My Cavalier Approach to Human Decency

2012-01-25T06:10:00.001-05:00

It's so important
To make someone happy.
Make just one
Someone happy.
~Jimmy Durante, Make Someone Happy

Happiness.

Fleeting, mysterious, unpredictable happiness. This concept that we all chase, that we all suspect everyone has in spades over us. Something we shun as moody teenagers and then pine after as life-trodden adults. Wistful, powerful, energizing, amazing happiness.

And, when you think of it, really the source of most of the misery in the world.

I mean, okay. Not happiness itself. But the pursuit of happiness-- coming into this mindset that X will make us happy, or Y will make us happy. That we will be happy when we finally fix this problem, have this ability, own this thing. That we will be happy if we can just have one cup coffee, one cigarette, one piece of cake...or six. That we will be happy when we finally graduate high school, finally have the degree, finally have the job. Happy when five o'clock rolls around.

That car will make me happy. That locale. That weight.

If you think about how much emphasis Americans put on finding happiness, and how little of us actually, genuinely find it on the paths we're on, well, the forefathers really screwed the pooch on this one.

No disrespect, of course, to the visiter in England who found my site today searching for the phrase "I miss human decency" on Google-- that search term seems to indicate that maybe, they're not so happy across the pond, either. I suppose we put ideas in their head when we sent them that damn Declaration.

One of the many things I've noticed that you're supposed to have-- and want-- a lot of, but rather consistently seems to make one less happy the more they have of it, is knowledge. Knowledge-- and it's bitchy girlfriend, intelligence-- are supposed to be these incredible tools. But, working with a theory that being happy is more important than being successful-- and I'm not asserting it is, at the moment-- one could make a very reasonable argument that it's in fact, a hinderance.

At this point, I had hoped to link to an article explaining some scientific study that smart people are less happy in their daily lives; I was surprised when I couldn't find it. I was able to find multiple studies suggesting that intelligence does not correlate in a positive way with happiness-- except, perhaps, when living in a very poor nation where intelligence may give you the means to fulfill your very basic needs-- but I can't imagine who exactly thought it would? Who, precisely, theorized that smarter people are happier and set out to do a rigorous survey or some kind of double-blind study proving themselves right? My guess is it's those not-so-smart researchers. The ones that got into science and psychology because they couldn't get into med school, and now they spend their time needlessly envious of the brains around them, thinking they'd be in nirvana if they just had that bad skin and those focused, bespectacled eyes.

I say this, of course, because I've never me a truly smart person who suspected, for a moment, that their intelligence made them happier. Then again, I've also never met a smart person who would have been willing to trade their intelligence for happiness. There's a weird paradox in that.

But intelligence is just the bitchy girlfriend-- knowledge, I think, is the real criminal here. Intelligence is just a means to knowledge, after all, not often the other way around. Knowledge is what really makes you miserable, too: knowledge that, at any given moment, as you are drinking some divine, ornately-made choco-latte-grande-chino, there are starving children all over the world, and their helpless parents who could have fed them for a month on the three bucks you just spent on decadent caffeine. Knowledge that eating a banana or having a bottled, in an attempt to eat right and feel good about it, really equate to terrorism in South America or the dangerous privatization of water sources. Knowledge that there's acid in the rain, toxins in every food you eat, and that there's no such thing as the Tooth Fairy.

But, perhaps the knowledge that interferes the most with my own personal happiness is all the knowledge I've gotten in the past few years on the subject of personal happiness.

I just watched this TED talk, featuring Dan Gilbert, author of Stumbling Upon Happiness. He presents the information in this super-uplifting way, making the point that your choices, circumstances, and getting or not getting what you want don't effect your happiness nearly as much as you'd expect, making the point early on that, on average, one year after their life-changing events, lottery winners and those who lost the use of their legs are equally content. He talks about your mind's ability to synthesize happiness, enabling a person to level out from life's disappointments, whether minor or major, with surprising ease. The message is very mellow-- hey everyone, relax. It's all gonna be okay. Whatever happens, your mind has the ability to make you just as happy as you ever were.

One problem with the upbeat message: he doesn't go into the fact that, despite your mind's ability to manifest your own personal amount of happiness whether you logically should have it or not, your own personal amount, well, it might be significantly lower than most people's.

I've talked about this before-- the concept of the Hedonic Treadmill, the current reigning pop-psychology theory that indicates that, despite changes in your life for the better or for the worse, you are destined to return to your baseline.

Which more or less validates a belief I've always had-- there are happy people, and there are unhappy people. And there's really not a lot the have-nots can do to catch up with those damned haves, in this case. So wouldn't it be lovely if they would just leave us alone already?

It's a little bit of a digression, but there's nothing more frustrating than a happy person who tries to force some platitude on you to get you out of your slump-- all the worse when that platitude is something along the lines of "Be grateful! There are people who have it worse than you!"

Two points for you, gratitude-platitude-punks: One, my glass-half-empty status is mostly genetic, not dependent on my circumstances, no matter how comfortably first-world those circumstances are. And TWO, I know all about those people who are miserable and suffering. THINKING ABOUT THEM is a big part of why I'm guilt-stricken, neurotic, angry and sad most of the time. So why don't you go have Poland Spring water and a banana, and stick them both up your socially unconscious, blind, arrogant ass, Smiley McLifeIsGreat?

Okay. Digression over.

Anyway. There's some hope, I guess. From what I can tell, the newest studies indicate that as much as 40% of one's happiness might be due to intentional activities-- IE, you can get, to an extent, happier. You'll still be anchored by the 50% that is genetics and the 10% which is uncontrollable circumstances. But 40%, well...if it's true, it's a little more hopeful than I was lead to believe.

I should point out that I have no idea how they got these numbers, by the way. What is 40% of one's happiness? Is it measured in time? 40% of the time they spend feeling happy? Or is it measured in the amount of happiness in one's...emotional set at any given time? If you, overall, are made up of ten parts happiness, ten parts regret, fifteen parts anger and five parts resentment...is forty percent of your happiness really just ten percent of you, overall?

It's a confusing number to say the least.

The other thing is-- and I am far from being an expert at this time-- I've never read anything that said you couldn't effect how often you veer from your "baseline" of happiness, though I suspect that if I were better at understanding graphs, I'd find that it can't be more all that often, as that would necessarily shift your baseline, unless you counter it with equal periods of sadness, or, I suppose, the occasional hour of absolute searing heartbreak.

So, I want to know more about this. I've made a lot of changes in my life-- I moved to San Diego recently, got on ADHD meds, got bangs-- and I'm finding mostly improvements with respect to these changes. San Diego is beautiful and full of things to do, places to explore. ADHD meds make me more productive and focused, and I'm having an easier time learning things I've always wanted to learn and being the person that I've always wanted to be. The person that I thought I would be the happiest as.

But I'm not really happier, I don't think. Aside from the fact that the medication, for some reason, never fails to give me a very mean, very upsetting irritable hour in the late-afternoon every day, the more pertinent reality is that doing these things I always wanted to do-- spending more time drawing and painting, learning the ukelele, and watching videos on Lynda.com to hone my design skills-- well, they're not what happiness is made of.

So I'm thinking of getting a book, despite my disdain for the happiness-intel, though I'm having trouble deciding between the many available on the subject. Daniel Gilbert's aforementioned Stumbling Upon Happiness? Happier, by Harvard Professor Tal Ben-Sharar? Or perhaps the How of Happiness, by Sonja Lyubomirsky, whose book's average Amazon review, at 4.5 stars, seems to kick the other two poseurs, with four stars each, right in their happy-sacks.

Then again, when it comes to books on happiness, it seems prudent to stray from my normal loyalty to Amazon ratings. I want science, not uplifting nonsense that makes people feel like they have more control than they really do.

Hmmm, and there again is the problem-- as Dan Gilbert points out in his TED talk, synthetic happiness is of just as high a quality as the "natural" stuff, though people are stubbornly skeptical of it. If reading that book made people happy-- if reading that book can make me happy-- than why would I care if it's fact or fiction? Why should I care what the controls of her experiments were? This isn't a cancer treatment, this is happiness.

Also, David Rakoff, author of Half Empty, would probably like me to point out at this point that, contrary to popular belief, a positive outlook does not improve one's likelihood of surviving a terminal illness, according to studies he quotes in his book. That's one that I think I will buy, actually. In the name of fairness and balance-- plus I love his voice, and I'm getting my choices in audiobook format.

It's 2:45 AM, yet again. I have acupuncture tomorrow at noon, and it will take me at least an hour of tossing and turning to sleep, probably more. So far, I have no real evidence that these community acupuncture sessions I've been attending several times a week are helping me feel happier, or, more to the point, helping to cure any of the problems that I, perhaps short-sightedly, blame my unhappiness on. But what I do have very compelling evidence of is that staying up too late the night before one does make me very unhappy when it's time to get out of bed in the morning. Thus far, despite the fact that better sleep is supposed to be a side effect of the treatments, I haven't been able to get my schedule back to any degree of normality, despite several attempts with varying strategies.

Last night, I stayed up making a drawing for Zack-- or, that's what it turned into. At first was a sketch to busy my hands as I watched reruns of "How I Met Your Mother" on Netflix-- if you want happiness in my book, it's eating and watching TV on the couch, but that knowledge-monster I mentioned before understands the causal link between that action and a pant size that, well, isn't happiness in my book. So I was drawing, and right around the time the sketch began to remind me Cthulhu with an eyepatch, I decided to make it into a little present for Zack. I finished up the transformation of Cthulhu into a full-blown Cthulhu-Pirate, and then carefully scripted a note on a treasure map in the corner:

Zack-
Cthulhu Pirate wants you to have a marrrvelous morning!

Then I went outside and taped it to the steering wheel of his car, before climbing into bed with him around 3:30. A few hours later, he woke up, groggy and overtired, got dressed, packed a lunch, and left for work in the pre-sunrise dimness of a january morning.

He loved the drawing.

I don't do things like this often enough for him. It's a bit surprising, because, for money, the simplest route to happiness is gifts. Not for me. For other people. I love giving gifts, I love putting a lot of thought and effort into something that makes it clear to them, once again, how much I love them. An elaborate birthday package, a random amazon shipment, something they've mentioned they want but never gotten around to getting. I tried to learn Hallelujah on the uke for Sam's birthday-- and I basically did, but the idea was to record it in a video and post it on his wall, but my equipment was shoddy at best, and I was still another six weeks from being able to get all the way through without a mistake-- or at least, I hope it's only six weeks.

I bought a giant box of blow pops for Elorza one year, and the box set of MTV's The State another-- both were unexpected and thrilled him. I had Zack bring Holly, at work, a cup of ice coffee on a day when neither of us could leave-- I had asked her what she thought would make her day better, and that was what she listed. I set up a Happy-Birthday-Bill Hotline, and twitter bombed all his favorite celebrities to get him to call it: Felicia Day was the only taker. I knew she'd come through.

I used to have...more people in my life that motivated me to do over-the-top things, people I wanted to spoil. Still, it's time to refocus those efforts, though maybe more economically than I have in the past. See what I can do to brighten a day here and there, and hope that's enough brightness to get through a week. Between that, and whatever goddamn book I decide to buy, maybe I can get somewhere that's...40% more worth being than here.

And if that doesn't work, there's always Jimmy Durante. Come on. Just TRY to be depressed when you listen to this guy.

And you will be happy, too.

On with it.

2012-01-21T09:49:00.000-05:00

Tonight, you stooped to my level.
I'm your mangy little whore.
And you're trying to find your underwear,
And your socks, and then the door.

You're trying to find a reason
Why you have to leave.
I know it's 'cause you think you're Adam.
You think I'm Eve.

I don't know the relevance of this song, right now. It came on as I was listening to iTunes on shuffle, while I was reading old entries of this thing, while I was trying to think of all the messages of my life I've communicated on this thing, think about them in the context of how they came out, think about them in the context of trying to see the truth through the blur that is my language; my eloquence,when I have it. My bias, when I can't escape it.

Are those last few sentences even true? Or did they just sound good? What was I doing what I was reading? Why am I writing now?

There was this time in session with Mr. L, the counselor at Lisbon High School at the time, where we had both been upset by something we were arguing about-- he was a tough love kinda therapist, some of the time. When he needed to be. And he was angry at me, I think, because I was irrationally angry at myself. All at once, he pushed me-- Why do you hate yourself so much?

I don't remember how my response, exactly. But it was a denial, I don't hate myself.

He protested. Yes, you do.

No, I love myself. Can it be that I said that? God, that doesn't sound like me, and maybe it wasn't-- it's unclear now. But I'm clear on the message, if not the exact wording, of what I said next: that I act the way I do because I want other people to love me.

Gosh, I wish I had a journal entry from a time that was closer to that day than now is-- I'm almost sure I wrote one, at some point in the innumerable hours between now and then. I want to know that I got it right, that I understand. My memory, very honestly, is not what it used to be-- hanging out with younger men and their total recall has led me to understand that. Anyway, I know, whatever it was I said, exactly, was that he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arm, and made some kind of noise of sudden understanding. It validated what I was already-- that something in what I said was ultimately true, true and deep in a way we hadn't gotten to before.

Goddamn, but I wish I had that exact conversation right now. How often do we have such revelations in our lifetimes?

The sentiment was more protective than insecure-- that there was a part of me who had developed to shelter this weaker part of me from the hatred and pain I encountered in my youth.

--

I made the decision, just now, to search for some keywords that might bring up an old post in which this conversation was mentioned. I didn't find one; perhaps, I would have, but the first post I found was long, and I read it, wondering if the memory would effect me the way it used to; if all these years later, that day described in the writing, those events could possibly have any ounce of the same power over me: aren't I an adult now? Haven't I worked out so many of my problems?

If I am to judge by the lines of thin, red paint running down my face, the sullied tissues at my side, and this uncomfortable lump in my throat, I'd say "no."

But if I wanted a clear understanding of where that protective part of me came from, if I needed an example of the things I faced in my youth that forced part of me to race towards adulthood and protect my weaker, younger inner self...if I wanted to know why it is that I write, why it is that I go back and read, then it's a better post than most to start with.

That was a link, in case you missed it. And if you didn't read it or didn't click because it was long, because you're just skimming, because you're more interested in the now than the then-- well, how often is the now just a strained reverberation of the then? Still, for your sake, the short version: it's the story of the mostly terrible day when I heard my father say "I love you." It's the story of the fact that that was the only day for years and years before, and, if you're curious, for years and years since.

He said it that day, and I changed a lot that day; but no, he hasn't said it again, and I haven't said it to him. Because how often is the now just a strained reverberation of the then?

I can say it, now, to so many people, and I do. I can tell Dan, Sam, Jeff, Elorza. I can post to facebook that "I miss the guys at Borders and send me love to all", I can tell people with whom I feel just the seeds of love that I know it's growing into it. I can write about love I feel for people who have left my life, wondering if they'll read it-- Casey-- or knowing they will because I can check the visitor stats from this website-- Emily. I can tell my nephews, I can tell my dead grandmother while standing at her grave. Occasionally, I can summon the courage to tell my mother and sister. I can tell Chad, who-- though unmentioned in that post-- was the next person I saw after all of that happened, which was undoubtedly instrumental in readying me for the vastness of what I would feel for him, readying me to feel love for someone utterly unlike my father. And Chad's rejection, in term, readying me to fall for someone who was a halfway point between them, perhaps; Chad's decency and gentleness, coupled, almost impossibly, with my father's erupting temper.

I tell Zack I love him every day. I make him tell me, ask him. I somehow believe that if he says it enough, that will give it more force; train him, almost. Make it true, because he says it's true.

Reverberations.

The day all of that happened, and however many days later, when I wrote the post describing it, and for years after that...I hadn't learned yet, none of us had learned yet of my father's developing diabetes. Of the chemical imbalances in his system that were developing to make his rages all the more raging, to make him all the more thoughtless and impetuous and hurtful. To do to me....all that it did to me. To do to my family all that it did to my family; all those years, building, getting worse, undiagnosed.

And now, diagnosed, there are problems. My father has developed more medical problems, some a great deal more mysterious than diabetes, and it effects how he can be treated, and it effects how much of his nature-- is it is nature?-- how much of his temper and anger can be controlled.

Sometimes, when it's particularly bad, it gets easy to tell how much it's wearing on my mother. The way you can never really just discount something a drunk person says to you-- because isn't it really more likely that it was stewing in their mind the whole time and they just had the sense not to say it than that they didn't mean it at all?-- it's hard for her to ignore, time and time again, his unrefined, animal self.

There's a post I wrote not too long ago, in contrast, about losing faith in love-- there's a link there, of course, but don't feel like you have to read it. The topic isn't explored as deeply as I would like for it it to be, just the fear that I was losing it, and a comparison to the way I lost faith in religion, the way I couldn't get it back no matter how I tried.

To answer your question, if you had it-- I guess I don't really know how I faired in that more recent crisis of faith. Do I believe in love now? Or do I believe that it is a cheap, chemical trick?

I don't know, for sure, but it become all the clearer to me why I ran into the question at all-- for the past six years or so, I have taken to mending my wounds at the hands of my father. Taken to forgiving him for the things that I can, and, at the very least, intending to forgive him for the things that I can't. There are things I've found out about my father that I suspect no one else knows-- things that I believe fill him with a deep, consuming shame that shape his reactions and overreactions. Things that, I believe, might make him have a crisis of love-faith: would anyone love him if they knew?

I do love him; I can say that here, easily enough at the least. But I can't tell him.

I can't tell him that I love him despite all the tormenting shame and the crimes that caused it, can't tell him that I forgive him for who he is, or try. Hell, I can't even tell him I love him without confessing to that damned knowledge, and, if you didn't read it between the lines back there, I know that there's a chance that he's probably dying.

So if I can't summon the bravery to lift just some small amount of weight from his shoulders, to help cut through the suspected lifelong doubt that he was worthy of being known, worthy of being loved despite...well, if I can't grow up enough to do that, then how can I really maintain my anger at what he did to me in my youth?

I mean, I could, I guess. But it seems easier for me to declare it "sqauresies", and pretend that somehow resolves something.

But this was a tirade from my semi-original point-- I have taken to attempting to forgive him, to understand that, and the diabetes has become a tool of mine. It's impossible to know how much of his anger, how much of his screaming and shoving and cold distance was caused by the fluctuating of chemicals and hormones, was caused by a undiagnosed and misunderstood disease; my tendency is therefore to give him the benefit of the doubt.

People underestimate the value of giving people the benefit of the doubt-- you should do it more often. You don't know that the car that just cut you off isn't racing to the hospital to get help for a passenger or to see a loved one in their final moments before they die. You don't know that the cashier who short-changed you isn't grappling a lifelong battle with number dyslexia. You don't know that the person who scratched your car in the parking lot before driving off had any idea that they did it all-- perhaps they were being distracted by the news that their spouse has been diagnosed with cancer.

So why bother being mad?

Ironically enough, I probably developed this deeply-held belief in the practice of calm and forgiving because of my father's temper; because hearing him rail about things that seemed so unimportant made me angry, and made me want to be better than that.

But there is a downfall to this theory of benefit of the doubt, for me at least, and it's one I'm only finding out about tonight, as I write this-- and I was wondering why I felt compelled.

All of this pain in my life, in my family's life. All of these destructive fights, all of scars on the psyche of myself, my sister, my mother, my young nephew who was overhearing them during truly pivotal times of his development-- I'm trying to forgive father, to blame the diabetes where possible. So years and years of pain and suffering and family devastation becomes the fault of...sugar?

My teenaged life was a hell, my adult life is a strained reverberation of that hell, my father suffers, my family suffers, and we're all angry and twisted and trying to make it right; the happiness of my childhood was destroyed by sucrose.

And the more stock I put in that, the more stock I put into all sorts of chemical things. It's easy to notice now when Zack gets too hungry, because he gets grumpily dissatisfied with, seemingly, all of life. Struggled with it for years in the beginning of our marriage, trying to figure out what was what-- now I just feed him and that makes it go away. So, good. A win for that theory. That theory, strengthened.

But if men are susceptible to chemical change, then women, with our ever-changing hormones, so different from men in that aspect-- well, how many of our actions are just the fault of ebbing and rising estrogen, progesterone, testosterone. Not exactly like we're immune to that hunger-anger, either, since we're on self-mandated diets, like, half the time.

And so, now, with a little help from my own estrogen, there are really no women in my life, in an important way. I have a deep distrust for them, and a deep anger that they seem to think themselves so above the base realities of their bodies.

And I, so eager to be different by professing my weakness, both separate myself that way, and group myself back in, distrusting myself all the more. I don't have the self-respect that I should, because I know all too well that many, if not most, of the things I feel are just chemical reactions to what I've eaten, what I've taken, where my cycle is.

So, why, exactly, in this world where my father and husband have been bested by a little molecule of energy, in this world where the women I once revered are just time bombs of hormones and repression, in this world where everyone is just the sum of their physical, chemical parts-- why wouldn't I believe all the less in love?

I survived my love for my father and the hurt that went with it, ultimately, by making love less of....I'd like to write "what it is." I can't do that.

Reverberations.

So again, did I make it through my crisis of love-faith? I don't know. I try not to think about it as often as before, I know that.

I think I've come to stand on the shaky ground that there are two emergent realities-- the one that contains, perhaps, some objective, quantifiable truth. The chemistry of love, the non-existence of right and wrong, the absence or presence of souls, of god, of energy.

And then there's a reality made up of what we experience every day. A reality made up of what we feel, no why we feel it. A reality in which anger is just anger, hurt is just hurt, and-- hopefully more powerful than those, if I am to survive this parallel reality-- love is just love.

You can believe in that first reality, you can talk about it and write about it and help it humble you and ground you and make you more practical and less judgmental and more forgiving, when it fits. But you have to live in that second reality, I guess.

It kind of reminds me something Casey-- who I loved, who I love, who I do not really speak to now-- told me once, about how some important Saint-- perhaps Augustine-- believed simultaneously in free will, and the omnipresent control of God. I'll have to look into that. Maybe I could get love and faith back in one fall swoop. I keep writing it together anyway; love-faith. I like what it represents, and I like the way it sounds: like something you'd read on a Dr. Bronner's soap label.

And now we're back to theology, and maybe somehow, I can work in that song from the beginning, Adam and Eve by Ani DiFranco. Not a song about love-faith, so much, as a song about lust-religion. Or, put another way that's not so different, about regret and shame.

There's a part in that post-- the first one, the important one, though I'll forgive you if you didn't read it-- where my father is trying to explain why he's been so absent all those years: "He told me that most of the time he had only stayed away from me because he thought that was what I had wanted, because he was afraid of messing me up....He kept rambling, almost senselessly, saying over and over again that he of course he loved me, that he wasn't perfect, that I shouldn't allow him to mess me up."

There it is: my father, saying that he didn't want to damage me, saying he'd been trying his best. And here I am, all these years later, never having told him back.

Do I honor him? Am I doing the best I can? Which reality am I really living in, here? Have I become stuck in the reverberations? Or have I, with my love, with my words, with all that I strive to be-- have I ridden those waves to a higher place?

Just do me a favor.
It's the least that you can do.
Just don't treat me like I am
Something that happened to you.

And I am,
I am,
I am truly sorry about all this.

On with it.

2012-01-19T12:03:00.004-05:00

I listened to the Middle School episode of This American Life last night, while working on a painting of a horse-- my resolution for the first part of the New Year is to improve my ability to paint and draw horses and birds, though birds have thus far gone neglected, no surprise. It's hard to beat that pre-pubecsent, Freudian equine fixation out of a girl. Freud, however, and the entire equine population would be sadly disappointed, I imagine. I'm not making the strides with my new medium that I had hoped-- painting has never come exactly natural to me.

The episode-- number 449, available to be listened to here-- was about Middle School. They began the show talking about the neuro-development of early puberty, the middle school years, and how learning in this time period has a unique effect on your life. Linda Perlstein, the author of Not Much, Just Chillin', who researched this developmental stage while writing a book that closely followed the lives of five middle schoolers, had this to say about it:

"This is the time of biggest growth for a human being, aside from infancy...During the middle school years what happens in your early stages of puberty is this vast overproduction of brain cells and connections-- far more than you actually need...So if you think about what you learned, at the early stages of puberty-- I don't know what that was for you. For me, it was tap dancing and french. I know french much better than any language I learned after that, and not because I had a better teacher, I was learning it at the right time. I can still do tap-dances, though I won't, that I learned when I was twelve or thirteen...It's embossed on your existence."

Interesting. This got me thinking about what, precisely, was the most important thing for me in middle school. Certainly, it was the time when writing became more than just a passing thought for me, which can probably be at least partially attributed to my seventh-grade English teacher. But what else was on my mind?

If you knew me back then, you knew the answer. The blond, blue-eyed boy that I met in sixth grade and continued to crush on at least until sophomore year, arguably until graduation. Maybe until today, in some way or another. I've made a point of staying in contact with him all these years, even though our lifestyles don't overlap now, and our social circles were vastly different even then.

Still, he was always nice to me...okay, not always. But how different could I have been today if I had spent the ridiculous amount of time I spent thinking about him back then thinking about somebody with the sadistic whims of the average popular middle school kid?

So I wrote him a note, explaining the episode, and continuing with this:

So I thought back to what I was learning in middle school-- I guess, when I think of it, it was the time when writing started to become really important to me, and it has stayed really important to me. Academically, that's what stands out.

But they made another point in the program: that, perhaps unfortunately, due to these changes and all the hormonal and social chances happening to kids at this age, there's so much drama going on in a middle schooler's life that it's probably the age when they're least likely to learn anything in school-- anything in a textbook, anyway.

There's so much drama and social stuff in a kid's life at that time that many experts think that traditional schooling for kids that age is a waste of time-- nevertheless, being with other kids at that age helps to shape the adult they will become.

So I start to think of what my social life was like in middle school, what my day-to-day interactions were, who I hung out with, who I was thinking about-- and that's where you come in.
I fell for you in sixth grade. You were not, at all, the first popular boy that I'd been crushing on with undeniable hopelessness- there were a parade of them at Marion T. Morse.

But I met you under different circumstances-- Marion T. Morse and Lisbon Elementary had merged for the first time. You were aware of my stature, but didn't really have any preconceived distaste for me. Like most of the boys from Lisbon Elementary, you were just nicer, overall.

And something in that made you different. Something in that made me braver. Perhaps it was sitting in that first four-group desk in Ms. D's class with Jenn and Dan F., the four of us interacting with no real outside pressure or influence. In Mr. M's class, I passed you notes. After school, I'd call you sometimes. When I was brave enough to try to talk to you, you'd talk to me for a while. You didn't seem to see any reason that you shouldn't.

It wasn't like I had a shot, and I wasn't exactly declaring my love. But I knew, you knew, and it was just...okay.

All the rest of my life, my relationships have had a lot of similarities-- I've never felt the need to hide what I feel from people, to play some coy games or keep things to myself. When I'm attracted to someone, I tell them that-- whether or not they're in my league, whether or not they're available to me. When I love someone, I tell them that, too-- and it's okay when they don't say it back.

Interestingly enough, having the confidence to tell someone that's out of my league that I find them hot-- at least, guys-- has changed what my league would have been. Guys like a confident woman, they seem to respond to someone who doesn't play cagey games.

So, I learned how to interact with people that I was drawn to from you-- because you were kind, and (most of the time) didn't make me feel awful about myself, now, as an adult, I'm fearless and straightforward. And I like that about myself.

So I guess I just wanted to say thank you-- whoever you are now, whatever you took out of middle school and beyond, you were a great kid. And you helped to make me a better woman.

The other thing that struck me about this episode is how much it seems to explain about other people in my life-- specifically, in this case, Zack. (My husband, for newcomers)

Zack was home-schooled in middle school-- though not in elementary school or high school. I'd never thought too much about it before now, but what they said in the episode makes a lot of sense. In a time where most people are learning, in the company of other, awkward kids, to deal with their emotions and hormones and figuring out precisely how to interact, figuring out exactly what it is that's going to make them into themselves, Zack spent most of his time, in those years, burning through a day's worth of schoolwork in an hour or so, then spending the rest of the time playing video games in his room.

Today, Zack is very, very good at video games. But he still struggles with expressing himself, with his emotions, and, especially, with making friends and lasting connections with other people.

It's always been hard to discern why-- Zack is eminently likable. No one who spends any time with him ever has anything bad to say-- unless they've been privy to one of his rather loud outbursts while playing a video game, should he start to lose, or suspect he might. But overall, when he does talk, he's boyant, charming, and irreverent in a way that people can't resist-- and when he doesn't talk, they seem somehow intrigued by his charismatic silence.

Still, making friends is difficult for him, and keeping friends has proven almost impossible. Notably, he seems less anxious when surrounded with people who are younger than him, which may have been a result of the fact that his mother ran a day care all throughout the years he was home-schooled, putting him in frequent contact with younger kids.

Sadly, this loneliness seems to have become the defining sorrow of his life, and my closeness to so many people only serves to highlight it, bitterly.

I want to discuss it with him, but I'm frankly not sure I should. I've always put a lot of stock into these neuro-development things, and other biological facts that contribute to who we are and what we can do-- the kinds of things that the masses, I think, like to casually ignore, not willing to be defined by the science of our bodies. I wish I was like that-- I'm all too aware that I'm past the point where it is easy for me to learn new things, that, if I had studied French a few years earlier than I started, I'd be fluent now, because it's when my mind was ready for it. If I had learned to paint back then, would these horses today be realized with full, vibrant beauty? All too often, that knowledge is what discourages me from trying harder-- can I ever be what I might have been? Can I hope to compete with the people of tomorrow, whose parents and teachers will understand these important truths far better than I ever did?

And, Zack, too often pessimistic-- maybe he'll find the information interesting and satisfying: a reason he struggles the way he does, something concrete and scientific and not at all his fault, something to motivate him to work harder towards what he wants to be. Or, more likely, he could take it as just one more point against him, a scientific bottom line proving that he missed the popularity train.

I suppose all I can do is keep working on my shoddy French, keep painting my disappointing horses, and hope to set a good example, that maybe, just maybe, it's worth it to keep trying. Maybe I can paint him a picture that will be worth looking at.

On with it.

2012-01-11T06:22:00.001-05:00

It was pages of a notebook with scribbled red writing.

If I had to track it back to where it all really began to go wrong, I guess, upon inspection, I'd have to say it was there.

Tucked into a drawer, I believe, in a green desk in my room. The largest, if I'm not mistaken, on the bottom. I'd written it weeks before, maybe in a study hall at school, and she'd seen it. She'd seen my quick, harsh reaction to her glancing at it, she'd heard me forbid her to read it. I may as well have told her it was the holy grail.

I don't think she ever intended to find it-- I could be wrong, I suppose, but I believe it was an honest mistake. And who could have controlled their curiosity once it was in their hands?

So she read it. Alone, in my room, while I was gone.

There's this thing I understand about myself now, and must have understood even then. These tiny seeds of doubt get stuck in my mind, and they grow and they grow until I commit them to words. Then, often, they dissipate. It's a tendency that has lead me to have to confess some thoughts that I wish I never had to share-- and doing so, I regret, has done some damage to those who have had to hear them, sometimes.

But these doubts, I knew I could never share with her.

I knew it wasn't worth it. I knew they were the children of confusion and fear and societal pressures, I knew they were more about how I thought I should feel, than how I felt. Most of all, I knew they weren't important enough to be spoken, and I knew that she was too important to hurt.

"When I was young, I knew everything..."

So I wrote them down. In that damn, red ink, that made them so vulgarly conspicuous, so easy to see at first, so easy to remember when she saw them again-- red, like a target. Red, like the burning, destructive flames that they were.

People I've related the story to have told me that she was the one who should be sorry, that she invaded my privacy, and that I had every right to express myself. At the time, I thought they were so short-sighted. The reality is that I hate written hateful, hurtful things on paper, and was careless about it, and she suffered for it. She suffered more for it than I ever would, more than I could ever predict she would. I apologized then, I tried to explain. But there's only so much damage you can really undo. What a betrayal-- to cut into the beautifying glow of early love with ugly words, to make someone doubt every time you tell them how you feel.

Privacy? What a trivial idea, in the grand scheme of things.

Then again, I'm suffering along with her now. So maybe I add the privacy thing along in the list of things that I try not to be me mad at her for.

It was the beginning of the end in the short term-- when it ended, she made me feel like I was the one being rejected, because I never knew just how completely I had made her feel rejected in the first place. At that age, I couldn't comprehend what I had started. When she lied and told me that everything that had happened didn't mean that much, I believed her.

I believed her, and after a harsh, broken-hearted time, I started going on with my life. And she, who ended our relationship with a lie, never had the opportunity to believe anything clear. All she knew was the red ink of my doubts versus the blank ink of a hundred notes passed between us that told her I felt just the opposite.

I guess she spent the next however many years loving me. I don't recall that I knew, clearly, back then that that's what was happening. I don't believe I ever understood, and even now, it's hard to fully grasp the damage someone takes being rejected by someone who doesn't know they're rejecting. The attraction never really dissipated, and things happened. Maybe we were both fighting to be validated by the other-- both of us had been hurt.

I don't know. We were kids. We were stupid. Both our hands were stained with that damned, red ink.

"We tried to wash our hands of all of this..."

About a million things happened between then and the day I had to write my final note to her-- a lot of them contributed. But, rereading the last of our correspondences now, I can see the red letters between the lines-- she wrote of things that happened in our past that she never really got over, things that we would have to work on when we were done with this break that we were on for reasons that were supposed to have been unrelated.

The truth is, nothing is really unrelated. It's a domino effect. For a brief time, one summer, I gave her some of the confidence that she'd lacked all her life; then, all at once, I took it away and more. You don't just, get over that.

"Now I'm guilt-stricken, sobbing, with my head on the floor."

So now it's, I don't know how many years later....twelve, thirteen. The girl I was closer to than any other in my life, for most of the life that I remember, is gone. Because of a series of mistakes we made before we could begin to understand what the hell we were doing.

There were a lot of factors. There were things that she did that angered me, anger me now. They aren't worth talking about, not now, not with this beautiful song playing in the background and me feeling this melancholy longing.

It came down to a decision on my part. I don't know what to say about what I why I made it-- that I was hurting more deeply than I could make her understand, that I was trapped in a fight where I wasn't allowed to throw a punch, that all of my instincts were telling me to do things that could only make everything worse.

What I can say about the decision is this: I lost one of the best friends I ever had. I miss her...not quite every day, because, by sheer force of will, there are days that I avoid thinking about it. I love her, I always will. I often wake up from dreams about us finally being friends again, when I do sleep-- and I have doubts, enormous doubts, that keep me up a lot of nights. Doubts-- we all know what damage they can do.

I have doubts about my decision, and they get stuck in my mind, and they grow until I commit them to words. Having done that now, what I can say about my decision is this: If I had to do it again, I would make the same decision.

It was the only one that was right at the time. It was the only thing I could do, given the circumstances-- the adult thing to do. The thing that caused the least amount of damage for both of us. Because I caused enough of it already, all those years ago.

"For the life of me, I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins. We were merely freshmen."

On with it.

2011-09-05T04:12:00.002-04:00

It was a summer filled of hypotheticals. Dreams, you might say. Maybe we weren't so committed to them all, but they were fun to play out, to carry through in our heads where we couldn't in real life. Maybe it got a little bittersweet to let them go, to admit they were just pretend.

I want to say that it evolved slowly-- first a band, then a partnership, then something more. But that wasn't how it was, really. It went from one thing to something else, lightening fast.

Maybe because I was so enamored with how it felt, at first. That first song. I fell a little in love with you watching that song, over and over again. Because I liked how you reacted to me. Because I loved how confident I seemed, how good I sounded.

There was something in that band, something in that partnership, and I wanted more of it.

So fine, we fell in love. We replaced the hypotheticals of album covers and tour dates with baby names and songs to walk down the aisle to-- we chose the same one, of course, because it all really started with that song, you and I.

We knew none of these things could really play out. Nothing had been realistic from the harmony to the honeymoon-- these are all things in your future, not mine.

And they are in your future-- not just the future love, but the music. It is yours. It's so thoroughly yours that it could never really be mine.

You don't know how you hurt me tonight, and the truth is, I don't either. Was it because, starting from the very beginning, before you'd even begun to play, you told me that you wanted to run away from your life to make music, and would I do it with you?-- and now it seems so clear that I'm unnecessary and burdensome in that plan. Or was it because it's the perfect metaphor for everything else-- your future, so passionate and exciting and all before you, and I, I'm just some jumping-off point. Someone who was never really meant to be your partner.

If I had to guess, I think it was because you were the only person I was ever really comfortable singing with, even from the very beginning, from so long ago. And now I think I've really lost that. There were signs it was slipping. Those times we tried to record and we couldn't; I was losing confidence. I wanted to make it look like I was just too distracted by the rush of being with you, but I couldn't let you see how scared I was to open up.

Maybe this whole romance was a distraction-- so you wouldn't really notice I didn't have anything to offer the band. Well, it worked, for a while. Maybe I fooled us both.

I don't know if I've made it clear how badly I used to want what it is your going for now-- you tell me that this, this here, this in front of you, this is my real art, and I'm so good at it. But I never really thought of this as anything more than a distraction from the things I wanted. The things they all told me I couldn't do.

Dreams, you might say.

And you, you told me I could have them. But every time you pick up that six-stringed sadist, it's clear that I can't; not the way you can. Not the way you will.

I warned you, that guitar was going to be a problem.

On with it.

2011-08-17T02:04:00.000-04:00

I'm pretty sure no one will read this, but I'll post this....maybe as something as a tribute. Until I can find something to say about it, it should be known that this has been Dan's summer.

Among other things, this shit is why I love him.

FieryGwenivere: (12:57:11 AM)Jesus, you're pulling out the Leonard Cohen?

iamtehleetness: (12:57:30 AM)Jeff Buckley in my case

FieryGwenivere: (12:57:42 AM)well, Leonard Cohen wrote it

iamtehleetness: (12:57:56 AM)eh, the performance sells it for me

FieryGwenivere: (12:57:56 AM)so when you quote it, you're quoting Leonard Cohen

FieryGwenivere: (12:58:04 AM)Let me try this again

FieryGwenivere: (12:58:13 AM)Jesus, you're pulling out the Leonard Cohen lyrics?

FieryGwenivere: (12:58:42 AM)And that's not fair. Jeff Buckley did a beautiful version of the song, but without Leonard Cohen, there's no song to do a beautiful version of

iamtehleetness: (12:59:11 AM)I recognize that it's a cover, but Jeff Buckley's version is the only one that matters to me

FieryGwenivere: (12:59:22 AM)Rufus Wainwright, motherfucker

iamtehleetness: (12:59:24 AM)Yeah, Cohens was the first, but in my mind Buckley's was the best

iamtehleetness: (12:59:35 AM)again, best

iamtehleetness: (12:59:49 AM)though I did like Shrek

FieryGwenivere: (1:00:00 AM)I prefer Rufus Wainwright, but it was the first version I'd heard

FieryGwenivere: (1:00:09 AM)and I also have....strong associations with people I'm found of

iamtehleetness: (1:00:27 AM)is that the english spelling?

FieryGwenivere: (1:00:39 AM).....fond

iamtehleetness: (1:00:39 AM)and by english I mean british

FieryGwenivere: (1:00:48 AM)no, that's me being tired

iamtehleetness: (1:00:48 AM)it does have some colour to it

iamtehleetness: (1:01:06 AM)I had a ridiculously long day today, and on my way home that popped up

iamtehleetness: (1:01:12 AM)so I listened to it all the way through

iamtehleetness: (1:01:27 AM)and I usually quote another couplet, so I thought I'd change it up

FieryGwenivere: (1:01:51 AM)If there were a fight for the official best song of all time, it would certainly have a place in the finals

iamtehleetness: (1:02:36 AM)I'm trying to think of what would be in that fight

FieryGwenivere: (1:03:02 AM)I submit ...Bohemian Rhapsody

FieryGwenivere: (1:03:09 AM)Ave Maria

FieryGwenivere: (1:03:24 AM)Maybe....Moonlight Sonata

iamtehleetness: (1:03:40 AM)Beethoven's 5th

FieryGwenivere: (1:03:42 AM)Piano Man

FieryGwenivere: (1:04:01 AM)I honestly don't know which one Beethoven's 5th is

iamtehleetness: (1:04:08 AM)dun dun dun DUNNNNN

FieryGwenivere: (1:04:18 AM)Paint it Black

FieryGwenivere: (1:04:29 AM)Eh. Never been fond of it, I think

FieryGwenivere: (1:04:40 AM)What a Wonderful World

iamtehleetness: (1:04:50 AM)oh god, that song makes me tear up sometimes

FieryGwenivere: (1:04:56 AM)Smells like Teen Spirit

iamtehleetness: (1:05:24 AM)I submit Otherside

FieryGwenivere: (1:05:33 AM)I always thought that if I was going to make a mix CD with the goal in mind to make every one...wait, the anal sex song?

iamtehleetness: (1:05:54 AM)okay...what?

FieryGwenivere: (1:06:01 AM)I always thought that if I was going to make a mix CD with the goal in mind to make every one who listened to it cry, I would definitely end it with "What a Wonderful World"

FieryGwenivere: (1:06:07 AM)what is Otherside?

FieryGwenivere: (1:06:25 AM)yeah, that's the anal sex song

iamtehleetness: (1:06:26 AM)RHCP, Californication

iamtehleetness: (1:06:30 AM)is that really?

FieryGwenivere: (1:06:32 AM)yeah

FieryGwenivere: (1:06:35 AM)it's about anal sex

iamtehleetness: (1:06:56 AM)by the way, my thought process when I read your IM was really confused

FieryGwenivere: (1:07:03 AM)I kinda really don't like that song that much

iamtehleetness: (1:07:16 AM)because I saw "mix CD to make everyone" and then I saw "anal sex"

FieryGwenivere: (1:07:16 AM)I want to block the nomination, it's not a great song at all

FieryGwenivere: (1:07:59 AM)Oh, I had one of those moments the other night where I go from kinda liking a song to loving it, for the first time

FieryGwenivere: (1:08:07 AM)something by Tracy Chapman, what was it...

FieryGwenivere: (1:08:30 AM)you know what, whatever it was, I don't have it

FieryGwenivere: (1:08:35 AM)oh, Give me One Reason

iamtehleetness: (1:08:45 AM)not to be crude, but I think you're talking out your ass on the whole Otherside thing

FieryGwenivere: (1:08:48 AM)I'm not submitting it, but it was a good moment

FieryGwenivere: (1:09:00 AM)no, like, it was well understood when I was in high school that it was about anal sex

iamtehleetness: (1:09:15 AM)maybe to your addled teenage high school brain

iamtehleetness: (1:09:22 AM)pretty sure it's about addiction

iamtehleetness: (1:09:30 AM)as are like 60% of Kiedis' lyrics

FieryGwenivere: (1:09:47 AM)Anal. Sex.

iamtehleetness: (1:10:04 AM)Is it wrong to submit "Tribute" to the list?

iamtehleetness: (1:10:06 AM)by Tenacious D

iamtehleetness: (1:10:25 AM)but yeah, definitely not about anal sex

FieryGwenivere: (1:11:06 AM)Jesus christ, yes, it's wrong

FieryGwenivere: (1:11:15 AM)These are the best songs of all time!

FieryGwenivere: (1:11:27 AM)if you're going with a comedy song, it almost has to be Weird Al

iamtehleetness: (1:11:39 AM)"This is not the greatest song in the world, this is just at tribute"

iamtehleetness: (1:11:44 AM)it's a pretty good song on it's own

iamtehleetness: (1:11:53 AM)steals the chord progression and everything

iamtehleetness: (1:12:01 AM)as for another nomination, L-O-V-E Nat King Cole

FieryGwenivere: (1:12:12 AM)not even, it's not even the best Nat King Cole song

FieryGwenivere: (1:12:21 AM)I mean, I like it

iamtehleetness: (1:12:25 AM)this isn't about the best Nat King Cole song

iamtehleetness: (1:12:29 AM)it's about the greatest songs

iamtehleetness: (1:12:35 AM)best song of all time

FieryGwenivere: (1:12:42 AM)Right, but it can't be the best song of all time if it's not even the greatest song by him

iamtehleetness: (1:12:57 AM)you're twisted

FieryGwenivere: (1:13:05 AM)What do you mean?

FieryGwenivere: (1:13:37 AM)Okay, I'm not familiar enough with Otherside to say what it IS or ISN'T about, just that, when I was in high school, everyone referred to it as "the anal sex song"

FieryGwenivere: (1:14:06 AM)I give a shit what it's really about, I never liked it

iamtehleetness: (1:14:11 AM)Foxey Lady, Hendrix

FieryGwenivere: (1:14:18 AM)yeah, I'll give you that one

FieryGwenivere: (1:14:27 AM)though Brick House probably belongs on there, too

iamtehleetness: (1:14:53 AM)hmm

iamtehleetness: (1:15:21 AM)ALL DUBSTEP EVER

iamtehleetness: (1:15:22 AM)hehhhhhhh

FieryGwenivere: (1:15:27 AM)I think Sinatra needs some representation, though I frankly always preferred Dean Martin

FieryGwenivere: (1:16:19 AM)I'd go for The Lady is a Tramp if I had to pick, but I could be swayed otherwise

iamtehleetness: (1:16:43 AM)I do feel compelled to nominate something by Zeppelin, even though I know you'd be opposed to Stairway

FieryGwenivere: (1:16:57 AM)Jesus, what IS the best Nat King Cole song? Unforgettable? Stardust? Orange-Colored Sky?

FieryGwenivere: (1:17:10 AM)No, Stairway belongs on there

FieryGwenivere: (1:17:15 AM)It's iconic, beloved

FieryGwenivere: (1:17:34 AM)and honestly, I probably just give you shit about it. Oh, we need Pink Floyd.

iamtehleetness: (1:17:41 AM)Comfortable Numb

FieryGwenivere: (1:17:43 AM)And....Born to Run by Springsteen, probably

iamtehleetness: (1:17:46 AM)ughhh

FieryGwenivere: (1:17:47 AM)Comfortably

iamtehleetness: (1:17:49 AM)that song sucks so much dick

FieryGwenivere: (1:17:55 AM)No, it so doesn;t

FieryGwenivere: (1:18:02 AM)I didn't get it before

FieryGwenivere: (1:18:08 AM)but I went through one of those moments

iamtehleetness: (1:18:09 AM)yes, it really does. It's nowhere near as good as people think it is

FieryGwenivere: (1:18:19 AM)when I watched the opening to the....grammies....emmies....gah

FieryGwenivere: (1:18:42 AM)Fine, but you can't NOT have Springsteen....I personally think "The River" is a better song, but it's just not right for the list

iamtehleetness: (1:18:58 AM)by the way, Unforgettable is definitely the best of the ones you listed

FieryGwenivere: (1:19:00 AM)Glory Days is well liked, but it sucks

iamtehleetness: (1:19:01 AM)I love that song

FieryGwenivere: (1:19:04 AM)Stardust is awesome

iamtehleetness: (1:19:24 AM)Unforgettable has the style though, I love the groove

FieryGwenivere: (1:19:25 AM)hmmm, I do not have Unforgettable...what is wrong with me?

FieryGwenivere: (1:19:46 AM)The original, or the Natalie Cole reworking?

iamtehleetness: (1:19:51 AM)original

iamtehleetness: (1:19:56 AM)the bass and piano work so well together

FieryGwenivere: (1:20:00 AM)I'm a sucked for both, I think

iamtehleetness: (1:20:30 AM)Exit Music For a Film?

iamtehleetness: (1:20:32 AM)hmmmm

FieryGwenivere: (1:20:40 AM)okay, we have depressingly few songs by women

FieryGwenivere: (1:20:42 AM)sooooo

iamtehleetness: (1:20:44 AM)How to Disappear Completely is probably more iconic

FieryGwenivere: (1:20:52 AM)Crazy by Patsy Cline without a doubt

FieryGwenivere: (1:20:57 AM)I have never heard of any of those

iamtehleetness: (1:21:02 AM)Radiohead

FieryGwenivere: (1:21:03 AM)either, rather

FieryGwenivere: (1:21:05 AM)oh, okay

FieryGwenivere: (1:21:09 AM)if it's radiohead, I won't argue

FieryGwenivere: (1:21:29 AM)I thought it was some underground emo shit that only you and twelve other people have ever heard of

iamtehleetness: (1:21:40 AM)..

iamtehleetness: (1:21:58 AM)like a meat cleaver, your wit is

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:05 AM)What's the best Buddy Holly song?

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:12 AM)I think maybe Everyday

iamtehleetness: (1:22:15 AM)I know no Buddy Holly

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:15 AM)or...Every Day

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:17 AM)whatever it is

iamtehleetness: (1:22:18 AM)unless it's really mainstream

iamtehleetness: (1:22:23 AM)and I didn't know it was by him

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:42 AM)ah, you need to listen to Every Day right now

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:49 AM)this is the earliest song I remember being my favorite song

FieryGwenivere: (1:22:57 AM)I think it was my favorite when I was, like, four

FieryGwenivere: (1:23:07 AM)that and "Grandma's Feather Bed" by John Denver

iamtehleetness: (1:23:09 AM)oh yeah

iamtehleetness: (1:23:11 AM)I know this song

FieryGwenivere: (1:23:35 AM)I almost would argue that Annie's Song belongs on the list, but I'm not sure how skewed my perception of John Denver's importance is

iamtehleetness: (1:23:50 AM)hardon

FieryGwenivere: (1:24:08 AM)Uhm.....I gave you a hard on by talking about John Denver?

iamtehleetness: (1:24:14 AM)No, you have a hardon

iamtehleetness: (1:24:16 AM)for John Denver

FieryGwenivere: (1:24:40 AM)Well, I....I think he was pretty huge with a certain crowd in a certain time period. But I'm not positive

FieryGwenivere: (1:24:55 AM)Then again, he did that song....shit....

iamtehleetness: (1:25:02 AM)what about Tiny Dancer!

iamtehleetness: (1:25:09 AM)Hold me closer tiny dancer...

FieryGwenivere: (1:25:15 AM)What's that song that's always...oh yeah, well, I would go with Maybe Rocket Man?

iamtehleetness: (1:25:24 AM)oh, yeah probably

FieryGwenivere: (1:25:32 AM)What's that song they play in Final Destination?

FieryGwenivere: (1:25:40 AM)Though Crocodile Rock is pretty fucking great as well

iamtehleetness: (1:25:43 AM)I've never seen the original

iamtehleetness: (1:25:53 AM)just the 2nd and 3rd, I actually liked the 2nd

FieryGwenivere: (1:26:05 AM)shit, I do not have enough John Denver on this computer

FieryGwenivere: (1:26:35 AM)I don't know if it's the....Almost heaven, west virginia. Blue ridge mountains, shenandoa river! Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains...!

iamtehleetness: (1:26:55 AM)I feel eminem should be on this list somewhere

FieryGwenivere: (1:26:56 AM)oh wait, it might be...Rocky Mountain High

iamtehleetness: (1:26:59 AM)he has some really good songs

FieryGwenivere: (1:27:18 AM)But what is his best/most iconic song?

iamtehleetness: (1:27:25 AM)best? I'd say Stan

iamtehleetness: (1:27:33 AM)just because the sample is perfect, and the lyrics are really really good

FieryGwenivere: (1:27:37 AM)Stan is just barely a song

FieryGwenivere: (1:27:43 AM)it's....more a performance piece

iamtehleetness: (1:27:59 AM)eh, iconic

iamtehleetness: (1:28:05 AM)what was his first big release? what was it called?

FieryGwenivere: (1:28:07 AM)It's a dido song with some speaking parts

iamtehleetness: (1:28:21 AM)drank a fifth of vodka, dare me to drive?

iamtehleetness: (1:28:25 AM)fuck, what was it called

FieryGwenivere: (1:28:32 AM)uhm...If there's no reason why a man and another man...oh, we're on two different songs

iamtehleetness: (1:28:40 AM)can't elope

iamtehleetness: (1:28:40 AM)haha

iamtehleetness: (1:28:48 AM)that's...the real slim shady

FieryGwenivere: (1:28:49 AM)my name is

iamtehleetness: (1:28:51 AM)that was meh

iamtehleetness: (1:28:52 AM)yeah

iamtehleetness: (1:28:56 AM)that's a great song

iamtehleetness: (1:29:14 AM)I didn't like The Real Slim Shady

FieryGwenivere: (1:29:17 AM)I like Eminem, I'm not sure he belongs on the list

iamtehleetness: (1:29:27 AM)oh, we're forgetting a really important song

FieryGwenivere: (1:29:29 AM)I definitely like The Real Slim Shady, but I'm not submitting it

FieryGwenivere: (1:29:42 AM)I was never familiar with My Name Is

iamtehleetness: (1:29:49 AM)Photograph by Nickelback, how could we forget that?

FieryGwenivere: (1:29:58 AM)AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

iamtehleetness: (1:30:00 AM)classic

FieryGwenivere: (1:30:08 AM)Are you? Please fucking kill me

FieryGwenivere: (1:30:17 AM)No one who has seen me naked is allowed to believe that

iamtehleetness: (1:30:31 AM)what? The rhymes are really clever

FieryGwenivere: (1:30:35 AM)Are you?

FieryGwenivere: (1:30:38 AM)You are trolling

FieryGwenivere: (1:30:41 AM)You fucking troll

iamtehleetness: (1:30:43 AM)hahahaha

FieryGwenivere: (1:30:59 AM)Jesus christ dan

FieryGwenivere: (1:31:06 AM)I was about to burn my vagina off

iamtehleetness: (1:31:25 AM)it's too easy with you

iamtehleetness: (1:31:35 AM)at least online

iamtehleetness: (1:31:41 AM)not hard to be a troll on AIM

FieryGwenivere: (1:32:13 AM)yeah, well. You're taking a hit on just having typed that sentence

FieryGwenivere: (1:32:16 AM)jesus

FieryGwenivere: (1:32:26 AM)Anyway. My Name Is does not make the list

FieryGwenivere: (1:32:46 AM)it's definitely not the best Eminem song and it's not his most iconic either, considering I honestly think I've only heard it like twice

FieryGwenivere: (1:33:07 AM)And yes, that clearly matters

iamtehleetness: (1:33:13 AM)obviously

FieryGwenivere: (1:33:26 AM)Christ, though, I had one a second ago

FieryGwenivere: (1:33:31 AM)somethign that REALLY belonged on the list, what was it?

iamtehleetness: (1:33:44 AM)you're gonna think I'm pretentious, but Prelude in C Sharp Minor by Rakhmaninov

FieryGwenivere: (1:33:45 AM)Oh

FieryGwenivere: (1:34:01 AM)You Can Tell by the Way I walk that I'm a Woman's Man, no time to talk....Stayin' Alive

FieryGwenivere: (1:34:08 AM)Also, Let's Get it On by Marvin Gaye

iamtehleetness: (1:34:14 AM)hah

iamtehleetness: (1:34:31 AM)that's only on there because of how often it's been played during sex

FieryGwenivere: (1:34:44 AM)No, I totally believe that Prelude in C Sharp Minor gets your Rahk's maninov....

FieryGwenivere: (1:35:33 AM)(gets your rocks off, in case that wasn't clear)

iamtehleetness: (1:35:39 AM)oh, was that it?

FieryGwenivere: (1:35:58 AM)We need more women

iamtehleetness: (1:35:58 AM)Blister in the Sun

FieryGwenivere: (1:36:05 AM)Respect by Aretha Franklin

FieryGwenivere: (1:36:12 AM)Uhm? Blister in the what now? who is this?

iamtehleetness: (1:36:19 AM)Violent Femmes

iamtehleetness: (1:36:28 AM)When I'm walkin I strut my stuff and I'm so strung out

iamtehleetness: (1:36:35 AM)maybe not best of all time, but that line is iconic as hell

FieryGwenivere: (1:36:41 AM)Uh? Sure

FieryGwenivere: (1:36:45 AM)never heard it

iamtehleetness: (1:37:01 AM)oh, if Paint It Black is on there then Sunshine of Your Love is on there

FieryGwenivere: (1:37:23 AM)Okay, sure. Haven't heard of it

FieryGwenivere: (1:37:34 AM)Oh shit, we don't have any Simon & Garfunkel

iamtehleetness: (1:37:41 AM)Only Living Boy?

FieryGwenivere: (1:37:47 AM)probably Sound of Silence, though it's not my personal favorite

FieryGwenivere: (1:38:06 AM)You gotta stop mentioning songs I've never heard of, it's making the conversation much less itneresting for me

iamtehleetness: (1:38:14 AM)Only Living Boy in New York

iamtehleetness: (1:38:19 AM)It's a Simon and Garfunkel song

FieryGwenivere: (1:38:23 AM)hmmm

FieryGwenivere: (1:38:30 AM)Not one I've heard

FieryGwenivere: (1:38:54 AM)Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison? Or...was that even good?

iamtehleetness: (1:39:00 AM)ehhhh

FieryGwenivere: (1:39:24 AM)Closer by NIN

FieryGwenivere: (1:39:44 AM)Best Theme Song nominations

FieryGwenivere: (1:39:54 AM)Cheers

FieryGwenivere: (1:40:07 AM)you know what? I think that may be the only one we need....

iamtehleetness: (1:40:16 AM)um

iamtehleetness: (1:40:43 AM)I've never heard a theme song and really loved it

iamtehleetness: (1:40:46 AM)so I can't really participate

FieryGwenivere: (1:40:48 AM)oh, we have no Metallica. I have a lot of friends who would be super pissed at me. My favorite is The Unforgiven II, but for the purposes of the list, probably Enter Sandman

FieryGwenivere: (1:40:50 AM)what?

FieryGwenivere: (1:40:51 AM)what?

FieryGwenivere: (1:40:52 AM)WHAT?

iamtehleetness: (1:41:09 AM)maybe Happy Days? I dunno

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:14 AM)You know what's a truly great song? The Wr......

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:16 AM)Happy day?s

iamtehleetness: (1:41:20 AM)I dont fucking know

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:22 AM)Monday, tuesday, Happy Days?

iamtehleetness: (1:41:30 AM)that's the only theme song that springs to mind!

iamtehleetness: (1:41:38 AM)I dont remember shows for their themes!

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:45 AM)What about....I mean, there are a thousand great ones

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:52 AM)I think Cheers wins is by default

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:55 AM)by Sesame Street

FieryGwenivere: (1:41:57 AM)*but

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:00 AM)uhm....

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:13 AM)You could make an argument for Family guy well before Happy Days

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:18 AM)The Office

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:24 AM)Full House

iamtehleetness: (1:42:31 AM)A thousand great ones and you bust out Sesame Street and Family Guy

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:32 AM)The Golden Girls

iamtehleetness: (1:42:33 AM)I'm sold

iamtehleetness: (1:42:42 AM)pausenot

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:49 AM)SUNNY DAYS! CHASING MY....CARS AWAY

FieryGwenivere: (1:42:51 AM)....cares

FieryGwenivere: (1:43:07 AM)I Dream of Jeannie, I Love Lucy

iamtehleetness: (1:43:12 AM)Can you tell me how to get

iamtehleetness: (1:43:16 AM)how to get to Sesame Street?

iamtehleetness: (1:43:24 AM)I watch that show far too often

FieryGwenivere: (1:43:32 AM)I haven't seen it in far too long

FieryGwenivere: (1:43:37 AM)come over and let's watch sesame street

FieryGwenivere: (1:43:41 AM)oh, Fraggle Rock

iamtehleetness: (1:43:48 AM)Gulla Gulla Island!!

FieryGwenivere: (1:43:52 AM)...

iamtehleetness: (1:43:54 AM)=p

FieryGwenivere: (1:43:58 AM)Okay, well

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:04 AM)you COULD make a very good argument

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:07 AM)for Gilligan's Island

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:18 AM)or MASH

iamtehleetness: (1:44:30 AM)you're naming so many shows that I've really never seen

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:36 AM)....

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:40 AM)you goddamn younguns

iamtehleetness: (1:44:44 AM)I grew up on Adult Swim

iamtehleetness: (1:44:45 AM)what can I say

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:47 AM)Fine

iamtehleetness: (1:44:47 AM)Oh!!

iamtehleetness: (1:44:49 AM)ATHF

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:49 AM)then

iamtehleetness: (1:44:51 AM)haha

FieryGwenivere: (1:44:53 AM)MY NAME IS SHAKE ZULA

iamtehleetness: (1:44:54 AM)that's a nomination by me

iamtehleetness: (1:44:58 AM)THE MIC RULA

iamtehleetness: (1:45:00 AM)OLD SCHOOLA

FieryGwenivere: (1:45:17 AM)YOU WANNA...wait, what's that word?

iamtehleetness: (1:45:27 AM)You wanna trip, I'll give it to ya

iamtehleetness: (1:45:29 AM)or trick

iamtehleetness: (1:45:31 AM)or tip

iamtehleetness: (1:45:32 AM)not sure which

FieryGwenivere: (1:45:40 AM)FRYLOCK AND I'M ON TOP ROCK YOU LIKE A COCK

iamtehleetness: (1:45:41 AM)Frylock and I'm on top rock you like a cock

iamtehleetness: (1:45:48 AM)meatwad you're up next with tha knock knockkkkk

FieryGwenivere: (1:45:53 AM)Meat wad with the honey, G

iamtehleetness: (1:45:58 AM)meatwad get the money see

FieryGwenivere: (1:46:03 AM)Riding in my car

iamtehleetness: (1:46:06 AM)drivin like a star

FieryGwenivere: (1:46:15 AM)ice on my fingers and my toes and I'm a taaaaaurrrrrrus

iamtehleetness: (1:46:16 AM)ice on my fingers and my toes and I'm a taurus

iamtehleetness: (1:46:22 AM)haha

FieryGwenivere: (1:46:23 AM)AH, check check it

FieryGwenivere: (1:46:37 AM)see, I started typing it BEFORE you said ATHF

iamtehleetness: (1:46:43 AM)fuck watching Sesame Street

iamtehleetness: (1:46:46 AM)let's watch ATHF

iamtehleetness: (1:46:49 AM)GENTLEMEN

iamtehleetness: (1:46:50 AM)BEHOLD

FieryGwenivere: (1:46:56 AM)Nah, I'm only....sometimes into it

FieryGwenivere: (1:47:01 AM)I really have to be in the right frame of mind

FieryGwenivere: (1:47:04 AM)since I don't smoke pot

FieryGwenivere: (1:47:10 AM)but I could get into watching archer abou tnow

FieryGwenivere: (1:47:38 AM)It still shocks me how much I love that show

iamtehleetness: (1:47:44 AM)I saw a season finale to Venture Bros once while high and I couldn't stop laughing

FieryGwenivere: (1:47:54 AM)I honestly....it MIGHT eclipse Venture Bros., one of these days

FieryGwenivere: (1:48:08 AM)God, I love Venture Bros.

FieryGwenivere: (1:48:12 AM)I love them both so much

iamtehleetness: (1:48:18 AM)Archer is consistently funny, Venture Bros is only funny half the time

iamtehleetness: (1:48:23 AM)but when it's funny it's fucking hilarious

FieryGwenivere: (1:48:27 AM)COLORADO ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH! I'VE SEEN IT RAIN AND FIRE IN THE SKY

FieryGwenivere: (1:48:39 AM)No, Venture Bros. is always funny

FieryGwenivere: (1:48:51 AM)but it's funny in a lot of subtler ways

iamtehleetness: (1:49:19 AM)it's like the emo underground shit of television shows that only you and twelve other people think is funny

iamtehleetness: (1:49:30 AM)it's so subtle

FieryGwenivere: (1:49:42 AM)bullshit, you love that show too

iamtehleetness: (1:49:51 AM)of course I do, I'm just making fun of you

FieryGwenivere: (1:50:21 AM)Best Beatles song?

iamtehleetness: (1:50:30 AM)hmm

iamtehleetness: (1:50:32 AM)that's tough

FieryGwenivere: (1:50:46 AM)my favorite is, honestly, When I'm Sixty-Four

FieryGwenivere: (1:51:01 AM)but I'd probably nominate Across the Universe

iamtehleetness: (1:51:24 AM)I like Harrison more than the other three combined

FieryGwenivere: (1:51:28 AM)Hey Jude and Imagine are both so overrated they make me want to piss on Lennon's grave

iamtehleetness: (1:51:39 AM)so I'd nominate While My Guitar Gently Weeps

iamtehleetness: (1:51:58 AM)Happiness is a Warm Gun too, they're both so good musically

FieryGwenivere: (1:52:01 AM)I honestly don't know that I've ever listened to that with any modicum of intention

iamtehleetness: (1:52:21 AM)did you say that because I lauded you for using the word 'modicum'?

FieryGwenivere: (1:52:29 AM)no, I just...I use the word

FieryGwenivere: (1:52:35 AM)it's a word I use

FieryGwenivere: (1:53:05 AM)should "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" kick Paint it Black of the list? that's a tough call for me

FieryGwenivere: (1:54:02 AM)Somewhere Over the Rainbow belongs in there

FieryGwenivere: (1:54:15 AM)California Dreamin'

iamtehleetness signed off at 1:54 AM.

FieryGwenivere: (1:54:37 AM)bullshit, Bridgman, we're finishing this!

FieryGwenivere: (1:55:05 AM)Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell

FieryGwenivere: (1:55:12 AM)oh jesus

FieryGwenivere: (1:55:24 AM)We've left off American Pie, what the fuck?

FieryGwenivere: (1:56:04 AM)Best Johnny Cash? Folsom Prison Blues, maybe? Boy Named Sue?

FieryGwenivere: (1:56:30 AM)How dare you make me do this alone

I <3.

On with it.

2011-06-26T01:37:00.001-04:00

I am in my grandmother's house. It's the weekend of the yearly St. Peter's Fiesta, and Zack and I are spending the night here before tomorrow, the day when everything happens. In the morning there is a mass, which I never go to, then the "parade", which is actually a religious procession, and all the floats are heavily Catholic-themed. The statue of St. Peter is walked in front of every Catholic church in town, and at the end it culminates in front of the St. Peter's club in one of my favorite moments of the fiesta each year.

It's hard to describe-- The statues of Peter and Mary, who sits atop a gorgeous dome of roses, are set facing the St. Peter's club. One or two of the marching bands crowds in, and the streets are lined with children who are holding up ornamental oars with the names of boats in the Gloucester fleet. The street is crowded and everyone is waiting, and there's a growing tension as the people in charge of holding the nets corraling hundreds of red, green, and white balloons (and one net of red, white, and blue, for good measure) situate themselves. As the drummers in the bands lead into-- I believe-- the star-spangled banner, the men who have carried the heavy statues on their platforms hoist them up again, and everyone sings. At the end of the song, the balloons are released into the air as confetti rains down on the crowd from the top of the St. Peter's club. Then the statue is marched around the corner and returned to the Altar at the carnival on the pier for another twelve hours before he will be returned to his year-long resting place at the St. Peter's club at midnight-- my other favorite part of the fiesta, but that's another story.

I should say that I have a sentimental longing for this moment to take place in it's old location, on the other side of the building. The whole ceremony shifted a few years back when, I think, the St. Peter's Club downsized to operate out of the basement. I could be wrong about the specifics of that; nevertheless, my heart aches for the change. There's more to describe about the fiesta-- the Seine Boat races, the greasy pole competition, the fireworks that night followed by the raucous walk around the fort in which St. Peter's statue takes a circuitous, mile-long hike followed by however many screaming followers can stay awake for it-- and it's important: this weekend, this tradition which is so defining to me, which I'm now realizing many of my friends don't understand. But the reason for this entry is not to describe it all, but instead, lies in those poignant words: my heart aches for the change.

I am in my grandmother's house; it's the weekend of the fiesta. I am here with my husband. Upstairs, my uncle is asleep beside a woman who is nearly a stranger to me. And no one else is here.

It doesn't feel too long ago that there was a time when my family had to make sleeping arrangements for the fiesta a month in advance-- either me or my sister, whoever was in high school, would bring a friend nearly every year. My parents would be here, my uncle would be here, and, at least every alternate year, one of my cousins, one of Rosalie's sons, would be occupying the room in the basement, between lucrative jobs or relationships or whatever else. And, of course, my Grandmother.

This is the first fiesta since my grandmother died. I remember her telling me that she was in attendance at the very first one, marching in the parade. In the last few years, my grandmother wasn't well enough to attend at all, but I would see her every time I came, and I always came. I hope that I always do.

Towards the end, when she was too home-ridden and nearly blind to see it herself, she would ask me about the altar. It's a giant wood edifice, made to look, more or less, like the facade of some gaudy church, something that might host eloping couples in vegas. It looks right at home with the carnival to one side of it and the fishing boats docked in Gloucester Harbor the other. I actually haven't seen it yet this year, what, with no grandmother to see it vicariously for.

Except, that now it's even more important than it ever has been, to see it vicariously for her. So where are the other witnesses?

My sister has recently moved to Virginia, out of comfortable driving distance from Gloucester, which may be her favorite town in the world-- I gather she'd be here if she could, but her life was often too busy and complicated to make the pilgrimage even before, when she lived in Rhode Island, or back in Maine. Her children, who have been in attendance in many years previous, are actually in Maine, staying for a few weeks with my parents, but my father is unable to get away, and my mother sees little point in driving the two boys down without his assitance-- the carnival has some appeal, but other aspects of the fiesta are for slightly more adult tastes, with the exception of the greasy pole. A competition where men in ridiuclous costumes injure themselves by trying to walk across a 15-foot, grease-covered pole suspended above the water is tailor-made for the violent sense of humor of young boys, but as the median age of the Frontiero clan participating has risen, and the number of boats in the harbor during the spectacle has increased, my uncle Michael has stopped shuttling us out to watch the competition from the harbor. While still enjoyable from the beach, the crowds make it, perhaps, not worth a particularly long drive.

I invited Elorza to attend this year with Zack and I, as he did two years ago, resulting in an especially memorable weekend. He cancelled only a few weeks in advance, which wasn't enough forewarning for my friend Jeff, a two-year fiesta veteran, to get the time off.

So Zack and I are here, in an uncharacterisically quiet house, because my sense of tradition is so stubbornly unshakeable. Still, I question if this is really a good thing.

A therapist I was seeing briefly at the beginning of this year implied that I was the victim, at a very young age, of a moment wherein I lost control, where I was forced into a premature acknowledgement of chaos and unpredictability and all the terror that goes with it, and that that it why I suffer from this pathological need to control things. Her example, at the time, was my stubborness surrounding food. I couldn't be forced to eat anything I didn't like and I still can't, and perhaps that's really about the scared little girl who was trying to prove to herself and the world that she was powerful, that she could fight, that nothing had to happen to her that she didn't consent to.

I should say, the moment in question, while still shrouded with a fog of repression, was not the therapist's revelation at all, as it has more or less been accepted by myself and any professional I've met with, on the basis of various symptoms and snippets of memory and instinct I cling to. But the connection to my absolute refusal to be forced to eat, then and now-- that was a bit of an "aha" for me.

It doesn't stop at food. I feel the compulsive need to control, or try to control, so much around me.

A post about that could have me writing until St. Peter is back safely in the window of his club downtown, but what comes up today is my stubborn, clinging, yelping, screaming need to maintain a connection to the past.

My past, specifically-- I've never been more than passingly drawn in by lineage or history. While I mourn the loss of a generation of my family, I am really mourning the link to my childhood. Tonight, after Zack fell alseep on the couch, I walked around, stymied by this house and unpresent ghosts of the people who lived here. I studied the garish curtains in the living room, the criss-crossing beams on the ceiling-- my sister told me the other day that she'd never realized that they were cosmetic, and I thought of whether I'd ever thought to wonder. I looked at the bell on the wall that has no reason to be there and wanted to pull the rope and ring it and remember the way the sound used to delight me. I opened the drawer in the short dresser, the bottom one that held the many scarves my grandmother owned that we used to dress up with-- there are still a few in there, and a fur hat that I was too young to be morally conflicted with at the time. I wrapped a scarf around my head and looked at myself in the mirror above the silver serving set, stared at myself, and thought how I look nothing at all like a child. Then I walked into the quiet, dark kitchen and looked at the time-varnished white of the cabinets, the collection of almost random belongings on the walls and tucked onto decorative shelves, and I realized it's only a matter of moments until my memory is so faded that I struggle to form all but the most fleeting, teasing memory this place. I sat down at the table and pictured myself an old woman who has almost no memory left of another old woman, the old woman who belonged in that kitchen, and I cried.

I am in a room, now, which has become the computer room. Before her death in January, this room was being used as a bedroom for my grandmother, who could no longer manage to use the stairs. Before that, it was occupied by both her and my grandfather, back when she was still mobile enough to make the daily ascent, but he was withering away from Lou Gehrig's disease, and could not. I believe he died when I was 14. That would make it thirteen years ago, nearly.

Before that, this room was the TV room-- there never used to be a set in the living room, when I was a kid. I remember the recliner near the window and I can't picture it there without picturing my grandfather in it, but that was after the ALS diagnosis. Before that...there were couches. Two, I think. One was a sort of awkward tweed, and it pulled out into a mattress, though I'm not sure I ever saw that. The other, if I remember correctly-- and I didn't remember at all before an hour ago, before concentrating on it until I was absolutely sure I'd forgotten it and then, suddenly-- a leathery black with squarish cushions, I think. It must have been a love seat, I think now as I peer around to see how small this room really is. A very small loveseat. There was a big, boxy TV straight out of the 60's, with crazy-looking knobs, I think, and a cable box on top that would be vintage today, in it's own right. And one of those very simple, very small black rectangle remotes. And a thick rug, that I think was....green.

I struggle to form all but the most fleeting, teasing memory of this room...this room I'm in right now. And maybe one day, maybe not too long from now, I won't be allowed back in this house at all.

I feel this reflex, when I think of that, to deny that, to tell myself that I won't-- I can't let this happen. I must keep this house in the family just like I must buy and move into my parents house, despite being too large to be practical for the future that Zack and I envision. I think of these things like my duties, my job, the most important job that I have. I must control my future to protect my link to the past.

Why?

I get that this kind of thing is hard for everyone, but why does it instill such panic in me that I can't consider relaxing around the idea that this might not be something I can do, might not be something I have the means to do. I feel like I'm bound to creat the conditions in my life that will keep my childhood safe; ironically, it seems that somehow, that's because it wasn't safe in the first place. Does my subconscious sense that I have something yet to resolve in that time? Will I one day face that un-unpresent ghost, and move on? Or am I just too stubborn and afraid to grow up?

For now, this place still smells like my grandmother. Tomorrow, I intend to visit her grave. I guess the idea of a grave is to give someone like me a new place to associate with a person-- someplace they will stay into perpetuity, when their home has changed hands and all the objects associated with them have been scattered into new places.

Tomorrow, I will see the altar for this year's fiesta. I will see the first St. Peter's Fiesta "parade" that has ever drummed the pavements of this town while my grandmother did not live in it. I will get to the end of it and try to embrace the spot where the culmination happens now, one street down from where it used to be, and try to accept that I had nothing to do with that decision-- could have nothing to do with that decision-- and that the fiesta, as it is now, lives on, with all that really matters still in tact.

I will see the oars raised high and think of my grandfather, the fisherman. I will listen to the band and think of the song they play, the notes of which will be unchanged even when the brass of the instruments has been melted down for some irrelevant future machine. I will watch the confetti fall and the balloons rise up to a heaven that maybe, in that moment, I will try to believe in. That place, that realm of pure energy and love, which unifies all that did happen and all that will happen, those who did live to those who will live. Heaven, that belief which makes it alright to let go and give in to the will of the universe. Knowing.

All that really matters, still in tact.

And tomorrow night, I will walk around the fort and shout at the top of my lungs to hail St. Peter, the man who guards the gates.

On with it.

2011-02-08T01:25:00.004-05:00

Okay, I know it's been a while. Let's see if I still know how to do this.

Love and Grossology

A few minutes ago, Zack is bringing the dog inside and I'm at the oven, trying to down my daily dose of water with psyllium husks mixed in, part of a high-fiber diet I'm trying out. Zack looks up at me as a dry patch of husks hits my throat and triggers gag reflex, and, standing straight up, I vomit up all the fibrous water I've just taken in into my hand and onto the floor. Embarrassed, I go to clean up the mess while he holds the dog back the dog from coming to eagerly assist.

"I'm sorry if that was abundantly disgusting." I tell him.

"That's okay," He says. "I've seen you puke up worse."

Zack and I have been together seven and a half years now, and I can honestly say the romance isn't gone. Sure, there are enormous stretches of time where our life together seems so desperately, depressingly formulaic that I want to drill a hole in my head just for the tingling sensation. But I'm nevertheless shocked by how often I look at his face and just know that it is right, that it is real, that if anyone is going to make me want to drill a hole in my head, it will be him, and no one else.

There is this wisdom about marriage that the key is to find the meaning in moments like these; the simple, every day sweetness of "I've seen you puke up worse." I could agree with arguments for and against this logic, but I'll settle to say that it's an important balance-- for every flower, some flatulence. Or, vice versa, I guess.

But it goes farther than marriage, I think. Yes, Zack may be the only person who knows all my really disgusting habits, and I'm not ready to change that. But there is love and vomit in the history of many of my important relationships.

There's a boy I love who, after a night, drinking in his brother's apartment, laid on a bed with me talking through the night, until the conversation was interrupted by his throwing up into a blanket beside him. When he was done, I rubbed his back, and took the blanket, bundling it around the vomit and deposited into a bucket that I had earlier used for transporting liquor bottles, and left the bucket in the bathroom. We went to sleep and left in the morning, but the next day, I thought better of it and went to retrieve the bucket. His brother strongly suggested I throw out the blanket, which was white and now thoroughly soaked through, but it seemed, to me, old enough to be sentimental, like it must have been kicking around since the boy's...uh, boyhood. So I took the bucket home in my trunk, shook the blanket out from my porch-- I'll spare you the details of the smell-- and put the blanket through several wash cycles.

I returned it to the boy-- he didn't say much, but I expect he was more grateful than he expressed, and more than little embarrassed. All in all, it wasn't his reaction that mattered. There was something that the experience had instilled in me-- something that started as I watched him get sick beside me, as I handed him a tissue and took the soiled blanket, as I fought off the urge to let the contents of my stomach join his on my lawn the next day. Something, something special, that was fully realized when I took the clean blanket from the dryer, good as new (or, as old): I didn't love him any less. I'd seen this truly unglamorous act and been the one to clean it up, somewhat thanklessly, and it hadn't changed anything I felt. It just felt good to take care of him. It just felt good to see him as a fuller human-- not just the blush of the blood in his cheeks, but the blackened bile of his gut-- and to love him with all the more depth.

That boy and I, we've been through...periods of thick and thin, now. Right now, it's thin. We don't seem to be talking.

Jeremey, who is someone that I've also seen good and bad sides of, to say the least, told me that I should be rid of this absent, thoughtless boy and the damage he's done to me of late. "Cut the cord on that guy. And the next guy who is exactly like him."

"I didn't cut it on you. You grew out of it, eventually." I tell him. He tells me that no one ever said that it was a good decision.

He's right about that-- everyone, everyone had told me it was a very bad one, in fact. Many of you who will read this will have some first-person memory of at least one of the times in my life when Jeremey was treating me very badly and I, in turn, treated myself very badly in my refusal to give up on him, on us. I told them all, Jeremey and I were special. We went back so far, and, yeah, he could be a jerk. But our relationship, it wasn't going anywhere.

I look back now, and I know that it's true because I made it true. Jeremey and I, and a lot of other close friendships that could have ended badly if I'd been an easier cowgirl to buck, they paid off in the end...or, they've paid off so far, and I guess we're not really anywhere near the end. I pointed out to him that it was because of that perseverance that I have more close friendships than anyone else I know. I made the point that it wasn't really a choice about giving up on him-- that loving him, now and then, was fundamental to who I am. I realized, as I talked the situation through with him, that I'd already made my decision not to give up on this boy, and, more to the point, not to give up on the way I give my love to people.

This boy, I'm seeing the unglamorous side now, and it's worse than puke on a blanket. But the exercise from years earlier, when he seemed callous to my effort in cleaning and returning it, comes in handy. Sometimes, I've learned, you have to let the love you have for someone else be it's own reward.

Jeremey isn't the only one who has voiced concern about my devotion to people who treat me badly; Scarlet, a girl I've just recently started talking to, has already told me several times that it worries her. Scarlet's younger than I am, and I find her input almost cute: everyone else in my life has seen me be self-destructive in so many ways that my minor aching over the boy's latest absence would hardly even register; Jeremey, by now, is likely to have forgotten about the situation entirely. Scarlet picks up on the repetitive theme in our conversations and says that she's worried that I'm "obsessing."

I tell her that it's not like it seems; in reality, my thoughts are largely elsewhere. "I've been eating a lot of fiber lately, as part of this new diet I'm on, so most of the time, I'm just thinking about my bowel movements. But I didn't think we were really at the 'bowel movement discussion' point in our friendship, so I worked with what I had."

The beautiful thing is, there are people in my life that I'm past the "bowel movement discussion" point with-- people that I've been past the "bowel movement discussion" point for years. There's only way to get there. It takes a lot of time, a lot of patience, and a lot of forgiveness. It's not always smooth and it seldom smells of roses; sometimes, you just got to bear down grunt it out.

You know who you are, and you know I still love you, shithead.

On with it.

2010-05-11T00:55:00.002-04:00

There are several e-mails that I meant to write today. One, I didn't end up writing because I realized that the recipient was very unlikely to bother writing back. Somehow, without my having been aware of it, I have grown past the maturity level where I am willing to put myself into a situation where I'm assured to feel annoyed and ultimately rejected. So I plan to leave him a voicemail tomorrow, or maybe, -gasp- have a telephone conversation. Damn, it's been a long time.

The other I had partially written in my head was to a friend I've been on complicated terms with for a few weeks. Every couple of days, I get the sense that I should e-mail her, and, while I'm not around a computer, I start to piece it together in my mind. But when I start to write it, I feel overwhelmed with this moody misanthopy that's been pervading my life lately, and I don't feel like spilling my guts about all the thoughts that have been on my mind lately-- when I examine it closely, I suppose that I'm bitter and hurt over everything that has been happening between us, how I've been left second-guessing the importance of our friendship, how there have been walls built in terms of our communication. I don't know if I'm currently "allowed" to see her, and, what bothers me most, I don't know if our relationship will ever be back to normal. Even the decisions she's made which I logically respect I can't help but be bitter and insecure over-- by their very nature, they leave me unable to know what the likelihood of things being normal in our future is.

It's bothersome that I have to be cryptic about these things, but, as I said earlier, I've matured a bit. I'm sick of the backlash this blog brings. That's why I haven't written. But I realized tonight, gradually, that this is what I needed. Needed to write out my thoughts-- those of them that can be shared-- but not to someone who won't respond or to someone who can't return my degree of openness. Just to the world. Just for myself. For the sake of being a writer, or because I am.

Things with another friend have compounded my insecurities relating to the first. (Second, I suppose, if you count the guy who wouldn't have e-mailed me back.) I'm sick of the confusion here, and I think I can safely say that this one is Jeremey. Jeremey's always been a core person to me. He's always been one of the people that I love, and that I know I always will love and, with whom, I feel like my relationship is non-negotiable. (The other core people, in terms of friends, are Elorza, Jeff, and Emily, to be clear.) I get the sense, however, that Jeremey isn't really in on the mutuality of this the way the others are-- Elorza, Jeff and Emily, I feel like they know that this is the status of things whether or not we're talking regularly, whether or not I've seen them, whether or not we are, in any given month, a vital part of that person's "right now" life. They don't require a lot of upkeep, and they know that they can find me when they need me, or want me-- I expect that they understand that things between us are fairly unconditional, in the long run. But I don't get that sense with Jeremey. I feel like Jeremey sees me as a coming and going friend, more or less-- he has referred to me as one of his oldest friends, so I get that he gets the sense of continuity, but I feel like, in the days and weeks and months that we go without being a day-to-day part of each other's lives, I'm just not that important to him, and I expect he assumes that, in those times, he's not that important to me.

He hasn't said anything to that effect recently, but he has in the past. It leaves me insecure and wondering.

Earlier, when I was at work, I was thinking that I needed to make a list of my goals, and then devise a system to make sure that I work on them all, a little bit at a time, on a weekly basis. My idea was evolving from the earliest point of making a list of, I dunno, five or so activities with corresponding timeframes of anywhere between 10-30 minutes, and then charting to make sure I did at least three of them a day, at least five days a week. The early idea was that those things should be exercise, meditation, french practice, art, and then something else...maybe writing, maybe music, something like that. But as I thought about it, the system became more and more complicated. It came to involve things that i should do but not necessarily on the same vein of personal enrichment-- cleaning, budgeting-- and then there's this whole question of sex-- is it on the list? Do I mandate how many times a week it happens, or should I be mandating how many times a week I'm working towards better sex in some way? Then there was the question of whether I should be tallying these things per day, as I first mentioned, or if there should be, instead, a minimum amount of time spent on each activity per week. (The thing about that last arrangement that I don't like is that it hypothetically allows me to do things like write, exercise and practice french only once a week for a long period of time, which is not particularly conducive to progress, nor does it lend itself to habit-forming.)

Then I started to think about categories, perhaps. Maybe "Creative", "Exercise", "Obligatory" and "Sexual", and I have to do a minimum of two hours per week on each, or something along those lines? Maybe Sex and Exercise should be combined into one category called "Body"...or maybe creative should be divided down into "Music", "Writing" and "Art." Maybe from there it becomes a matter of subcategories, and I can't totally avoid any one subcategory for more than two weeks....

See, I'm desperately over-thinking what was supposed to be a fairly simple system for spending more time doing self-improving things, as opposed to sitting around in boredom, hating myself for al the things that I did not accomplish that day. One thing is for sure-- I need to break down my aspirations into achievable little chunks, so that, even if I am not in the mood to exercise, learn a language or fine-tune my drawing skills, I feel like it's possible to just "get it over with" so that I can go back to wasting my life. Whether or not I go back wasting my life after I start one of these activities is entirely the business of my future self.

On with it.

2009-10-11T23:08:00.002-04:00

Okay, so, I wish those widgets weren't stacked on top of each other like that, but my desire for justice and equality is very slightly stronger than my desire for neat and tidy presentation. So, those are the links to sign the petitions for the mentioned LGBT issues, but on each of them, I would also strongly suggest you send an e-mail of your own to your representatives. With DOMA, which I think may be the most important issue on the list, I would suggest visiting RepealDomaNow.org to do so, they have a lovely convio-powered form that will allow you to automatically send your message to the relevant parties. This is a little trickier with the fight to end Don't Ask, Don't Tell-- the only site I found with a convio-powered form to do that is that of the Log Cabin Republicans. Don't be scared off by the name, my liberal friends-- the log cabin republicans are a group of republicans that lobby just on behalf of LGBT issues, and filling out the form will not send a letter with any secret conservative agenda-- it's just a very simple way to get in contact with the correct people about Don't Ask, Don't tell. The HRC has apparently also started PassENDANow.org, which I have just now discovered-- again, convenient, convio-powered for telling your representatives that you'd like to see legislation pass which would prevent people across the USA from being fired because they're gay.

Not a lot of time to write, and not feeling particularly motivated to, but I have to say that I was very moved by the president's speech to the HRC tonight. I know a lot of people out there in the gay community think that it was all just beautiful speech with no action-- I gotta tell you, I think they're underestimating the importance and power of beautiful speech. I'm proud to have a president who is willing to get up and say unequivocally how he thinks the LGBT community is equal and should be treated as such, and this kind of verbal leadership rallies the masses-- those of you out there complaining about his lack of action, take a note from another beautiful speaker and ask what you can do for your country. Many of you have already taken action, but can you do more?

On top of which, the president made some very valid points about how the issues he is working on every day are issues that pertain to all Americans, including the LGBT community. Okay, yes, I know that this probably seemed to the wary listening like he was just putting off the needs of the community, but he wasn't vague or indecisive about his intent to undo Don't Ask, Don't Tell, his support of efforts to repeal DOMA, his desire to see ENDA signed into law. Let's keep in mind, most of these are things that the president, himself, cannot actually do-- these are things that he can work with congress on, that he can voice his support of, that he can make priorities. But we have three branches of this government for a reason, and that makes it impossible for him to right all the wrongs with one swift movement. Congress has to be involved, and that means we have to get involved.

Send the letters. Sign the petitions. Tell your friends and families to do the same-- if you're like me (and married), you just sign all these things twice-- once with your own name, once with your spouse's. (No, I'm not trying to disenfranchise my husband. They're plenty of things we disagree on politically, but he's given me a blanket permission slip to act as him in LGBT issues.)

Anyway. Maybe take a moment to let the man's beautiful words sink in, to be motivated, and to do what this very small series of things, potentially to make a very big difference. Maybe take a moment to breath, remember that thi isn't the Bush administration anymore, count your blessings, and give the man with the silver tongue some trust, at least until he's given you a real reason not to. If he's working a little too slowly for some of your tastes, well, I'd rather see him blossom slowly than completely fuck it up, and then be defeated by a Republican in the next election. This upcoming decade is way too important for that.

Okay, maybe I was *a little* inclined to write. On with it.

or, Create a Petition

2009-09-13T23:41:00.005-04:00

For posterity, and for those of you who don't know, I will preface this post by saying that I have now officially started attending classes full-time at Southern Maine Community College, working towards an associate degree in liberal arts, with a concentration in arts. This decision regarding my field of study was motivated by my strong desire to one day illustrate my own children's books , as well as by my lifelong interest in art and all things creative. So far, I am enjoying the experience-- I love the campus, and I like the challenge. The very, very real challenge.

Tonight, my assignment-- should I say, one of my many, many assignments-- is to do four cut-paper compositons focusing on line; diagonal, horizontal/vertical, curved/organic, and mixed. Black on white. And maybe that's the root of my problem.

Black and white are not colors I'm used to-- that stark contrast of one idea against another, of, let's face it, wrong against right. Maybe it's in my nature to strive for the familiar ambiguouty of grayscale; maybe it is through a psychological compulsion towards things that are hopelessly complicated that I find myself accidentally fraying the edges of the black paper against the white, creating the illusion of gray. I rub the dry rubber cement peaking out from under the sides of what should be neat-and-tidy edges, balling it up for easy removal and creating ugly little messes that I hate, but can never seem to clear away completely, no matter how furtively I try. Maybe I don't believe the art I create deserves to be free of them. Maybe I don't consider myself above this moral haze.

For those of you paying strict attention, yes, I am making a metaphor about my life out of my art homework. This is why I'm not an english major-- I don't need any more help with that bullshit.

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where no one involved is really right, no one is the good guy? Everyone could be considered a villain in some capacity, but there's no hero to be found? The situation I've found myself in, there are no truly sympathetic characters, just a lot of people who are in constant flux, gaining and losing sympathy for each other in their oddly parallel weaknesses. I've aligned myself with the character who is, perhaps, the least sympathetic of all involved, and find myself almost violently defensive of his basic and inalienable goodness, despite the story building around him, determined to cast him as the weakest link in a paper chain. Defensive of him to the extent that it's put strain on relationships that should be absolutely uninvolved, maybe ended one. Depending on the point of view, I could easily be getting the silver medal insofar as blame and immorality, despite my efforts to hold onto the ever-vindicating (ha!) virtue of honesty, or at least, honesty in amounts directly proportionate to the sum of my affection and respect for the recipient. Coming in third-- again, depending on viewpoint-- is a woman I don't want to expound on, really. A woman who I doubt I could speak about with any modicum of impartialness, a woman I did not know at all outside the influence of this sphere of insanity which we've, all three, been sucked into.

I mean, some with a little bit more emphasis on insanity than others, but I digress.

What is, of course, compelling about this situation, wrought with vice, is that it does not exist but for the one perfect virtue. Love, the greatest motivator of our strengths, so often the backdrop to our most hurtful mistakes. Love, in it's brightest, burning red can't help but reduce the blacks and whites of this world to nearly indiscernible shades of gray. I don't go to or remain loyally and defensively at his side without it, nor is he compelled to mine, nor is she pushed or pulled by either of us. Nor are the bounds of our own quiet consciences violently tested without it, nor are any of us kept awake at night, nor are any of us compelled to wake in the morning. Nor are families built without it, tested without it, wrecked without it; rebuilt, retried, continued on without it.

Nor, it seems, are words written without it-- and not just by me, right now. Love, the great muse. Reading the words of my mirror, I am challenged to keep this ode to love so reverent, challenged once more to strive towards grace, challenged, as ever, to wipe desperately away at the mess to see what lies, and is beautiful, beneath.

On with it.

2009-08-31T01:29:00.001-04:00

With very little else I feel like sharing with the world at large (or, plenty that I'd be willing to share with a group of total strangers, but that simply is not the group I'm offered, lately), let's do this meme again. Here are the rules:

Put your music player (iTunes, WinAmp, Windows Media Player, etc.) on Shuffle or Random mode, press Play, and list your favorite line or verse from the first 10 songs that it plays. Then get your friends to guess the artist and song title of each lyric. Fun! (You can skip instrumental-only songs, but no skipping of the embarrassing songs!)

Did this one last, on this site, on February 7th, 2008, then again on livejournal for Emily, who did not get enough of the answers the first time around. (I'm reading through some of the livejournal entries, which are all these quiz thingies, and thinking that my most eager vistor as of late is going to have a ball with them. Over and over again, I talk about how my biggest weakness is falling in love with people. One random question/Answer: "17. When do you know it's love? Too often. That's when.")

Anyway. On with the music quiz thingy (I keep wanting to call it a meme, but I've come to believe that's not actually what these things are. I guess that's one of those new-fangled words I just don't understand), since my collection has expanded greatly in the past year (to be something I'm really, really proud of. I really enjoy my diverse taste in music.) If I come up against a song that I honestly can't pick a good line out of, I'll skip it, but I'll tell y'all what it is I'm skipping. Also, I feel no reason to keep it to one line, if it turns out that the part I like best is really a few. It's my quiz thingy.

1. "Now that money comes and goes a bit faster than my confidence grows. Everybody knows there ain't nothing new about money woes."

I have to skip this song, "Theme From Pinata", by Bright Eyes. It's from one of the Bright Eyes CDs I kinda forgot I owned, and so I never added it to my iPod until recently. Thusly, I think this is probably only the third or so time I've heard it. It's a shame, though, it seems to have a lot of great lines.

2. "And why'd ya sing Hallelujah if it means nothing to ya? Why'd you sing with me at all?"
(I have to try to remember that this is the one of the songs that references 'Hallelujah' that I definitely want to include on the future Mix CD I've promised for Sam. That is, once I've written the song I've promised, to close it with.

Skipping "Time Won't Let Me" by The Smithereens. Great band, not their best song, no lyrical gems.

3. "Wears high heels when she exercises. Ain't that beautiful?"
(Grew to love that line when I was on my original "dance hour" kick, and I, too, would exercise in high heels. I also like "Her confidence is tragic, but her intuition, magic.")

4. "It's cloud illusions I recall. I really don't know clouds at all."
(I feel a little cheap; that's obviously the most quoted line from that song. But it's definitely the best. Maybe I could have gone with "Tears and fears and feeling proud, to say 'I love you' right out loud." Man, this is just a great song.)

Skipping "These Things" by She Wants Revenge. This song just freaks me out, as do a lot of the songs by She Wants Revenge. I've tried to make peace with that weird part of myself that they alarm, but it's just not worth it anymore. I'll keep "Tear You Apart" and take the rest of the iPod. I need the space, anyway.

5. "I catch the bad guys, well, most of the time. So it's a good life, a perfectly good life. Not exactly sublime."

6. "So take it off, like you home alone, you know, dance in front your mirror while your on the phone. Checking your reflection and tellin' your best friend, like 'Girl, I think my butt gettin' big.'"

7. "Now I do as I please, and lie through my teeth. Someone might get hurt, but it won't be me. I should probably feel cheap, but I just feel free, and a little bit empty."

8. "Your face like a vision straight out of Holly Hobbie. Late light drizzling through your hair. Your eyes, twin volcanoes."

Skipping "Stayin' Alive" by the BeeGees, because I can't come up with a line that I've ever actually bothered listening to other than the first, which would be a dead giveaway.

9."I do anything for you. Beat someone black and blue. Black and blue, and I'd do it for you."
(Never actually took the time to listen to the lyrics of the verses of that song before. Enlightening.)

Skipping "November 22, 1963" from the Assassins soundtrack, because, as moving as it is (I would have shot JFK with that kind of peer pressure going on.), it's not actually a song. And an instrumental version of "All The Pretty Little Horses".

Skipping "Simply Kind of Life" by No Doubt because I want to link to this entry that I wrote which featured it, but that'll ruin your chance to guess. Skipping Lit's "My Own Worst Enemy", because the song went all the way through while I was looking for the link to that last post, and then this next song came up, and I really love this next one, so it's more appropriate to end with.

10. "So I will find my fears and face them, or I will cower like a dog. I will kick and scream or kneel and plead. I fight like hell to hide that I've given up."

If you don't feel like guessing on that last one, and you happen to love my archives as much as I, sadly, do, read this post, the first in 2007. It's very musical.

I'm opening comments, if you'd like to take your guesses. On with it.

2009-08-26T00:00:00.004-04:00

"And check out my hair. It's so unstyled, it's like a pile of stand."
~Casey J.

Looking through my archives, I find a link to Casey's old livejournal site and go. His last post to that site was in 2007, which would have been a year that I had very little to do with him.

I was about to write this whole post about how clear to me it was, while I was reading that, why I was crazy about him-- how smart he is, how funny, what a great writer. And there's something so sexy about his cockiness, and his dismissal. You know that cliché that women go crazy over the bad boys who act like they don't even like them? Casey is, like, the geeky journalist version of that.

But as I'm about to start writing this thing about how great his post was, about how his post made me feel, I realized that I didn't even read the whole fucking thing. That I couldn't bring myself to read it. There's a possibility that this somehow indicates that he's not as interesting as I'm giving him credit for-- more likely, it means that I'm still smarting from the way our friendship (essentially) ended, by the way it left me feeling utterly inferior to him.

I gotta get my shit together and learn things. Start reading Newsweek, listen to more NPR than I already do. Get some strong backing for my opinion on universal health care, and all of the other political issues. And other shit that would make me interesting to him again. Spend more time playing video games. Spend more time climbing fences. Start a fight club. Go seduce some more women. Write about fucking anything other than myself (and him. And other people in my life who I have all these bullshit "feelings" about.)

Maybe the coolest I've ever been in my life was when Casey Labrack still thought I was cool. Probably the least cool I've ever been was as I was typing that sentence.

This is not the way back to win back his respect, his attention, or his "ineffable fondness." Writing about vague ambitions to be better, do better, know more, but never really do anything about them. Just the fact that these ambitions are more about getting him back than they are about being a intellectually curious person, well, that sort of poisons anything I could accomplish. But he doesn't have to know that-- that is, if I could shut up about it for even a second.

I tell myself, don't be so hard on myself. One week from today (technically yesterday, since it's after midnight), I am going back to school, and this time, I'm going to go learn things that I want to know. I'm not being so career-minded, I'm not clawing and scratching my way out of a crappy job and a going-nowhere life...I mean, I am, but not quite as desperately, and with enough patience to make it more about the journey than the destination. This first semester, I registered for four art-related classes and, with a great deal of anxiety, music chorale. I just decided it was time to be brave-- time to ignore the people over the years (my sister) who have repeatedly told me that I can't sing at all, and just learn what I can, and be the best I can be at it, whatever level of skill that may be, because, frankly, I love singing. I always have. So it's time to just do it, incredibly scary as it might be.

That's kind of cool, right?

Maybe, one day, soon, I'll be publishing the children's books I've written and illustrated. Maybe I'll dedicate one to him-- or, better yet, I'll dedicate one to me, a little parable for the kids in the audience about being yourself, about not trying too hard to impress someone else. About having self-respect, about loving whatever it is about yourself that makes you special. And it'll sell a million copies, be an instant classic, and I'll be beloved, and successful, and I'll make millions of dollars.

Then I'll buy him a vintage El Camino, so he'll have to be my friend.

On with it.

2009-08-17T22:00:00.005-04:00

I haven't wanted to write in this for a few days, due to various circumstances that need not be discussed in a public forum. But a few things are backing up, just some little bits and pieces that probably don't make up a full post anyway, so let's let them out:

-Tomorrow, I get to go see Mr. L and have a head-on conversation about his advice that I sleep with another man-- which I didn't take. Which I'm not going to take. I'm going to ask him exactly what the fuck he was thinking, I'm going to write it down, if I can remember, that early in the morning, to take a pen and notepad. I'm going to explain to him all the various consequences of his just giving the advice, let alone what would have happened if I had taken it. And I'm going to find out, once and for all, what the old hippy thinks of marriage, and decide whether or not he's the appropriate man to be seeing in an attempt to rescue mine.

If he doesn't piss me off too damn much, and he might, then I'll schedule an appointment for Zack and I to attend together. Won't this be fun?

-My ideal form of celebrity: to be one of these hot, B-listy celebrities that gets to be on the cover of playboy without having to actually show anything on the inside. Last month, Olivia Munn was rocking the cover, but the one picture of her on the inside featured her in panties that she was sort of vaguely pulling down (but she hadn't revealed anything), with her nipples safely under her hair. This month, Heidi Montag from the hills looks so fucking hot on the cover, it makes me want to go out and shoot that douche Spencer (with the creepy, flesh-colored beard, if you follow the soup) more than I usually do, but her photoshoot on the inside is completely tame, there's only one photo showing crack, every other major hotspot is totally covered. These are the the kind of photoshoots you expect in Maxim, not playboy.

If I got the choice of which magazine to be in, and I mean, I never will, but if I did, I'd pick playboy over Maxim, but just barely. The bunny is what puts it over the top. Gotta love an iconic rodent.

-And now for a few public letters:

Dear Rachel Maddow:

I know you're supposedly very happy with your life partner, but if that ever changes, I'd like to go ahead and put my name on the list, or whatever. Somehow, I definitely think you're the sexiest woman in the public eye-- you've knocked Angelina Jolie, Eva Mendes, and Scarlett Johanson right down the list.

If the people's veto goes through, I'll move to Massachussetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, wherever. Say the word and I'll leave Zack, Rachel. Anything for you.

With Love,
Linda H.

-And, to Cosmo.

Dear Cosmopolitan Magazine:
What the fuck? On the cover of the August Issue (with the Katy Perry Cover), you tooted to have an article inside about "The Orgasm Whisperer", and how "every woman needs one." I spent a long month wondering precisely what that article could be about, fascinated by all the different possibilities--- could it be a hypnotherapist who rents out their craft to orgasm-lacking women everywhere? Instructions for chanting yourself into a tantric state of bliss? Some kind of bizarre audio device? What, what what?

I finally checked out the article today. It was about lube. Personal Lubricant. It claimed I could make my man into an "orgasm whisperer" by just using lube.

WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM, COSMO? GO TO HELL!

Bullshit false advertising. Fuck you.

Sincerely,
Linda H.

I've always hated all the assumptions that Cosmo magazine makes about it's readers. If you've picked up a copy, you must be a 110-pound career-oriented CEO who pulls in 250k a year, with fucking spectacular sex life and great fashion sense. How many women out there like that actually read Cosmo? I'm guessing two. And I hate them both. I hope they and there slimy orgasm whispering boyfriends fuck themseves off a cliff.

Hmmm. I may be bitter tonight. Towards everyone but my Rachel.

Kinda a wasted post, but it's a matter of staying in practice. See you soon, maybe even with something relevant to say. On with it!

2009-08-11T01:22:00.012-04:00

"Picture this, we were both buck naked, banging on the bathroom floor."

Man, I haven't heard this song in a long time. Totally had it stuck in my head the other day for...uh, no apparent reason. Right.

In attempts to get the information from my old computer onto the new computer, I'm finding a lot of old files that had somehow gotten lost. Lot of songs I haven't heard for a while. Maybe songs that it didn't occur to me I'd actually miss...actually, the evidence suggests that they were songs that I didn't, in fact, miss.

Talking to James, who I've previously spoken of as the benefactor who bought SuedeCaramel.com for me. As truly grateful as I am to him or that, it didn't occur to me that his generosity isn't without some, uh, provisos? See, while he has always made it so SuedeCaramel.com and, for the matter, LindaHild----.com come directly here, he never actually gave me control of the two addresses.

James: Well, I could do anything. For example i could point your name to midget goat porn.

Oh....oh yeah. I guess he could.

I oddly thought James was a fan of the site, from the way he will occasionally harass me when I don't update. Turns out, about two or three times a year, he'll come, read every post on the page, and leave.

Well, I'll take it.

James: have you thought about the next step after blogging?
Linda: is there a step you have in mind?
James: lifecasting
Linda: hahahahaa
Linda: what the fuck is lifecasting?
James: you setup a webcam, it runs 24/7
James: It's put somewhere like a livingr oom or central area where people are clothed
James: and you spend time with the lovely people of the internet when your online.
Linda: I don't think it's quite the obvious progression that you make it out to be. I'm a writer.
James: Right, but it allows interactivity with the world i guess?
Linda: well, no. Interacting with the world allows interactivity with the world.
James: Not nessisarially.

I know he doesn't come off as the smartest guy in the world in that conversation, but don't judge too harshly-- if you look closely, you'll see that spelling of necessarily works, phonetically.

So, thinking about LindaHil-----.com, I was compelled to type my nameinto google to see what comes up. Surprisingly, it's pretty hard to find this site by doing that, which is odd-- it wasn't hard, say, two or three months ago. What did come up were a couple of posts from the weekend of my wedding-- not on this site, but Emily's old diaryland page. This one was written the day of, this one, which talks about the wedding decidedly more, was written the day after.

Emily was possibly not as charming talking about my wedding as I tried to be when I wrote about hers-- oh? Jenn looked gorgeous? Great. Thanks. The bride is only mentioned as being "awkward" and "mildly obnoxious", but Jenn looks gorgeous-- but I'll try not to be bitter. The blushing bride that was me was not in the same league as the blushing bride that was Emily.

I guess, with things the way they are now, I'm a little sensitive to the fact that Emily kept describing the whole thing as being not real to her-- oddly, it kind of reminds me of those idiotic Birthers who think Obama is not the real president because "he was secretly born in Kenya." Wanting the story from a different source, I went to see what it was I thought to write about my wedding day.

Hmmm. Nothing.

The last post before my wedding was a lovely, Edna St. Vincent Millay-style sonnet that I wrote presumably because I did something horrible. The next was written in January, and it covers the wedding a little bit tersely. So, I guess Emily, in all her incredulousness, covered the day better than I bothered to. It's a real shame. I could really benefit from crawling back inside the mind of that girl, that girl who wanted him so badly, that girl who wore that dress, who walked that aisle.

Jenn wants me plan a do-over, which is what I've wanted since day one. I wish I'd gone ahead and planned it for our fifth anniversary-- it's a good, round number, and it fell on a Saturday. Seems weird to do it on the sixth or the seventh, weirder still to do it on a day that's not an anniversary at all, though mid-October isn't necessarily ideal for the location I, at long last, decided on: Salem Willows, the beautiful park on the water in Salem, Massachusetts. I look forward to going there every year with Zack during the summer, to feed the squirrels and pigeons. There's a place where we buy popcorn (delicious popcorn) and bags of roasted nuts for them. There's an amphitheater we could have the ceremony in, covered picnic structures for the reception, a carousel we could possibly rent. If the weather in October wasn't just slightly too cold, well, maybe I'd start planning something, maybe for the tenth.

Except, at this point, who knows for sure whether my marriage will make it to be six. Nobody whose been paying attention, that's for sure.

The shame of it is, if I ever got divorced, well, okay, I might one day get the benefit of a second wedding one day, maybe, but I couldn't do it there. I'd have to come up with a whole new perfect location. Salem Willows is our place.

Those are our squirrels, our pigeons. Our bags of peanuts twisted close at the top, our delicious popcorn. Our sun-covered days by the sea; everyone else there, they're just props. It's our tradition, our bliss, something I'd never do again, without him beside my side.

I can't think about it.

On with it. I hope.

2009-08-09T22:37:00.007-04:00

Harry: What does this song mean? For my whole life I don't know what this song means. I mean, 'Should old acquaintance be forgot". Does that mean we should forget old acquaintances or does it mean if we happen to forget them we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot them!?

Sally: Well may be it just means that we should remember that we forgot them, or something.

~Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan, When Harry Met Sally

No, Meg Ryan. That's a bad idea. It's a horrible feeling. Remembering that you forgot.

"There's only one moment I need to write....I shouldn't write it at all. I should delete this e-mail once it's sent. I should forget, so I won't have the burden of remembering and knowing I said nothing. But what if I do forget?"

That one's me. The beginning and ending of an e-mail I sent to Emily on July 19th, 2009. I took at least part of my own advice, that night-- I had to search the trash folder of my gmail account to get that quote. And honestly, tonight, I'm glad that I wrote it all out. I'm glad I have the e-mail that I wrote with the sweat of that moment still fresh on my brow. I'm glad I have this black-and-white reminder that I am not black-and-white, that there are things and me that are blazing red. Right now, I am colorblind.

I won't say the old man was right, but he sounds distinctly less crazy when I get to that point where I'm just angry at the idea that I don't get to have what other people have. Angry when I think of the fact that sex is life-affirming, and angry when I get to that point where I can't even imagine how it could be. Angry when I see that episode of Scrubs where sex makes everything better in the end. Angry when people make suggestive jokes about what Zack and I must be doing tonight. Angry when I think of the entanglements that have built up, angry when I think of that one, thin gold necklace I owned that got into so many little knots that it was rendered useless, and I had to throw it out-- it was gold for christ's sake.

Angry when I think about how much I still love my husband, how attracted to him I still am on so many levels. Angry when I think that, maybe, they aren't the levels that matter.

Angry when I hear Mr. L's voice in my head, telling me that I "come alive" when I talk about my sexually charged encounters with other men. Angry when I think that he is the man that I feel has a chance to save my relationship, maybe the only person who can untangle the kinks in the chain, and he doesn't seem to respect marriage. I don't know that I ever realized before, but he's got to be...almost sixty if not, and he's single, and he's dating women much younger than him, always has been by the reports I've been getting. I know I mentioned this briefly in the last post, but I'll expound upon it here. I know he has kids, so he's probably divorced-- I have no idea why I've never just asked him this, I guess my fear is that, with the "daddy issues" he's eminantly aware of, he'd be concerned that I had those feelings for him. At any rate, I've been trying to justify the fact that he told me to sleep with someone else by the fact that he must want what's best for me. He says I'm co-dependent (I don't think he's wrong, but I've always been too scared to look up what that really means), and he thinks my relationship is doomed (we have been struggling since day one), and he wants to stop me before I go down with the ship, I guess. Surely, it's not that he doesn't respect marriage, it's just my marriage that he feels has run it's course.

Except the guy he told me to sleep with? He's married too.

I keep telling Zack just slightly too much truth about the things Mr. L says, making Zack incredibly angry at him. He has violent fantasies, and I can't, frankly, blame him. Problem, though: my only real shot at making this work, one thinks, is couples therapy, which is a service I frankly don't trust. But I know from one pseudo-session that Mr. L can get Zack to talk, and he already has -so much- of my backstory; this could work. Except I, being an idiot, (That would be a great new title for the blog, if I were looking to change it again. "I, being an idiot...") had to go and give Zack all the reason in the world to distrust and feel betrayed by this man. Super.

Linda: He asked which one of you I think would perform better cunnilingus.
Zack: What? Why??? What the hell kind of a question is that???

Yeah...what the hell kind of a question is that?

But, like I said, it's hard to blame him when I feel like I do today-- frigid, broken, useless. Someone who'd better find some satisfying cause in life, because she's never going to find any satisfaction anywhere else. Someone who, like so many retirees, might as well close up shop down south and come north for the summer--that comparison, howevever, would have worked so much better if retirees came north in the winter as opposed to be the summer, because my life is shaping up to be one long winter, as it were. What's that crocus poem by Jean Little in "Hey World, Here I Am?"

Surprise

I feel like the ground in winter,
Hard, cold, dark, dead, unyielding.

Then hope pokes through me
Like a crocus.

The crocus, that's what I remember that I forgot. The crocus that poked through me on the night of my twenty-fifth birthday. I know that it was there, I can visualize the-- jesus christ, I use metaphors too much-- beautiful petals, imagine the sweet scent. But I can't remember how it felt to have that crocus pierce through my frozen soil, a harbinger of new life to come, of the hopeful days of spring, of the sweltering heat of summer. A theoretical harbinger, at any rate, since the summer never came. Just more winter.

"In winter time, the roses died.
Her blood ran cold, and then she said
'I want to love, but it comes out wrong.'"
~The Smithereens, Blood and Roses

Also, I have no idea what a crocus even looks like, in real life. Time for a google image search.

Oooo, pretty.

On with it.

2009-08-07T02:20:00.004-04:00

A minute ago, I had few scattered moments of believing that I had done the right thing, as evidenced by the tweets that I will leave up, for the time being. That confidence, it wanes.

At four o'clock today, I got a message from you on my phone with one simple request-- one that I was, apparently, destined to ignore. At four o'clock for you, I shed the first tears that were exclusively for you. They weren't the last. I haven't yet seen the last.

At twenty minutes after midnight or so, my entire right leg fell through the hole in porch, twisting my left foot as I fell. I screamed aloud in the night, letting it seem that it was for the pain of the fall. It might have been a little, but as I lapsed into sobs, even Zack knew that it was for you. He'd be a fool not to; I've been acting pretty crazy all night; I told him what I did. I told him why I did it.

At maybe 7:45 this morning, I was fuming mad at Mr. L. I was calling him anything insulting that vaguely fit. I was calling him a hippy (there's a tweet on that one), a new-aged joke. I was railing at the idea of a sixty-ish, unmarried man who sleeps with women right about half his age and undermines the important of marriage-- sure, he wants me to get mine now that I'm twenty-something, but by the time I'm his age, I'll be worthless, having avoided marriage my whole life at his suggestion, and found myself unmarketable to a world of men who want only younger women. That's what happen to girls like me when we listen to men like him. Sure, he wants me and my superior genes to join his free love movement now (not for himself, mind you. Even angry at him as I was, I can't allege that. It's just not true.) But once I grow up, I'll get put out to pasture.

Not everyone has your particular set of problems, Mr. L. I could leave Zack now and spend the rest of my life bedding anyone who I find mildly interesting and still never have the problems you talked about in session today (edited for content on August 20th.) I'm gonna have some owning up to if he actually reads this, but whatever, fuck him.) So maybe we shouldn't be as concerned with the pursuit of Linda's perfect orgasm-- this bullshit idea that, in reality, may never, probably will never happen-- and focus on Linda's semi-charmed life.

I love my husband, goddamn it. Even if, as you (Mr. L, not you-you.) pointed out, I'm currently in love with someone else. I'm not gonna blow every blip on the radar. Was this whole thing some sort of bizarre, sick reverse psychology thing? Because, if not, remind me to bring a paper and pencil and make note of your justification of this advice next time. Because everyone, everyone thinks you're fucking crazy.

For those of you who aren't able to keep up, Mr. L said that I should sleep with another guy. The other guy. The one I've just gone through a pseudo-breakup with, mostly out of fear that, with the infallible one's blessing, I would give in.

So yeah, Mr. L. Fuck you. And yeah, I'll see you on the 18th. Trust me. I'll be there.

Maybe you won't read this ever again. Maybe I won't be able to make you understand how hard this is for me-- the way I typed out that last text message and stared at it for maybe twenty minutes, floating my thumb above the "send" button. When I finally hit it, I instantly had no idea if I had done it on accident or not. I waited and waited, hoping for some further protest. You probably have more pride than that. And then, there's the possibility that I got you into some serious shit on your end. If that's the case, then, christ, I'm sorry. I wish I could have waited. In that moment, I didn't feel like I could.

It that seems selfish, you'll have to understand that I was somehow paralyzed by the earlier conversation which ended so suddenly. I could do nothing but wait for the situation to resolve itself. I couldn't write my damn essay, I couldn't watch TV. I didn't eat. I did masturbate briefly, and to no happy end-- Mr. L would be satisfied by my dissatisfaction, as proof of his point. (Didn't I say fuck you? Fuck you.) I had things to do, and I had no interest, no will to do them, till I found some sort of closure. I was hoping it would just be closure to the conversation...I guess it wasn't. I guess by the time I finished typing it out, I guess by the time I maybe-accidentally hit "send", it was more definitive than that. One way or another...I don't know. There's part of me that keeps saying it "had to happen."

But I shouldn't have risked getting you in trouble. I'm sorry. And it should have been in person. I'm sorry. And it should have been a thousand years from now. God, I'm sorry.

I want to see you again. I want to discuss it in person. I want us to find whatever comfortable place we're going to get to, to be sure that you'll make good on that promise that you'll care about me even when I'm not half naked and halfway done. Or, if we're never going to find someplace "comfortable", then fine. I want to search for it and miss. I want to know definitively that we're always going to be holding back some deeper connection, some seed that longs to take root, some ever-streaming tail of a firework, always maybe about to burst. (That must have been the description you were talking about the other day...the firework one.)

Without my noticing, U2's "With or Without You" has come on in background. Again, one of those moments where I suddenly love a song. Maybe more profound if I'd realized it was happening earlier.

"Sleight of hand and twist of fate,
On a bed of nails, she makes me wait.
And I wait without you."

I hope you come here again. I hope you read this. I want to see you...I know it won't be soon. If I could have accepted that, if I weren't so fitful at the thought of it, maybe none of this would have happened.

On with it.

2009-08-05T22:31:00.005-04:00

It has to end. It has to end. It has to end.

I was blunt, I was cruel, and I was right. I was straightforward, I was consistent, and I was right. I was hurtful, I was hurt, and I was right.

It can't go on like this. This loneliness that can only be tempered by one person, that stings ever more harshly when surrounded by a sea of people that are not the right one. This torture that is a problem without resolution, this sick melancholy which is addiction to melancholy.

It has to end.

I don't like who I am in his absence, what I do to those who represent a lack of him. And anyway, it's not safe anymore-- that was part of the appeal initially, was it not? I am scared by intimacy, but so drawn to it despite that I go and press up against it, caged, like an animal in a zoo. Some fierce predator that I long so long to touch that I stretch my fingers through the chain link fence, but would dare not approach in the open savannah.

Poetic bullshit. Where's Casey to slap me silly?

It's not safe anymore, with the building of the desperation. With Mr. L's approval. Having explored every other option except those with are entirely taboo. It's not safe anymore, and, because of that, it will become safer-- I will lack response to it. I will pull back, into myself, fingers intact.

Or will I?

It has to end. It has to end. It has to end, before I can find out.

I will pull back into myself and be safe, be intact, be worthless. I will pull back into myself and waste the rest of my life being safe. I will pull back into myself until the ennui makes me crazy again, until I fall back into the same patterns and find some other cage, some other large, powerful beast who will ignite my imagination from a distance, who will make my fingers ache, and the pattern of the Zoo, it goes wildly in circles like the rides they have there: merry-go-round, ferris wheel, roller coaster.

Round and round. Up and down. Over and over, ad nauseum, quite literally.

"Something here will eventually have to explode."

Am I talking myself into or out of something? It's hard to tell anymore.

If I can manage a paradigm shift by the next time I see him, I might get out with my awful little life in tact. Maybe I will have gotten out without breaking anyone's heart. Maybe I won't have.

I don't know what I want. I don't know how to get it. I know I can't follow Mr. L's advice. I know I can't keep trading hours of misery for a few scattered minutes of...a different kind of misery, the kind that would be like joy if it could sit still for a minute, if it could relax. A relief tempered by the knowledge that the pain comes on again, and soon.

I can't trade all of these hours for those minutes, and I can't trade the rest of my life to turn those minutes into hours. It has to end. It has to end.

Tell me what I want. Be here, to change my mind. Tell me that getting rid of you doesn't actually make my life easier or better, it just lets me fall into these same patterns again. Tell me that even if Mr. L wasn't right, maybe he was pointing me in the right direction. Tell me to spend just a little bit longer with you. Take a lesson from me, and don't let me leave.

Except that you can't do that from where you are.

On with it.

2009-07-31T22:55:00.004-04:00

As of late, there has been a lot of comparison between me, in a sexually aroused state, and a cat. A kitten, more acutely, but for the purposes of this post (this eventual metaphor), we're gonna stick with cat. Those of you who know me well can imagine how turned on I would have to be before I found the kitten comparison anything but completely repugnant.

And that's what it is, or what the word "kitten", in this context has come to mean: me, in a state so worked up and in the moment that I suspend my cynicism for that kind of drivel, and really, my criticism of really anything at all. Me, getting beyond that state of endless thought, fast-moving analysis, the sarcasm, the defensiveness, the stress.

I'm sure, for most of you, such a state isn't terribly hard to imagine. Myself, I have one definite account of it in recent memory, and I'm dubious that there'd be more than that if I looked farther back in the records. But then, I have a tendency to forget, quickly, how something felt, and only remember the facts and figures, some of the conversations and the visuals (though almost always in a third-person, movie-camera angle.)

I really think my sex life would benefit incredibly from learning how to meditate, how to shut off the go-go-go of my head. I bought a Psychology Today magazine a few weeks ago, an issue on sex and attraction. It sits, crumpled, on the floor of my bathroom, open to a page that has one of the oversized quotations from the surrounding article: "When a woman reached orgasm, something unexpected happened: much of her brain went silent." I feel like the further information that must be in the article would be illuminating, if not entirely surprising, and I feel like I should read it, but by the time I get around to actually picking it up, I'm generally done with whatever I was in there for in the first place.

I do think it's interesting how often science seems to be running to catch up with things that seem completely obvious to the new-age set, though.

So, I've found another comparison between my sexual self and a cat tonight, because heaven forbid I should witness some natural phenomenon and not find a way to make it about me. Riding my bike tonight, I come across a cat toying with some small, helpless prey. Hypocritically, I ride up to stop it. Unlike the two or three other cats I've done this to on my late-night excursions in the past few weeks, this one didn't seem at all perturbed by me. I rode the bike up until I was a foot and half away from it, then had to get off to deal with it at closer range. The mouse it was toying with must have been injured by the time I got there, it would have been easy enough for me to scoop it up and bring it somewhere safe, but not wanting to get bit, I put my hand between the cat's head and the rodent. I expected, finally, for this to spook the cat, but I found the cat's head pushing resistantly against my hand. At first I thought it was stubborn, then I realized that it just wanted my affection. I pet it at length to distract it and give the mouse a chance to escape, and I remembered I that I know this cat-- not just metaphorically, either. This is the same cat that's often on this stretch of road, often comes up to me and demands my attention. Every time I pass it, it comes to greet me, it's colleague.

So there it is. I didn't find a delicate way to put it, but it's obvious, non? Both of us cats, catching and toying with prey, injuring or killing it, and for no good reason. We're both well fed, well taken care-of. But it's in our nature, to chase and destroy. It's in our nature to make a life into a plaything.

"I've been a bad, bad girl.
I've been careless with a delicate man.
And it's a sad, sad world.
When a girl will break a boy, just because she can."

There's probably more on my mind-- more about how much today sucked, how many little conversations have backed up in my system and will die before they have a chance to get out, like so many seedling maples, growing in a gutter. About missing my muse, the man who, if nothing else, has given me the will to write again (Talk to me in person, world, if you want know where to send that giant thank-you note.) About things he's got me thinking and talking about-- what I really want out of life, why I won't let myself have them.

But I have to finish my English homework, and get this damn mix CD done, once and for all. For him, of course. I do this as a token and a labor of love, finding just the right combination of songs, just the right order so that it builds and falls appropriately. I bet the cat never did that for the mouse.

In the end, I guess, that's what separates us from the animals.

On with it.

2009-07-30T23:23:00.011-04:00

On my walk tonight, I was thinking about too many people to even remember who they were now. Largely, people I've kissed. And one person I long to kiss again, with this sort of Mitch Albom-style pining. (IE, cross the plot "For One More Day"-- where the lead character gets to see his dead Mother again-- with a lesbian erotica. It made more sense in my head.)

I stepped into a smell that reminded me of her, but maybe only because I was already thinking of her. I found myself wanting so badly to think of a song that reminds me only of her, and of nobody else. When I couldn't think of one, I looked through my iPod. Nothing there was quite right, nothing there was quite worthy of her. But the ensuing melancholy, and the temperature of the air around me, and odd sadness that's permeated my alone time lately, that all begged for Arcade Fire's "Crown of Love." It's a song that does not remind me of her, or of myself, or maybe of anybody. It's a parting gift from Casey, one of the last songs I ever downloaded on his recommendation, but it doesn't remind me of him. I think, perhaps, it reminds me of a reality that lives in my fears.

"I carved your name
Across my eyelids
You pray for rain,
I pray for blindness."

As the full meaning of these lines crushes into my head for the first time, I want to fall to my knees and scream at the sky.

"If you still want me,
Please forgive me.
The crown of love
Is falling from me."

And now, I am relistening to the song to recapture the feeling, to get these words down. And now, I am paralyzed by it. By the sad, driving progression of the piano. By the inevitable, pained strains of the strings. By the desperation in the singer's voice.

There is something I want to say here, about how, even as I grow to love someone new more and more, I grow to believe in love less and less. The affection that grows between us now is just a testament to the fleeting and frail powers of affection in general. I'm certain reading that will be, at best, annoying to him: more likely, it will make him acutely remorseful of the consequences of his decisions, both the painfully obvious and the bizarrely ironic.

For some reason, I'm listening to "Danny Boy" now. Great song, came into loving it pretty late. Not a big fan of this particular singer. (Daniel O'Donnell)

He said if he was ever going to give in and kiss me, it would be while we were standing. He's great at that, and he knows he is-- paying attention to things people have said, and using them again, at another time, to their absolute delight. I told him that almost all of my first kisses with people have happened while laying down (he says it's because there's some arcane aspect of my beauty that comes out while I'm lounging-- that's not an exact quote, mind you, but I have to fit his sentiment to my own sense of rhetoric. Something about the slope of my side...I don't know quite what he's talking about, but then, neither does he.) The rare ones that haven't been laying down have been sitting-- at this point, I have to make a written list of everyone I've ever kissed just to make sure I know what I'm talking about. Twelve on the list that undeniably belong there, in that I didn't just kiss them, I had a whole, like, session of kissing them. Jill, Jeremey and Bobby also on the list, as people I only kissed once or twice (Jill) or whom I kissed during a game of Truth or Dare or Spin the Bottle (Jeremey and Bobby)-- I guess Serena and, to a lesser extent, Peter, would be added to that list, if you count those.

And Kris and I used to have a policy that I was allowed to kiss him as a friend-- IE, no tongue, brief and simple and completely platonic. When I say, "we had a policy", what I mean is that I realized that Kris had a tendency to kiss me like that, so I asked Zack if that was fine in such a way that implied he had no choice.

Only one person on that list who's name I can't write at all. One person who I've chosen not to mention in too much detail on here so far. One person whose name everyone knows should be on the list, but with whom my last kiss was a secret.

When I first wrote it down, I had the sneaking suspicion I was missing someone-- I was. Greg Goulding. Breadloaf, Vermont, maybe in 2000. The dew-covered hills that we were rolling all over as we skipped out one of the readings that wasn't optional, the library with the bust of Robert Frost and the fireplace, and reading poetry to each other on that couch.

Any good man can tell you, I'm a sucker for literature.

I was coming around to something-- oh yes, why I'm sad that I've never been kissed standing up. It's not just a positional thing, it's important to point out. It's about the build up to the moment. The will-they-or-won't-they. A terribly important aspect of my fantasy kiss is that I be the person who gets kissed, rather than the one doing the kissing. It's equally important that it happen at a moment where a significant amount of movement has to happen before landing-- IE, that I not already be in that position, that it's not just a matter of parting one's lips. There has to be that moment of anticipation. Whether the movement of someone's head towards mine would happen quickly and passionately-- think someone who's eyes are fixed on you crossing the room at a New York pace, then grabbing you up, and kissing you hard-- or would happen slowly-- think of someone looking deep in your eyes as they go to hold you, then they are looking from your eyes to your lips, then touching your face with their hand before tilting their head and leaning in as they pull you in gently with their hand on the back of your neck-- well, whatever. In theory, I'd take either, so long as there was that question in the air for just a moment beforehand, like the tiny, almost indiscernible trail of a firework that disappears altogether for just a moment before it explodes.

In practice, I'll take neither. I'm married. I mean, chicks of the world, you have your instructions. But this is, by no means, an invitation for the men in the audience. Unfortunately.

I am trying to count how many of my first kisses were started by me. Six, I know for sure. Emily, Mark and Jeff, I don't honestly remember anymore. (I'll leave comments open if any of the three of you are reading this, and would like to edify the audience. Anyone who's kissed me, actually, feel free to contribute. Remember, to access comments, you have to view this post by itself.) Greg, Ben, Sam and Katie, I'm pretty sure they kissed me first.

I feel like somewhere in that list, there's more I could write about. But I probably shouldn't. I'm re-reading some old posts, I may include some links in a tweet-- I really love this damn blog, I really want people-- other than me-- to read the archives. Wanting that wouldn't be the most shameful thing I've wanted, as of late.

On with it.

2009-07-26T19:37:00.006-04:00

There's a post I want to write, that I've been saving up for too long now. Too many pieces, and how will they all fit together?

A post about a word that is my weakness. A word that makes and breaks things-- that I am dependent on. I once-- twice? A hundred times?-- told Sam that the reason he and I could never be together is that I didn't believe he'd ever be able to look into my eyes and use that word for me, and whenever, in the past, I've started to wonder how it might feel to be with someone like him, someone who intrigues and seduces me the way that he does, I remember that he'd never be able to say it. I also know that it's for the best, that he not have what it takes to use my weakness against me. As if, at the time, in that moment, he was not my weakness. But I guess I have more than one.

And no, it's not "love". Believe it or not, there's a word that makes me even crazier than "love".

A post about the way Emily's cousin came up to me yesterday, begging my forgiveness that she did not recognize me at first, and used that word, all three perfect syllables of it, twice, with modifiers like "absolutely", and, I don't know, something else. In return, I told her I recognized her, because she was the same as she'd ever been-- stunning. I didn't go into the fact that it wasn't just the physical that made it true-- her manner, her personality. The easy generosity with which she lavished complements upon me-- the complement, it turns out, that is maybe the only one I would ever need to hear. It's easy to see why she's Emily's favorite cousin, why our mutual friend never got over her. It makes me feel somehow more important as a person to have made any kind of impression on her in the two or three times we met previously, as well as through the things that Emily may have told her over the years.

But this isn't a post about Maggie, not really.

It's a post about something I said the other night, having one of those moments where suddenly, I realize, I feel far less self-worth than I'm even aware of. And I wanted to link to a post about one of the last times that happened, and if I find it, eventually, I will put that link here. (Well...I found one post that briefly made mention of it here. In that same search-- I searched for the word "possibility"-- I found this post which I find particularly interesting, too. I'm wondering if the post I was actually looking for-- which had the words I said to Sam, the lack of his appropriate reaction to them, and then Zack's reaction to them, later, and how perfect it was, despite everything we were going through-- was actually an e-mail to someone? If it was, I may post it, later.) I wanted to express how, it turns out, I still feel broken, defective. Even with all the progress it could be argued I have made. Because of all the progress it could be argued that I never will make.

It's a post about belief, as much as anything else. The belief I held, when I was young, that the first thing that happened when you got to heaven was they sat you down in a room with a big TV and a group of angels, and reviewed a full, decades-spanning video of your life. When I was young, this was the largest source of my Catholic shame-- this belief that I would be trapped in that room, seeing, with perfect remorse, all the times I ever touched myself, all the times I ever swore without immediately adding "I'm sorry, God."-- do you know how long I did that?

"Catholic girls start much too late."

That same belief of the afterlife, while it had been such a source of anxiety, was maybe the hardest thing to lose, when I lost my faith. Suddenly, I inherited the belief that everything that had ever happened to me was, all at once, gone. That, along with the shameful moments, I had lost my turn to see it all again, the friendships, the happiness. The moments of extreme perfection which are like shining islands in the sea of misery that they cause, acting as poor and precious justification to ruin everything you've come to depend on. Suddenly, all that was left of these things were my fleeting memories-- and anything I'd already lost a memory of, well, maybe someone else had one. But if not, if it was something that was just my own, well, was it even real anymore?

This was probably the seed of a rather unpopular idea I expressed in lit class a few weeks ago, that truth may be subjective. I know I'm not the first person to think that, but it's not something that I've really known anyone to agree with.

Belief in other things, too-- or the lack of belief in other things. Seeing my reflection, sometimes, I'm given ample evidence to believe that I am that thing I wish to believe I am. Other times, I see myself and think that it couldn't be farther from the truth. This informs my skepticism-- do beautiful women exist? Or are their simply women who know better than others how to pose, how to dress, how to apply makeup and hide their flaws. Myself? Well, I'm pretty enough from a certain angle, but I don't know quite how to strike it, and even in the company of people who give me ten times more confidence, in the moment, than I usually have-- when I leave, I can't help but wonder how much of the evening I spent with my neck craned in just that certain way that makes me, somehow, more appealing, more worthwhile.

Conversely, it's important to point out that I do believe in ugly women-- they are as real and as tangible as the earth beneath my feet. This isn't some hippy-dippy tribute to equality and the subjective nature of beauty. I believe that some women are truly ugly, but I question the possibility that any women are truly beautiful.

If there was anything to challenge that skepticism, it was the vision that was Emily, yesterday, on her wedding day. In her gown, with her hair just so-- seeing that, and holding my breath, and needing to stare: that must be what a real belief in beauty feels like. She was more beautiful than I'd ever seen her, but, beyond that, somehow more beautiful than anyone had ever been. How ridiculous that she should lack confidence that she would be.

There was a post I was going to write, the day before, about how, despite my changing tastes over the years, despite my changing moods, my changing lifestyles...despite the approval that I give for the hollywood standard of beauty, and the way that makes certain people think I am shallow, despite everything, the first person I ever kissed has never stopped being beautiful to me. Having seen her yesterday, the whole ode I had planned seems to be something of an understatement.

And Emily, with that same generous grace that seems to be a quality of a "Davis Girl" (as Floyd puts it), Emily always tells me I'm beautiful, too.

What would the world be without Davis Girls, huh?

There were other things to write-- about this CD I've listened to easily five times in the past forty hours or so. About whether or not I am converted, about individual lines that stand out. But, in reality, this wasn't a post about the one person who's been driving me to write so often, lately. And it wasn't a post that was asking to be pandered to by him or anybody else. This was a post about Emily being beautiful, Maggie being stunning, and me being weak. This was a post about the subjectiveness of truth, and the impossibility of perfection, and the things I believed when I was young. This was a post about the things that I don't believe now.

On with it.

2009-07-25T22:04:00.000-04:00

I'm just gonna stick this post on top for a while...it was originally posted on the 7/25/09, at 10:04pm

Eventually, I plan to redesign this site so that a twitter badge is worked seemlessly into the sidebar, allowing my readers to follow me both on to-the-moment thoughts, and long, rambling...ramblings. But for now, I'm gonna stick a twitter badge into this post, and then tweet a little.

follow me on Twitter

On with it.

2009-07-22T23:42:00.004-04:00

Text messages again.

Me: I was wrong.
Sam: About?
Me: Him being better for me than you, as if I'm an addict and you are a more damaging drug. Better metaphor: I am a self-mutilator and you are two glass bottles.
Me: IE, you'd both be completely harmless if I weren't such a fucking mess.

I'm not as faithful to the shuffle gods tonight. I put it on shuffle, but I skip past any song that isn't hard enough to drive my anger-- anger, I should point out, that is purely at myself, no matter how much I associate it with somebody else. I let it play a song by Sage Francis (thinking that this feeling I had that let me enjoy it, it must be how Elorza and Zack feel all the time), and then one by Buck 65 (the Buck song was not quite angry enough for my tastes, but I was also feeling incredibly, incredibly uncool, and hating myself for it, so I wanted something to make me feel cooler than I was. What's cooler than underground hip hop? If you said canadian underground hip hop, well, then, you must think I'm pretty cool right now.) I let it stop on "Unkind" by Tabitha's Secret: "Bring it on, baby, whatcha gettin' into?// Is living on pain the thing that's getting to you?// Write my name, pin it up with my picture,// say it's the only thing, 'cause I'm not around to be around." There's a song by Regina Spektor that I've never paid much attention to before, that strikes a chord with me, called "Hero": "And we're going to these meetings but we're not doing any meetin'.// And we're trying to be faithful, but we're cheatin', cheatin', cheatin'."

I listen, for a while, to the tinny overhead music that completes the awful scene as I sit in the red, lawn-style reclining chair in the annex where they sell barbecues and mulch.

Even as I've come to hate myself, I've come to love that chair. That chair is dangerous enabler. I'm breaking up with that chair.

In a conversation with Emily I have in my car after I drive home (she responded to one of the five "I'm too pathetic to exist" text messages I sent out to random friends while I sat in my chair.), I tell her "I'm going to have write on my blog, or tell him to his face: 'you have my cell number. You can have my home number. There's absolutely no reason you can't call me, and, really, I mean any time. So, if you're headed to wal-mart and you hope there's a possibility I can meet you there, if you want to take a walk sometime, if you want to come over and watch a movie, whatever. Call me. And if you find that it makes you uncomfortable or that you'd be afraid I'd already be busy, well, then clearly you're not paying attention, and anyway, that's just not as big of a problem as me spending all my goddamn free time at wal-mart for no good reason.' And god help me if I don't have the strength or the self-esteem to find some way to communicate that. I mean, really, if I don't, shoot me now, because I'm fucking worthless."

I mean, the telling it to his face thing, well, that would have suggested slightly more strength and self-esteem than this does, but one way or another, it's gotta get done.

I need to reiterate-- I am mad at, annoyed with, and disgusted by no one but myself, here. And I wish to god I was oblivious enough that I didn't have to be, but I'm not. It's clear as day that I'm assigning other people's faces to my inner demons. I'm at this weird place of balance. I'm too smart to not see the idiocy in the things I do, and too sane to not see how fucking crazy the things I want to do are (IE, punch the large bags of dog food on display...and maybe the brick walls, a little...and all the other customers.) And I have too much pride to confess to all that, but honestly, I also have too much pride not to confess to all of that. And if you can't figure out how that works out, don't worry, you're not alone, because I really don't know what I meant, either. Maybe that I'm afraid if I'm not honest about how truly idiotic I've been acting, I'll be free to continue acting that way. Maybe.

This is not his fault; this is not your fault. I am not angry, and the things that are destined to change soon, well, they haven't changed quite yet. But god help me if I find myself at that hellish symbol of misery again without having a legitimate need for low, low prices.

Also from "Hero":

"I'm the hero of this story,
Don't need to be saved."

On with it.

2009-07-21T02:09:00.010-04:00

Elorza and I are currently discussing my apparent lack of respect for the institution of marriage, and I can't help but think of that Edna St. Vincent Millay poem. I definitely remember reading it over and over again when I was in love with Chad, but I can't quite remember if it was one of the ones I memorized with the ambition of getting him in a quiet moment and then coyly whispering it into his ear.

OH, THINK not I am faithful to a vow!
Faithless am I save to love's self alone.
Were you not lovely I would leave you now:
After the feet of beauty fly my own.
Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,
And water ever to my wildest thirst,
I would desert you–think not but I would!–
And seek another as I sought you first.
But you are mobile as the veering air,
And all your charms more changeful than the tide,
Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:
I have but to continue at your side.
So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,
I am most faithless when I most am true.

I guess I never thought of that poem as hopelessly depressing before today. I guess I never really had any reason to.

After seeing "I Love You, Beth Cooper" (the movie was fairly faithful to the book, and I recommend both, but definitely read the book), I went to Wal-Mart tonight for my all-to-usual walk around the store-- how many days has it been since I haven't been there, or at least driven around the parking lot for twenty minutes?-- I put on my headphones and set the iPod to shuffle. I almost skip past the first song, but leave it on, appreciating the irony. Carole King's "You Got a Friend."

By the end of it, I hate myself. I mean, really. I hate the things I do, and the way I make my way through my days. I hate how weak they leave me feeling, how tenuous my hold on the things that give me momentary happiness are. I hate how used up they leave me. I hate how they build expectations that no one can fulfill, and then I blame my own imagined deficiencies when they don't go right. (You cannot imagine the willpower it's taking right now not to go back and delete the word "imagined", in the midst of Jiminy Critic's protests)

I hate the idea that the people I love might be-- probably are?-- just placeholders. Props to be used at the whim of my weaknesses. I hate the idea that if I wriggle free of someone who might not be good for me that I am drawn to because of some psychological need, I will just seek out someone else to fill that void. I hate that idea, and yet, I can't afford to discount it, lest I get sucked into some depraved, psychological cycle. And I hate that I'm smart enough to be cognizant of that possibility in the first place.

The people I love are better than this, they deserve more than this. They deserved to be loved, and deeply, for individual aspects of their personalities. Here, I want to list them, but believe it or not, dear audience, I really am talking about more than one person, and heaven forbid they should have no idea who they are when they read this.

It takes me a while, until just now, actually, to figure out what my problem has been, as of late: I am losing faith in love.

If love is the only thing keeping my little mistakes from turning into big mistakes, if love is the only thing that holds up the roof of my house, that feeds my bank account, that warms my bed at night, if love is the only power by which my life moves forward and my heart keeps beating and I keep working towards something, anything, better...then what do I have if I come to the inevitable conclusion that love is some physiological trick?

It wasn't long ago now that I went through a crisis of faith-- by which I mean a crisis of un-faith. It was maybe two years ago, maybe more, that I started realizing how deep the hole was that was left by my lack of religion. Things were bad for me, I guess I don't remember the specifics as to why, but I remember the longing I had, all of a sudden, to believe. To belong to a group of people who were brought together, week after week, by a moral code, by the understanding that there is a right and a wrong, and that human decency is right, and that human suffering is wrong. To fit in among people who have a unifying source of strength, and, from there, have the power to be kind to one another. (If this doesn't sound like organized religion to you, keep in mind I was thinking of one of the more progressive, modern religions, like Universal Unitarianism.) To believe in heaven, to having some reason to stop being so ultimately terrified of death. To believe in my soul.

"And I have no faith,
But it's all I want.
To be loved
And believe
In my soul, in my soul."
~Bright Eyes, Waste of Paint

I came to the conclusion, ultimately, that it was no longer possible for me. I stopped believing in god because it stopped making sense to me, and at the time, it was freeing, it was exciting; I was so young. It was all about the logical arguments with frustrated adults. I was cocky, and I-- legitimately-- understood the nature of the divine. But what I didn't know is why so many adults believe in god-- they understand the nature of life.

The problem was, once I gained that understanding of life-- what about life demands faith, what about life begs for a source of strength from the beyond (whether or not it is a placebo effect)-- well, my attitude was different, but I still couldn't make it make sense. In fact, so many years removed from my original fall from grace, it made less sense than it ever did. I couldn't have it back, no matter how I wanted it. Because I was never wrong. I'm not wrong.

So I reduced the mysteries and wonder of heaven and earth into science in my mind-- and I'm not even really that big on science-- and I couldn't get it back. Now, I seem to be doing the same to love-- dissecting it with a critical eye and a junior chemistry set I picked up from the wal-mart toy department (Because, ah hell, I'm there anyway.) Oh. Goody.

At least Casey's "ineffable fondness" will be subject to that same level of scrutiny.

The next song on the shuffle list was Flo, a Smash Mouth song about a woman who's with a man when she's spending all her time thinking about someone else (from his perspective.) Next was "Problems and Bigger Ones" by Harvey Danger. Talk about your fucking heart-wrenching songs, about an impossible relationship, made up one part real love-- no matter what you believe that is-- and two parts real circumstances, real bullshit, real life. Whatever you believe that is.

"Here is a fact you cannot rise above:
We'll have problems, yeah, then we'll have bigger ones."

Are we noticing a pattern here? I'm walking through Wal-Mart, and the hate is getting bigger, and the hurt is getting bitter, and the iPod is getting crueler. Next, Matchbox Twenty's "You & I & I." This is a great song to switch you from depression to anger. Still relevant, though."

"Well, it's a shame, you pander to me.
C'mon, stroke on my ego like it's never broke before, held by anyone else.
And what doesn't kill you, it makes you linger,
And it makes you wonder.

Well, goodness sake, do you ever get sleep?
If there's one thing I believe:
What doesn't kill you doesn't stay."

From there, I got to a weird place where the Muppets and John Denver singing "Where the River Meets the Sea" made some odd, cosmic sense, then Rogue Wave's "Kicking the Heart Out" which I barely know but has a haunting resonance ("But, oh, you're 25 for an hour."). It picked me up briefly with "Mad Season" ("I feel ugly, but I know I still turn you on."), and as I was leaving Wal-mart, at last, it ended very appropriately with "Idiot Wind" by Dylan. ("We're idiots, babe. It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves.")

In the parking lot, it plays, quite rightly, "Untouchable Face." The first Ani song I ever heard, and still the best.

"So fuck you,
And your untouchable face.
And fuck you
For existing in the first place.
And who am I
That I should be vying for your touch?
And who am I?
I bet you can't even tell me that much."

Well, if I believe in nothing else, I guess there's always the power of the demon spirit that randomizes my iPod. Put on your headphones, some protective eye gear, and grab a cheap plastic beaker full of baking soda with some flimsy tongs. It's time for an existential crisis, boys and girls.

On the upside, Wal-Mart had the giraffe pattern underwear I'd been looking for, against all odds. (Haha, yes, even I know that last picture is a little ridiculous. What the hell, though.)

On with it.

2009-07-17T21:12:00.003-04:00

I take a gamble that this bottle is a twist-off as I sit down to assess my life. Twenty-five years ago at this moment, my mom was probably already in labor. This wouldn't have hurt as much as that, even if I was wrong.

So why'd she go through the trouble? What am I today?

Age is a number. I used to admire people who said that bullshit. And, yeah, I know it's terribly infantile and self-centered to be having a midlife crisis at the age of twenty-five. If you've ever read a single post on this blog before, I hope to god you aren't surprised.

It took me a while to figure out exactly what the two things that have been bothering me lately are, and a little while beyond that to see how they fit together. I text messaged Sam earlier, and the conversation brings both themes into the mix nicely. Let's go ahead and put the whole damn thing up, while I can pretend I'm already drunk enough to think that's not a bad idea.

Linda: Six hours of relative youth left. What should my final act of rebellion be?
Sam: Hmmmm, infidelity?? (I'm not going to post his mispelling of the word. I found it terribly unattractive, and come to think of it, terribly ironic, that he of all people could not spell that word.)

This is actually all of the conversation we need to establish the two things that have been bothering me lately. Number one: That I feel like twenty-five is the age where I really need to stop giving myself slack for making mistakes, the age where I need to buckle down, finish what I'm going to finish, and stop writing things off because I'm young. I'm not saying everyone, at this age, starts to turn their life around. I'm saying that if I don't, I will be much, much older when I realize that I forgot to.

And number two is the line from "No Children" that's been making me want to cry-- if you read that in the last post, because you're a loyal (or a new) reader. Not because that post was at all interesting. But I owe it to you to wrap it into this post somehow, so you feel rewarded for wasting your time on that one.

"I hope I lie,
And tell everyone you were a good wife."

It took me a while to figure out why that song fucked me up. Oh yeah, my secret shame. I am a bad wife.

Lest all you loyal friends of mine come immediately to my defense, let's examine the facts, here. First, the "domestic goddess" clichés. I am a slob. I cannot cook. Not because it's difficult, I hate people who offer to "teach me." My problem with cooking is organizational, and to do with the fact that I am a picky eater. I do not have children-- until recently, could not have children, but at twenty-five, even I would only fault myself for that intermintently. So let's move on, beyond that. Let's move on to "sex goddess." I am bad at sex. I don't take much pleasure in pleasuring my husband, or being pleasured by him. I need therapy for this, which I have been very slow in getting. Despite all this, however, I am ready and raring to go when it comes to other people. Which doesn't mean I have been exactly unfaithful, but let's face it, I was, once. A long time ago, when things were very bad between Zack and I-- and yes, you can trade blame back and forth all you want, but really, things wouldn't have been bad at all if not for the lack of "sex goddess" status. So, I spend more time than I should lounging in the arms of people who are not my husband. And, maybe sometimes, they are someone else's. I am completely, completely honest with Zack about this, and I ue that as my defense. But then I harbor this secret shame about it.

What else? Well, I can offer abject compliments to these other men, but rarely to Zack. I find it hard not to criticize little things about his physique that would kill me if he said the same thing to me-- tommorrow, he is getting a spray tan for my birthday, because I'm curious what he would look like if he were tan. I forget to be respectful of his job, how important it is-- I tell everybody he gets paid for doing nothing most of the time, and this seems to be true, but the books will tell you (the christian relationship advice books, don't ask me why I've read them) that you need to offer respect towards a man's job, or else he will be belittled.

He is home now, petting the dog behind me, and when I walked to get my second bottle of Smirnoff Ice, I definitely felt dizzy. I'll get heartburn soon-- ahh, there it goes. The dog. I defend the dog a lot when Zack gets mad at him, even when the dog is misbehaving. This undermine's Zack's authority, another thing the Christian Relationship books would not have me do. And I accuse Zack of being a budding alcoholic. I don't think I'm wrong. But I should wait for more evidence, so as to be less hurtful. Especially when I am currently the one drowning my heartache in heartburn. (Not that I'm accusing him right now...except where I just typed it, there. I think I type faster when I drink.)

So. I'm a bad wife. And in keeping with that, let's have the rest of the conversation with Sam! (The fact that I still talk to Sam at all, citing the fact that I asked Zack, time and time again, if he'd prefer me to stop, and he said no, as my justification.)

Sam: Hmmm, infidelity?
Linda: Possibly, but I think you'd be second in line right now. someone else has been putting much more time into trying to seduce me, and he's local.
Sam: Well, I am in town...
Linda: I figured that was my luck.
Linda: He's no good for me, but he's much better for me than you are. No jittery side effects.
Linda: (After twenty minutes of no response) I didn't mean for that to be quite as insulting as it sounded, gorgeous.
Sam: Oh, I got it, don't worry...I guess I'm just no good for you.

There, I should have left it, because he's not exactly wrong. But it was heartbreaking. And I'm self-destructive. So I had to go and say this.

Linda: I'd been thinking for a momth I wish I could see you sometime near my birthday, that that would make me happy, and very little else would be worthwhile.

To which he never responded.

But you see in there how I do the right thing? How I don't see him? It's out of loyalty to the other guy. Not to Zack. And I must say, I find this fascinating. I guess the thing is, I know I'm not going to do any more with Sam than I already have, and so, it's enough to be troublesome to Zack, but it's not exactly infidelity. It is, however, the same exact amount of contact and affection I would be sharing with the other guy, under different circumstances. And so it feels unfaithful to him.

Of couse, let's not give myself too much credit. Probably, if I had taken Sam up on what seems like an offer to hang out there, he would have told me he was unavailable. Let's find out.

Linda (right now): For journalistic purposes, if I had told you I wanted to see you tonight, when you hinted you were in town, I would have found out you already had plans, right?

While we're waiting. There's this whole post I wanted to write the other day. When I was listening to Modest Mouse's Bukowski and thinking about Casey, and thinking about the word "Love." Loyal readers (as opposed to new readers) know that Casey has ruined the word for me, or been blamed for it, at any rate. Then again, thinking about the last time it tickled my lips as often as it does lately, without coming out, I am reminded of when I was first befriending Zack. This was well before Casey's influence. (A bit of trivia-- I actually met Casey before I met Zack, on the same day I met Jeff, my sophomore year of high school. It was an inter-school young writer's gifted and talented program, the first day of it, and the three of us-- Casey, Jeff and I-- all got put into a group together to discuss the essays we had just read aloud-- mine was about Jeff, who I had never met, which made it awkward. That's sort of a seperate story. Anyway, that day was the day that officially started mine and Jeff's relationship, but I didn't speak to Casey again for a number of years. On a side note, I can still tell Jeff I love him. He still says it back.)

It wasn't I didn't want to tell Zack I was in love with him-- I wasn't, yet. I didn't want to tell him that I loved him, as a friend. Or rather, I wanted to, but I was afraid he couldn't handle it. Creepy, obsessive self-mutilator. I mean, I loved him, I did, but I wasn't going to make the mistake of thinking he was stable.

And I guess I was still pretty fresh coming off of what I did to Andrew (Lunt.) Or what I thought I did to him-- I carried around the shame of "breaking him" for quite a while after we split. I guess I had already thought to think of "love" as a four-letter word with five-alarm consequences. (How cool that I can string together a sentence like that halfway through my second bottle of smirnoff. Though I'm drinking slower, now, and I really have no reason to be actually drunk yet.)

Sam: (right now) I always have plans, hun, it's more about whether what your (sic) offering is more interesting than my previous plans.

Thank god he responded right then. I thought I wasn't going to be able to tap dance around the topic anymore without undoing all the hard work I've done in not saying what I've wanted to say. First, do no harm.

"People say friends don't destroy one another.
What do they know about friends?"
~Mountain Goats, Game Shows Touched Our Lives

On with it.

2009-07-13T20:03:00.003-04:00

Okay, so let's go for a post that contains all the partial posts that I've wanted to start recently, but haven't, because I had no way to make them into an entire post. Be prepared for some frustrating, unsatisfying reading, but please don't take this opportunity to wonder why you come here at all:

Song that make me want to cry almost every time I hear them:

-The Cure's "Just Like Heaven", slightly preferrably as covered by Gatsby's American Dream.
-The Mountain Goat's "No Children."
-Oops. Maybe that's all I can think of right now.

Jeremey's first day of his new job was today. Emily got legally married today. Jeff has his old job back, and I've yet to remember to e-mail him back about this. Blah blah blah, insert something here about how my life, in comparsion, is starting to feel small and insignificant.

I've been thinking lately that I really need therapy. I've been wondering if my negative experiences with Mr. Ladd-- when he left-- have informed my distrust of therapy in general. The reality of this is probably bigger, though. I started distrusting therapy based on the fact that it's just a person on the other end, every bit as flawed as you. Over time, I think what I feel about has changed: it's no longer really a distrust, it's more of a...I don't know, it's more of a need to find the perfect conditions for it to work under. For it to work, I guess I just think you really need to find the right person. And who has the time and the money to go from threapist to therapist, waiting for one to click?

How strange that, as I'm writing this, Mr. Ladd has come online. I really don't speak to him that often, at all.

I guess the other thing is that the trained massage therapist in me tends to be more interested in...I don't know, holistic modalities-- hypnotism, Emotional Freedom Technique. Things that allow you to cut through the blah blah blah and access the parts of your brain that are really in charge. I guess I'm a pretty firm believer in the power of the subconcious...and maybe I think everything else is irrelevant. My trouble is that I don't really succumb to hypnotism. Like at all. Maybe after a few years of yoga or meditation training. Something that could slow down my constant stream of thoughts, many of which react very sarcastically to hypnotic suggestion.

Mr. Ladd and I are going to make an appointment. Here we go again.

I find it annoying that the time when you're in the best position to be absolutely honest with a person is right before they start to mean too much to you. Because that honesty-- or, at least, that opportunity for honesty-- nessecarily leads the relationship forward, if you're me. Nothing does it for me like that moment in a relationship where you can tell a person everything because they're interested, but still largely unaffected. Keep that up for too long, however, and you're going to get to a point where your words have consequences.

I just fucking -know- there was another song I wanted for that list. I mean, there are others that have been on there in the long term-- "You Don't Bring Me Flowers", and Mariah Carey's "Without You." (The latter because it was played in the car on the way to my grandmother's funeral.) But there's one I've been listening to recently....speaking of music...

Rob Thomas has a new album out. Reminded me that I needed to replace my copy of his last one-- also, I downloaded both "Yourself or Someone Like You" and "Mad Season", which were missing from my MP3 collection, given that I've owned each of them at least three times. I have this thing with losing those CD's. A few promising tracks on this new one-- you have to give Rob Thomas, by himself, the benefit of the doubt. He's obviously better with Matchbox Twenty, and without, he has a tendency to be too poppy, and to favor (ugh) chorale background singers. But he's still Rob Thomas. Anyway, did you buy "Exile on the Mainstream"? Did you even know about it? No? Then don't blame him for releasing "Cradlesong" as a solo album.

Give me the Meltdown" and "Mockingbird" are each pretty good tracks, with some excellent lines. He always was a fantastic lyricist. However, even I am a little offended by the track called "Real World '09." Come on, man. Some things are sacred.

Blah. Maybe staying in the habit isn't quite worth the effort. I'll have something profound-- or at least vaguely relevant-- so say next time. Promise.

On with it.

2009-07-07T17:44:00.003-04:00

Dan is talking to me about a poem he just wrote, saying he normally doesn't bother committing the lines that pass through his head to paper, but today he felt compelled. I wrote an entire poem in my head earlier, but let it pass instantly. It seems lately, I can't write anything I'm feeling without risking something.

I had made the deal with myself, finally, to write in this more often. To hell with the caution, to hell with the shame. Let's just get back to who I used to be, when I was an open book, when I put it all out there, good and bad. Zack doesn't fucking read this, anyway.

I alternate between being annoyed by that and realizing, with shocking clarity, exactly why he doesn't, why he can't. It bothers me that, when I look too hard, I can never *really* blame him for anything. Sure, he lies, but I create an environment where he can't be truthful. Sure, he's distant and sad and won't talk to me, but I create an environment where he can't be happy. Sure, sometimes it feels like we have a bad marriage, but doesn't that just make me a bad wife?

You'd think with those kinds of feelings, I'd find it hard to justify the things I sometimes do, the things I'm all too eager to write about, if somewhat vaguely, in these less-than-hallowed pages. In reality, I feel like I've missed something when I don't do them, feel like I've lost someone when I don't write them. If a genius is someone who can hold two contradictory thoughts in their mind at the same time, does that make someone who can have two (or eight) contradictory feelings at the same time an emotional Einstein?

My guess is no.

---

I told him "I flit"; or rather, he told me he noticed it: my tendency to switch between intense passions almost weekly: passions for people, passions for ambitions, and, not uncommonly, for people as ambitions, as things I want to accomplish. ("He" is not Zack. "He" will go, for the moment, unnamed.) After he mentioned this tendency of mine without assigning the cute little word to describe it, I coined it much later, expressing my concern for our relationship to him. I sighed. "I do flit.", I said, and he agreed. I turned to him, accusing "Do you have any idea what I mean by that? 'Flit?'" He did-- how delicious is that? He described what I meant perfectly back to me, using a butterfly in the metaphor: I remind myself not to be too enamoured by the comparison, after all, how can one use the word "flit" and not think butterfly?

I know this about my emotional ADD, about the way I get so very deeply involved with something so quickly, and then allow it to pass me by. It's him, right now, it has no one to be with him. (I'm sure that sounds rather insulting, if you're out there. I don't mean it that way.) It gets so intense, so quickly. Good, ol' fashioned suburban infatuation, where you want to be in any public place (Wal-Mart, lately) because there's a better chance he'll be there than at your house. Where you can't help but notice, for the first time, exactly how many of that make and model of cars are on the road, or, equally as frustrating, how many cars sort of look, from a distance, just like that make and model? (Does anyone remember, from high school, how I hated Ford Taurus'? "Grrr, Taurus"? And motherfucking Mercury Sables, the little clone bastard car. It was all because of Jonathan Lawless's car, remember? I guess some things never change.)

It will end soon enough, it has nothing to do but end. (If you're out there, I'm not sure whether or not you find that insulting, but I suppose, unfortunately, that you can't find fault with it's verity. Can't say I didn't warn you. Can't say I haven't tried.) I told him, the other day, that I do; I go from passion to passion, from person to person, and I can't seem to help it: the feelings are real, in the moment, and I never mean to hurt anyone. Maybe it's even been a while since I have hurt anyone, with one, big red-headed exception...or, come to think of it, two exceptions that share a bed at night. But I flit, I'm a flitter by nature, and I told him this: I feel like I betray everything I touch.

Maybe, upon closer inspection, I'm less like the butterfly, and more like one of those destructive tent moths. The ones that land on something beautiful and leave it ugly, gray, and destroyed, through their solicitous, consuming attentions.

I hope I'm being harder on myself than I deserve. I hope I'm not the parasite I fear I am. I might go back to some public place tonight, compelled by instinct, ready to move my wings in their dainty fashion, and be what I am, whatever it is. Or I might have the comparative grace and poise to sit at home and watch some crappy romantic comedy I've seen a dozen times, or listen to some songs that remind me of my current, transient obsession.

The last line of Dan's poem is "OH how I wish you were here."

On with it.

2009-07-04T03:21:00.006-04:00

There's a post I want to write that deserves more attention than I have the energy to give it. Things about myself that I am only beginning to know, things that deeply inform who I am, the mistakes I make, the people I hurt, the people I love. All these tangents to weave in and have it still somehow be relevant. I'm going to give it a try. I hope it comes out alright-- I want to sleep, but I'm afraid of what will happen to this if I don't get it out now.

Elorza was in town for the fiesta. The Monday after, we celebrated my birthday early-- five people in attendance, it seemed like the largest grouping of my friends that seemed likely for me to be able to amass, at the very least, without conflict. But this much is hardly relevant.

Outside with another friend as he is getting ready to leave, he says of Elorza, "He's a little full of himself, isn't he?"

"He comes off that way. It's really just to hide the immense self-loathing he feels."

Elorza being in town brought a lot of negative feelings for me, too. I took a walk with the other gentleman, explaining to him how I normally don't "keep guys around" who aren't at all attracted to me. I expressed my worry for mine and Elorza's friendship in the wake of getting all this non-sexual tension out in the open a few months ago. It's not that I want things to happen between he and I-- I don't. But I really don't know how to interact with someone-- someone male, anyway-- who has no attraction for me whatsoever.

I guess I've been chalking that up to being insecure on a certain level. What it is, though, is being insecure on a very different level than I was aware. There's this manager at work I really respect-- I mean, on a level that it makes me a little crazy. Little by little, I'm beginning to find faults with him-- thank god-- but for the longest time, I thought of him as just about perfect. He balanced intelligence and kindness in a way I had previously thought to be impossible, and added diligence and professionalism, to boot. I had sort of a complex about him; an inferiority complex, I guess. Every now and then, I'd get in these awful moods around him, just thinking of how much better he was than I. All of this, not too disturbing by itself.

I didn't really notice at first, but I wouldn't hang my coat next to his on the coat rack at work-- every day, it was this very detailed process I did, almost unconsciously, keeping it as far away from his as I could manage. I didn't stop to think about it, but if I did, I knew why: I am gross. I am dirty. I fear that I radiate some disgusting aura, that my belongings smell or are diseased, perhaps. Still, it wasn't a problem until one day I came in and he had hung his coat next to mine. I had a small panic attack. I had to move it right away. I was shaky for a half-hour afterward.

That was a little bit of a wake-up call.

Once I accidentally used his earpiece instead of mine when we both went for a break at the same time. When I realized my mistake after he began looking at his, I apologized profusely and used alcohol swab after alcohol swab to clean it for him before I returned it-- he looked at me like I was crazy, and I must have looked crazy in that moment.

I don't know how I went so long without realizing I had a complex about this. I wonder if I always have. It's obvious where it came from, I guess: years and years of kids accusing me of being unwashed in elementary school. I can't imagine that I actually was, but my hair tended to knot up, and my mom, god bless her, could not remove the knots without putting me in extreme pain.

Maybe that's not all of it. I remember, too, when it was explained to me what confession was for, in Sunday school-- to clean away your sins. I pictured sins as being little black spots on a two-dimensional white outline of you that represented your soul. After too long, the little black spots, they would build up, cover you. I liked the idea of purging them all at once, but being in the confessional was just too much for me. Whatever happened to me when I was young, (with regards to whether or not I was molested and have blocked the memory) it resulted in me masturbating at a very young age, earlier that kindergarden, to the types of humiliating fantasies that I can just barely come to terms with today. You try explaining that to a priest when you're six.

So I couldn't go back. And the little black spots, they built up on me, because that's really what I believed sins were.

I wish I could go back there and tell that girl what sins really are-- that they do color you in, they give you shading and form. You are just a white silhouette without them, or maybe one of those eerie sculptures with a blank space where the face should be. The sins, the mistakes, they shape and form you, they make you what you are. If only I could have told her back then that what I was, was beautiful. If only I could have told her there'd never be anything on me that I couldn't wash off.

On a related note, I've been wondering lately if what draws people together might necessarily be their weaknesses, not their strengths. I've been thinking of this seemingly random cycle I have with my friends, where I get to be very intense with one of them at a time: I don't think, anymore, that it's random at all. I think I gravitate to the one who can fulfill whatever psychological need I'm feeling at the time. There's more to be said about that...maybe another day I'll say it.

And if what draws you to a person is your weaknesses, what happens if you then grow as a person, beyond that weakness? With regards to my marriage, this particular thought worries me often. I love Zack, I do, and it's because he's a decent person, an intelligent person, a person with a particular sense of humor, and a gentle spirit. But when I think of what I was first drawn to about him, what made our relationship work at the time, I remember how well he fit with my shortcomings, not my strengths. I was needy, he was obsessive. I was insecure, he was devoted and without a past. I wanted to feel needed and strong, and he was damaged goods. I couldn't have sex, and he swore he was willing to wait. And I remember how happy I was when I found out he had next to no sense of smell.

And let's face it, I'm still all those things, I'm still that same set of weaknesses with only a few interspersed strengths. Anything that's changed, it's been by inches, not miles. But what happens to our relationship if one day, I'm none of those things? What happens if I self-actualize? Will my marriage last on pure and untainted love alone if one day I'm independent, secure, sexually capable, and psychologically deodorized?

Well, there's one disaster that FEMA can breathe easy about, at any rate.

I gotta wrap this around to where I was going. All this time, I've been under the impression that this need to feel like people are attracted to me was all about conquest. I thought this deal with Elorza was about the rejection of the past, when I was in love with him and he was not in love with me. I thought I was really shallow. I thought this all played into the question I can't stop asking, about whether or not I am objectively attractive (A big question). And I don't think all of that is completely invalid. But....

The whole time Elorza was here, all I wanted was too touch him. It wasn't about lust and it wasn't about conquest. It was about closeness. It was about the fact that I love-- really, really love-- this person that I almost never see, and the fact that I am a physically affectionate person. The fact that I am someone who needs to touch skin, feel heartbeats, hear breath. It was about the way I think of death: that the only hope of an afterlife I feel I have is that matter can neither be created nor destroyed, and that's what a person's soul really is (not a white outline with black spots). And if that's true, then if you want to spend eternity with someone, you have to spend as much time as possible breathing them in, absorbing their physical energy, making tiny, tangible parts of them into tiny, tangible parts of you.

I wanted to touch him. Hold his hand, lean on him. Sit closer to him than I would to a stranger. Hug him, hold him, put my head on his knee. But somehow, because of some stupid conversation I had with him a few months ago where he stated, unequivocally, that there's no way he could ever find me attractive, I couldn't. I stared at him from afar, I crossed my arms and stayed my distance. He hugged me when he came, and when he left, and a few times in there-- when we'd been drinking-- I dared to get just a little closer. But I didn't touch him, not the way I did the last time he was here. All because of that stupid conversation. And the whole time he was here, the whole time I was looking at the alluring, perfect smoothness of his dark tan skin-- I just kept feeling worse about myself.

I thought it was just rejection, but it didn't feel quite right. It took till tonight for me to figure it out: I don't believe there's a halfway.

I don't believe there's a halfway. He's not attracted to me, he could never be attracted to me. So he must know that I'm disgusting. He must have figured out my guarded secret. He could smell me from a mile a way, he did me a favor just being in the same room. I am reprehensible, vile, I have an aura. And he knows it.

That's why I need people to be attracted to me-- maybe there's a whole slew of other reasons why I want it, but that's why I need it. That's why I'm afraid of our relationship ending over some bullshit.

This whole thing, it's not a conversation I could have with him. There's something I would need him to say, and he doesn't get it-- he doesn't get that the lack of saying what I need to hear is the cementing of what I fear most. He doesn't cater, and that doesn't matter. Wouldn't risk it now, even if he did. Most of the time, I have an absurdly open relationship with him. I guess that's how I know this is a big one.

I wish I had a good way to wrap this up. I wish I had something in my stomach right now. I wish I didn't have to work tomorrow. I wish I believed a lot of you would read this and understand how core it is for me, how bizarrely urgent it was that I write it. I wish I knew how to talk to the little girl with the knotted hair and the spotted soul. I wish I knew that the love I have for people is based on love, not unconscious needs; more than that, I wish I knew that there was more to love in general than chemical misfirings and Freudian levels of consciousness. I wish I believed in souls in a more traditional way, so I wouldn't have to fear that my physical distance from Elorza is discounting our importance to each other in eternity's eye. I wish I could have written this whole thing with that gentle, flowing turn of phrase that is the one thing I adore about myself, the one thing that reminds me that I have worth, that more comes out of me than pestilence.

I have a lot of wishes.

On with it.

2009-06-15T03:27:00.003-04:00

Every now and then, I get entangled with him again, and he steals every song, wrestles away the meanings from anyone else they could possibly apply to. He shows up in every cloud formation, there's something relevant to say to him about every thing I observe. When I look upon other beautiful things, I do not feel the beauty-- I feel guilt. I look upon them sadly, wondering how something so magnificent could mean so little to me in his absence. I look upon my life and I am dissatisfied, I look upon my decisions and question them.

I want to tell him all of this, and I do, but eventually I fill up my quota of e-mails I can write without getting an answer-- without losing whatever vestige of pride I still pretend to have. So I turn here. When fully-formed lyrics for a song I'm supposed to write for him-- because it's not enough that every song should be about him, it has to be every song plus one-- I find little pieces of scrap paper to jot them down on, carry them home in my pocket, add them to a growing document in notepad. I have all these perfect lines, these perfect stanzas, little blips of melody in my mind. It doesn't seem that I'm writing him a song. It seems that I'm writing him an album.

And tonight, I have spent a small fortune on more songs, for inspiration, for commiseration. Downloaded, from iTunes, an album called Punk Goes 80's because it had a cover of The Cure's "Just Like Heaven" by a band called Gatsby's American Dream. Ordered the Cure CD the Original was on-- Kiss me, Kiss me, Kiss me-- off the Amazon Marketplace. Downloaded the Dullard album by the Will Gattis Trio-- no idea why I didn't have it already, and if you don't, go get it, I won't burn it for you because I support local musicians. (As a side note, it's almost dangerous to have contact with someone so clearly brilliant. I've asked Will to help me with the accompaniment when I have this foolish song written, and I will insist on paying him for his efforts, if I ever get it done. After listening to some of his music for the first time in a long time, I'm afraid I'll have to give him more for his help than I was planning too. He's really too good a musician for my chicken scratch obsessions.) Ordered a used copy of Elton John's Greatest Hits. And I'm probably missing a few.

I press play on a random title on the Punk Goes 80's listing once it's downloaded, just to test my theory. Yes, as always, there's at least one line in here I want to use as a subject line for an e-mail that I just barely have enough restraint not to write. Maybe, if I'm lucky, the next six times this happens, I can satiate myself by quoting the line as a status update on facebook, and I'll imagine him reading it, imagine him wondering if it's for him-- maybe he'll doubt it is, have just a glimmer of hope that it might be.

He won't, mind you. He has a life. (So why do I keep offering up mine?)

During a recent reorganization of the "Recovery" section at work, I saw several books on Love Addiction. Seemed like such a farce at the time. Now...well, not so much. Let's be clear here, I don't know thing one about actual love addiction, but when you break it down, all attraction really comes down to is an interaction with a person creating some sort of chemical reaction in your brain. What happens if, with one person in particular, your reaction is less seratonin and more...heroin?

(Right now, if I were Starlee Kine, and this were This American Life, I'd be calling some neurophysicist to have them explain exactly how right or how wrong I am about that chemical addiction to a person hypothesis. And it would be Phil Collins helping me write a song about my heartbreak, not Will Gattis. If you have no idea what I'm talking about-- and, let's face it, you don't-- you really should subscribe to the This American Life Podcast. Or at least download the episode I'm talking about from the archives here.)

I've let a few tracks from Dullard distract me from him for a few stray minutes, and I'll have to thank Mr. Gattis for that. I'm quickly reminded, however, of how much the object of my thoughts likes this CD, how he bought a copy at the benefit where I met Will. I'm reminded of his being there when so few people were, and soon, that will bring me into another spiral of thoughts.

It won't be too long before I start to detox, to force him from my mind. In the wake of my last seeing him, I could tell instantly that I had been more guarded this time. In the days since then, it's been a struggle to picture his face, to remember the effect of any stray contact of skin, and I should be thankful for that. For my sake, for the sake of the people I love-- the people I'm not simply addicted to. It's easy enough to write songs about obsession, harder to build relationships out of scraps of paper and cloud formations. It's cloud illusions I recall. I really don't know clouds at all.

The detox has already started, in fact. I was trying to think of him earlier, shaking and shuddering when I realized how far from those few precious moments I am. I was panic-stricken, looking at the closet full of my clothes, in the house that holds the life I've built with somebody else. Looking at the soda cans strewn about, at the TV I own jointly, laying on the bed I share every night with someone I am not addicted to.

And now I think of something Elorza said to me once, that there are two kinds of substance abusers: Addicted and Dependent. This thought, for the moment, leaves me cold.

I'm so confused for the moment that I've lost the direction this post was going. The neat-and-tidy full-circle reference that was going to make my errant ramblings seem somehow so precise-- he always liked it, when I used one of those in an e-mail. Probably, I am only compelled to write this because the other day he told me I am a good writer-- or, rather, he told me that I was not a bad writer, but with a voice full of irresistible conviction. Between that and all the extra chemical activity bumping around up there, I am writing, writing, writing. Songs at first, then entire albums. E-mails at first, then lengthy blog posts. Musings at first, then confessions. Then revelations.

Addicted or dependent. Could it be that all this time it wasn't that I couldn't narrow it down to one man, I simply couldn't decide which kind of self-destruction was a better fit for me?

At least I finally got around to downloading Dullard.

Why does everything bust at the seems?
Why can't anything stay between two extremes?
Nothing's as it seems.
So I dream
Lavender Dreams.
~Will Gattis Trio, Lavender

On with it.

2009-05-30T02:48:00.002-04:00

So, for no other reason than because I don't have to be work until three tomorrow and Zack is already asleep, I find myself poking through my old hard drive and reading old AIM conversations. The folder I was in seems to house conversations from early to mid 2002; that is, the second half of my senior year, and a little bit of post-graduation stuff.

So, what was going on in my life?

Well, I wasn't reading them in any chronological order, just clicking the ones that had interesting titles, but here are some snapshots:

-I had just started at Burger King, and the job was not yet killing my soul.
-My key group of friends were the Auburn boys, minus Jeremey who was NOT speaking to me...
-I know this because one of the conversations I read was on a screenname I created to talk to him as someone named "May". He was nice to her, but extremely aware of the possibility that it was me.
-I was dating Jeff but falling in love with Chad. Or, in a later conversation, I was dating Jeff but getting my heart broken by Chad. Or, in a later conversation, I was no longer dating Jeff.
-Zack's only appearance in these conversations was at the end of one where I told Elorza I had a "date" with "the psycho who walks past my house every night."
-Mitch and I were in the midst of our extremely short-lived friendship, in which I e-mailed him everything in these incredibly long letters, and he would tell me how brilliant and fascinating they were. He was all kinds of charming and attractive, and even then, I had a penchant for guys who were younger than I.

A few things are striking about these conversations I've read. For one, so many of the people I had the conversations with are about are people who were incredibly important to me back then, but whom I probably haven't spoken at all (or, in certain cases, more than nominally) for years on end. Mitch, Nick, Jacquie, Aaron. Others are people that I like to credit myself with keeping in my life, but with whom I definitely can no longer claim to be as close: Chad, Jeff. I would say only two of the relationships mentioned have remained or strengthened (Elorza and Jeremey.)

I found it really saddening to read how freely and easily me and some of these people were trading "I Love You"'s-- I don't remember when those words got harder for me, and maybe they didn't overall, maybe just little by little, with each individual. When I look back on the history of my willingness to use those words, I have a sneaking suspicion that it was disproportionately influenced by one gentlemen whose presence in this folder of conversations was notably absent, probably because the crest of the wave that was our relationship came six months to a year after all of these. He is the one person that I tend to credit for changing the way I interact with the majority of people, the one person who made me more self-conscious than anyone else. I haven't lost complete contact with him, but I find myself waiting to have something worthwhile under my belt, so I can go back to him, as an equal. Back to him and show him I still am what I marketed myself to be in the first place.

When I think about the relationships that were strengthened over these intervening years, it occurs to me that they are the ones that have the least in common with that one. These are the relationships to which I bring no hint of pretension, no posturing, no real holding back. My relationships with Jeremey and Elorza have so much seniority over my relationship with this other person-- Yeah, it's Casey, okay, let's stop being vague-- that his effect on me couldn't change them. Elorza, in particular, I think about as being someone I can go to and say anything, be as pathetic as I need to be in that moment, and it's okay, in the long run. When I exercise this right, it quite frequently isn't pretty, and he is not, not, not the type to cater to my insecurities, to pander to me in anyway. Quite often, that leads to me being hurt my him, to me being incensed that he wouldn't just make a compromise, just once, (who am I kidding?), for me. When this happens, I'll generally stomp away for a while. But when I come back, it's never with a sense of shame...or, at least, it's never with a sense of shame that he, in any way, contributed to. And things are back to being pretty square.

With Jeremey, well, more often than not, he's the one with no pride. My relationship with him is more giving than my relationship with other people, and I like the way that makes me feel about myself. I want to be there for him, always, no matter what kind of bullshit either of us puts the other through, and the nearly fifteen-year-track record shows that that's really not all that unlikely. But the same thing goes-- dealing with all the insecurities he's had over the years-- all the "Does this make me a horrible person?"s, and the "Tell me what you really think"s, these have earned me the right to say what I need to, should there come a time when I have to be selfish. If I need to call someone and I'm balling my eyes out to the extent that they have no hope of understanding my words, well, it's probably going to be him.

I love these two men-- and how strange to call them that word just as we are on the cusp of it really, really being true-- as deeply as I can imagine loving anyone; yet, I still have a great deal of love for nearly every name mentioned in this post. The part of me that has been affected-- adversely or otherwise-- by Casey is reeling with discomfort that that word should appear so many times in one run-on sentence in my own writing. The part of me that's unaffected by him looks on to try and gather what's different about the way I express it with these two people than the way I do with those with whom my relationship has faded in it's luster. Do I tell these two I love them? Yes, maybe not as often as I would have been compelled to a few short years ago, but yes. Do they tell me? Well, they each have, but it's not an easy word for either of them. But when I think about them, well, as much as it has been sometimes, that's really not the point now.

The difference between these two and the rest is that, words or none, I believe they love me. I don't spend a lot of time questioning it. Wondering if it's out there, in the universe, unspoken.

On with it.

My Cavalier Approach to Human Decency

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