurrent that Anne was convinced was present in all vampires.

And there was a year in which you imagined you could see the future. You drank a lot of Scotch. More than usual. Trying to erase what was imprinted on your mind. You did things. Stefan must have been watching the news because he called you up (you never changed your number in the hopes that he would call) and he told you, "This is going to shock you, and it's pretty upsetting, but here it is: the world doesn't revolve around you."

He knew you wouldn't change. You wanted to tell him things. This one thing that would make him come back to you.

He asked you, "What would you do if something happened to me?"

"I wouldn't turn myself in, if that's what you're asking."

Then he said, "I hoped that if you were to change for anyone, it'd be me." And then you were listening to the dial tone and feeling your chest cave in. You waited for that moment to be over, because it was the worst moment of your life.

That was the year you started taking girls home with you. Sometimes you asked, "Can I corrupt you?" You would drive them home afterwards, kiss them hard so their heads popped back, then let them out and drive home humming. Sometimes you'd leave them with bloody faces, grinning to yourself, hardly able to believe you had gotten so lucky. Your clean pretty face and your messy dark hair and your insanely bright eyes. You knew exactly how to get what you wanted.

For a long time there was nothing you and Stefan could say to each other. The agonising stretch of time went on for years, as does everything with the two of you. Things that used to seem long no longer did because you had forever to live out your lives, your crazy unbelievable eternal youth. Everything in your life requires the suspension of disbelief.

"It's our secret. Nobody knows us." The line worked on him. He was always the one begging you to keep a low profile and you were the one who wanted to leave a legacy. But you managed to convince him you were with him on this one, and that was what finally swayed him.

You circle each other like wolves. He makes you want to break into buildings and set cars on fire. You can't keep still around him. You want to do insane things to him. You wish he were a song on a record; you'd never take the record off the player, you'd keep setting the needle back.

You've finally remembered what you were supposed to say, when he called you. The thing that you were going to say that was going to knock him off his feet and make him want to stay with you forever. This is what you really meant to say: Please don't leave me after all, for better or worse, after all. No matter what I do, I always forget to forget you.

Yeah. You should have said that. That would have convinced him. You can't figure out what hurts more: him leaving or the thought that you weren't good enough for him to stay.

You have been cleaning your hands of Katherine’s blood for one hundred and forty five years. Then there is Elena, who is made in Katherine's image. You love Elena because Stefan loves Elena. You love Stefan and so you love the things he does.

"You promised you'd stop feeding on humans."

Adding insult to injury is on your schedule, so you say, "I know. And I'm so good at breaking promises, I didn't want to disappoint you."

He's not buying it.

"Okay, look. This is a terrible time to not be feeding."

"That's the weakest excuse I've ever heard." He gazes at you suspiciously. You're swimming in a haze of muted colours. But not to fear; you're the best example of a poker face you've ever encountered. "Are you drunk?"

Maybe you're not so cool, after all. His gaze narrows. "You are. You're so drunk right now."

You shrug, not bothering to deny it. "How's Elena?"

"None of your business."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not the only one allowed to keep secrets. I should get a chance, occasionally."

"Not from me. I thought. I thought we were in this together?"

"Not anymore."

"Fuck you, then."

"Oh, mature, man. Give a guy a hundred years and that's how he improves on the English language?"

He used to look out for you. He used to fix your collar and look you up and down and tell you to watch out for yourself. Sometimes his voice cracked and that's how you knew he meant it.

"I've lost everything and everyone," you say. "And the only person I have left is you and you won’t talk to me."

"It's hard to talk to someone who ruined my life, Damon."

Way to kick a guy when he’s down. You can barely breathe around the snag in your throat. "Don't say that, man, please don't say that." You want Stefan to understand where you're coming from but you don't know how to make that happen.

"This doesn't work, Damon. You didn't learn, all those years? Haven't you learned anything from your mistakes?"

You can choose to say something, or forever hold your discontent. So you speak.

"Hell yes, I've learned. That's why I'm intent on making some more. You need to understand, something always brings me back to you, it never takes too long." You're babbling, fast desperate slippery talk and your fingers are digging into his shoulders. "You could go to some other town, some other state. You could get as far away from me as possible. I'd let you go, if that’s really what you want to do. I’d let you leave, no questions asked."

He watches you for a long time, as though you're a problem he needs to solve, and that might actually not be too far from the truth. Just when you start to feel uncomfortable under his gaze, he says, "Can't do that, man. Who would keep you in line if I wasn't around?"

You don't know what to say to that, so you just say, "Oh."

He sighs. "This is your last strike."

You feel a flicker of something like hope, something you haven't felt in a long time. "Okay. Okay, Stefan. Jesus, okay, thank you."

"Don't thank me, just don't prove me wrong," he mutters. You hate the look on his face, and you kiss him so you don't have to see it anymore.

Or, wait. That doesn't happen. You don't kiss your brother. You're not that kind of person.

It's unspeakable, this disaster inside of you. You're going to find out how much a heart can break before it stops working entirely. In years from now you will still be suffering the consequences. Eternity stretching out ahead of you, biting the inside of your mouth and wondering what the hell can ever happen that will make up for this.

It's an incredible thing to admit, but Stefan has still done nothing to make you love him less.


THE END