...the resolvements, that is.
So, as I was lying in my bed last night thinking some more about my new year's resolutions, I wondered about whether or not I could/would actually keep them. I'd like to, of course, and I think the problem generally is that resolutions are either
1) too unsavory
2) too vague
3) too un-documentable
to be kept. So, in all of the brilliance that is the moments right before falling asleep, I came up with a plan to document my resolution keeping.
Warning: we are going into serious nerd territory.
So, you remember when you were a kid and you had a list on the fridge of all of your chores or whatever, and then every time you did a chore, your mom put up a gold star and then when you had enough stars you got your allowance? Or something? I don't. What I do remember is trying to implement a system similar to this one at least quarterly from the time I was maybe 8 until I was 12 or 13. The problem was not with me. It was with my mother, who just couldn't be bothered to put up a freaking foil star next to my (albeit meager) accomplishments, or to care at all except whether the bathroom had been cleaned or not. Also, for all of my efforts for a system of (what I believed to be more than fair) compensation for hard work, I maybe got an allowance once. Maybe.
Which brings me to the present day list of New Year's Resolutions. I've condensed them down to the really important, actionable ones:
1. No douchebags
2. No smoking
3. Exercise
4. Write
5. Once a week fun
My goals for exercise and writing are 3 times per week each. Exercise only counts if I'm in proper exercise attire and actually exercising on purpose (so, not walking around the block at lunch), generally at the gym. Writing is defined as FICTION writing, so blogging and journaling, which I will continue to do, do not count towards the three times a week (since I tend to use blogging and journaling as excuses not to write fiction).
Now, what if, every day that I do one of these things, I write the corresponding number in the corner of that day in my datebook? So, say, a day when I exercise and don't smoke and avoid douchebags, is a 1,2,3. And a day when I don't smoke and I write, and I avoid douchebags is a 1,2,4. And so on. And that way, I can have visible proof to myself that I'm doing what i said I wanted to do, while keeping it at the top of my mind by writing it down every day.
So Far!
Monday: 1,2,3
Tuesday: 1,2,4
I really don't know if this is going to do any good, and I haven't gotten to the rewards part of this yet, as monetary rewards don't really motivate me, nor do buying myself presents, so...suggestions welcome!
Happy New Year's Resolutions keeping. What are your resolutions? How are you planning on keeping them? Or do you think resolutions are stupid?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Resolvements
Ah yes, it's that time of year again, my fluffy marshmallows. Resolution time! During which I "spontaneously" make the exact same list as last year to be studiously followed for somewhere between 1 and 48 hours before unceremoniously forgotten, after, of course, the requisite amounts of consternation and guilt about not really planning to lose weight or quit smoking. I mean, I mean to do those things, but somehow, my resolve just isn't, I don't know, resolved enough. Or something. Or resolutions are stupid and just make people feel like failures.
In that happy, optimistic vein, then, I offer you my Lizzie's New Year's Resolutions 2009 Edition, in which I resolve to do things I know I should do or I really really want to do, but in such broad, vague terms that the actual doing of the things will require many many smaller steps that I'm not going to think about now, and then when those smaller steps come up to be done, I'll probably just ignore them. But resolutions are what we Americans do, and by dammit, I want to at least appear patriotic.
1. No more douchebags
Originally, this one applied to sex only, but I've since broadened it out to other parts of my life, like people I know, and people on the Subway, and world political leaders. See? Broad generalizations, the small steps of which I'm cleverly avoiding. No, but seriously, I'm tired of guy douchebags especially, and the plan is to be a little more careful in the coming year about who I date and etc. Also, the eradications of "friends" who are really just douchebags who know me who I'm not sleeping with. I won't go into specifics here, but let's just say that if you've been a douchebag in the recent past and I stop talking to you, you probably are on the list.
2. No more cigarettes
Sigh. If only they could make them healthy. But alas. This is something I will actually be working toward, in small, measured steps. I've wanted to quit forever for real for a long time, and though my smoking is generally sporadic, I'd like to stop for real. If only it weren't so damn enjoyable! Ah well, we all have to grow up sometime. Or get lung cancer.
3. The requisite resolution to work out more.
You know, because everyone is doing it. Resolving to, anyway. The truth is that exercising helps curb the smoking and is pretty much the only way I cut back and/or quit ever, so they're pretty entertwined. Besides, all the douchebags need to see how hot and sexy I am now that I'm not wasting my time on them. Yes? Yes. It is all about making boys jealous. Always. And other girls. That is where self-esteem comes from.
4. No suicide
Since #1 is going to take a serious toll on my love life, and #2 is going to take a serious toll on my social life, and i know that being in shape isn't everything, I figure a resolution is in order to make sure that my resolutions don't kill me.
5. No homocide
Or anyone else.
6. Do one fun, new thing every week by myself
I figured I'd throw in a semi-pleasureable one because a) no one ever resolves to do anything fun or exciting and b) I need something to do to keep me from smoking and sleeping with douchebags. And no, I don't know what I'll be doing yet this week, though I'm probably going to hit up a museum after work Friday.
Oh, and 7...
7. Write more, write consistently, stop being so goddamn self-loathing about writing, and maybe think about trying to publish something.
Ugh. We'll see about this one.
In that happy, optimistic vein, then, I offer you my Lizzie's New Year's Resolutions 2009 Edition, in which I resolve to do things I know I should do or I really really want to do, but in such broad, vague terms that the actual doing of the things will require many many smaller steps that I'm not going to think about now, and then when those smaller steps come up to be done, I'll probably just ignore them. But resolutions are what we Americans do, and by dammit, I want to at least appear patriotic.
1. No more douchebags
Originally, this one applied to sex only, but I've since broadened it out to other parts of my life, like people I know, and people on the Subway, and world political leaders. See? Broad generalizations, the small steps of which I'm cleverly avoiding. No, but seriously, I'm tired of guy douchebags especially, and the plan is to be a little more careful in the coming year about who I date and etc. Also, the eradications of "friends" who are really just douchebags who know me who I'm not sleeping with. I won't go into specifics here, but let's just say that if you've been a douchebag in the recent past and I stop talking to you, you probably are on the list.
2. No more cigarettes
Sigh. If only they could make them healthy. But alas. This is something I will actually be working toward, in small, measured steps. I've wanted to quit forever for real for a long time, and though my smoking is generally sporadic, I'd like to stop for real. If only it weren't so damn enjoyable! Ah well, we all have to grow up sometime. Or get lung cancer.
3. The requisite resolution to work out more.
You know, because everyone is doing it. Resolving to, anyway. The truth is that exercising helps curb the smoking and is pretty much the only way I cut back and/or quit ever, so they're pretty entertwined. Besides, all the douchebags need to see how hot and sexy I am now that I'm not wasting my time on them. Yes? Yes. It is all about making boys jealous. Always. And other girls. That is where self-esteem comes from.
4. No suicide
Since #1 is going to take a serious toll on my love life, and #2 is going to take a serious toll on my social life, and i know that being in shape isn't everything, I figure a resolution is in order to make sure that my resolutions don't kill me.
5. No homocide
Or anyone else.
6. Do one fun, new thing every week by myself
I figured I'd throw in a semi-pleasureable one because a) no one ever resolves to do anything fun or exciting and b) I need something to do to keep me from smoking and sleeping with douchebags. And no, I don't know what I'll be doing yet this week, though I'm probably going to hit up a museum after work Friday.
Oh, and 7...
7. Write more, write consistently, stop being so goddamn self-loathing about writing, and maybe think about trying to publish something.
Ugh. We'll see about this one.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Pre-traumatic stress disorder
I have noticed, over the years, that in the weeks preceding my going home for any extended (read: longer than two days) period of time, I lapse into a curious verbal mood--that of complaining about my mother. I don't really mean to, and it's not like I sit around thinking about how much I don't want to go home or how much I dislike her (because I don't really mind going home, and i don't really dislike her), but the idea of going home, especially for Christmas, for an entire week, carries with it a certain amount of stress.
Granted, all families are crazy and stressful. The holidays are nostalgic, frustrating, beautiful, frenzied, happy, sad, terrible--they are your childhood and your teen years and the breaks from college, and now that you're an adult, all of those things piled up and mashed and sifted through your memory and I stand in my grandmother's kitchen surrounded by people who I am completely comfortable with because they know me as well as anyone, even though they may not know the current me, they know my history, they are my history, and so we are familiar, and in that familiarity is comfort and discomfort, a longing for the past and some discomfort with the present. I see the new lines around my mother's eyes; the slightly less coherent sentences of my grandmother; my teenage cousins who suddenly look like adults; my nephew who has grown two feet every time I see him. Every year, I am further away from this, from them. Every year, the small shocks at the things that have changed since I've been home get bigger. And yet...this is home, even though it is no longer home, it's as close as I ever get, and even though I can't talk to my mother without her getting that quiet, strained look, or without her not responding to something I said because she doesn't want to be judgmental, though she doesn't realize that her silence is judgment enough, and so we keep everything superficial and we avoid the hard things, but what i really want to do is scream at her all of the things that i've ever wanted to say.
i suppose this is where the stress comes, beforehand...the knowledge that these silences are coming, the silences in which we do not say all of the things that we would need to in order for us to have a good relationship. i cannot say to her that i feel that she resents me, or that i think she blames her unhappiness on me. i can't say to her that there is nothing that i will ever do, no amount of success that can ever make up for her mistakes, and in any case, that it is not my responsibility to atone for her sins. i don't understand how, as an adult, our childhoods affect us so much still, even when we have tried and tried and tried to either forget them or forgive them, or if nothing else, to let them go. I see that all of those things that I felt and learned as a child affect so much of my life now--that believing i was unwanted informs my relationships (or lack thereof) with men and with friends, that believing that I could somehow do enough to make it worth their while, that if i was only good enough or successful enough, that somehow i could earn their love...that leads me to feel now that there is nothing i can ever do to be good enough. not for me or for anyone.
These are the things I think about while I'm Christmas shopping, while I wrap the scarves and earrings and children's toys i've bought. i think about those silences and what they mean. i think about all of the things that i can't quite understand, as if my mind now cannot understand things beyond what my six-year-old mind could understand back then.
and i know that i will go home, and it will be familiar and comfortable. and those silences that i dread will only come once or twice, and they will pass, as they always do, with nothing being resolved. But maybe there are things we don't want to know. And maybe there are things better left in the past. And in the end, I know it's no different for most people, in similar ways--family knows your beauty and your ugliness, and love you. They believe in you whether or not you do the same. They tell you the truth, if you're lucky, and support your decisions whether they agree or not, though sometimes with more stoic silences than others. And in the end, they are as close as you can get to unconditional love. And if the price of all of that is those goddamn silences, then I guess I'll take them along with all the rest.
Granted, all families are crazy and stressful. The holidays are nostalgic, frustrating, beautiful, frenzied, happy, sad, terrible--they are your childhood and your teen years and the breaks from college, and now that you're an adult, all of those things piled up and mashed and sifted through your memory and I stand in my grandmother's kitchen surrounded by people who I am completely comfortable with because they know me as well as anyone, even though they may not know the current me, they know my history, they are my history, and so we are familiar, and in that familiarity is comfort and discomfort, a longing for the past and some discomfort with the present. I see the new lines around my mother's eyes; the slightly less coherent sentences of my grandmother; my teenage cousins who suddenly look like adults; my nephew who has grown two feet every time I see him. Every year, I am further away from this, from them. Every year, the small shocks at the things that have changed since I've been home get bigger. And yet...this is home, even though it is no longer home, it's as close as I ever get, and even though I can't talk to my mother without her getting that quiet, strained look, or without her not responding to something I said because she doesn't want to be judgmental, though she doesn't realize that her silence is judgment enough, and so we keep everything superficial and we avoid the hard things, but what i really want to do is scream at her all of the things that i've ever wanted to say.
i suppose this is where the stress comes, beforehand...the knowledge that these silences are coming, the silences in which we do not say all of the things that we would need to in order for us to have a good relationship. i cannot say to her that i feel that she resents me, or that i think she blames her unhappiness on me. i can't say to her that there is nothing that i will ever do, no amount of success that can ever make up for her mistakes, and in any case, that it is not my responsibility to atone for her sins. i don't understand how, as an adult, our childhoods affect us so much still, even when we have tried and tried and tried to either forget them or forgive them, or if nothing else, to let them go. I see that all of those things that I felt and learned as a child affect so much of my life now--that believing i was unwanted informs my relationships (or lack thereof) with men and with friends, that believing that I could somehow do enough to make it worth their while, that if i was only good enough or successful enough, that somehow i could earn their love...that leads me to feel now that there is nothing i can ever do to be good enough. not for me or for anyone.
These are the things I think about while I'm Christmas shopping, while I wrap the scarves and earrings and children's toys i've bought. i think about those silences and what they mean. i think about all of the things that i can't quite understand, as if my mind now cannot understand things beyond what my six-year-old mind could understand back then.
and i know that i will go home, and it will be familiar and comfortable. and those silences that i dread will only come once or twice, and they will pass, as they always do, with nothing being resolved. But maybe there are things we don't want to know. And maybe there are things better left in the past. And in the end, I know it's no different for most people, in similar ways--family knows your beauty and your ugliness, and love you. They believe in you whether or not you do the same. They tell you the truth, if you're lucky, and support your decisions whether they agree or not, though sometimes with more stoic silences than others. And in the end, they are as close as you can get to unconditional love. And if the price of all of that is those goddamn silences, then I guess I'll take them along with all the rest.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The sugar cookie effect
Tonight, I had cookie dough, wine, and a banana for dinner.
I decided to have a few people over for a Christmas-housewarming party because 1) I have put up a tree that is beautiful and I would like other people to enjoy it, too; 2) I feel myself spiraling into the winter blues and felt a holiday party would be a good way to claw at the edges of my sanity to slow the descent into dark, winter madness; and 3) it gives me an excuse to bake. Also 4) now that it is winter, i do not wish to leave my house and therefore will resort to any means to entice others to come here so that I do not have to leave.
On the street, people are meowing loudly. Through the floor below my feet, a dog barks incessantly. A small dog. A dog I would like to strangle.
There are many, many things to love about my new apartment. I could probably sit here most of the evening listing them for you, but I'll try to keep it to the biggest. First and foremost, there is no giant, loud, crazy person here judging me, speaking ill of me behind my back to her friends, yelling, or taking up space in the fridge. It is glorious to finally be alone after two years of living with people in small spaces. Glorious. Secondly, I now have a real living room that is not also a tiny hallway in which to entertain guests. See number 4 above. I have lived here for a month and comfortably entertained more guests than I ever had in the entire time I was in my last apartment. Thirdly, there are no drunk teenagers yelling outside of my window at 2 in the morning. Or 3. Or 4. No more 2 am trash pickups. No more sirens. The only sound is of the door across the hallway occassionally opening and closing; the rumble of the train carrying across the frozen air; the tires swishing down the avenue; the occassional person meowing loudly on the street. And that damn tiny dog, but that's only sometimes.
Also, I now have room to bake. I've always been more of a baker than a cooker, and I still don't understand how one can understand baking in an intuitive way and freeze up in the face of things like vegetables and meat. But I understand baking, and it understands me. We are one, me and the butter and sugar and flour and eggs. And so, because I'm having a holiday party on Saturday and because my heart is hurting and because it is something that I know I can do well, tonight I made sugar cookies. And I thought about all of the things I feel like I'm terrible at or that I just don't understand--men, writing, relationships--and then I looked at the 7 dozen or so perfectly browned, beautiful cookies I just baked, and I felt relieved that at least I understand something, at least I am good at something, at least, even if I cannot bring joy in ways I would like all the time--why can't I be happy with anything I write?--at least the cookies are good and the people who come to my party will like them, and it brings me joy to bake them. And even though it is such a small thing, making cookies, it calmed me and centered me, and now I'm not feeling so bad about the writing that is frustrating me or the boy that has hurt me, and even if I was, I've got 7 dozen cookies at my disposal to soothe me.
I decided to have a few people over for a Christmas-housewarming party because 1) I have put up a tree that is beautiful and I would like other people to enjoy it, too; 2) I feel myself spiraling into the winter blues and felt a holiday party would be a good way to claw at the edges of my sanity to slow the descent into dark, winter madness; and 3) it gives me an excuse to bake. Also 4) now that it is winter, i do not wish to leave my house and therefore will resort to any means to entice others to come here so that I do not have to leave.
On the street, people are meowing loudly. Through the floor below my feet, a dog barks incessantly. A small dog. A dog I would like to strangle.
There are many, many things to love about my new apartment. I could probably sit here most of the evening listing them for you, but I'll try to keep it to the biggest. First and foremost, there is no giant, loud, crazy person here judging me, speaking ill of me behind my back to her friends, yelling, or taking up space in the fridge. It is glorious to finally be alone after two years of living with people in small spaces. Glorious. Secondly, I now have a real living room that is not also a tiny hallway in which to entertain guests. See number 4 above. I have lived here for a month and comfortably entertained more guests than I ever had in the entire time I was in my last apartment. Thirdly, there are no drunk teenagers yelling outside of my window at 2 in the morning. Or 3. Or 4. No more 2 am trash pickups. No more sirens. The only sound is of the door across the hallway occassionally opening and closing; the rumble of the train carrying across the frozen air; the tires swishing down the avenue; the occassional person meowing loudly on the street. And that damn tiny dog, but that's only sometimes.
Also, I now have room to bake. I've always been more of a baker than a cooker, and I still don't understand how one can understand baking in an intuitive way and freeze up in the face of things like vegetables and meat. But I understand baking, and it understands me. We are one, me and the butter and sugar and flour and eggs. And so, because I'm having a holiday party on Saturday and because my heart is hurting and because it is something that I know I can do well, tonight I made sugar cookies. And I thought about all of the things I feel like I'm terrible at or that I just don't understand--men, writing, relationships--and then I looked at the 7 dozen or so perfectly browned, beautiful cookies I just baked, and I felt relieved that at least I understand something, at least I am good at something, at least, even if I cannot bring joy in ways I would like all the time--why can't I be happy with anything I write?--at least the cookies are good and the people who come to my party will like them, and it brings me joy to bake them. And even though it is such a small thing, making cookies, it calmed me and centered me, and now I'm not feeling so bad about the writing that is frustrating me or the boy that has hurt me, and even if I was, I've got 7 dozen cookies at my disposal to soothe me.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Third time's not a charm at all, actually
This is my third attempt at a post. Maybe this one will stick. I wrote the first two, and then realized that I'm not ready to write them. Maybe soon.
My friend Ronald died last month. I found out two weeks after the fact, on Facebook. That was my first failed attempt at a post.
I really like a guy with whom things are, sadly, going the same way they seem to always go. That post was a whiny "what's wrong with me?" one step away from terrible teenage angsty poetry journal entry mess that you would probably gag on and then wonder why on earth anyone would post anything remotely so terrible on their blog as an adult. So.
It's winter again. I walked to the library during lunch today while snowflakes I swear to God the size of my head dropped on me like fluffy clouds falling from the sky. The giantest of giant snowflakes. It was as if God was throwing snowballs from heaven.
Third post, about snowballs from heaven. I'd rather hear about dead friends and scared lovers, wouldn't you?
How about this? I will post all three, and you can vote. I won't edit them. I'll just post them. And you, dear readers, can decide. My vote is for none of the above, btw. I think they're all awful. But you people won't leave me alone, so I'm going to just blame this on you.
My friend Ronald died last month. I found out two weeks after the fact, on Facebook. That was my first failed attempt at a post.
I really like a guy with whom things are, sadly, going the same way they seem to always go. That post was a whiny "what's wrong with me?" one step away from terrible teenage angsty poetry journal entry mess that you would probably gag on and then wonder why on earth anyone would post anything remotely so terrible on their blog as an adult. So.
It's winter again. I walked to the library during lunch today while snowflakes I swear to God the size of my head dropped on me like fluffy clouds falling from the sky. The giantest of giant snowflakes. It was as if God was throwing snowballs from heaven.
Third post, about snowballs from heaven. I'd rather hear about dead friends and scared lovers, wouldn't you?
How about this? I will post all three, and you can vote. I won't edit them. I'll just post them. And you, dear readers, can decide. My vote is for none of the above, btw. I think they're all awful. But you people won't leave me alone, so I'm going to just blame this on you.
The fear of the unknown
I fear loving you more than I fear hating you. The truth is that the latter is much easier, and temporary. If you walk into and then out of my life, I have no lasting obligation to you, I cannot be fully known by you, I am not given over and over and over again the opportunity to disappoint you. This idea of permanence terrifies me--Ronald's death, for instance, or, rather, not so much that he is dead but that he always will be--I want it to be a temporary state, so that he can come visit me for his 30th birthday after all.
I see the used condoms in the trash, and think that a part of you is here, but also I think of the fleeting nature of physical love. Sex is a failure without orgasm--orgasm signals its end. I wonder about love, and how similar it is to sex. In my experience, love is just as fleeting as the moment of orgasm, a moment in time, the flame-burst of a match. Yesterday, you lay where I lay now, our bodies slick with each other's sweat. Tonight, I wonder whether she will win you back--or, rather, if you will decide to return to her. Will you come to me, after all, and say, your different face but the same old words, "I'm sorry, but..." And then all we will have between us is the one night and the three used condoms I'll be putting out with the trash in the morning. I am afraid that this is the conversation that we will have, you, with a pained look on your face, ironically, as the hurter, and me, trying to act unmoved, as the one being hurt.
We are already keeping secrets; you, of her and what happened when you left here yesterday, me, of the date with my own ex tomorrow night--a pillow to help soften the blow I'm already flinching in anticipation of, not knowing if or when it will come.
Why only date one man who will use you up and leave you when you can stay unattached to several?
How does anyone continue to hope for love, when everything suggests that it is unsustainable? When the men you have loved have consistently disappointed you, how do you continue to believe that the next one, or one someday, won't? How do you cross the bridge from every relationship failing, failing, failing, to one that doesn't? At a certain point, don't you begin to believe that they simply will, and then you've damned them--they cannot survive.
Part of me wants to kill this thing now, before we get too deep. And then I look up at the invitation on my dresser to my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and i see in front of me the evidence that somewhere, somehow, my logic is off. Love has to be sustainable, at least in some form, even if I don't understand how. My grandparents have been married almost twice as long as I have been alive. It is not possible that I know more about love. I'd like to think that maybe I know more about heartache, but I don't think that after 50 years, that is possible either.
And now you and I are wrapped together with a thin satin white ribbon, and I'm afraid because, as always, the seeds are planted and beginning to grow, and the ax is never far away, and the longer you let it grow, the harder it is to cut it down. If you did it now, I would hate you and move on, to get my hopes up and be disappointed by someone else and someone else and someone else. But what I'm really afraid of is letting this thing between us grow, to see how big and leafy and beautiful it will get, because always in the back of my mind, I'll know that the ax is arm's length away, that you can never get comfortable, you can never let yourself totally go, you must always keep a part of you to yourself, because if I love you, then when will it happen? After 3 years? Marriage? Children? No. Better to enjoy each other now and not dread the day when the world will come crashing in around us, when we will wonder how we were so blind, when we will realize the terrible people we have become with each other. No, I'll put the condoms out with the trash. You won't have to see me any more.
(written December 8, 2008)
I see the used condoms in the trash, and think that a part of you is here, but also I think of the fleeting nature of physical love. Sex is a failure without orgasm--orgasm signals its end. I wonder about love, and how similar it is to sex. In my experience, love is just as fleeting as the moment of orgasm, a moment in time, the flame-burst of a match. Yesterday, you lay where I lay now, our bodies slick with each other's sweat. Tonight, I wonder whether she will win you back--or, rather, if you will decide to return to her. Will you come to me, after all, and say, your different face but the same old words, "I'm sorry, but..." And then all we will have between us is the one night and the three used condoms I'll be putting out with the trash in the morning. I am afraid that this is the conversation that we will have, you, with a pained look on your face, ironically, as the hurter, and me, trying to act unmoved, as the one being hurt.
We are already keeping secrets; you, of her and what happened when you left here yesterday, me, of the date with my own ex tomorrow night--a pillow to help soften the blow I'm already flinching in anticipation of, not knowing if or when it will come.
Why only date one man who will use you up and leave you when you can stay unattached to several?
How does anyone continue to hope for love, when everything suggests that it is unsustainable? When the men you have loved have consistently disappointed you, how do you continue to believe that the next one, or one someday, won't? How do you cross the bridge from every relationship failing, failing, failing, to one that doesn't? At a certain point, don't you begin to believe that they simply will, and then you've damned them--they cannot survive.
Part of me wants to kill this thing now, before we get too deep. And then I look up at the invitation on my dresser to my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and i see in front of me the evidence that somewhere, somehow, my logic is off. Love has to be sustainable, at least in some form, even if I don't understand how. My grandparents have been married almost twice as long as I have been alive. It is not possible that I know more about love. I'd like to think that maybe I know more about heartache, but I don't think that after 50 years, that is possible either.
And now you and I are wrapped together with a thin satin white ribbon, and I'm afraid because, as always, the seeds are planted and beginning to grow, and the ax is never far away, and the longer you let it grow, the harder it is to cut it down. If you did it now, I would hate you and move on, to get my hopes up and be disappointed by someone else and someone else and someone else. But what I'm really afraid of is letting this thing between us grow, to see how big and leafy and beautiful it will get, because always in the back of my mind, I'll know that the ax is arm's length away, that you can never get comfortable, you can never let yourself totally go, you must always keep a part of you to yourself, because if I love you, then when will it happen? After 3 years? Marriage? Children? No. Better to enjoy each other now and not dread the day when the world will come crashing in around us, when we will wonder how we were so blind, when we will realize the terrible people we have become with each other. No, I'll put the condoms out with the trash. You won't have to see me any more.
(written December 8, 2008)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Where does love go?
I didn't find out until yesterday, even though it had been a week and a half. And on Facebook, of all places. I just happened to leave a comment on Lindsay's page, and she sent me a message: Have you heard about Ronald? And my heart seized up, a tiny panic right in the center of my chest. I don't know how we know these things about the people that we love, but we do. I clicked over to your page, and there was your picture, you smiling just as I remember you--olive skin and white teeth, kind dark eyes touched with mischief. And I began to read the comments, one after another, eulogies to a man who was well-loved, and a note from your sister to say thank you for the thoughts and prayers, and to say good night to you and not good bye, that you were home now. I couldn't imagine what had happened--a car accident maybe? I assumed that something tragic and unanticipated had taken you too soon.
Lindsay wrote back that she had few details besides that you died of liver disease on November 6. I didn't even know you were sick. I didn't even know you were dead. And here I was at work, where I couldn't cry, let alone think about it properly. A work buddy called on my office phone to say that his girlfriend of a year had broken up with him. I told him that I just found out a good friend from college had died. We pretended to be less sad than we were, mourning two separate but similar passings. We hung up quickly, maybe finding our own fronts flimsy and transparent, unwilling to seem vulnerable with one another. Later, at a meeting, I sat far from him, where we couldn't make eye contact, but all I could think of what you, and him, and each of our sadnesses.
I tried to put it to the back of my mind until I could go home and think about it, about you. But I avoided thoughts of you all evening, making dinner, watching TV, reading, readying for bed. Your ether permeated my dreams that night, and my first thought when I woke was of you. The alarm woke me at ten to six--I wanted to get up early to think and write about you and us. I hit the snooze until seven and finally woke, looking out my new bedroom's windows to a gray and orange dawn. I sat up--you. Put on my glasses--you. Padded to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water from the Brita. And I began to cry, silently, tears running slowly down my face, and I had the gradual and overwhelming feeling that you were standing behind me, watching me as I ground the beans and spooned them into the filter. It was the same feeling as when anyone is standing near you and you feel their presence before you see them. Unable to stand it any longer, and feeling rude for having my back to you, I finally turned, leaning against the counter, tears on my cheeks. I didn't see you, but I didn't need to--you embraced me, and I felt that you wanted me to know that you were okay. The moment passed, I turned on the coffeemaker and got in the shower. I didn't feel you there, or while I was getting ready for work--I hadn't tried to summon you, I hadn't expected you, I wasn't asking God for comfort. I wish I had said, while you were there with me, that I love you. I wish I had asked if you were okay. But I feel like you know and you are. I don't understand how this happened, but I'm not surprised that you found me, that you came to me, or that I knew it was you. I know it sounds unbelievable or like I somehow made myself believe that something happened that didn't, but the closest thing to what happened this morning is having a friend drop by unexpectedly--the only difference is that you didn't bring your body with you. I wish I could have seen you once more, said goodbye, kissed you one last time, heard your voice say that something, anything, was fabulous. But somehow, I also feel as though none of that really matters--that, in a way, we can still give and receive love even though you aren't here in the same way, and that somehow--is it possible?--we are closer now than we were before. And so, a standing invitation. Come whenever you like, you will always be welcome. And if you are not able to come, then good night, sweet friend, until we meet again.
(written November 18, 2008)
Lindsay wrote back that she had few details besides that you died of liver disease on November 6. I didn't even know you were sick. I didn't even know you were dead. And here I was at work, where I couldn't cry, let alone think about it properly. A work buddy called on my office phone to say that his girlfriend of a year had broken up with him. I told him that I just found out a good friend from college had died. We pretended to be less sad than we were, mourning two separate but similar passings. We hung up quickly, maybe finding our own fronts flimsy and transparent, unwilling to seem vulnerable with one another. Later, at a meeting, I sat far from him, where we couldn't make eye contact, but all I could think of what you, and him, and each of our sadnesses.
I tried to put it to the back of my mind until I could go home and think about it, about you. But I avoided thoughts of you all evening, making dinner, watching TV, reading, readying for bed. Your ether permeated my dreams that night, and my first thought when I woke was of you. The alarm woke me at ten to six--I wanted to get up early to think and write about you and us. I hit the snooze until seven and finally woke, looking out my new bedroom's windows to a gray and orange dawn. I sat up--you. Put on my glasses--you. Padded to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water from the Brita. And I began to cry, silently, tears running slowly down my face, and I had the gradual and overwhelming feeling that you were standing behind me, watching me as I ground the beans and spooned them into the filter. It was the same feeling as when anyone is standing near you and you feel their presence before you see them. Unable to stand it any longer, and feeling rude for having my back to you, I finally turned, leaning against the counter, tears on my cheeks. I didn't see you, but I didn't need to--you embraced me, and I felt that you wanted me to know that you were okay. The moment passed, I turned on the coffeemaker and got in the shower. I didn't feel you there, or while I was getting ready for work--I hadn't tried to summon you, I hadn't expected you, I wasn't asking God for comfort. I wish I had said, while you were there with me, that I love you. I wish I had asked if you were okay. But I feel like you know and you are. I don't understand how this happened, but I'm not surprised that you found me, that you came to me, or that I knew it was you. I know it sounds unbelievable or like I somehow made myself believe that something happened that didn't, but the closest thing to what happened this morning is having a friend drop by unexpectedly--the only difference is that you didn't bring your body with you. I wish I could have seen you once more, said goodbye, kissed you one last time, heard your voice say that something, anything, was fabulous. But somehow, I also feel as though none of that really matters--that, in a way, we can still give and receive love even though you aren't here in the same way, and that somehow--is it possible?--we are closer now than we were before. And so, a standing invitation. Come whenever you like, you will always be welcome. And if you are not able to come, then good night, sweet friend, until we meet again.
(written November 18, 2008)
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