art school hijinks

happy birthday manchester dave

As I grapple with the lovely bubble of perfection I shared with him and attempt to hold it's shiny, rainbow tinged exterior to scrutiny, while mentally dwelling in the extreme bliss inside it, I've had many different attempts at conclusions:

A week later and I'm lamenting, kicking myself for my fear of rejection was so strong I did not ask him when I would see him again, if ever. It humors me that I managed to find the only man in the world who was delightfully perfect for me and not even ask his surname.

It may be the only relationship I've ever experienced that will never be ruined by me. It will never suffer at the throes of my insecurities vast and unrelenting, it will never wither under my critical eye, and it will never be destroyed by my subterfuge.

Did I find him attractive and likeable because he reminded me of the other British man I once knew? Could it be that I am looking for someone who is a convincing enough version of the married man I once loved and probably still love to some degree? I try to tell myself this cannot be true because even the married man was someone who made me nervous, who made me feel inadequate somehow, someone I could not always be comfortable around.

I am a gigantic meaning making machine and this random and odd occurrence is quite the challenge. To experience a harmonious evening with a man and genuinely want more (where usually I manufacture interest for the sake of the sad lonely me that's scared to be alone) and with my luck, he just so happens to live an ocean away. I will likely never see him again, but then what exactly was the point? And why do I want there to be one? Wasn't it fate that brought us together that night, that forced him to talk to me, that took me away from my regular perch to a new place? Why? Why? Why? There might never be a because.

Should I bother even looking for him? To cobble together the few details of him I remember to find him, to find him online somewhere, for what? Will I embark on a far distance relationship that will eventually sputter and fade into nonexistence? Isn't it better that I just leave that beautiful bubble in the air to float out my view, to travel where it will and when enough time passes, it will blink out of existence and be just a memory?

Will I ever stop feeling this way? Will I ever stop thinking of the way his hands felt under my shirt, the way his eyes met mine across the pool table, the way his arm fit across my shoulders and his fingers played with my hair, the playfulness of our conversations under his smiling guidance, the physical attraction that was so strong we literally collided into one another repeatedly, feet, hips, shoulders, hands, anything that was inches away suddenly wasn't, space between us didn't exist. The way he teased me about my writing, my reading, my living. The way he detailed his many travels, the awe in his voice as he recalled his most favorite vista among those travels.

Will I ever be able to walk past the places we bounced to (from one bar to four more) without thinking of him and the moments we shared between them, the city we travelled around, the way his hand gripped my knee reassuringly in the cab, not just a touch to touch, but a touch to say, I am here. Or the moments of intense quiet we shared where we didn't even need words to fill the air around us, we just existed together, side by side. Or the smiles I evoked in him, from the steel giraffes, to the scared rat, to the cop car, or the insistence I had that he see the lakefront.

I can't believe we only kissed once, or maybe the others were just part of that time when time and the world fell away, but his kiss seems so out of focus as a physical experience because it seemed so natural and likely. I wasn't wondering when he'd kiss me, I knew it would be coming eventually, but I was surprised and thrilled by the when. I was happy that he kissed me in front of everyone, and everyone stopped to see the collision they'd been waiting for, that began at our feet, which kicked and prodded and moved up through our legs and into our chests and arms and fingers and then suddenly it was certain, we were certain, it was not just a game, he leaned over and kissed me.

It told me so many things, that he didn't do that very often, not because he was bad at it, but because he wasn't smooth like other kissers have been, he wasn't a move maker, he just leaned in and kissed me. It told me that he liked me, and didn't just want to have sex with me (which we actually didn't have in the end; he could have gone back to the hostel room he paid for, but he spent the night at my place and slept next to me on my floor, which I enjoyed immensely). It told me that he was spontaneous and impatient; which I liked most of all. That kiss told me that all the men in my life that I've struggled with, wondered about, pined over, were all absolutely a waste of my time.

That night, that epic collision is what I'd always wanted and when I see it again, I'll know that feeling of being genuinely liked and wanted by a man who I genuinely like and want. Every man before him was a manufactured mess because I was trying to make something out of nothing. He gave me that sense of peace I could never find on my own. But what he's left in its place is an outrage, a horrible sense of panic, a desperate hysteria, because I worry that I will never see him again.

When he left in the morning, there was a strange mutual sadness, and neither of us said anything about the future. I walked him to a cab and he left in a fog. At the time, it was very disappointing. I felt totally hollowed out and confused. I tried to diminish the night, the twelve hours, the whirlwind, the looks, the touching, the words. It didn't mean anything on its own. It had no significance as a single night in my long life. And somehow that morning, it felt wrong, so I chalked it up to the file drawer of men sucking. I wondered how guys could go through something like that and come out of it with a shrug. Maybe he was being realistic, he lives far, it'll never work out, etc. Maybe he was hungover, jet-lagged, worried about getting back to his hostel and his luggage before check out time. Maybe he was embarrassed that I got to see what was hiding under his hat and he was worried the mystery of it all was gone for me. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something.

Am I just doing it again, making something out of nothing? It would be easier that way. If only it was the typical scene I've played out so many times in bars, to find a connection, to force a connection, to feel something.

Then all of this would be easier. I wouldn't feel anything. I wouldn't want to remember every little detail. And what seems worst of all, if he's already forgotten me, I wouldn't care. Maybe by not saying anything, I did the ruining part after all.

a song to pass the time

I noticed him standing in the window smoking. He had on a green cable knit hat and a heavy royal blue cable knit sweater that zipped up the front. The knits stood out in stark world of black bar wear. I've been knitting again so I've been drawn to knitwear these days.

I wondered when he'd arrived (found out later it was well before us) and I hoped with the heaviness of all my recent disappointments that he might have liked the look I had, my grey hat on my head, my green sweater, my multitude of beads. I was tired from working that morning, I was worn out from my day, my eyes were red and itchy from my friend Patty's cute cats (who I can't resist petting, even though I'm allergic), but despite all that I was especially happy to hang out with Patty and to be somewhere new.

The bar was colorful and a little harshly bright (those of us who are older find this somewhat stressful) and looking back on it, I realize I should have said I was in no state to go out that night, having had such a full day. For I was completely distracted by the men in the bar, new men I didn't know (as opposed to the cast of familar faces at my usual haunts) and doubly distracted by the notion that I was just as exciting of a prospect to the men as well!

My downfall arrived in the mouth of the knitwearing man who spoke within earshot of me, likely on purpose, and I detected a smooth clipped obvious British accent. Any hope of having a fun night out with my friend became a frenzy of looks and gestures and comments subconciously meant to solicit his attentions, which my bruised ego chanted would not work anyway.

I couldn't have been more mistaken. Apparently, the second I entered the bar and sat in his line of sight, his attentions to his company for the evening were thoroughly compromised by my very presence. He made it his duty to muster up the courage to vanquish his usually shy demeanor to speak to me.

And what we found waiting in each other was, in essence, simply a good time. And a boost of confidence to have good times with anyone.

conducting electricity

I try with fervent determination not to think about him. [the drunken ambusher] I actually have many moments when the sun shines, the world is beautiful and it has nothing to with him being there at all. Amazingly, there are times when I forget about him.

When I think of him it is a constant reminder of all that I am not. All that I lack. All that I clearly don't have that would inspire him to want to be with me. I wish it wasn't this way. I hate that it's that way. I love who I am and what I do and who I'm constantly becoming.

I wish there was something, some shred of joy, some sliver of pleasure that I can derive out of thoughts of him. I wish that my being a part of his life might actually mean something to him, but I am just a mirror he stares into, a mirror that talks back, a mirror that soothes, a mirror that encourages, but all he sees is himself. He looks in my direction out of mild curiosity and all he sees is his own flaws.

Funny thing is, it's always been this way between us. I just never really could put my finger on it before, I could never really say what it was about him that was unsatisfying, that felt like a metallic swallow of fear sitting at the back of my throat. It wasn't until I tried to recall all that we've shared, I collected the moments we've had in the periphery of each other's lives that I finally saw the pattern.

He was always panicked and broken, he was always self centered and in need of assurances, he has always been a mess.

And I was always perfectly willing to care for him, to find the time to adore him despite his well worn flaws or supposed flaws, and he was so distracted by his own mess that he couldn't even see me. And more than two full years later, despite the distance he's had from her, regardless of my own evolution, he is still a mess of a man who stands in his own filth and cannot see that he is perfectly capable of being happy, he just has to walk away from this condition, this hinderance, this horror that he's become addicted to.

What angers--and bothers--and also frustrates me is that I had just begun to let go of the fantasy that one day we might find a way into each other. The final blow was that night he was on a date with a much younger girl, who happened to be blonde and tiny. It finally sunk in that no matter how fucked up he was, I wasn't the one who'd be able to breathe life into him again. And then when he realized I was done caring for him, all he had to do was tug at a loose end of my convictions, to test my indifference to his presence, to try me just for the fun of watching to see if I'd fall.

and fall I did.

Just when I was beginning to get myself back up, after that big fall (not just the small ones along the way), after that blow of not being enough, of not inspiring life in him, of not being worthy enough to seduce him out of his mess, finally realizing that it might not have anything to do with me at all, because really the only thing he sees is himself; he wandered into my scope and devastated my attempts at pretending it didn't matter.

Damn him! As an idea, as a concept, as an abstract that was intangible, I could do it, I could wipe him away, I could forget that I even wasted an ounce too much of my energies on him and his mess. I could almost pretend I hadn't fallen so hard for hardly anything.

And yet--

the truth is, I've been staring at each face that wanders past, and the shock of his face suddenly appearing where it's been absent for months now, I felt my eyes widen, my heart race, my body shuddered from the electricity we share. I smiled widely and happily without thinking about it (a rarity in my world) and my friends turned to see who had elicited such a smile. Their responses were negative, surprised (they assumed incorrectly that things had stayed quiet and sullen between us) and disgusted. They've long since abandoned him as a person worth knowing. If only I could join them as easily.

His foot faltered at the stair, and his eyes registered surprise as well, then flickered with necessity, he had to come in and my being there wouldn't stop him. He put on a wide smile and arrived, nervously approached us, took in the awkward masks of my friends who once loved him and now out of some misguided loyalty to me feel they must hide their affection. I pulled him away from that pain, which he was already reacting to, already cognizant of, already processing into little knife wounds along his arm, the pain, the glorious pain, it was as if the torture he constantly craves was there and sitting on his chest carving symbols into his flesh, but he was so shocked by it he could barely function.

How amazing that someone who pretends to hate themselves and their life, the mess of their own life cannot stand face to face with pure, though slightly misguided, hate.

And even then, even though I should have joined them, I could have rightfully done so for the last couple years of the bullshit he's tossed in my direction with no regard for me and my adoration and my interest, I could have easily turned a cold stare in his direction and ignored him, but I couldn't, I pulled him away from his pain and tried to soothe him, and I suspect no matter what the outcome, I always will.

the neverending scrolling marquee

did i get into iowa? maybe i did? maybe I didn't? it just seems like it could happen this time. maybe it will. it probably won't. who am I kidding? they only take twenty five people after all. who knows if my manuscript has one flaw it will be held against me.

rinse,

repeat.

the alternate lifestyle

Visiting them, the group that they are, the interwoven strands of their love messy and hard to navigate, but beautiful nonetheless, makes me sad for what could have been.

Our childhood was so fixed on survival, on looking like everyone else, on pretending that it was all okay, and they get the chance to have all that and simply worry about being happy. I wonder if he realizes that he's done this for them because of they way it was for us, that he's made things better for his children because of us.

I love explaining to them, their little faces nose to nose with me, their round wide eyes staring eagerly into mine, the scent of their shampoo fills my nostrils, the silken wisps of their hair tickles my neck, "that's my brother," I say, "Your daddy is my brother."

They giggle, their impish little grins, and say, "no! he's our daddy!"

They love me, they can't get enough of me, they spin me around to see everything they have, they offer me glimpses of their world in a crazy carousel ride and I love it, I love that they are so happy, so eager, so filled up with love.

I wonder how they know, that I'm family, that I'm a part of them, that we belong to each other. They scoop me up with tender fingers and hold me as if they've always known that I've loved them and always will.

Sometimes I look at my brother enviously, he's a good man, living a hard, but full life with three beautiful and adorable children. I want what he has and it makes me wonder if I will ever have it. I wonder if that part of me is used up, spent, done. For after just a couple hours with them, I was exhausted and couldn't wait to go home to the quiet solitude I've come to know.

the ghost

He is a curious case. He wanders into my periphery when I least expect it. I've mentioned him before, somewhere. Yesterday he was a passing fancy, a ghost, a reminder of the past, of years ago.

Once, his beautiful face turned toward me and asked me questions I couldn't answer. He was the most perfect physical representation of beauty in a man I've ever seen. He even had glasses, which I love on men. And his hair, it curled about his ears and neck. His stature was lean, a swimmer's build, and his clothing unconcerned but cool.

Much later, after we'd established that our centers were drawn to each other, were pulled toward each other, we had an actual conversation in a bar, along a bar, over a beer. At the time I was younger, but still much too old for him. He repeated my age with a distant awe, a faraway tenderness of the unimaginable.

And then I met his girlfriend at the time, a short, squat, horrible thing, who could be called repulsive with no shame. And then I heard him do what he was most passionate about and it was also repulsive. He could sort of play the guitar, but he could not sing and he was purporting to do so and do it well. I was embarrassed that I had believed he could be my salvation, that he could be the one I thought I was looking for.

Thankfully he moved away.

And then he returned again. He did not remember me. And I was amused by his youth, by all that he lacked. He claimed to be moving somewhere else soon. I wasn't mad at him for not being what I needed, I gave him fond wishes for the future and forgot him.

Then there was yesterday. I was standing in contemplation, with my friend Val, completely unsuspecting him. His shadow of height forced my attention to him, as I always notice a tall man. And his face was the same, still boyishly obscure, always half smiling, so open and beautiful. And I still didn't recognize him. I saw his eyes turn toward me and he stopped lightly in his tracks, I could sense his attraction to me, and I was happy because I knew I looked good. He smiled and continued past, maybe not remembering me at all, again, that pain of not being memorable, but he did glance at me with some flicker of interest, some wondering.

When he was at least twenty feet away I realized it was him, after all this time, it was him.

I wondered if he would come to greet me, or find some reason to talk to me. He hovered near me and we played the game. I laughed at all that was interesting, I spoke loudly and cajoling to my friend, and he glanced in my direction, but he never made a move, he didn't do a thing. When he left, I returned to normal and felt a sense of gladness that he was gone. He may not be what I want, but it's amazing how even his physical being causes me to alter my behavior to entice him to me.

twenty pounds later,

Ah. It hardly seems like yesterday that three weeks ago I embarked on the Master Cleanse for the second time in my life. The first time was shorter with more amazing results (twelve days! 25 lbs?!), but this cleanse has had it's quiet revolutions. It's length alone is a feat. As of today, I have gone without solid food, cigarettes, alcohol and my most favorite, espresso, for twenty-one days. I have enough supplies to complete another two days and then I will begin the process of slowly introducing food back into my world.

Of course it would be hard not to compare the feelings I've had this time to the feelings I had last time. I have been very lonely whereas before I lived with Eric and his friends and was doing the cleanse with a friend. I have been obsessed with food whereas last time (perhaps because it was shorter) I was merely annoyed by food being everywhere. I've taken to lengthy reading of take out menus, circulars for the grocery stores, even tours of grocery stores staring abjectly at all the food I would like to eat someday. It's sounds sad, but it's extremely funny to me. My friend Walter calls it "food porn."

My friends, as much as I feared they would fall away, did not abandon me. That made me very happy. It just shows me that I've made some good choices about my friends. They hung out with me in various ways, with and without food. My friend Val even came over to do yoga with me!

For a while, during the cleanse, I didn't see any results with my weight. I think it was nearly a full two weeks and I had only lost a total of eight pounds. Yet, I'd not smoked for two weeks and that is a long time in a non smoking world. So as much as I was disappointed by the lack of weight loss, I was thrilled that I might best what has been the most difficult thing for me to break. I was happy that I would come out of this process not wanting to smoke again.

And then, finally my weight literally fell off of me. I have no other way to put it. It may have been that I decided to attempt at least a half an hour's worth of daily walking. Or that I also began to do yoga on a nearly daily basis. Or that I decided to add the routine of drinking the disgusting herbal laxative tea for the last week, having gotten sick of drinking saltwater in the morning. I don't know what it was, but a few days ago I stood on the scale and I was 190 lbs, down from 206 lbs.

Yesterday I had to buy a new pair of pants. I had just washed my tried and true pair of blue jeans and they were literally falling off me. I have a lot of pants in smaller sizes from when I was at my "normal" weight (before dating Eric again and eating his meat filled death diet), but no pants that fit this in between weight, so I had fun shopping last night for new, smaller clothes.

I know eventually I'll be able to wear my normal clothes again, to feel normal again and it makes me very glad. I know this was an extreme way to lose weight, I know it is not for everyone, but I had to do it. I needed results, I needed to break up the damaging habits I'd acquired in my attempt to numb myself to my new life. I found myself again and it's no surprise to me that I'm smaller, because that's who I am in my mind.