This, the sixth day of March, marks one year from the day that we hugged and then said goodbye. I am not sure how I feel about this. It varies.
It was suggested by my grown-and-married friend Lael that I do something to celebrate this day--something that I can do because I'm single. I couldn't really think of anything other than random hookups, and I don't really do random hookups. (Incidentally, she did suggest going to pick up some random guy at a bar. I don't even go to bars, much less pick up strange men. I think I was in a bar once in college, and my five-year reunion was at a bar, but I'm not sure that counts.)
So I've decided that I will celebrate/mark this day by enjoying it and feeling good about myself. Possibly this will involve taking myself to a nice restaurant. I'm sort of in the mood for Italian ice, but I'm not sure we have a good Italian ice place in Richmond. Anyway, hopefully I'll figure something out. However! Even if I don't go eat nice food, I am set on enjoying March sixth and feeling good about myself. I have decided that I will wear my favorite underwear, which, in case you were wondering, are not that interesting except that they have stars. I planned to wear my favorite skirt as well, but then I realized that I don't have one. It was going to be a day of favorite clothes until I realized that I don't have favorite clothes, except for the stars thing. So. Yes.
Tonight, as it was/is after midnight and so I am obligated to enjoy today and feel good about me (darn) I ate a Hershey's special dark chocolate bar with Lael and worked on my dream home description* and The List (which I have made because people keep telling me to, though I can't ever remember what's on it), then came home and finished the last few sips of somebody's sweet white wine and ran out the door with Miley. Luke had been texting, but texting ruins my night vision and I haven't walk-talked for a long time, so I called him and we talked for 25 minutes or so, until I got home. I tried to find the rest of the wine, but I suspect that the bottle may have been finished. I disapprove of this. I guess I might just have to go get another bottle of whatever it was. And now I am writing this. Also, I am making a profile on one of those crappy free dating sites because a) I am bored and b) it has occurred to me lately that I have no idea what kind of people are in this town, because I never talk to anyone. I don't want to find some random person to date online, but I would like to look at a cross-section of the community. And apparently you can only look at four profiles before having to make your own. Lame. So there that is. Someday I should figure out how many profiles I have created and abandoned on various websites. Quite a few. It would be interesting to do a study and figure out how much server space is wasted by such ghost profiles. I mean, on the one hand, it's sort of nice that the blog I made in seventh grade is still there, and I can go look at it even if I've long since forgotten the password and lost the attached email account--but on the other hand, collectively, these things are a huge waste of resources. I wonder at what point it will become a big enough issue that companies will start clearing them out. Think how much money could be saved, and how much space could be freed up! Man.
*New additions: pool room and pool room; laundry chute; dumbwaiter (strong enough to hold people); possible secret passages/tunnels; pulley-operated message system to the tree house; cupola and/or tower(s); angry room (which I've described before but don't feel like describing now, esp since it makes me sound even more insane than usual), and a "making cool shit" room.
Showing posts with label breaking up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breaking up. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Moods and cloud cover
I think things out in mental prose when I'm emotional or thoughtful, and then, if I remember and get around to it, I write them here. And then, if I deem them to be too emotional (usually read: embarrassing), I go back and qualify everything. Or if I get angry or annoyed with myself over what a sappy, soppy mess I've become, which happens with some regularity, I go back and qualify everything. (Perhaps it's utterly obvious that I am hugely uncomfortable with emotion, and that writing for me is an exercise in allowing and processing emotion, and so I don't need to say this. I don't know. Anyway.) I don't lie, per se, but I cover. Like the unsent, unflattering (to me) letter to David. It's not that it isn't true. Any of it--the letter or the added qualifications. But I would feel horrible, I think, if he read what I wrote the other day, because I so minimized the depth of it.
The letter: I do feel that way. I don't usually think about it. Those embers are still there. I do sometimes get teary when particularly-close-to-home songs come on the radio. And when they come on, and I realize halfway through that I didn't immediately get emotional, I start feeling all proud of myself. The brokenness thing is true, and I hate it. Having grown a little past that fit in the last twelve months, I now become uncomfortable and irritated when we're together, and I don't like it. Don't like being together. But I still miss being together. I guess it, this mess, might be a little like putting on a shirt that used to fit, that I used to love. (So much.) I remember it looking and feeling great. But it doesn't fit anymore, and its colors have faded while my skin has darkened in the sun. And when I put it on, it's uncomfortable and unflattering. The shirt has changed a little, and I have changed a lot.
And I write things like "and I'm never attracted to anyone anymore," which is generally, but not utterly, true--and then I feel like it will screw up any shot I might have with any guy who reads it. So I qualify. And that sickens me a little. On the one hand, I'm not generally attracted, even when I expect to be, and it is often (or seems to be) largely due to a not-like-David factor. That sickens me a bit as well. But rarely doesn't mean never. And so on the other hand, well, one, I don't want to seem like a complete psycho, even if I guess sometimes a case could be made that maybe I am. And two, being emotionally retarded (no, literally--not in an offensive slangy way) doesn't mean that I'll never grow out of it or that I want to stay in this stupid stuck-in-the-past state forever. I mean, PLEASE, SOMEBODY, PLEASE convince me that my shot at love isn't over. The very idea is ridiculous--it's not like our relationship was all sunshine and flowers and declarations of love; more like pretty good times punctuated by piercing, breathtaking doubt--but I still find it incredibly difficult to let go.
Plus, dammit, I'm lonely. Not for a social life. For such a close friend and companion. I really miss that.
Why, and how, do things turn into such a mess sometimes?
The letter: I do feel that way. I don't usually think about it. Those embers are still there. I do sometimes get teary when particularly-close-to-home songs come on the radio. And when they come on, and I realize halfway through that I didn't immediately get emotional, I start feeling all proud of myself. The brokenness thing is true, and I hate it. Having grown a little past that fit in the last twelve months, I now become uncomfortable and irritated when we're together, and I don't like it. Don't like being together. But I still miss being together. I guess it, this mess, might be a little like putting on a shirt that used to fit, that I used to love. (So much.) I remember it looking and feeling great. But it doesn't fit anymore, and its colors have faded while my skin has darkened in the sun. And when I put it on, it's uncomfortable and unflattering. The shirt has changed a little, and I have changed a lot.
And I write things like "and I'm never attracted to anyone anymore," which is generally, but not utterly, true--and then I feel like it will screw up any shot I might have with any guy who reads it. So I qualify. And that sickens me a little. On the one hand, I'm not generally attracted, even when I expect to be, and it is often (or seems to be) largely due to a not-like-David factor. That sickens me a bit as well. But rarely doesn't mean never. And so on the other hand, well, one, I don't want to seem like a complete psycho, even if I guess sometimes a case could be made that maybe I am. And two, being emotionally retarded (no, literally--not in an offensive slangy way) doesn't mean that I'll never grow out of it or that I want to stay in this stupid stuck-in-the-past state forever. I mean, PLEASE, SOMEBODY, PLEASE convince me that my shot at love isn't over. The very idea is ridiculous--it's not like our relationship was all sunshine and flowers and declarations of love; more like pretty good times punctuated by piercing, breathtaking doubt--but I still find it incredibly difficult to let go.
Plus, dammit, I'm lonely. Not for a social life. For such a close friend and companion. I really miss that.
Why, and how, do things turn into such a mess sometimes?
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
I am Alice.
1. I learned to use a chainsaw yesterday. I used said chainsaw again today. My back aches.
2. I am moody this past weekend, through today.
3. I dislike having disagreements with the woman who processes my tutoring invoices. I got an email back saying that $29 had been removed from my total invoiced, because "the last payment processed included a session...on 12/7 that had already been paid." This is despite the fact that I "showed my work" (as it were) as requested, and made a note on my invoice that there were a few dates from December on the scans (with "x"s next to them!) that had already been invoiced, and that those should be ignored. I listed the dates I was invoicing. I added up the hours. I multiplied the hours times the rate and showed the total. Even so, $29 was subtracted from my invoice. I feel like she thinks I'm trying to cheat the company or something. I'm sure she has a lot of invoices to go through, but it's still irritating. Hopefully she will read my [more politely worded than this] "um no, I did not invoice you for that date, here is an excerpt from my invoice which shows you the dates for which I invoiced you" email and give me back my money, and then I can stop being annoyed.
4. The chainsaw thing was pretty cool. I'm pretty excited about that. While I have opened up to other power tools, I have been holding off on chainsaws because they are, in my estimation, about the least safe power tool ever. But whatever. I helped cut down and cut up a tree. It's because I'm a badass. (Ha.) It's been nice to work outside for the past few days though, even if the unseasonably warm weather is kind of weird. The crocuses have been up for at least a week now, and I heard frogs tonight when I walked Miley. As I said the other day, I really hope they don't freeze. The low again the night after tomorrow is projected to be 31 degrees.
It rained today, though it was supposed to thunderstorm. While I was working this afternoon, painting and clearing brush in the yard, I could feel the air thicken with the coming rain. The first fat drops splattered onto my windshield just after I got into the car. I have been waiting for a sky-splitting, tree-cracking thunderstorm all night. Come on, weather!
I thought I had more to say, but I guess not--or not at this moment. There have been some things about David floating around in my head though, lately. Sunday it will have been a year since we broke up. I considered writing him an extremely dramatic letter, and I guess I'll probably consider it again. Something along these fairly predictable lines:
I think I'll always love you, though I've put out the flames. The embers are banked in my pocket. I'm not asking for anything, because I know that the ways in which we fit together are broken ways. The broken pieces of me fit alongside the broken pieces of you and that keeps us each broken. Then maybe something else about how I never ("never") find other people attractive anymore* unless I convince myself to. And then about how, (hand to brow,) this will be the last letter I ever send to you. Goodbye [and have a nice life].
As though I could ever send or stick to or even consistently fit the description of such a thing. It only seems like a good idea when I'm feeling emotional and then "How's It Gonna Be" comes on the radio, or "Two Coins" gets stuck in my head.
In my defense, I've loved Third Eye Blind (the 3EB album, anyway) since sometime in middle school, and Dispatch since 2004, which was before I even knew David. So me loving those songs far predates me being stupidly-broken-up-emo.
Excuse me. Apparently it's "How's It Going To Be," and he simply mispronounces his own lyrics throughout the song:
On another note, my brother Jack has a Netflix subscription on the tv downstairs, and I watched Alice In Wonderland tonight. I had low expectations, which is, in my opinion, the best way to approach movies. (High expectations are nearly always dashed, even by good movies. This is possibly because I set my standards extremely high or extremely low--I'm not good at middle ground.)
I loved it. I loved it. I loved that it made sense of a story I've never understood; not that I gave it much effort or even read all the way through, but it had always been a bit of a puzzle. So much nonsense. Seeing the story gave it shape for me. And then, even more, I loved the idea of Alice becoming Alice. "You've lost your muchness," the Mad Hatter said. And she found it again. She grew back into herself. "I sometimes believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast," said Alice. "Count them, Alice. One: there's a potion that can make you shrink. Two: and a cake that can make you grow. Three: animals can talk. Four, Alice! Cats can disappear. Five: there's a place called Wonderland. Six: I can slay the Jabberwocky."
*I seriously have had this thought lately. A lot. The part I failed to remember every time though was that I tend to have long periods of singleness between relationships. This is not because no one ever wants to date me. This is because I never want to date anyone. Or, more accurately, I nearly always want to date someone, but hardly ever want to date anyone in particular. And I'm a big believer in not latching on to just any old person and starting a relationship. Partly this is because I'm kind of a closet misanthropist. But! I can slay the Jabberwocky. FTW.
2. I am moody this past weekend, through today.
3. I dislike having disagreements with the woman who processes my tutoring invoices. I got an email back saying that $29 had been removed from my total invoiced, because "the last payment processed included a session...on 12/7 that had already been paid." This is despite the fact that I "showed my work" (as it were) as requested, and made a note on my invoice that there were a few dates from December on the scans (with "x"s next to them!) that had already been invoiced, and that those should be ignored. I listed the dates I was invoicing. I added up the hours. I multiplied the hours times the rate and showed the total. Even so, $29 was subtracted from my invoice. I feel like she thinks I'm trying to cheat the company or something. I'm sure she has a lot of invoices to go through, but it's still irritating. Hopefully she will read my [more politely worded than this] "um no, I did not invoice you for that date, here is an excerpt from my invoice which shows you the dates for which I invoiced you" email and give me back my money, and then I can stop being annoyed.
4. The chainsaw thing was pretty cool. I'm pretty excited about that. While I have opened up to other power tools, I have been holding off on chainsaws because they are, in my estimation, about the least safe power tool ever. But whatever. I helped cut down and cut up a tree. It's because I'm a badass. (Ha.) It's been nice to work outside for the past few days though, even if the unseasonably warm weather is kind of weird. The crocuses have been up for at least a week now, and I heard frogs tonight when I walked Miley. As I said the other day, I really hope they don't freeze. The low again the night after tomorrow is projected to be 31 degrees.
It rained today, though it was supposed to thunderstorm. While I was working this afternoon, painting and clearing brush in the yard, I could feel the air thicken with the coming rain. The first fat drops splattered onto my windshield just after I got into the car. I have been waiting for a sky-splitting, tree-cracking thunderstorm all night. Come on, weather!
I thought I had more to say, but I guess not--or not at this moment. There have been some things about David floating around in my head though, lately. Sunday it will have been a year since we broke up. I considered writing him an extremely dramatic letter, and I guess I'll probably consider it again. Something along these fairly predictable lines:
I think I'll always love you, though I've put out the flames. The embers are banked in my pocket. I'm not asking for anything, because I know that the ways in which we fit together are broken ways. The broken pieces of me fit alongside the broken pieces of you and that keeps us each broken. Then maybe something else about how I never ("never") find other people attractive anymore* unless I convince myself to. And then about how, (hand to brow,) this will be the last letter I ever send to you. Goodbye [and have a nice life].
As though I could ever send or stick to or even consistently fit the description of such a thing. It only seems like a good idea when I'm feeling emotional and then "How's It Gonna Be" comes on the radio, or "Two Coins" gets stuck in my head.
In my defense, I've loved Third Eye Blind (the 3EB album, anyway) since sometime in middle school, and Dispatch since 2004, which was before I even knew David. So me loving those songs far predates me being stupidly-broken-up-emo.
Excuse me. Apparently it's "How's It Going To Be," and he simply mispronounces his own lyrics throughout the song:
On another note, my brother Jack has a Netflix subscription on the tv downstairs, and I watched Alice In Wonderland tonight. I had low expectations, which is, in my opinion, the best way to approach movies. (High expectations are nearly always dashed, even by good movies. This is possibly because I set my standards extremely high or extremely low--I'm not good at middle ground.)
I loved it. I loved it. I loved that it made sense of a story I've never understood; not that I gave it much effort or even read all the way through, but it had always been a bit of a puzzle. So much nonsense. Seeing the story gave it shape for me. And then, even more, I loved the idea of Alice becoming Alice. "You've lost your muchness," the Mad Hatter said. And she found it again. She grew back into herself. "I sometimes believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast," said Alice. "Count them, Alice. One: there's a potion that can make you shrink. Two: and a cake that can make you grow. Three: animals can talk. Four, Alice! Cats can disappear. Five: there's a place called Wonderland. Six: I can slay the Jabberwocky."
*I seriously have had this thought lately. A lot. The part I failed to remember every time though was that I tend to have long periods of singleness between relationships. This is not because no one ever wants to date me. This is because I never want to date anyone. Or, more accurately, I nearly always want to date someone, but hardly ever want to date anyone in particular. And I'm a big believer in not latching on to just any old person and starting a relationship. Partly this is because I'm kind of a closet misanthropist. But! I can slay the Jabberwocky. FTW.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday at the beach
First, let's get this David stuff out of the way:
I keep wanting to ask him something along the lines of "am I right in thinking that you've always felt this way? That even when I was thinking that things were great, you were thinking that we shouldn't be together? Maybe I'm just getting paranoid, but now that I think back I remember you making the odd comment to that effect..."
This occurs to me with some regularity, lately. But then, every time, I wonder (as though planning), "So in what situation exactly would I like this conversation to take place? On the phone? In person? Via text?" And of course, I don't want it to happen in any of those situations. That's aside, of course, from the fact that there's no way in hell I want to here his answer to that question. When I was thinking about it yesterday in the car on the way down to the beach, and thought of the implications of what seems like the probable answer (these being that there is little to no chance of there being any "me and David" ever again), I seriously considered vomiting out the window. I decided though that this would make Kelly uncomfortable.*
I was catching up on another blog tonight when I came across an entry about a tearful airport goodbye, which unsurprisingly took me back to the day I had to leave Turkey, and, secondarily, the day David left for Turkey. It took me what may have been several minutes to push through the tightness in my chest enough to remember a) that we aren't actually dating and therefore this maybe shouldn't affect me so strongly and b) that I left Turkey almost three years ago. Cool.
Less depressing/possibly more interesting topic: Terry Pratchett.
I love him. Perhaps I have mentioned this.
I finished reading "Making Money" tonight on the drive home (Kelly cannot stand to ride as a passenger for any length of time, whereas I don't particularly like to drive for any length of time), and it was brilliant. BRILLIANT. I wasn't too taken with a literally nauseating recurring and somewhat graphic reference to gangrene, but it all worked well in context. I just don't like having to control my stomach. But it was brilliant. I swear I had more to say about this five minutes ago...
Oh! Alright. I was going to discuss the humor of Terry Pratchett which is, as I am coming to realize, rather cerebral. I love this. I love that he loves words, and turns of phrase, and he makes them turn flips for him. I love the way he picks up on tiny details of human behavior and hangs entire plot lines on them. I love the way he will parody absolutely anything, including mythology, any brand of science he can get his hands on, and any element of culture he can spin into the tapestries of his fiction. I read one where he referenced the death of Napoleon on Elba, and there are others where he hit shopping malls, rock music, quantum physics, insurance.. (Incidentally, how does one end a list like this? There isn't really a good way. "Etc" is vague and obnoxious. "And the list goes on" seems almost asinine to me at the moment. I'm floundering here.) The one I just finished made economics funny. Also, here is one clue (probably not sufficiently convoluted, but one can hope) that I will leave with you as you (hopefully) read "Making Money": Rain Man.
Lastly, while I was swimming I was, obviously, thinking about the ocean. It occurred to me that if you think about the physics of waves, what's really going on is that when the ocean tries to climb the beach, it trips over its own feet**. So then I started thinking about common metaphors for the ocean and adding my own. Ocean as mother is pretty well broken-in, and ocean as man (Old Man in/of the Sea; Poseidon/Triton), but what about the ocean as a child tripping over its own feet, or as a pack of little boys rushing at the shore? Then, of course, a storm at sea becomes a tantrum rather than wrath--that brings up its own set of problems. (Mainly in that a tantrum is petty, and a storm at sea is serious business.)
Lastly, the sea, or at least the shallows, almost as a jester, turning somersaults on the sand.
*Sometimes when I write things like that, I wonder whether they come off as an attempt at dark humor when they aren't. I like making people laugh, but usually when I do it is either subconscious or completely inadvertent.
**Think about it. When you trip it's because you were moving forward, and then something dramatically slowed your feet--slowed them so quickly that the rest of your body couldn't catch up in time, as it were--so you fell forward. When the ocean rushes into the land, the sand slows the bottom layer of the water fairly quickly, but the top layer keeps moving fast and falls over the slower moving water.
I keep wanting to ask him something along the lines of "am I right in thinking that you've always felt this way? That even when I was thinking that things were great, you were thinking that we shouldn't be together? Maybe I'm just getting paranoid, but now that I think back I remember you making the odd comment to that effect..."
This occurs to me with some regularity, lately. But then, every time, I wonder (as though planning), "So in what situation exactly would I like this conversation to take place? On the phone? In person? Via text?" And of course, I don't want it to happen in any of those situations. That's aside, of course, from the fact that there's no way in hell I want to here his answer to that question. When I was thinking about it yesterday in the car on the way down to the beach, and thought of the implications of what seems like the probable answer (these being that there is little to no chance of there being any "me and David" ever again), I seriously considered vomiting out the window. I decided though that this would make Kelly uncomfortable.*
I was catching up on another blog tonight when I came across an entry about a tearful airport goodbye, which unsurprisingly took me back to the day I had to leave Turkey, and, secondarily, the day David left for Turkey. It took me what may have been several minutes to push through the tightness in my chest enough to remember a) that we aren't actually dating and therefore this maybe shouldn't affect me so strongly and b) that I left Turkey almost three years ago. Cool.
Less depressing/possibly more interesting topic: Terry Pratchett.
I love him. Perhaps I have mentioned this.
I finished reading "Making Money" tonight on the drive home (Kelly cannot stand to ride as a passenger for any length of time, whereas I don't particularly like to drive for any length of time), and it was brilliant. BRILLIANT. I wasn't too taken with a literally nauseating recurring and somewhat graphic reference to gangrene, but it all worked well in context. I just don't like having to control my stomach. But it was brilliant. I swear I had more to say about this five minutes ago...
Oh! Alright. I was going to discuss the humor of Terry Pratchett which is, as I am coming to realize, rather cerebral. I love this. I love that he loves words, and turns of phrase, and he makes them turn flips for him. I love the way he picks up on tiny details of human behavior and hangs entire plot lines on them. I love the way he will parody absolutely anything, including mythology, any brand of science he can get his hands on, and any element of culture he can spin into the tapestries of his fiction. I read one where he referenced the death of Napoleon on Elba, and there are others where he hit shopping malls, rock music, quantum physics, insurance.. (Incidentally, how does one end a list like this? There isn't really a good way. "Etc" is vague and obnoxious. "And the list goes on" seems almost asinine to me at the moment. I'm floundering here.) The one I just finished made economics funny. Also, here is one clue (probably not sufficiently convoluted, but one can hope) that I will leave with you as you (hopefully) read "Making Money": Rain Man.
Lastly, while I was swimming I was, obviously, thinking about the ocean. It occurred to me that if you think about the physics of waves, what's really going on is that when the ocean tries to climb the beach, it trips over its own feet**. So then I started thinking about common metaphors for the ocean and adding my own. Ocean as mother is pretty well broken-in, and ocean as man (Old Man in/of the Sea; Poseidon/Triton), but what about the ocean as a child tripping over its own feet, or as a pack of little boys rushing at the shore? Then, of course, a storm at sea becomes a tantrum rather than wrath--that brings up its own set of problems. (Mainly in that a tantrum is petty, and a storm at sea is serious business.)
Lastly, the sea, or at least the shallows, almost as a jester, turning somersaults on the sand.
*Sometimes when I write things like that, I wonder whether they come off as an attempt at dark humor when they aren't. I like making people laugh, but usually when I do it is either subconscious or completely inadvertent.
**Think about it. When you trip it's because you were moving forward, and then something dramatically slowed your feet--slowed them so quickly that the rest of your body couldn't catch up in time, as it were--so you fell forward. When the ocean rushes into the land, the sand slows the bottom layer of the water fairly quickly, but the top layer keeps moving fast and falls over the slower moving water.
Monday, September 13, 2010
It only seems like this isn't about me.
Here's a video that my friend Sally posted on her facebook this evening. Since I keep up with absolutely nothing beyond xkcd, I hadn't realized that Taylor Swift had anything new out. But I love her.
Musically, I wouldn't say that this is Taylor's strongest effort--it follows pretty much the same formula as most (if not all) of her other radio-release songs in terms of everything from riffs to construction. However, the subject matter doesn't quite follow the usual formula, and though I'm not sure how much she creatively participated in it, I like the video. Not that I have a problem with TS's usual "high school love/heartbreak, also I'm really cute" content/video combination, but it was nice to see her put together a song and film a video addressing more serious and meaningful subject matter: namely, learning to live out a life that wasn't modeled by one's parents. Part of the reason for the divorce epidemic in our society (and for a lot of other issues) is that one big way to make sure a child internalizes a behavior is to model it. Children of smokers tend to smoke. Children of abusers tend to abuse. Children of divorcees tend to get divorced. This is not to imply that getting a divorce is the worst thing a person can do, that there are no good reasons for divorce, or that getting a divorce is on the same level as abuse; rather, this is to say that a child who grew up in a family system that ended in divorce has not seen what a successful lifelong marriage looks like, and so does not know how to construct such a relationship in his or her own life. Additionally, such a person absorbs on a subconscious level the idea that when things go wrong, relationships end. Or, as Miss Swift put it in "Mine,"
I was a flight risk with a fear of falling, wondering why we'd bother with love if it never lasts.
Musically, I wouldn't say that this is Taylor's strongest effort--it follows pretty much the same formula as most (if not all) of her other radio-release songs in terms of everything from riffs to construction. However, the subject matter doesn't quite follow the usual formula, and though I'm not sure how much she creatively participated in it, I like the video. Not that I have a problem with TS's usual "high school love/heartbreak, also I'm really cute" content/video combination, but it was nice to see her put together a song and film a video addressing more serious and meaningful subject matter: namely, learning to live out a life that wasn't modeled by one's parents. Part of the reason for the divorce epidemic in our society (and for a lot of other issues) is that one big way to make sure a child internalizes a behavior is to model it. Children of smokers tend to smoke. Children of abusers tend to abuse. Children of divorcees tend to get divorced. This is not to imply that getting a divorce is the worst thing a person can do, that there are no good reasons for divorce, or that getting a divorce is on the same level as abuse; rather, this is to say that a child who grew up in a family system that ended in divorce has not seen what a successful lifelong marriage looks like, and so does not know how to construct such a relationship in his or her own life. Additionally, such a person absorbs on a subconscious level the idea that when things go wrong, relationships end. Or, as Miss Swift put it in "Mine,"
I was a flight risk with a fear of falling, wondering why we'd bother with love if it never lasts.
An addendum to the previous: less spitting, more moping
Afterward
I must simply imagine your hands, which,
across town,
Are lifting your sweet nephew through the air
Are shaving your sweet stubbled face
Are turning the key in the lock
Are plucking the tightly wound heartstrings
of your banjo.
But it isn’t a good idea,
this imagining. Had I any sense
I’d stuff your strong hands
down alongside that rare smile—sun through the clouds—
that melts me, and that sweaty post-run rush through the door,
and that irrepressible love of books and bluegrass
and wild jazz which drove me so sweetly crazy—
deep down into a steep bowl, tamp them down
hard, and set them on fire. I might,
if I had any sense. But tonight I am filling my lungs again
with the blue-black sticky smoke of your absence.
It's okay, you can egg my house if you want--I'd understand. I might even join you. Feel free to slap me across the face and yell "snap out of it!" like people evidently do in Hollywood. It seems to work for them, right?
Sometimes I disgust* myself. Excuse me while I go vomit**.
*This is less legit self-hatred and more "Seriously? Are you seriously whining about this again?" It doesn't seem so bad in my head. Then I write it down.
**No, I am not bulimic.
***If I actually hit "publish" in a moment rather than "exit," does anyone (I am particularly looking at you, Sara) have any constructive comments in terms of writing? I guess I could understand the motivation behind something like "just go cut yourself already," but that doesn't give me much feedback on the construction of the poem.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Blue skies and m-f-ing sunshine
I feel like I complain about David here all the time. Maybe I don't. Maybe I do. Maybe no one cares, but I don't care (much) about that. I still miss him, and often--not usually in a "my life is utterly miserable" way, but sort of in the background I guess. Like that C.S. Lewis quote about his late wife, though I'm sure not quite so intense: his absence "is like the sky, spread over everything." I think I've posted it before. It's just a general pervasive feeling of sadness and helplessness, a feeling that there isn't anything I can do beyond hoping he'll change his mind. And being myself I still wonder--am I just making myself miserable? Am I holding on out of habit, out of a lack of another option at the moment? And who the hell knows? I just know there's a big empty David-shaped hole walking around with me, and I wish he'd step back in and fill it. And still I hesitate. Which makes me want to fucking run myself into a wall. Super awesome.
Somebody find me a job, will you? Something to occupy at least some of my time? Maybe then I'll stop half-sleeping all day and waking up to spit out some bile before eating dinner, staying up half the night, and throwing myself back into that hated bed. I am so sick of job interviews I really could spit bile.
Somebody find me a job, will you? Something to occupy at least some of my time? Maybe then I'll stop half-sleeping all day and waking up to spit out some bile before eating dinner, staying up half the night, and throwing myself back into that hated bed. I am so sick of job interviews I really could spit bile.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The unexplained.
I need some kind of miracle. I'm not even choosy. Maybe I am choosy.
(The above written yesterday.)
I had a dream about David last night. There were other dreams which have gently faded, but I liked them. The one about David was the second of three.. I think, it seems like he came walking toward me down a dry streambed--I mean really dry, dusty--and was coming from uphill. I guess he had decided to abandon this idea or experiment or decision of moving apart from one another. There was one long soft slow kiss, and then we moved off together into the next dream, which I can't quite remember. I think I remember us standing in a large room and talking to someone who was chained, maybe, or somehow imprisoned, but that's all I can grasp now. I should have written it down earlier. They were good dreams.
Speaking of dreams, I have been almost obsessed over the past few days with one from my childhood that I think I mentioned the other day. I don't know how old I was, but not very. Maybe six? I had my own room, the room I live in now, and I think I had the bunk bed--so maybe more like eight or nine. I woke up on the bottom bunk, so it must have been before I shared a room with Chloe. I remember bits of two related dreams that night: In the first, the back yard of this house was a pastel-colored jungle filled with soft greens and huge flowers. The space under the back porch was larger than in reality, and there were two tigers underneath it. I don't remember whether I was initially afraid of them or not, but one came forward and spoke to me--possibly they both spoke--and gave me a tiger's eye stone. Maybe the one behind suggested the gift? I'm not sure. I almost desperately wish I could remember what they said, or what it said, but I don't have a clue.
In the next dream I was walking down the left side of my own street, below my house, nearing the corner. Maybe ten feet before the corner I bent down and picked up a tiger's eye stone, the same one, and that's the last I remember before waking up. When I woke, the stone was in my hand. It is in my hand now. I didn't recognize it and took it to my parents asking whether they had given it to me, but neither of them recognized it either. I have no idea where it came from or how it ended up in my hand, and I hadn't thought about it in a long time, but now my curiosity has been fully reawakened. At this point, I'm not sure what to do with it. I've just been making a mental list of the strange, inexplicable things that happened to me as a child, not that there are a great many, and quietly wondering whether I'm being ridiculous.
(The above written yesterday.)
I had a dream about David last night. There were other dreams which have gently faded, but I liked them. The one about David was the second of three.. I think, it seems like he came walking toward me down a dry streambed--I mean really dry, dusty--and was coming from uphill. I guess he had decided to abandon this idea or experiment or decision of moving apart from one another. There was one long soft slow kiss, and then we moved off together into the next dream, which I can't quite remember. I think I remember us standing in a large room and talking to someone who was chained, maybe, or somehow imprisoned, but that's all I can grasp now. I should have written it down earlier. They were good dreams.
Speaking of dreams, I have been almost obsessed over the past few days with one from my childhood that I think I mentioned the other day. I don't know how old I was, but not very. Maybe six? I had my own room, the room I live in now, and I think I had the bunk bed--so maybe more like eight or nine. I woke up on the bottom bunk, so it must have been before I shared a room with Chloe. I remember bits of two related dreams that night: In the first, the back yard of this house was a pastel-colored jungle filled with soft greens and huge flowers. The space under the back porch was larger than in reality, and there were two tigers underneath it. I don't remember whether I was initially afraid of them or not, but one came forward and spoke to me--possibly they both spoke--and gave me a tiger's eye stone. Maybe the one behind suggested the gift? I'm not sure. I almost desperately wish I could remember what they said, or what it said, but I don't have a clue.
In the next dream I was walking down the left side of my own street, below my house, nearing the corner. Maybe ten feet before the corner I bent down and picked up a tiger's eye stone, the same one, and that's the last I remember before waking up. When I woke, the stone was in my hand. It is in my hand now. I didn't recognize it and took it to my parents asking whether they had given it to me, but neither of them recognized it either. I have no idea where it came from or how it ended up in my hand, and I hadn't thought about it in a long time, but now my curiosity has been fully reawakened. At this point, I'm not sure what to do with it. I've just been making a mental list of the strange, inexplicable things that happened to me as a child, not that there are a great many, and quietly wondering whether I'm being ridiculous.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A deep breath
I keep losing my threads, dropping all the must write this later balls I've been trying to keep in the air this afternoon. Maybe I'll be able to collect them from all the disparate corners of the house into which they have rolled.
After recovering from my little episode this afternoon--here already I must stop and pick up a ball. As I was driving and thinking about how writing can be so helpful to me sometimes, I realized that as Anne Sexton so astutely pointed out, words "can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on." And have you ever seen a picture of my room, or better yet, seen my actual room in person? Generally it is a wreck. Everything is everywhere, and to get through one must tiptoe or climb or leap over piles or baskets or puddles of stuff. To find anything, one must move and remove and dig. My room, I sometimes think, is a reflection of my mental state--a joke played on me by the universe. So I write, because words, once written, stay where you put them. Before being written, as I said above, they bounce every which way and disappear into the darknesses behind the dresser, under the dirty laundry, beneath the sofa cushions. So I realized on the drive that when I am lucky, the things I write become stepping stones in the mire, and give me a higher place to climb to, and a place to sit and rest a while.
After recovering this afternoon, the day was fairly uneventful. I walked the dog and emptied and re-loaded the dishwasher, checked blogger-facebook-gmail-etc in quick succession like a meth addict looking for a fix, as has been my custom lately, took a nap. Was about to head to the library when I was reminded that it is labor day (or was at the time), and the library is one of the few businesses that pays attention to that sort of thing. Was respectfully disappointed, and trekked across my room to pull at least six books out of the piles in desperation. (This is for two days, folks. I have portion control issues.) After dinner I headed out at 7, and tried to listen to this WoT audio book I checked out on a whim before Chloe left for school (24 hours of listening, ftw), but was having issues with my speakers and with the erratic box of wires that is my stereo. Chris called, and I gratefully turned the thing off.
We talked a while, mainly about camping hammocks actually, and when we hung up I left the sound off. I drove Westward through the night in the cool arms of September, shivering happily, barefoot in a short skirt and zip hoodie with the windows down, smiling in welcome at the oncoming season and savoring the novel feeling of cold fingers and chilled limbs. I love driving in silence. There was no roof but the stars and the Milky Way, there was no sound but that of the wind in my ears and the faint chirping of crickets behind the buffeting of the air. I thanked God again, just as I did last time, for the smell of freshly mown fields.
I thought for a little while about David and Larry, how very similar they are when I stop and think about it, despite the differences between them that I see more easily. How I could love either of them if given the chance (I guess that quiet, outdoorsy thing must be my type or something, though it's not what I look for), could see myself permanently with either, but how it's obviously not happening. How kind they both are, though Larry would break my heart if I put it in his hands. How that knowledge is the main reason I never did. Thankfully this was a peaceful and idle train of thought. I wrote a poem sort of thing about it all actually, in the dentist's waiting room, shortly after returning from Arkansas. It wasn't very good, but it was about the way I felt like a little piece of iron caught hovering between two magnets, held by my attraction for both, but welcomed by neither. I don't mean that in a melodramatic way--both like me very much, but both want me as a friend. Anyway, I wrote it, didn't much like it, and forgot about it. And then, lo and behold, as Larry receded from my radar, I zipped like a sugar-starved hummingbird straight back to that David-magnet and I can't seem to let go. But as they always say, "can't never could until it did," right? So maybe there's hope, if I take it.
I have a feeling that there was one more ball, but I can't right now see where it rolled. Maybe I'll find it tomorrow.
No! I have remembered. Here it is.
I started singing to myself around Buffalo Gap, first Christmas carols, which receded to a mostly wordless hum after a while, and then Disney songs (Part of Your World, and then most of the Pocahontas soundtrack, if you were wondering) when I turned off 39. Eventually, prompted by my sadness for the loss of all the moths that met their end against my windshield, I started to compose my argument for the value of life. The callousness with which people kill makes me so sad sometimes. Though I recognize that my view isn't very sustainable and is considered to be eccentric at best, I hate to kill anything. I'll do it, but I don't like to smack mosquitoes. I don't like to drown fleas or ticks, even. I never, ever kill spiders, except possibly by accident. I guess this is because I feel that every form of life has a purpose and deserves a measure of respect. Did you ask to be born a human? Do you think that that flea approached God and said, "if you don't mind, I'd like to be incarnated as a tiny, parasitic, loathsome speck of an insect. I really like the idea of crawling around on larger creatures and causing them as much vexation as possible by tickling them and then sucking their blood."
Probably not.
And what is life, but a divine spark of energy that mobilizes some pile of molecules? Don't blow me off--this is truth. Yes, clearly humans are fearfully and wonderfully made, and capable, as far as we know, of higher and more complex thought than any other life form on this planet. But what animates you? A spark of the divine. What animates a moth?
We just stomp around, carelessly extinguishing little lights everywhere we walk.
And yes, yes, the world is a savage place. Everything has to eat, and there's no escape from that. Even plants have something inside that makes them grow and seek the sun, but the world was designed thus.
But there is a difference between survival and murder. There is a difference between killing to protect and killing for boredom or convenience or ignorant fear. There is a difference between respect and disdain.
I have very little interest in vegetarianism, but it occurred to me then that perhaps I should start living what I believe in a way that matters a little more than carrying a spider outside. One consumer among billions is a small drop in an ocean, but from now on, I think I'll look for the vegetarian option a little more often when I'm buying. People have to eat, but conscious beings shouldn't have to live torturous, unthinkably vile and hellish lives for the sake of cheaper chicken nuggets and steak on my plate. That's not something I want to support.
After recovering from my little episode this afternoon--here already I must stop and pick up a ball. As I was driving and thinking about how writing can be so helpful to me sometimes, I realized that as Anne Sexton so astutely pointed out, words "can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on." And have you ever seen a picture of my room, or better yet, seen my actual room in person? Generally it is a wreck. Everything is everywhere, and to get through one must tiptoe or climb or leap over piles or baskets or puddles of stuff. To find anything, one must move and remove and dig. My room, I sometimes think, is a reflection of my mental state--a joke played on me by the universe. So I write, because words, once written, stay where you put them. Before being written, as I said above, they bounce every which way and disappear into the darknesses behind the dresser, under the dirty laundry, beneath the sofa cushions. So I realized on the drive that when I am lucky, the things I write become stepping stones in the mire, and give me a higher place to climb to, and a place to sit and rest a while.
After recovering this afternoon, the day was fairly uneventful. I walked the dog and emptied and re-loaded the dishwasher, checked blogger-facebook-gmail-etc in quick succession like a meth addict looking for a fix, as has been my custom lately, took a nap. Was about to head to the library when I was reminded that it is labor day (or was at the time), and the library is one of the few businesses that pays attention to that sort of thing. Was respectfully disappointed, and trekked across my room to pull at least six books out of the piles in desperation. (This is for two days, folks. I have portion control issues.) After dinner I headed out at 7, and tried to listen to this WoT audio book I checked out on a whim before Chloe left for school (24 hours of listening, ftw), but was having issues with my speakers and with the erratic box of wires that is my stereo. Chris called, and I gratefully turned the thing off.
We talked a while, mainly about camping hammocks actually, and when we hung up I left the sound off. I drove Westward through the night in the cool arms of September, shivering happily, barefoot in a short skirt and zip hoodie with the windows down, smiling in welcome at the oncoming season and savoring the novel feeling of cold fingers and chilled limbs. I love driving in silence. There was no roof but the stars and the Milky Way, there was no sound but that of the wind in my ears and the faint chirping of crickets behind the buffeting of the air. I thanked God again, just as I did last time, for the smell of freshly mown fields.
I thought for a little while about David and Larry, how very similar they are when I stop and think about it, despite the differences between them that I see more easily. How I could love either of them if given the chance (I guess that quiet, outdoorsy thing must be my type or something, though it's not what I look for), could see myself permanently with either, but how it's obviously not happening. How kind they both are, though Larry would break my heart if I put it in his hands. How that knowledge is the main reason I never did. Thankfully this was a peaceful and idle train of thought. I wrote a poem sort of thing about it all actually, in the dentist's waiting room, shortly after returning from Arkansas. It wasn't very good, but it was about the way I felt like a little piece of iron caught hovering between two magnets, held by my attraction for both, but welcomed by neither. I don't mean that in a melodramatic way--both like me very much, but both want me as a friend. Anyway, I wrote it, didn't much like it, and forgot about it. And then, lo and behold, as Larry receded from my radar, I zipped like a sugar-starved hummingbird straight back to that David-magnet and I can't seem to let go. But as they always say, "can't never could until it did," right? So maybe there's hope, if I take it.
I have a feeling that there was one more ball, but I can't right now see where it rolled. Maybe I'll find it tomorrow.
No! I have remembered. Here it is.
I started singing to myself around Buffalo Gap, first Christmas carols, which receded to a mostly wordless hum after a while, and then Disney songs (Part of Your World, and then most of the Pocahontas soundtrack, if you were wondering) when I turned off 39. Eventually, prompted by my sadness for the loss of all the moths that met their end against my windshield, I started to compose my argument for the value of life. The callousness with which people kill makes me so sad sometimes. Though I recognize that my view isn't very sustainable and is considered to be eccentric at best, I hate to kill anything. I'll do it, but I don't like to smack mosquitoes. I don't like to drown fleas or ticks, even. I never, ever kill spiders, except possibly by accident. I guess this is because I feel that every form of life has a purpose and deserves a measure of respect. Did you ask to be born a human? Do you think that that flea approached God and said, "if you don't mind, I'd like to be incarnated as a tiny, parasitic, loathsome speck of an insect. I really like the idea of crawling around on larger creatures and causing them as much vexation as possible by tickling them and then sucking their blood."
Probably not.
And what is life, but a divine spark of energy that mobilizes some pile of molecules? Don't blow me off--this is truth. Yes, clearly humans are fearfully and wonderfully made, and capable, as far as we know, of higher and more complex thought than any other life form on this planet. But what animates you? A spark of the divine. What animates a moth?
We just stomp around, carelessly extinguishing little lights everywhere we walk.
And yes, yes, the world is a savage place. Everything has to eat, and there's no escape from that. Even plants have something inside that makes them grow and seek the sun, but the world was designed thus.
But there is a difference between survival and murder. There is a difference between killing to protect and killing for boredom or convenience or ignorant fear. There is a difference between respect and disdain.
I have very little interest in vegetarianism, but it occurred to me then that perhaps I should start living what I believe in a way that matters a little more than carrying a spider outside. One consumer among billions is a small drop in an ocean, but from now on, I think I'll look for the vegetarian option a little more often when I'm buying. People have to eat, but conscious beings shouldn't have to live torturous, unthinkably vile and hellish lives for the sake of cheaper chicken nuggets and steak on my plate. That's not something I want to support.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Statute of limitations?
My throat hurts from crying. What the hell? How long has this been? Six months? And my throat hurts and head aches from wailing near the top of my lungs to this empty house. What happened to me feeling like this was bad but bearable, and all for the best? Can I get that back? Not that I want to, but I'd probably thank myself for it later. Sometimes I want to grab him by his ear and drag him to this desktop, throw him in a chair and say, "read this fucking thing. Read what you have been doing to me with all your 'you're so awesome, but we can't be together' bullshit," in true prima donna fashion.
Because he doesn't read anymore, except very rarely. Because it's unhelpful, because evidently I am "still" some sort of obsession. Just not the dateable kind. Listen to me. I am ridiculous. Why should he be reading this at all? The whole point anyway is that it's optional for all involved, and there is certainly no reason that David should torture himself (much less be expected to) over doing what he thinks is right. And anyway, when I read back, the things I've written are so far from measuring up to what I actually felt that they feel dry and emotionless to me. I probably need a slap in the face. Someone to yell "snap out of it!" and shake me by the shoulders, and hope I don't punch them in the kidneys and then knee them in the face as they go down.
In other news, here is some mold-breaking, boundary-crossing, pigeonhole-destroying art. This guy is not a skateboarder, he's a dancer. (And evidently best friends with a filmographic artist.)
Skateboard Tricks That Shouldnt Be Possible - Watch more Funny Videos
My friend Aby Page posted this on facebook earlier, from break.com.
Because he doesn't read anymore, except very rarely. Because it's unhelpful, because evidently I am "still" some sort of obsession. Just not the dateable kind. Listen to me. I am ridiculous. Why should he be reading this at all? The whole point anyway is that it's optional for all involved, and there is certainly no reason that David should torture himself (much less be expected to) over doing what he thinks is right. And anyway, when I read back, the things I've written are so far from measuring up to what I actually felt that they feel dry and emotionless to me. I probably need a slap in the face. Someone to yell "snap out of it!" and shake me by the shoulders, and hope I don't punch them in the kidneys and then knee them in the face as they go down.
In other news, here is some mold-breaking, boundary-crossing, pigeonhole-destroying art. This guy is not a skateboarder, he's a dancer. (And evidently best friends with a filmographic artist.)
Skateboard Tricks That Shouldnt Be Possible - Watch more Funny Videos
My friend Aby Page posted this on facebook earlier, from break.com.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Love languages
It smelled like fall tonight--like woodsmoke, but more than that. The air is beginning to change. The leaves are beginning to dry.
Today I had lunch and coffee with a friend from high school, Andrew. It was nice. It was sort of an island of sanity or a breath of air in the midst of a day of drowning. I was a bit of a wreck in the morning, and I was a lot of a wreck in the afternoon over David. Of course. I felt like I was falling asleep after I came home and I went to bed, but just lay awake and stared, or daydreamed, or cried. When my mom came home she found me dozing on he sofa, and put on The Secret Garden and made dinner, and we spent some time together before she had to go back out to work. Just as she left my dad came home, and he and I talked a while--first about the retreat, which led to David and thus was supremely unhelpful. I get so that, if I move, I will break things. So that I'm worried about holding glasses in my hands, because when I do I am overtaken with the almost irrepressible urge to smash them against the wall, floor, cabinet, or countertop. He saw me sitting very carefully still, arms crossed, and asked me what I was thinking about. That was: picking up the stool that was under my feet, and using it to destroy the room, beginning with Miley's dog cage. After that he changed the subject and asked me about the book he'd asked me to read, which led to a discussion of teaching methods and literature, which was wonderful. He and I haven't really talked in a long time.
I took Miley on a long walk and cleaned the kitchen up a little, and shortly thereafter my mother came home, and we set to work literally combing Miley for fleas with all of the old lice combs we could find. I don't even want to talk about how many there were--she was covered. She's picked up still more in the hour or so since we stopped. I gave her a flea bath two days ago!
So much quality time with my parents tonight was really nice. It's a rarity lately, and I've missed them. We may go to the farmer's market in the morning, but that isn't firmly decided yet. We'll see.
Today I had lunch and coffee with a friend from high school, Andrew. It was nice. It was sort of an island of sanity or a breath of air in the midst of a day of drowning. I was a bit of a wreck in the morning, and I was a lot of a wreck in the afternoon over David. Of course. I felt like I was falling asleep after I came home and I went to bed, but just lay awake and stared, or daydreamed, or cried. When my mom came home she found me dozing on he sofa, and put on The Secret Garden and made dinner, and we spent some time together before she had to go back out to work. Just as she left my dad came home, and he and I talked a while--first about the retreat, which led to David and thus was supremely unhelpful. I get so that, if I move, I will break things. So that I'm worried about holding glasses in my hands, because when I do I am overtaken with the almost irrepressible urge to smash them against the wall, floor, cabinet, or countertop. He saw me sitting very carefully still, arms crossed, and asked me what I was thinking about. That was: picking up the stool that was under my feet, and using it to destroy the room, beginning with Miley's dog cage. After that he changed the subject and asked me about the book he'd asked me to read, which led to a discussion of teaching methods and literature, which was wonderful. He and I haven't really talked in a long time.
I took Miley on a long walk and cleaned the kitchen up a little, and shortly thereafter my mother came home, and we set to work literally combing Miley for fleas with all of the old lice combs we could find. I don't even want to talk about how many there were--she was covered. She's picked up still more in the hour or so since we stopped. I gave her a flea bath two days ago!
So much quality time with my parents tonight was really nice. It's a rarity lately, and I've missed them. We may go to the farmer's market in the morning, but that isn't firmly decided yet. We'll see.
Friday, September 3, 2010
David and I spoke last night, for once. I was walking the dog during most of it. Sometimes, for moments things felt almost normal again, almost good. Then I'd just start crying. He was asking me questions and such, what I thought and how I felt about thus and so, mostly related to us before, or now, or our compatibility. Sometimes just talking about what's been going on. It seemed though as if all of his feelings on these subjects amounted to "I miss you sometimes, and I still find you attractive, and you're a great girl.. but I just don't love you anymore."
Says he, in response to "how have you been doing?":
"I've been doing ok, pretty good. Sometimes awesome. I feel confident that we'd be better off with other people."
So in addition to some crying during this hourlong conversation, which may have been quiet enough that he didn't know but it's hard to say, I pulled a pillow over my head and wailed and sobbed for a little while after hanging up. It's been six months. Six months, and I still have weeks at a stretch where I can't stand the thought of letting him go without beginning to disintegrate. He's frustrated that we can't hang out as friends.
Says he, in response to "how have you been doing?":
"I've been doing ok, pretty good. Sometimes awesome. I feel confident that we'd be better off with other people."
So in addition to some crying during this hourlong conversation, which may have been quiet enough that he didn't know but it's hard to say, I pulled a pillow over my head and wailed and sobbed for a little while after hanging up. It's been six months. Six months, and I still have weeks at a stretch where I can't stand the thought of letting him go without beginning to disintegrate. He's frustrated that we can't hang out as friends.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
It's September, right?
Okay so it's fall festival time. Ready, go. GO. I need some damn apples and unpasteurized cider and crisp air. Do you hear that, air? Crisp. Cut out that sogginess. Get on it. Go.
Also, it would seem that talking to people, and sometimes watching or reading or listening to supposedly unrelated material, can break things free inside of you. Set them loose to breathe again. Pry them away from the places where they've been clinging and jamming the gears. "Unrelated materials" and talks of recent days:
Walk/talk with magical beautiful smiling Anna. How do I always forget the magic and power of shared walks?
Watching "Eat, Pray, Love" with Maggie.
Reading Charles deLint's Dreams Underfoot this afternoon.
Being momentarily honest with David. Via text. Don't judge me.
Also, it would seem that talking to people, and sometimes watching or reading or listening to supposedly unrelated material, can break things free inside of you. Set them loose to breathe again. Pry them away from the places where they've been clinging and jamming the gears. "Unrelated materials" and talks of recent days:
Walk/talk with magical beautiful smiling Anna. How do I always forget the magic and power of shared walks?
Watching "Eat, Pray, Love" with Maggie.
Reading Charles deLint's Dreams Underfoot this afternoon.
Being momentarily honest with David. Via text. Don't judge me.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Excerpts from the weekend
I went up to Jimmy and Missy's (along with the Powers family, Kelly, and, for a short time, David) to help work toward finishing the barn. I was a little upset to find David there--it was Thursday and he had said he wouldn't be coming up until late Friday night. He went back home that night though, as he had a job interview Friday.
I arrived in time for dinner Thurs, so we ate and then took a short trip into the cave that's finally open on their property. I wasn't feeling good though (physically), and I haven't done a good job of feeling okay around David, so it wasn't the best time of my life. I think I'll wait until more of the cave is accessible and I am healthier on all levels.
To backtrack a little, I didn't drive up Thursday morning with Kelly because I had a job interview that afternoon. It was for what basically amounted to after-school daycare. I realized that I cannot be a daycare worker. I just can't face it. I also parked next to a light pole in their parking lot, and hit it as I was backing out. The car is okay, with nothing worse than a slightly bent bumper, but for thirty minutes or so I was stuck on the pole and on the verge of tears. So that was good times. And then I pulled into the driveway in Highland County and saw David's car. It was just great. I did get to talk to Anna for a long time though on the drive, and the drive was really beautiful, so those were nice points.
Friday we worked on enclosing the hayloft of the barn. The walls have been up for a while, but they haven't extended all the way up to the roof. Now they do, though we left openings for doors in the center. I have done very little construction, but what I have done I have loved. It was nice to get into the rhythm of measuring, marking the angles, and cutting the boards. It was good work. Unfortunately I didn't take any pictures, but some other people did.
The next morning as I drove to Camp, a mist lay over the whole valley like a gauzy veil that extended upwards into infinity. I love the coolness of that morning air.
The retreat: I don't feel like typing it all out. There were some people I knew and a lot I didn't; I lead a caving trip with Kelly; we did a staff-talent-esque evening program with stories of "the good old days" interspersed. The older brother of one of my friends/former campers was there, and I have heard about him for years but had never met him. So that was cool. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.
It turns out that I have a lot of anger toward David, and I pretty much stayed away from him all weekend. My throat constricts when I start thinking about him, so it was pretty much either avoid him or make myself unable to function. I think I might have hurt his feelings though. I don't quite know how I feel about that. Some combination of sadness and violence, I'm sure.
On Sunday shortly before I left, I stepped out of the dining hall and was utterly undeservedly stung in the face by what appeared to be a petulant, childish wasp. I don't know what I could have done to attract her ire beyond possibly stepping into her path, but she flew into my face, stung me just below my left eye, and flew away. Thanks to some ice, meat tenderizer, tylenol, and an immune system that (usually) knows a nonissue when it sees one, the sting isn't too bad. It's a little red and very slightly swollen, and it's begun to itch a little today, but clearly it could have been a lot worse.
I arrived in time for dinner Thurs, so we ate and then took a short trip into the cave that's finally open on their property. I wasn't feeling good though (physically), and I haven't done a good job of feeling okay around David, so it wasn't the best time of my life. I think I'll wait until more of the cave is accessible and I am healthier on all levels.
To backtrack a little, I didn't drive up Thursday morning with Kelly because I had a job interview that afternoon. It was for what basically amounted to after-school daycare. I realized that I cannot be a daycare worker. I just can't face it. I also parked next to a light pole in their parking lot, and hit it as I was backing out. The car is okay, with nothing worse than a slightly bent bumper, but for thirty minutes or so I was stuck on the pole and on the verge of tears. So that was good times. And then I pulled into the driveway in Highland County and saw David's car. It was just great. I did get to talk to Anna for a long time though on the drive, and the drive was really beautiful, so those were nice points.
Friday we worked on enclosing the hayloft of the barn. The walls have been up for a while, but they haven't extended all the way up to the roof. Now they do, though we left openings for doors in the center. I have done very little construction, but what I have done I have loved. It was nice to get into the rhythm of measuring, marking the angles, and cutting the boards. It was good work. Unfortunately I didn't take any pictures, but some other people did.
The next morning as I drove to Camp, a mist lay over the whole valley like a gauzy veil that extended upwards into infinity. I love the coolness of that morning air.
The retreat: I don't feel like typing it all out. There were some people I knew and a lot I didn't; I lead a caving trip with Kelly; we did a staff-talent-esque evening program with stories of "the good old days" interspersed. The older brother of one of my friends/former campers was there, and I have heard about him for years but had never met him. So that was cool. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.
It turns out that I have a lot of anger toward David, and I pretty much stayed away from him all weekend. My throat constricts when I start thinking about him, so it was pretty much either avoid him or make myself unable to function. I think I might have hurt his feelings though. I don't quite know how I feel about that. Some combination of sadness and violence, I'm sure.
On Sunday shortly before I left, I stepped out of the dining hall and was utterly undeservedly stung in the face by what appeared to be a petulant, childish wasp. I don't know what I could have done to attract her ire beyond possibly stepping into her path, but she flew into my face, stung me just below my left eye, and flew away. Thanks to some ice, meat tenderizer, tylenol, and an immune system that (usually) knows a nonissue when it sees one, the sting isn't too bad. It's a little red and very slightly swollen, and it's begun to itch a little today, but clearly it could have been a lot worse.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Today
I am wading in a mire of cloying, festering bitterness and anger. I am dug in, tight as a tick. God help me.
Today I woke up sick (not terribly so--thinking it's just a sinus infection) and then went off to "brunch" with my mother, sister, godmother. The people we went to see live an hour away and were so sweet and kind, and I was so not in the mood to spend essentially an entire day with people I barely know, with no close-friend touchstone, with no break from ceaseless friendly puns, with no way out until people finally decided to leave as the clock approached 4 pm.
Let me stress that they were so kind and friendly, and their home is so lovely. They actually gave Chloe and me each an antique demitasse cup and saucer, and each a handmade apron handed down from their parents or cousins, I don't know. They have goats and chickens, and they let us pick figs from the tree outside their window. Their house is over 200 years old, and they collect antiques, and he restores old buildings.
I left stewing. There wasn't time for us to go to the movie as we had planned with Kelly. There was no time to relax before going to Art and Beth's, which is why I am home trying to relax instead of there with them and so many friends, buying supplies to make care packages for our college buddies. Emily called and got on my case a moment ago and I'll be leaving shortly. I'm glad she called. Hearing her voice helped. I never seem to want to do anything lately.
And with the cold weather approaching, David is utterly inescapable. Every time I think of the fall I think of him. Every time the air cools. Every time I think of travel, or museums, or any sort of adventure. Any time I think of RMA. Any time I am lonely or tired. All the time. I just want to ask him, "why are you doing this?" Or I want to sit on his chest and hit him in the face--left, right, left, right--like A Christmas Story. Or punch him over and over in the stomach. And that's about when I start crying. Again.
There's a whole list of things I wanted to write about from yesterday: egg throwing, crying (more!) over Little Bit, some other things. Maybe I'll get to it later.
Today I woke up sick (not terribly so--thinking it's just a sinus infection) and then went off to "brunch" with my mother, sister, godmother. The people we went to see live an hour away and were so sweet and kind, and I was so not in the mood to spend essentially an entire day with people I barely know, with no close-friend touchstone, with no break from ceaseless friendly puns, with no way out until people finally decided to leave as the clock approached 4 pm.
Let me stress that they were so kind and friendly, and their home is so lovely. They actually gave Chloe and me each an antique demitasse cup and saucer, and each a handmade apron handed down from their parents or cousins, I don't know. They have goats and chickens, and they let us pick figs from the tree outside their window. Their house is over 200 years old, and they collect antiques, and he restores old buildings.
I left stewing. There wasn't time for us to go to the movie as we had planned with Kelly. There was no time to relax before going to Art and Beth's, which is why I am home trying to relax instead of there with them and so many friends, buying supplies to make care packages for our college buddies. Emily called and got on my case a moment ago and I'll be leaving shortly. I'm glad she called. Hearing her voice helped. I never seem to want to do anything lately.
And with the cold weather approaching, David is utterly inescapable. Every time I think of the fall I think of him. Every time the air cools. Every time I think of travel, or museums, or any sort of adventure. Any time I think of RMA. Any time I am lonely or tired. All the time. I just want to ask him, "why are you doing this?" Or I want to sit on his chest and hit him in the face--left, right, left, right--like A Christmas Story. Or punch him over and over in the stomach. And that's about when I start crying. Again.
There's a whole list of things I wanted to write about from yesterday: egg throwing, crying (more!) over Little Bit, some other things. Maybe I'll get to it later.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Dear non-reader
I know you try not to come around anymore, but I have this compulsion to say things to you that maybe I shouldn't say to you. So here's my solution, my middle ground. You choose.
I wish things between us could be again the way they were before. I wish we could take those moments of sweetness and closeness and comfort and warmth in the crisp, cool mountain air (because it always is crisp, cool mountain air in my memory) and distill them, and drink them again. I can taste it all whenever I think of you. I can't stop tasting it. I feel your hand in my hand all the time. I feel you in my arms, I feel your sweatshirt against my face all the time. Sometimes I think it's the day in the orchard, or a day on Skyline that I'm reliving. Sometimes I think it's our last hug--the last hug between Us, instead of just between David and Marie, wholly separate entities--at Richard's or just outside Bottom's Up, at the very end. Your shirt was so soft. You were so warm.
I was thinking today that that may have been the last time I felt safe--but who keeps a running tally? And everyone knows I have drama running in my veins, a gift of both bloodlines. But must I question everything? You made me feel safe when I was close to you. Sometimes, and today, the world doesn't feel right without you within reach. That we aren't connected is difficult for me to grasp, even after nearly six months. And yet, there have been days or even weeks when it seemed okay. When I remembered things about you that drove me insane. I know there have been, but it's difficult to feel them now. I want to drive to where you are living and make you take this all back, but I could never make you do anything. I don't know if I could stand the rejection again.
I write things like this, and now I'm talking to the internet at large, and I have this almost overwhelming paranoia about being "emo." I sort of wish I could stop caring about it, but then sometimes I think that this aversion is the only thing keeping me out of the mire. I can be so melancholy. I can be so dramatic. I write things that are true, but I can't write them without enough spin to make you seasick. I can't write them without falling in love with the sound of the words that are spilling from my fingers. I would never make it at the Christian Science Monitor.
I wish things between us could be again the way they were before. I wish we could take those moments of sweetness and closeness and comfort and warmth in the crisp, cool mountain air (because it always is crisp, cool mountain air in my memory) and distill them, and drink them again. I can taste it all whenever I think of you. I can't stop tasting it. I feel your hand in my hand all the time. I feel you in my arms, I feel your sweatshirt against my face all the time. Sometimes I think it's the day in the orchard, or a day on Skyline that I'm reliving. Sometimes I think it's our last hug--the last hug between Us, instead of just between David and Marie, wholly separate entities--at Richard's or just outside Bottom's Up, at the very end. Your shirt was so soft. You were so warm.
I was thinking today that that may have been the last time I felt safe--but who keeps a running tally? And everyone knows I have drama running in my veins, a gift of both bloodlines. But must I question everything? You made me feel safe when I was close to you. Sometimes, and today, the world doesn't feel right without you within reach. That we aren't connected is difficult for me to grasp, even after nearly six months. And yet, there have been days or even weeks when it seemed okay. When I remembered things about you that drove me insane. I know there have been, but it's difficult to feel them now. I want to drive to where you are living and make you take this all back, but I could never make you do anything. I don't know if I could stand the rejection again.
I write things like this, and now I'm talking to the internet at large, and I have this almost overwhelming paranoia about being "emo." I sort of wish I could stop caring about it, but then sometimes I think that this aversion is the only thing keeping me out of the mire. I can be so melancholy. I can be so dramatic. I write things that are true, but I can't write them without enough spin to make you seasick. I can't write them without falling in love with the sound of the words that are spilling from my fingers. I would never make it at the Christian Science Monitor.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
I wonder how disorganized a post can be?
I fucking hate living here. Lately it's harder every day to deal with it. And I feel like such a spoiled, whiny brat. Why do I get to feel so put-upon when there are other people who can never move out? When in other cultures, multi-generational family living is the norm? I wonder almost daily how the fuck people can stand that.
Maybe there are some people out there who can grieve in a logical, dignified manner--lots of quiet pain and hurt, gradually tapering down to a resumed normal existence after a few weeks or months. Or maybe everyone who grieves, who has been psychologically eviscerated in some way, plays out some variation on the shit I've been pulling: acting sad, acting normal, acting fucking psychotic, acting normal, et cetera. Maybe everyone has moments where they're going about their business and then some horrible thing rears up within them and rips everything to shreds. It's like I have this masochist inside me in whose possession is that card-catalog of images and moments and feelings that will make these intestines that I've been holding in start to spill back out onto the floor again, loop by loop. Tonight it's David's shirt. I want more than anything to grab the sides of his shirt and pull myself against him and cry into his chest. I can feel the knit cotton in my fists. I can feel his chest under my cheek. I can feel him gently taking me by the shoulders and pushing me away, and I can see myself standing in the front yard and crying, and yelling, and throwing things on the ground while he stands there in front of the house.
This evening there was a lot of frustration going on between me and my parents. I hate it. I hate not wanting to be home. I hate not wanting to be around them. I want to want to be here, especially with Chloe about to leave for college in Connecticut. I don't want to miss these last chances to be with her. But I swear, if my dad sees me upset and gets me to talk to him about it and then responds by telling me to sweep the fucking walks one more goddamn time, I am going to stop speaking to him.
I hate this. Hating. Being angry. Fighting with everyone. Being so tired. Regressing to the fucking seventh grade. What is this? Why am I so angry? Why can't I fix it? Why am I writing like a bratty little kid?
I meant to say, before going on the tangent about my father/parents, that tonight was one of those where I kept turning up the music in the car, trying to make it loud enough to drown myself out. I felt like there was a vacuum in my chest, felt that almost-frantic feeling you get when you've dived down deep and you need a breath, but there's no air to take in.
On the plus side,
1. Kelly went shoe shopping with myself and Chloe in tow, and I got gold flats on sale. I wanted these, but I don't really have the money to spend at the moment. Very sad.
2. I watched The Big Bang Theory with Kelly, and remembered that it's a pretty great show. Mostly just Sheldon(?), but I'm okay with that.
3. I remembered how much I like "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers.
Whatever I can remember of what I've been meaning to write for two days:
I realize now that I am not even remotely in the proper emotional state to write this the way I wanted it written, but when I drove over Afton Mountain on my way home from Camp on Saturday, I drove just beneath a cloud. I could (and did) literally put my hand out the window and reach up and feel the cool mist of it on my fingers. there was something else I meant to tie in, about friendship maybe, but it's lost to me--at least for now. Still, it was something of a marvel. Magical.
Maybe there are some people out there who can grieve in a logical, dignified manner--lots of quiet pain and hurt, gradually tapering down to a resumed normal existence after a few weeks or months. Or maybe everyone who grieves, who has been psychologically eviscerated in some way, plays out some variation on the shit I've been pulling: acting sad, acting normal, acting fucking psychotic, acting normal, et cetera. Maybe everyone has moments where they're going about their business and then some horrible thing rears up within them and rips everything to shreds. It's like I have this masochist inside me in whose possession is that card-catalog of images and moments and feelings that will make these intestines that I've been holding in start to spill back out onto the floor again, loop by loop. Tonight it's David's shirt. I want more than anything to grab the sides of his shirt and pull myself against him and cry into his chest. I can feel the knit cotton in my fists. I can feel his chest under my cheek. I can feel him gently taking me by the shoulders and pushing me away, and I can see myself standing in the front yard and crying, and yelling, and throwing things on the ground while he stands there in front of the house.
This evening there was a lot of frustration going on between me and my parents. I hate it. I hate not wanting to be home. I hate not wanting to be around them. I want to want to be here, especially with Chloe about to leave for college in Connecticut. I don't want to miss these last chances to be with her. But I swear, if my dad sees me upset and gets me to talk to him about it and then responds by telling me to sweep the fucking walks one more goddamn time, I am going to stop speaking to him.
I hate this. Hating. Being angry. Fighting with everyone. Being so tired. Regressing to the fucking seventh grade. What is this? Why am I so angry? Why can't I fix it? Why am I writing like a bratty little kid?
I meant to say, before going on the tangent about my father/parents, that tonight was one of those where I kept turning up the music in the car, trying to make it loud enough to drown myself out. I felt like there was a vacuum in my chest, felt that almost-frantic feeling you get when you've dived down deep and you need a breath, but there's no air to take in.
On the plus side,
1. Kelly went shoe shopping with myself and Chloe in tow, and I got gold flats on sale. I wanted these, but I don't really have the money to spend at the moment. Very sad.
2. I watched The Big Bang Theory with Kelly, and remembered that it's a pretty great show. Mostly just Sheldon(?), but I'm okay with that.
3. I remembered how much I like "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers.
Whatever I can remember of what I've been meaning to write for two days:
I realize now that I am not even remotely in the proper emotional state to write this the way I wanted it written, but when I drove over Afton Mountain on my way home from Camp on Saturday, I drove just beneath a cloud. I could (and did) literally put my hand out the window and reach up and feel the cool mist of it on my fingers. there was something else I meant to tie in, about friendship maybe, but it's lost to me--at least for now. Still, it was something of a marvel. Magical.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Sometimes it seems to all fall down.
I want to say that I am profoundly unhappy, though I don't know that "profound" is the appropriate word. Maybe. I know it will come and go.
Today the Across The Universe cover of "Hey Jude" came on my ipod, and I started to feel all twisted up inside. It reminded me of the time the same song came on in Fran's car in college, just after David had told me that he wasn't going to come home for Christmas and before I knew that I could go visit, and I almost fell apart there in the middle of all my friends who had no idea what was going on. Today I wrote it down in my phone:
I feel twisted up inside like a bent and rusted old pile of scrap metal. We switch so fast--moods changing as quickly as lighting gels in the theater.
It's one of those times where "fake it till you make it" doesn't make anything--it's just fake, fake, fake. Distractions come easily enough, usually, luckily. But otherwise it's just fake and I'm no good at those plastic smiles. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
Something else I wrote on the way to Arkansas that I've been reminded of several times and have been meaning to put here (sorry if I posted it three days ago or whatever and forgot):
As we drive Westward, rushing on
and on toward Memphis on the river I40,
the kudzu-covered shapes of trees rise
from the earth, crazily and crookedly
like Wild Things,
and watch us as we pass.
Today the Across The Universe cover of "Hey Jude" came on my ipod, and I started to feel all twisted up inside. It reminded me of the time the same song came on in Fran's car in college, just after David had told me that he wasn't going to come home for Christmas and before I knew that I could go visit, and I almost fell apart there in the middle of all my friends who had no idea what was going on. Today I wrote it down in my phone:
I feel twisted up inside like a bent and rusted old pile of scrap metal. We switch so fast--moods changing as quickly as lighting gels in the theater.
It's one of those times where "fake it till you make it" doesn't make anything--it's just fake, fake, fake. Distractions come easily enough, usually, luckily. But otherwise it's just fake and I'm no good at those plastic smiles. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
Something else I wrote on the way to Arkansas that I've been reminded of several times and have been meaning to put here (sorry if I posted it three days ago or whatever and forgot):
As we drive Westward, rushing on
and on toward Memphis on the river I40,
the kudzu-covered shapes of trees rise
from the earth, crazily and crookedly
like Wild Things,
and watch us as we pass.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Dear Hurricane:
Ninety miles outside Chicago,
can't stop driving, I don't know why.
So many questions, I need an answer.
Two years later you're still on my mind
Whatever happened to Amelia Erhart?
Who holds the stars up in the sky?
Is true love just once in a lifetime?
Did the captain of the Titanic cry?
Someday we'll know if love can move a mountain,
someday we'll know why the sky is blue.
Someday we'll know why I wasn't meant for you.
Does anybody know the way to Atlantis?
Or what the wind says when she cries?
I'm driving past the place that I met you
for the ninety-seventh time tonight.
Someday we'll know if love can move a mountain,
someday we'll know why the sky is blue.
Someday we'll know why I wasn't meant for you.
Someday we'll know why Samson loved Delilah.
One day I'll go dancing on the moon.
Someday you'll know that I was the one for you.
I bought a ticket to the end of the rainbow,
I watched the stars crash in the sea.
If I could ask God just one question...
why aren't you here with me tonight?
Someday we'll know if love can move a mountain,
someday we'll know why the sky is blue.
Someday we'll know why I wasn't meant for you.
Someday we'll know why Samson loved Delilah,
someday I'll go dancing on the moon.
Someday you'll know that I was the one for you.
--------------------------
Summer days are gone too soon,
you shoot the moon and miss completely.
And now you're left to face the gloom
of an empty room that once smelled sweetly.
Of all the flowers you plucked, if only
you knew the reason
why you had to each be lonely--
was it just the season?
Now the fall is here again,
you can't begin to give in,
it's all over.
And when the snows come rolling through,
you're rolling too,
with some new lover.
Will you think of times you told me
that you knew the reason
why we had to each be lonely--
it was just the season.
Will you think of times you told me
that you knew the reason
why we had to each be lonely--
it was just the season.
lyric courtesy The New Radicals; Norah Jones. Itunes shuffle seems to have developed the ability to rip down the curtains and strip the whitewash and slip through heart walls. Awesome. And SB, please don't take this too literally and get mad. I know, for instance, (or assume, anyway) that you are not rolling with some new lover.
In other news:
-interview went well I think, and I should hear back within a week or so. Fingers crossed. I asked Dale of the super-effective prayers to pray.
-tea with Sara was rather nice.
-Sara's mom gave me a sweet gray fleece pullover that fits pretty darn perfectly. (Good thing I have space for more jacket/sweatshirt/sweater-type things.)
-Eva gave me a bag of old jewelry to give to my mom (to take apart and use to make new jewelry), from which I was able to extract this super awesome necklace--it's a long black cord with a silver charm on the end that's shaped like leaves, and it's a bell. YES.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Highs in the mid-thirties
Well my laptop bit it, or has at least slipped into a coma. With it have gone my photo collection, my music collection, a whole lot of writing (I wish I hadn't unlearned that particular lesson from the last two times), my TCS cover letter, and my document of baby information for Steven. Awesome.
On the plus side, this gave me a chance to go get a new notebook last night at 1 am. Three guesses as to where that notebook came from.
DC yesterday (for Susannah and Mike's apartment-warming, with a side trip to visit Chris(tina) and Matt in Bethesda) was fun, but long. Long, long, long. It should have taken a little under 2.5 hours to get to Chris's house--it took 4. Jr and I spent 75 minutes traveling 14 miles up 495. The car thermometer climbed to 135 degrees and then sat there. We became rather damp. Every time I take the metro for a while I forget how terrible driving in and around DC can be and generally is. Note to self: take the stupid metro. It is worth the $5.
Last night I took the opportunity, evidently, to start thinking about (read: pining over) David some more. The day before it had been relatively easy to remember those things that didn't work, that didn't line up, didn't click, and to tell myself with some small confidence that we are wrong for each other. Yesterday though all I could think about were sweet kisses and hands clasped together, smiles and snuggles and laughter, and such comfort. Such a feeling of being at ease and at home together. I really miss that. I did a lot of silent grieving yesterday for the loss of him, and for the loss of us.
Last night, the last paragraph I wrote in my new recycled-paper-yet-made-in-China notebook was this:
"Life seems so thick right now--like molasses. Difficult to move through. Difficult to breathe. Difficult to swallow. Thick and slow. I know that those feelings change minute to minute, hour to hour. I'm just saying. Often today I've felt adult and capable, strong and attractive. I guess, I think, that I was feeling like I was worth something--like I was a perfectly acceptable, functioning human, objectively speaking. That felt really good."
It did feel really good.
On the plus side, this gave me a chance to go get a new notebook last night at 1 am. Three guesses as to where that notebook came from.
DC yesterday (for Susannah and Mike's apartment-warming, with a side trip to visit Chris(tina) and Matt in Bethesda) was fun, but long. Long, long, long. It should have taken a little under 2.5 hours to get to Chris's house--it took 4. Jr and I spent 75 minutes traveling 14 miles up 495. The car thermometer climbed to 135 degrees and then sat there. We became rather damp. Every time I take the metro for a while I forget how terrible driving in and around DC can be and generally is. Note to self: take the stupid metro. It is worth the $5.
Last night I took the opportunity, evidently, to start thinking about (read: pining over) David some more. The day before it had been relatively easy to remember those things that didn't work, that didn't line up, didn't click, and to tell myself with some small confidence that we are wrong for each other. Yesterday though all I could think about were sweet kisses and hands clasped together, smiles and snuggles and laughter, and such comfort. Such a feeling of being at ease and at home together. I really miss that. I did a lot of silent grieving yesterday for the loss of him, and for the loss of us.
Last night, the last paragraph I wrote in my new recycled-paper-yet-made-in-China notebook was this:
"Life seems so thick right now--like molasses. Difficult to move through. Difficult to breathe. Difficult to swallow. Thick and slow. I know that those feelings change minute to minute, hour to hour. I'm just saying. Often today I've felt adult and capable, strong and attractive. I guess, I think, that I was feeling like I was worth something--like I was a perfectly acceptable, functioning human, objectively speaking. That felt really good."
It did feel really good.
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