the seemingly futile love

A day is such a fleeting thing for most, but for me it can be a lifetime and I hop from one day to another, unaware of the accumulation of time, until often it is too late or I am unaware of how I wandered into a forest that never seems to end. Usually this realization is a pang of horror and dread, discovering that I am saddled by something that I said yes to on a whim and enjoyed a few times and fell into a routine of interaction that I did not ultimately desire.

So it was, however many weeks ago now.

Imagine all the lengthy days inside those weeks, hopping, busy with the life I lead, which somehow accelerated in the last month and it all sped past me, every day just another day of time that passed with some small measure of success.

I was completely unaware. Walking in the darkness of my malcontent, searching the sky for something, but always finding it empty for me. For others, it was full and rich, a bright place to explore. For me, it was a dark blackness obscured with a few faint, but prominent constellations. My family, my friends, my jobs, every day they turned in succession across my sky, a mapped out daily occurrence with no surprises (though the occasional shooting star might streak across me, or the disappointment of a satellite, or the drone of an airplane, big and heavy and unwelcome).

Even when something was new, it quickly fell into the dimness against that sky.

And so it was, for a long time.

Imagine that, feel that, then imagine walking up, looking into that sky, dark, bleak, full of emptiness and then there is the moon. The moon who gives light, which gives life, the moon who illuminates the things you could not see, the moon who smiles down at you with a bemused grin of unending pleasure and appreciation.

Every day I explored the moon somehow. Every day I looked forward to it, wondered how it might appear, if it would burst through the afternoon sky, a shimmering mirage against the blueness of daylight or if it would crawl above the horizon, as if it was hugging the earth. Every day the moon had a different shape and another feature to reveal about itself. And every day I was there to watch for it, to find it in that bleak sky, despite all the other things on my horizons, the other constellations that roamed my world.

Eventually, as the days began to accumulate into these weeks past and the moon proved it was strong and clean and big enough for all of me to rest inside it, I began to yearn for the moon, and miss the time when I wasn't standing in his strong light or able to see that face staring down at me. Sometimes, you can see the moon when the dark side takes its turn in orbit, but often you cannot. So there was a self-imposed period of stubbornness that I endeavored through to prove something to myself, that I could spend some days in the darkness again, not looking for the moon, not shouting up at it, not hoping for anything to come of it, just being with myself and that bleak dark sky with its faint but strong constellations: family, friends, work.

I learned that I can live without the moon. I have lived before his arrival and I can certainly live without his light and deposits of brilliance. In the end, if all the days of wonder do not overwhelm the reality and obscure the few bad days we've shared (a series of miscommunciation and carefulness bordering on insanity), I will have those days to remember him by and that will be enough. And yet, even though I don't need this, him, us; I want it. I want to give myself away to someone who can hold me, even if it seems futile and the distance between us is too much. And not just any someone, but the moon.

Except, maybe there is a certain point, when the futility of loving the moon becomes unbearable and foolish. For now, I will be the eight-year-old who stared up at the moon and wondered if there really was a man in there.

rubbed raw/holding onto my sanguinity

As I look back, all I see are the waves of it all crashing, at first, a year ago, it was a tolerable amount of crashing, nothing I couldn't handle. Lately, I feel like I am drowning.

I know this is just part of the process of change, but as the water crawls over me, another inch, another mood, another moment, I find it hard to remain still, to let it embrace me, to give into the death of the things that don't work for me, to accept change is to give up those dead parts of my life.

It hasn't helped that I am adrift these past weeks, so that there is nothing to anchor myself to, except the spinning of time, and the small joys the world leaves me to sustain me. I have had so many trembling pleasures lately, moreso than ever before, but sometimes it feels like I have to give something of myself to have them. I have to pay for them in ever escalating terms, plunking myself down in places where I don't belong and cannot enjoy.

I see no horizon, no where to land, no beach waiting to hold me. I have always wondered where I will end up and I find that planning has made no difference, and letting things be as they are has relieved some of the worry, but it troubles me from time to time, the not knowing, the specks of thoughts of the future, and then reminding myself that there is only today and that is enough, for now. It has to be enough because it's the only thing I know for certain is real.

"It's really hard to find yourself if you keep on leaving..."

Every two years, I feel the need to shed a part of my self; and it is reflected in my starting a new blog. You didn't know? [2008; to escape his memories], and [2006; to evade his scrutinizing stares], and [2004; to find a new platform to dive from].

I've been running away from each of them, hoping that if I run far enough away it'll stick that time, and I can start fresh, accept and claim the perfection that comes with emptiness.

Every time it happens, I hope it is the self I yearn to be, the one I've always seen glimpses of, even when I was a kid, I saw myself in other women, in other people, perhaps in one it was their giving heart, in another it was their ability to articulate their thoughts, in another still it could have been the warmth I longed to share with someone, anyone.

This year, I don't feel the need to run. Perhaps because physically I have changed so much these past two years, I don't have any desire to make something new and start fresh, to have a beginning that makes sense to everyone, a clean slate for myself. I have been sharing my self in this form for years and years and years, with my father as my constant reader, who I will love forever, no matter what, simply for his eyes and attention to these words.

I never understood what I was doing here or there, or those other places. It wasn't until asked and I stumbled to come up with an answer, that I began to realize that the stringing of these moments in my life, creating strands of my stories required the entirety of my past, and that abandoning them didn't make them go away. All that I have known, loved, loathed, it is all part of who I am today.

The premise of this blog was based on the buddhist prayer bracelet called the mala, to which I added my nickname--or if you know me well enough, you just consider it my name--stine. I imagined that each entry might be something I ruminate on and in allowing myself to fully address whatever it is that is worrying me, I could let it go and I might find peace.

"All beads are worry beads - from the Pope's rosary all the way down to those little wrist malas... worn by Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike. People of every religious tradition will claim that their beads are for praying - for appealing to a higher power, for collecting the spirit or concentrating the mind - and while this is indisputably true, that is not their primary purpose. Beads are for worry. They answer a human need so basic it actually precedes a religious consciousness - and that is to fret over things...The difference between the Buddhist mala and the various Western-style rosaries is simply that it makes this explicit in the symbolism of its beads.

"The message of the Buddhist mala is 'Don't worry about things; worry about the fact that you are so worried all the time, and address the foot of that." From Tricycle, Winter 2006 (Clark Strand)

"something obsolete"

When it arrived, a year ago, it was huge. She gave two others plants, one as an afterthought, though just as remarkably thoughtful and well chosen for her, the other to our mutual friend whose home was full of fake plants. It was clear she went there to get something for me. My tree towered over everyone else's gifts, and when she led me to it, biting back a giggle, I remember being surprised at how big it was. Nearly three feet tall, it was wrapped in heavy brown paper, which I took off in front of her, feeling the burden of her nervousness; how best to commemorate the time we shared?

At the time, as I removed the paper, as I realized how perfect a gift it was for me, the bright green bristles of the conifer, a norfolk pine, it's leaves soft and supple against my skin. I have always loved conifers, that they survive the harshest beatings of winter, and still stay wooly and warm against the heat of summer, without shedding too much of their bulk, I see a coniferous tree and it always brings a smile to me. I read once, "The world's tallest, largest, thickest and oldest living things are all conifers."

She had been sleeping next to me in my bed, having abandoned her room to our new roommate, she was unwilling to live here another year, and what I saw in that tree, more than the gracious regard for my love of conifers was the ever present sting of her leaving me. To have a physical reminder to connect to her leaving, a three foot albatross, an anchor to remind me constantly of her absence, that was what I saw when the paper fell away from those thin spindly branches, reaching out to the sides as if trying to touch us, the tops of them a round cluster of new growth, a burst of fireworks, a head of unruly hair.

She didn't understand my disappointment. I think only now, that the year comes to a close, that the distance has kept us apart, that I haven't been able to see her, that she hasn't been able to see me, maybe now she understands the disappointment that cored me that day.

Like anyone who spent even a small bit of time with her, I was in love with her, fascinated by the lilt in her voice, the way she would hum through the house, her thorough way of doing everything, the dense forests of her stories, the laughter and spontaneity she exuded, the quiet solitude she savored, the curls of her hair, everything I knew about her I adored.

The day I watched her pack her car outside my window, tempted to depart with her, to abandon all of my life and sit next to her on the drive and be swallowed up in her car with all her stuff up to the ceiling, and knowing I couldn't, it was embarrassing later, how much I loved her, but that day I just didn't want to lose the one person I never had to explain myself to, and even when I clarified myself out of habit, she knew me already, because she knew herself and we were so similar.

The conifer didn't fit in my room. I spent the day she left rearranging and then sitting with it, and then trying another spot, and another until I realized with some dismay that it didn't belong in there. I breathed a sigh of relief. To not wake up every morning with that reminder of her in my view, perhaps it was better. So I found an unoccupied corner in the apartment, near a window and I began to take on the burden of caring for the plant that was a constant reminder of her and her absence.

I gave it ornaments for Christmas. I found these tiny adorable ceramic birds she would have loved, they were too heavy for the delicate branches and made them sink from the weight, and tiny silver balls, and it was our Christmas tree. And then the winter passed, and it resumed its spot near the window. Caring for the tree was harder than I imagined, as I had experienced before, the seemingly hearty conifer species is actually a fickle houseplant, probably preferring to be out-of-doors and able to feel the air through its spiraling bristles, to feel the weak warmth of the winter sun on its branches, to have the humidity of fog and clouds and snow to soak up moisture through its green leaves.

It floundered for a while under my care, under what I suppose I should call negligence, for it required a daily spray of water on its branches, and a frequent filling of water in the rock bed underfoot. I spend too much time away from home, and too many mornings dashing late to work and too many nights crawling with exhaustion into bed to care for such a needy plant. My other houseplants are heartier and can stand to be dry for some time, but not this one.

Slowly, one by one, each stalk lost the brilliant green glow that brought reluctant smiles to my face and it became a thing of concern for me, I spent more time spraying it, diligently making time for it each morning, pouring water into the tray of rocks underneath it, stroking the arms flat against my palms, sometimes pricked by the stiffening needles, which left my skin itchy from the toxins conifers deliver from its resin.

It wasn't until almost summer though that it seemed evident, that the supple needles began to stiffen, the branches that had been reaching out atrophied, shrinking from long lean arms into mounded humps, just as the love between us shriveled, where I felt neglected and disowned, forgotten for others, and thirsty for her.

It didn't help that it sat in the vicinity of the cold dead thing that occupies my apartment, that overwhelming stench of dying and decomposition, her blank face, those dead glazed eyes, which drives me into hiding every time I realize that the light is on, that my open door acts as an invitation for the addled and heavy droning conversations in which she would desperately like me to approve of all that she does and I cannot, because I cannot lie, so I hide behind my closed door and hope that she will ignore me; I left the plant she gave me amidst that, and it is no surprise to me that the life drained out of it, just as mine continues to drain out of me.

To have failed at keeping that plant alive is not truly a failure. It has been a year and finally I gave up that it will return from its dried out state, brought it to the alley and hoped someone who feels a great love for plants might give it a home, or that it will help the garbage in the dump breakdown better, be put to some use rather than wasting away in my apartment, which pains me so.

There are still reminders of her in my space, the magazines that are timeless, the poetry book I need to send her, the cassette she sent me that I still haven't listened to because I'm afraid it will re-ignite that steady flame she fostered in me, which I let die out and find the glumness of my days only a fair price to pay in exchange for the joyful gladness her presence gave me.

Maybe when I have nothing left to remember her by, maybe then I can open that time capsule from her and hear the words she recorded for me and know that love again.

the knock at the door

They assume I'll stay. I suppose it is because I haven't said I don't want to. I play out each scenario in my mind and it always ends with the devastation of disappointment and hurt feelings. I know that part of the reason I'm saddled in a groaning misery that is difficult to shake off has to do with this situation and my inability to do anything about it (it is a daily barrage of noises, that the dog has only exacerbated, the clinking of the fork against his bowl, his rampant barking and nails clicking on the hardwood floor, his awareness that amplifies her awareness that underlines the feeling I'm always being watched, it is nearly unbearable after all this time and to imagine another year here tolerating the brunt of her insecurities and her rules and regulations among her chronic hypocrisy makes it worse). So I plunge my head further into the sand, telling myself I'm not in a place to take care of this problem, not right now, so I have to do the thing that proves to me that I'm a grown-up now, the one thing that children cannot do well; I will wait. I will be patient. I will hope for the best.

The dust here is stupendous. It settles along just wiped surfaces quickly, grows into thick gray strands, and I know the dust is affecting me, bringing sneezes in the morning, pounding my lungs and lining my nose and throat. I have never been sicker, so many colds in this year and a half, coupled with quitting smoking and starting smoking again and quitting again because you get so sick of being sick that the idea of putting a thing that you love that makes you both happy and sad anywhere near you becomes a chant stop doing that to yourself. I haven't smoked for two months, except for some reason, out of some defiance, out of some feeling of unfairness, I had a cigarette with them, standing outside with the men, feeling equal to them, making jokes with them. And then I resolved to never smoke again, again. I feel I am constant state of regaining ground after being sick and losing it by getting sick again.

Never before I have enjoyed the freedom of a light work schedule, weekends off, sometimes days off during the week, but with it comes less money, and with less money comes the terror and panic of not having enough, of struggling, of resorting to a constant mental anguish, a constant calculation of what money may be coming my way and what work I can do to get more of it to come my way. I was working a lot before but I had a lot of money to show for it; now I work a lot less and worry over paying the rent (another reason moving away from here isn't feasible, because even paying this low rent is tough, how can I afford to live alone?). Being broke for the last three months has cast a pallor over my social life and it is beginning to take its toll on me. I miss doing things like going out to dinner, being able to see a movie with a friend or doing a spur of the moment activity. I don't miss the drinking; the stupid brain cell bashing waste of time and money, but the rest of it, it is frustrating how bound I feel by the lack of money.

And then there is them, to imagine not being within walking distance of him, so that it feels easy to go there and give my cheerfulness and optimism and smiles to him, I see the benefits of it, that he is not a happy person and I infuse him with joy, I feel glad that I can be there for him, even if it is nothing more than watching sports games or bad tv shows together, because it is just being there for him, sitting next to him, not shirking from his wan and gaunt figure, not scared of the man he's become, a man he constantly insists is not the kind and gentle and intelligent soul I know (he would say knew) him as. It is probably one of the more difficult things in my life, that I must pretend is just fine. To do that, to constantly dull the shock and sharp point of despair, to grin and bear it, it takes up nearly all the energy I can muster. I weep when I walk home, I have to remove the clothes that reek of cigarettes and shower the smell of stale smoke out of my skin.

So there is the constant flipping of these two columns, that it is cheap and near them (and the park, I must mention the lovely park next door) and stifling and obnoxious.

Somehow, despite that, I've managed to find peace in being broke, because it means I can return to the solitary activities that bring me joy. Whether it is the finishing of the fingerless gloves for Daniel, or the necklace I started in spring, or to watch the exhilarating television series Deadwood; I have been enjoying my return to creative endeavors and see that I could spend this time of fruitless indecision productively. I might have something to show for myself. I haven't had the opportunity to revive my summer's challenge of participating in the Artist's Way, but I see that these small spurts of inclination come from the wellspring that program pointed me to, and all there is to do is remove the boarded opening and let the geyser erupt. A part of me is holding back, because it would mean that I would have to alter somehow the life I've become familiar with and used to, even though it doesn't serve me fully.

I already knew there was change coming, change was necessary, but I'm tired of change, tired of constantly turning the puzzle pieces over and fitting them into another place. I want to be done changing and being put together, but I also want to enjoy the things I have always wanted for myself, so I will do the work it takes to have the life I want. Live the life you want and want the life you live, they said.

Three years ago I began working with my writing partner and doing the bare minimum of work to develop my novel. I had hoped that I would be able to go to grad school to give me better focus and a greater discipline. Fitting my writing into my busy life is hard, harder than just about anything I spend time doing (because it is something I actually would rather do more than anything else, I try to find a large piece of time that I can really enjoy it). I come to each meeting with my inner artist bound and gagged, and I carefully release her, bathe her in reassurances and then she talks to me.

As of late, my writing partner is absorbed with her own stories, capturing them, crafting them, so in the meantime, instead of wringing my hands at the writing I cannot do alone (I could write an entire entry about the reasons why, suffice it to say, I would be easily distracted when left to my own devices), I decided to print out the entirety of what I have crafted and attempt to do a thorough edit. The distance of time will help, as each sentence is no longer imprinted in my mind, so that I can view it all objectively. I printed out one document with 179 pages (double spaced, manuscript style) and even though I knew it was 179 pages, to see them, to feel the weight of one hundred and seventy nine pages (and know that there is more of it not included and more to write), I felt the pleasure one must feel when showing off their growing infant. My how it's grown.

And then there is my quest, seen to many as arbitrary and unnecessary, but to me, reading the Snopes Trilogy by William Faulkner was my way of creating one safe haven to rest, one less decision to make, one less door to worry about whether or not to open. I have another hundred and more pages before I leave the world he made, and I have stayed in it, lingered there, loved it these many months, I think it has been more than a year; each book stretched into a cluster of pages that I mentally excavate, aware of every word, thrilling in every shift and whorl, examining the structure of the writing while being hypnotized by the words themselves. I sometimes wonder why it took me so long to find him, but realize that I would not have been prepared for him, which is why it took me so long to get through what I now see is his most deceptively simple novel, As I Lay Dying. A part of me would like to reread all of his novels I've previously blundered through with this attentive appreciation, because I know I did not give them enough careful consideration and I know that I would be a happy reader for it.

And then, there is them. It is strange. I had completely reduced the urge to be with someone, put on the mask of unloneliness, pretended that being single hasn't bothered me. I even went so far as to allow one (who is not enough) to try and make that emptiness seem a little less empty, but it only seems to shine the light on all the corners, all the openness, all that's missing. It makes me feel more alone, which I hadn't expected and now wonder what to do about them. For a long time, I was not ready for the task of dealing with them, of navigating the senseless and often difficult waters, like a ship trudging through glaciers in Antartica, trying to find a place with waters free enough to sail and weather less difficult to maneuver through. And now I see that just like everything in my life, it requires not that I be perfect, not that I know ahead of time what to do, not to be more patient and less anxious, it is a matter of being as prepared as I already am and able to choose to open the door when the knock arrives.

epilogue [pt 8]

There in Trafalgar Square; the kids in their crested jackets on one of the great lions, tourists posing in front of the other three, a world floated around me that did not bind me due to the magic spell of travel which leaves one free of the constraints of self, realizing I would never see that face again, never hold her again, I still tremble at the loss of her, hearing the song that she used to fall asleep to on my chest with the beating of my heart in her ear brings me to great horrific sobs, still, I felt it then as I feel it now; the tourists walked past me in oblivion, the sun beat faintly at my eyes, the grey hat that had been mine for years but never belonged to me until I placed it on my head in London, that there I might try to pass the hat off as part of me, but with my friends I could not reveal a new item without some serious critique; I photographed myself.

It wasn't until after I returned, after I'd spent a week in bed with a horrific flu that literally got a hold of me in the airport and was completely throwing my nervous system out of whack by the time the airplane landed at O'hare, fevers, chills, aches, headache (I never travel well on planes, having a terrible time with my ears losing pressure), the flu that triggered six days of migraines of the painful, high level on the broad scale that are my migraines, the kind that happen to me once in a great while, those six miserable days I spent lying on the couch/during which I was absolutely aware of the fucking coincidence that emotionally I was in agony; I would have to get a new job, maybe go back to the cafe again, but the chanting was endless: I was never going to see Iris again.

It wasn't until after that woman suggested we meet to discuss what happened in London, after I arrived late at the meeting, in which we exchanged pleasantries, she actually went through the rigor of pleasantries, and then I said I wanted an apology from her, for the swearing, for the outburst, to which she said no. We agreed to disagree and then she lied, meek in public, not able to fully release herself, a self I had seen biting at the surface for years before it actually emerged, so I was prepared for anything that day, but I did not expect her to leave it open, saying, maybe we just need a break. (The break continues, some two and a half years later. I have not contacted them and they have not contacted me since.)

It wasn't until after all that, I finally saw it. The burnham prepared them for me, printed off my camera, all of the treasures stored on film, processed and the product given to me, to be a film photographer is to give birth one frame at time, no twins or triplets for me, because each photo was my one opportunity to capture that vision that had arrested me, a pile of buildings mostly, ornamental additions, the lopped off trees, frozen in time, aching at the sky, the surprise of the stencil graffiti, every picture of Wales idyllic, all of it tumbling back at me, a regret, a sadness, until; there I was,

I hadn't been angry in a photograph since I was a little girl, always carefully smiling, obscuring the space in my teeth, holding myself as perfectly as I could, trying to distract everyone away from what my faults were and draw attention to my features. That day, the last day in London, I didn't care what anyone thought of me, I held the camera up to myself, no rush, in a crowded square of strangers I felt the lack of that chronic and characteristic concern that someone was watching me and waiting to point out to everyone what a fool I was (a feeling that lessens every day continuing from that day), and I took the picture. I saw that in my imperfections, in my scowl, in my defiance, even with the grief of losing her gripping me, I saw that I already was perfect, that I didn't need to fix anything about me, that I may be ugly to some, but I am beautiful when I am being myself and not hiding anything.

the crash [pt 7]

My last day in London, I walked around the city, what had once seemed like a million details I would never learn and suddenly seemed so small; it is where I lost myself, it is where I found myself; I stood in Trafalgar Square, amid a bevy of things known to me, the uniformed teenagers riding one of the great lions after school, the tourists, the easily recognizable Americans, slumbering along in their sneakers, the rest of them European, but easy to pick out with their maps, their stares upward, their gaping cow eyed indiscretion toward everything but themselves, there I was among them, scowling and cold, indignant and righteous, most of all alone.

After Wales, the rest of the trip was strained. Things were still polite, of course, but strained. So I reigned myself in and snipped off every bit of me that was too wild or unruly. It made me a little sad, but it didn't bother me, I had done it before. And yet, I was startled to see that in growing older (I was thirty one years old), I could not be anything other than myself. People are often befuddled by that, that my seemingly endless well of niceness has a bottom, and in it is me happily living my life, doing what pleases me and attempting not to be unraveled by every stare, smile, hand, hug, moment.

Thankfully his sister and her family embraced me, not understanding that I had tried their patience with my gloominess and perhaps a trickling confusion about what was going on and a growing concern that I was never going to be alone even in sleep. To say it simply, it was poorly planned and I am a person who thrives on plans.

Still, despite the strain, it was a wonderful trip and I enjoyed myself immensely when I was left to my own devices, I traveled through London and saw so many things, I had never traveled alone before and it was gorgeous, I took photographs all day, I walked until I had blisters on my feet, I went through many museums, I rode the bus and peered out the windows, I really enjoyed myself. And his sister and her family, they took me to things I preferred to see, markets, historic sites, cafes, eateries, shops, it was a pleasure to be with them and I was thankful for their cheerful company and the opportunity to be myself.

When I returned to them, things were lighter, maybe because I was lighter, or they enjoyed the separation from me, but insignificant things brought the strain back. Even then I still tried to remove my worries and concerns from our interactions but eventually I realized it was no use. Who fights the hurricane, with the precursors of its arrival stinging enough; the sleeting endless rains, the brute winds, the disappearance of the sun?

That day was the second to last day of our trip. We had exchanged pleasant enough verbal uppercuts all day, many of hers landing full on and making me pause in fury. How unfair when she had somehow managed to plant doubt in all of their interactions with me (was it my being his playpal that made them worry? or how much she loved me and I loved her? or how much I beamed at him and enjoyed him? all things that felt like pure joy to me, did she make seem bad to them?).

When we reached our destination for lunch, it was nearing three in the afternoon. I was hungry and crabby, as were the girls, who were not captivated in conversation with anyone and did not care for how many years it had been. I had a difficult time seating both of the girls and her verbal jabs set me to boiling (I recall clearly how she yelled across the table at me to lift something on the ancient high chair which she described in such unhelpful words while I was holding her screaming and thrashing child above the contraption).

The girls had finally been settled in and we were looking at the menu. I was so happy to just eat. I let the squish hold and play with the butter knife closest to her reach while I perused the menu. She was happily playing for a few minutes until that woman looked over and noticed and humorously mentioned to me (while she sat down in her chair five seats away, had she been truly worried, she could have gotten up) across the table of eight or so of her long ago friends that her baby had a knife in her hands. No one laughed. Everyone looked at me. She was trying to embarrass me, and it was not nice. She asked, across the table if I was not enjoying myself, I seemed upset. I sighed, I said something outright rude (I don't always have to smile, I'm not a clown, I'm not here to amuse you), clattered my plate and got up and walked off, shocking and surprising everyone. They had felt a brewing discontent between us and now she was free to blame the entire thing on me, but I could not stand to sit at the table any longer.

I remember him coming out and trying to talk me back in but I would not. Then he brought the kids out and we spent some time exploring that alleyway, investigating every tree and closest branch of leaves they held. When I came back in she was offering me her meal if I was that hungry, that I had an outburst at the table, and I muted my rage and sat, defiantly. The food arrived and the table shifted away from me and the children and to her, where I felt it should have rested the entire time, had she not been so focused on bullying me. As the meal ended, the tension eased up as everyone gathered their things. We walked up the block and everyone pretended not to know me, except the one who'd met me before the day laid out before us, before she set the minefield, and she alone was the only person to acknowledge me. Even him, I could feel his disappointment in me, I sensed a weariness from him that surprised me.

Our train ride home was focused on the children. The frozen sister jumped to my rescue with lots of darling things to say, and she devoured the attention she had been missing while her routine was in disarray. When we returned to the home, the children were sequestered with him while she and I found ourselves together in the kitchen. I remember things being somewhat informal, as if we just happened to be in the same room at the same time and had some things to discuss. I knew she was angry at me, and I was not going to hide from her. As she began her argument, she seemed particularly stuck on the fact that I had slammed my plate and silverware down in frustration. I tried to explain myself, defend myself, relate to her, but really there was no way we could see each other's side (she was upset that I had not been more of a lovely person and intermingled naturally with her friends as she fantasized) (I felt battered and beaten and tired and cowered in the job I had come there to do, which was no solace, she seemed to keep wanting to point out just how badly I was doing it). Then she screamed the words that scoured my soul, that underscored just how much pain and anguish I had caused her those four years, conveyed exactly how she felt about me, she said I was acting like a brat because I wasn't the fucking center of attention for once.

Imagine unweaving a braid from a basket. I was that secure, that firm, that settled with where my life was, and who I was, I had everything I thought I wanted at that point, except at night when arrived that nagging part of me that cannot be quieted, unless by chemicals or other force.

She didn't have to do much, sometimes it was just a gesture, just a look in her eyes, she was like a creature, a snake, hypnotizing me, with nothing as terrifying as the quiet frozen moment that snaps into quick sharp unexpected and yet expected movement.

For the duration of the trip, to live under that level of awareness of her feelings, having sensed her her rage repressed for four years, all the elements converged, knowing that I had outshone her, knowing that her own child had cried in her arms for me in front of her in-laws who she already felt like she hadn't proven herself to in the ten years they'd been together, even though I was just being myself and trying to do my job amidst a lot of bad planning and not enough alone time, it was really like something I would consider hell.

Then to have the man I imagined is perfection, the kind I would have liked to have married, when I now consider that perfection it looks and acts and still speaks like him, the surface of him that I knew at least, having finally accepted he would not belong to me, that he would always be hers even if she wasn't there for some reason, that his vow was that deep, that his love was that rooted. He tried to reason it out with me and even though I told him how my side of the day had gone, he would not agree with me. Maybe I knew he wouldn't be able to agree, but I still wanted to plead my case to him, fuck the rest of them, I don't care if they like me or not, or think I'm a piece of trash, but it was him that I couldn't stand to hate me. Even knowing I could never have him, I still consider him one of the finest human beings I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

And in the face of that, of making the case for myself and having someone of his caliber dismiss me, I was ruined.

The next day, I was told I had the day off. It felt like I was exiled. The following day we were due to fly home. I struggled with the events of the day previous, finding no joy in being alone, in reliving what happened, in trying to find some way that my pride would relent and I would be able to make things right. To never speak to her again meant to never see Iris again. And that day, I knew it already, that I would never see her again, it clamored at me, as I listlessly walked through The National Gallery, seeing paintings I knew from art history, paintings that should have had the power to obscure my building dread, but not being able to see anything but the anguish I would feel from never seeing her again.

man-made Joshua tree [pt 6]

How can one predict the path of destruction of a natural disaster? That was what it felt like, that I survived something brutal and unexpected, the panic of which left me bed-ridden for a solid week. I can only say how it felt for me, what it looked like to me, what I thought about things. It is only beyond the aftermath that we can trace the path, and even then, how are we to know it is not something beyond what we can see or know?

His parents I had met several times in the four years off and on that I spent with their grandchildren. I found them charming and cheerful and I got to know them, I enjoyed them very much. They also knew me, not as thoroughly as someone who spent a lot of time with me might have, but they knew me in the soul to soul moment way, when they saw me with their son. He brought out the best in me and I was cheerful and relaxed and delightful in his company. To spend so much time in their home did not bring about any nervousness at all.

When we arrived, it was a wonder, we left a snowy climate that had battered us with wet and cold, it was early February and still unrelenting, but just a few hours away we encountered an unexpected gift, London was having an early spring. She'd already arrived, perhaps a week or almost two weeks before us, close enough to where you could tell she had not yet been, especially on the naked trees, many with their limbs lopped off at so many awkward angles they resembled gnarled hands reaching into the sky. But the sky it clamored at was bright (not the dreary London I'd been told to anticipate, grays, muddy skies, obscuring fogs). The clouds were puffy and dense, the skies behind them idyllic blue and the sun shone into our faces, not the rough summer sun, but the paler, lighter sun, that I could navigate the city without sunglasses surprised me, it was such a weak warmth, but just enough to give breath into the air, instill a sense of openness and joy. We shed our winter selves quickly, it was a pleasure to be free of winter's grip.

I was in a sort of palatial bliss, in which I was dropped suddenly into a completely different world that I had no real knowledge of and I soaked up everything about it, even just around them, I was so enraptured by everything there that I didn't already know, unlike the way I knew so much of my life back home, a routine, a sort of network of daily habits of awareness. As much as these dismay me, the breadth of them, the networks growing larger and out of control, that I see the inability to make it to the furthest outreaches to protect every outpost from harm; I enjoy them. In them, in learning the routines of my world, I see the stories, I see the themes, I see what drives certain people, I puzzle over all of them in great detail while also knowing their scope.

To learn a new place was challenging and exciting. I learned their house, where the parquay floors had lost their seal and where the silverware stayed and where the stairs creaked. I learned their neighborhood, where I could go and buy something from a place I'd seen while walking, in a few block radius. I learned the buses, the trains, most of the city. This immersion was sudden and immediate, within days I was forming sentences as a Briton might (have you got any jam for this bit of toast?) and, I spoke with an accent very easily. It almost seemed to me an unofficial long standing etiquette training. I was in my own transformation story and I hadn't even expected to do anything more than sit glumly in the corner and hope for invisibility and enjoy the four days off they promised me. Museums were free, there were so many sights, and I hoped to feel like I had seen some of another great city.

And then, there was Iris. The joy of our lives was now shared by them, and she was a round eyed creature of great beauty, who captivated all that encountered her.

We spent those first few days in great ease, seeing sights and people, it was a heady time for me with the newness of the new and they even did some touristy things with me in mind, we rode The Eye, they pointed out the sights, he drove me around one night, and he pointed out his life there. Then somehow, perhaps the moon crept into fullness or the thrill of the new wearing off, or how they say traveling with people is a test of a relationship, and ours was set in motion on the fourth or fifth day. It was a succession of dominos, that slow slap of one thing pushing into another to build us into raging.

I was probably woken up by listening to the baby cry. I am a light sleeper and that first gasp of air hit my ears and I was awake instantly. She may have cried for five or ten minutes or so until I heard their door open downstairs, and the lumber of his body climb the stairs and he pulling her from her crib, to tend to whatever it was ailing her. To hear a baby cry like that, one that you love, who loves you, and to not know if you should get up and tend to her, or if that would upset the woman and she would be colder to you the next time she saw you. So there I lay, on the other side of her wall, frozen by indecision.

Then, strangely, sadly, she began to cry for me even when in her mother's arms, and I cowered in the shame of having delighted in her so much that she now yearned for me. I wouldn't say she preferred me over her mother, but I do think she enjoyed spending time with me. I constantly interacted with her, with a toy, words, noises, hand clapping, testing her understanding of the world around us. It was part of our joy that previously we had been able to enjoy without boundaries. Suddenly, that woman had something to prove to her in laws, and the second the baby cried for me while in her arms, I felt the slap of those dominos falling.

It happened several times over those near three weeks, but the worst one was when I came downstairs after having some time to shower and get ready for the day. She heard my feet on the stairs and knew it was me (everyone else was sitting in the dining room eating breakfast) and began to cry. She had just gotten settled when she heard my voice and began to cry louder. I was embarrassed for that woman, as much as I did not care for her, I still respected her humanity and that was quite the blow to hers. In order for me to eat breakfast at the table with everyone, she had to carry her child away so that she did not see me.

In spending that much time with them (an unrelenting progression of events with no quiet time to myself and no solace in sleep, because the frozen sister slept in the same room with me and woke up several times during the night, and the baby crying next to me every morning), I lost my ability to maintain my cheerful disposition. And when it seemed that my love for their child and her love for me was too much for that woman, I was angry with them for bringing me there. And him, I was angry at him for choosing her, a woman who was not nor never could be his equal. I was angry at him for being so damn charming and funny and clever and so devoted to her.

There was a moment when the slaps of that love, the love I had flourished under, denied, vilified, loathed and forgiven; there in London, there was one huge slap, and it came after a day of seeing their friends and having a lovely time, in which I was never treated like the help and still managed to feel chasms apart from him, because he was adoring her, enjoying her, loving the mother of his children with such beaming joy. Slap. We were standing in the doorways of a grimy tube car, the children at their feet, his arm around his wife the darkness of a tunnel dimmed the scene and when I looked into our reflection, I was standing on one side, they on another and their children between us and they were kissing. I wanted at once to champion for their love and devotion and to smack her and say how dare you! when all you do is complain and create messes for him to clean up. I wept. I hid in my hat. She tried to talk to me and I could not be polite, I grimaced at her and hid from her.

After enjoying a day off (to my glad ears, it was told with no advance warning, but soothed by the cavernous room of Mark Rothkos at the Tate), I vowed to not be bitter any longer. I had the burnham, things were still good between us, and perhaps had I been born some years earlier, I could have been where she was. Things were the way they were and that was that.

Except the dominos had already begun to fall, and by the time we reached that weekend, they were falling with such rapidity, that I can barely recall the sequence of them: every moment became pregnant with awkwardness. And, specifically, she teased me about my newfound accent, she was mortified that her child cried for me, she was jealous that he had driven me around, she was offended that I did not want to come to the pub, because he was sad that I opted not to, she came down with a headache one afternoon that I was supposed to be free for the day and on and on.

The weekend we went to the countryside, the girls and I were a cluster of irritation. The frozen sister had a headache, the baby was teething, and I was cranky from little sleep and the exhaustion of being polite with them so much. The country was typical English dreary landscape, which I believe also affected our mood. We tromped through the paths and toured the neighborhood, but it was with some effort on my behalf. I retired after the children went to bed. And then we traveled on to Wales.

Wales. I had not expected to travel there, so I think it was doubly impressive in its surprise and it was so lively in its atmosphere, as soon as we crossed the border I felt a connection to the land that I could not say I felt for London or England, a sense of belonging, a smile as my heart whispered, welcome home. It was absolutely gorgeous and mysterious. I was in love and they (being Britons) were quite annoyed by my sweeping sense of awe of the place. To them, it was just a silly country (the Welsh language the biggest factor on the list of silliness) but to me it was heaven; rolling hills of properties marked by wire fences or wooden posts with clumps of sheep bleating in the distance and brilliant blue skies of breathtaking beauty and the town nestled at the feet of the hills, a town that still resembled much of how it has always been, and it has always been quaint and lovely.

This scene was edified by the home we spent a night or two in, a beautiful maze of rooms and spaces, some big some small, stained glass, a snooker table on which I learned to play the sport, a lovely garden with ponds, a cliff with the countryside all green and blue and rolling ahead of your eyes, and the woman of the house was an excellent cook (their mother had somehow become a true English woman in many senses and her cuisine was less than exciting; especially the meal of cow tongue, which I truly will never forget for how disgusting it was) and her husband was a pleasant man and their children were older and very smart and I enjoyed their company very much. I decided to fall into the delight of their nephew who immediately adopted me as his play pal, despite the fact that I was a giant woman who was only visiting for a few weeks and not a boy of his age. We had so much fun. I know it irritated that woman because she had tried so vainly with them (her awkwardness was a sign of her desperate attempts to fit in, I think), but she lacked the ability to laugh at herself, laugh with them, and trust them. I realized I was outshining her and I did not hold back at all on her behalf.

This seemed to upset him as well and there was some talk about what was expected of me and what was not expected of me. I don't think there was a clause for getting along too well with his family and somewhat abandoning my duties, but I reasoned, it was the weekend, they traveled there to see his family and how could they enjoy the kids if I was always taking care of them. Also, I was having too much fun playing snooker, doing a puzzle, gossiping with their niece, assisting the lady of the house, pulling up sheets of ice from the ponds, and many many other small joys. They hadn't expected me to fit in so well, especially not with them who found his wife to be cold and unfriendly (because she was cold and unfriendly). I hadn't expected to fit in so well with them either. I'd met them all separately when they came to visit in Chicago and found them all to be good people, but them as a family, well they were too charming to deny.

The dominos took a different turn then, she had been gracious to these pile of irritants I'd delivered while simply being myself, but soon she began to lose her ability to be polite.

the set-up [pt 5]

They were some of the happiest times in my life. I spent every day thinking about her, every day I spent with her was a joy, I often dropped in on the weekends just to see her for a little bit, because two days without her was unbearable. Sometimes she would be napping and I would impose on them, but often it was a carousel of emotions, to see her, to see him, to avoid the mother's perplexed gaze, to explain to the sister that I still loved her too.

Things with him had changed, because he wasn't around as much and because things with the burnham had somehow miraculously resumed and seemed better than ever. I spent my days with her, pleased and happy, my nights with the burnham, learning him again and exploring our love again. Happy times, indeed.

Things changed there, in a good way, and it was the warmest it ever was there in that house and it was all because of her. Because she loved me so fervently, I became hers and spent more time with them than ever before. I felt like I was part of their family, we ate dinners together, I sat in on some of their holiday celebrations, I saw the way they had become a family. It was lovely and I was so grateful to be a part of their lives. Every so often the pang of what would never be would rise up, often I found her a tiring woman, but being with Iris made everything a wonder. The summer ended; she was a caterpillar for Halloween, there were so many of their holidays, some of which I sat in on, watching him and the sister recite the prayers, smiling with her.

Time with the squish was easy. I cannot think of another way to describe it. Often, the things in my life I remember in great detail are the moments I feel disappointed or confused, but there was none of that with her. When I am happy, everything just exists and I am able to be in the moment, not preserving it for scrutiny later, to dissect it, to puzzle over it, so that is what I attribute to not really being able to remember anything, that and the overwhelming sense of wonder.

Again, I will say, there are glimpses, the smiles, the feel of her hair curling along the nape of her neck, the squeeze of her fingers, the way she would kick out her feet, the round eyes narrowing in understanding at me, the joy she had for all of my babysitting gimmicks, except, I did not need to persuade her to examine a fallen leaf from the ground or go down the slide or sing or dance or bounce on the bed or play clapping games or read books or any of the other distractions I had for children. We simply existed together, happy to be in each other's presence and adored each other and whatever was nearby that would entertain us, we grasped and everything else was out of focus.

Five or six months passed like that, a joyful giddy thrill, and then one day, when he was driving me home, he asked me the question that would begin the destruction of all of it. Had I known now, I would have said no. At the time, I couldn't even consider a no, because it would mean not seeing her for twenty days and the idea of being apart from her for that long was unthinkable. The friends we had tried to warn me, to say that it wasn't a good idea, sometimes I wonder if they knew that woman's heart, if they knew already that she did not care for me and was waiting for her opportunity to ruin me in the eyes of her family, or maybe they just knew that the bigness of me and the delicateness of her would never survive in a small space and they were right.

He asked me to travel with them for almost three weeks to London while they went to visit his family.

The way I put it then, and the way I still think of it, it was like winning the lottery. I was so delighted by the idea. I love to travel, I hadn't traveled in sometime, I had never been to London. Mostly, I wanted to be with Iris. I don't know how the mother felt about it, I got the sense at the time that she wasn't that thrilled about having me around. I wish that she had stopped it, or I had said no, but in a way, it was as if neither of us could prevent the collision, we may have tried to steer our cars on ice blacker than empty space, but there was no point in trying, we were going to collide and it was going to be massive.

Winter was upon us. The preparations for the trip took some time, and we all bunkered down against a very snowy winter, the sort that was grueling to travel about in, the kind that makes you want to migrate, the unrelenting bashing of snow and wind and wet. He asked me sometime in November, I think, but it wasn't until February that we left for London.

I began to be too eager for her face and love, and too demanding of her. I said that I was willing to give up almost three weeks of my life to be their nanny, to accompany them to another country, to make their visit easy and comfortable. Mostly, I just wanted to be with the squish; she brought me joy and gladness of the purest easiest sense.

the squish [pt 4]

The first time I held her, she was just a baby. I'd ignored her for so long (after repeatedly being instructed by her sister that I was not allowed to babysit Iris, I'd decided it was best to pretend she didn't exist, especially since it was a painful reminder of what they had) that it took some time for me to realize that she was different.

Those first few times I held her, in the dark with that question lingering in the air, it wasn't a proper introduction to her. I didn't expect her to be exactly like her sister, no two babies are alike, but I didn't expect her to be so different. The details of her emerged somewhat slowly, as we learned each other, it seemed every detail was a staggering opposite of what her sister had been. Even more surprising, she was just four months old.

The first thing I noticed was that her eyes were already sharp. They swept across the room, they seized on curiosities, they were aware. Round and brown, her eyes, when opened gave off the alarmed look of surprise. To be surprised, one must already know and be expecting something else.

To hold her was to be held by her. Her sister had been an uncooperative child from the start, unwilling to link her limbs around my waist, unable to hold on, carrying her required an extra effort. Iris' body was strong and solid and she moved quite a lot for a baby that young. She had no problems clutching things with her hands, in fact I often had to pry out of her stubborn fingers items she plucked from bookshelves as we passed by them from one room to another.

I don't remember exactly when I realized she was not only delighted in me but actually knew who I was, but it was pretty early on, maybe a month, especially because I spent five days a week, five hours a day with her. I found her to be a charming, cheerful child. She obscured the dreariness of that house and that whole situation (her father was almost always absent from the house in those days but the sting of what would never be still throbbed painfully). She was a beautiful baby and she had a wonderful demeanor. She knew how to communicate with me through noises and her eyes, I could usually figure out what she wanted easily. I marveled at her. She required no work, she was not difficult, we spent our days in a calm relaxed state unless her sister or her mother were around.

Neither of them liked how easy and delightful the rapport between us was. The sister was mad because she didn't want to share me. The mother was mad because she actually loved her, she was finally a mother, she didn't rush off to be away from her, she enjoyed being a mother to her. After a month, I could see why, she was a wonderful baby.

Babysitting had been part of my life for years, there were so many children I'd known, some that I cared for, a few that I loved, but never before had I felt a child loving me in return. It was a joy and a pleasure. It is hard to describe the kind of adoration I had for her, and felt from her. Her joy lit up the room. She was a bonfire and she crackled with aliveness. A radiance, a glory, I feel like loving her and being loved by her is what it must be like to be a mother, to have children.

It was so simple I cannot even recall a scenario. I remember glimpses, the tickling of her feet, the smell of her hair, the way her eye lashes looked when her eyes were closed.

He was right, we did look natural together. As I spent more time with her, I grew more fond of her and the feeling was mutual, sometimes to the great grief of her mother. It was bad enough I had brought her first one into life, that she needed me for that and I also had the frozen sister's easy adoration, and navigated the somewhat complex and peculiar man that was her husband with seeming ease (in fact, he often terrified me, I was so afraid he would topple me somehow, but he was too kind for that; also, I suspect the game of knowing each other was too much fun), but to steal away the affections of her beloved baby, who had brought back so much joy into her life (she was still different, better, but the old resentment was creeping back in, I wonder if this is when they fought over me the most, because she began to grow bitter and mean toward me), well eventually it became too much.

As much as I understood her anger and expected it, I couldn't resist the joyful ease of her daughter, who I nicknamed the squish (because she squished my ovaries, I joked and because she was squeezable, and so adorably squeezable) and I was enamored. Sometimes I feel like I poured myself again into loving his daughter because I couldn't love him, but then I consider that I often showed up to visit her on my days off and how she would cry and fuss until she was in my arms and then she would nestle her head into the crook of my neck.

Once, I listened with my heart in my throat for her breathing on the monitor during a nap, and when it seemed too shallow, too soft, I quietly peered in on her, she had been sleeping fine, but it was nearly time for her nap to be over, so she awoke when the light fell across her crib, and with not even a blink, her grin for me was instant and she reached for me. I had never been so afraid to lose a child, never been so concerned (how strange it felt to have the concern of a anxious new mother and not the practiced sense of near impunity I had with all other children who had proven themselves unbreakable), but she was different.

the arrival of Iris [pt 3]

The sister was nearing three. I began babysitting for them again, but sparingly, mostly evenings, I tried to keep myself busy with other jobs, school and work. He often called me to negotiate an evening for babysitting and we would talk at least twenty minutes each time. So when he called one day out of the blue, it was not a surprise. I remember the flush of joy at hearing his voice, the easy banter between us immediately present and the lilt of his voice intimated that he too was glad to speak to me.

I wish I could remember the words, but after he said these, "We're having another baby," I lost myself in a different grief; so many times I felt with a strong clap that he would never be mine, but this was the ultimate form of misery, that she had managed to give him another child, that she wanted to. He wasn't glad to be speaking with me, he was just glad. Glad to be a father, glad to have his wife by his side, glad to be building a family with her.

She was already three months along, they had kept it a secret from everyone until she reached three months. For some reason this also bothered me, because even though they saw me somewhat regularly, they had waited to tell me. He had waited to tell me.

I was not happy about the news and I couldn't pretend that I was. I was so glad he did not do this to me in person, because there is no way they could have not see the emotion gallop across my face. I said something mean, maybe you'll get the boy you always wanted. And I would not show any enthusiasm. It was probably one of the times I was most mean to him.

My reaction garnered laughter and eventually became a ritual joke among us and the friends we shared, and I felt bad each time it came up but my feelings never changed. I did not want that woman to have another of his children, despite the fact that he was her wife.

Her pregnancy was a joyful one, and they were giddy together. Sometimes I could step outside my feelings and see that what they had was a beautiful thing. She was like a different person. She smiled, she seemed happy, she could eat whatever she wanted, his hands were always on her, whenever they were in the same room, he would hold her shoulders, hug her from behind, touch her belly, pull her into his lap, he couldn't get enough of her.

Their child, the baby, the sister, began to act up a little, being so trained in the routines of things, all this talk and smiling and attention not being on her made her upset. I was asked to come back to work for them, their other caregivers hadn't worked out as well, and they thought it might be good for her to have a familiar face during the transition of welcoming a new baby into the house. He was working more and was not around as much, she was spending time with friends and shopping, and the little creature I had poked and prodded into life was suddenly a walking talking little girl who was not so easily contained. She still had the incessant need to do everything exactly the same way, except I didn't always know what they were and she would get very upset not to have things going her way.

Without him around, it was a dreary time. I remember how everything seemed so dull and tedious, there were too many rules, their child was too particular (though we did manage to have some joyful moments they way we used to, there was still much singing and dancing and playing, it all had to be a certain way, her way, we had to sing the same songs at lunch, every day and there was very little room for surprises).

She had a birthday, she got signed up for preschool, time crawled by. His delight in his wife meant he rarely interacted with me, and when he drove me home it was less fun, and I was less prone to interact with him, pleading exhaustion. We talked a lot about everything, but the twinkle we shared was gone, and he shone a lot less than he had.

Then the baby was born. When she arrived, it was even more apparent that I was just a part of their world in a peripheral way, I was less of an importance, they didn't have the same issues they had with the frozen sister, they had experience and were much more comfortable. They managed to handle their older child's frequent outbursts of displeasure at the disruption of her routines easily, but I found her more and more difficult.

I was growing weary of watching their tenderness, and somehow, the mother and I became more friendly in his absence, but it was always in a strained manner, as if we were both anticipating the sky would fall, slightly cringing in fear with each interaction.

The sister began to act out much more and I was informed by her that I was her babysitter (her parents were smitten by the roly poly baby) and was not allowed to babysit for Iris. I didn't even hold her until she was four months old. I saw her, but played with her sister. The first time I held her, I propped her up against my torso so that I would not have to look in her eyes, and I remember the joy he had as he stared at us together for the first time (he said we looked very natural together), even that woman seemed glad, and they asked me the question, it was late, the sister was asleep, they had gone out on a date, their chirpy cheerfulness was grating and I was merely amusing them by holding their child in my arms, and they asked if I would take care of her while the sister was at preschool.

I said no. I said no another three or four times, each time a repeat of the same scene, sitting in the near dark, late at night, with his baby in my lap. And then, I finally said yes.

how he ruined me [pt 2]

He was a clown, a veritable clown. He relished in wearing clothes that did not match and patterns that clashed. He had curly hair that often went wild after too long of a haircut. He had a big mouth and guffawed a lot. He was funny and sometimes she refused to laugh at him.

That was his comfortable side. When I saw him dressed up for a meeting the first time, I was astonished by his creativity. This costume was similar to that of the clown; a well-crafted and sharpened version of the man we saw everyday. Under a slightly more fashionable suit than the average joe would wear, a patterned button down, the pattern of which clashed but the colors matched (a purple pinstripe with a purpled check dress shirt and a paisley tie of a purpley hue). And, to preserve some of his clownishness, he usually wore striped socks or some sort of socks that did not fit a suited man, which peeked out of his hems when he crossed his legs. I'm certain he amused many a meeting with his socks and his antics.

I might have been able to ignore the details of his dress, those careful nuances he placed there for anyone who would pay close enough attention (sometimes it comes down to that, who will pay attention to you, who can notice everything about you?), had it not been for the cologne. It is hard to describe exactly how the cologne affected me. He entered the room to say so long, for his meeting would go longer than I was due to be there. When he exited the room, it hit me, a subtle earthy, spicy, clean smell of him and I was surprised at how affected I was. Weeks later, when left alone, I even went on a campaign to find the source of it, carefully pulling open drawers and small doors, but to no avail. It is likely the scent wouldn't smell the same on someone else anyway, but I still wanted to know it, find it and learn it.

I tried to reject this feeling time and time again. As things warmed up, I felt a sense of dread, that I should not be enjoying him so much. That I should not look forward to seeing him. That I should not be so sad when he was already away for the day. I saw her anxious stares back and forth between our faces. I looked at him, he looked at her, and she glared at me. And I wanted not to feel that way for him.

I threw myself into the task of loving the sister, the baby. Under my tutelage she began to grow and be cognizant. She was a dull baby, very rote, very interested in routines. Her world was so foreign to her she had to memorize it to be comfortable. I understood, so I did my best to give her that comfort and worked hard at creating a world of surprises that she could enjoy: singing, playing, eating, dancing, running, reading and it was a lovely time. I really discovered a joy I had not known in child rearing. I interacted with her at her level nearly every time, for four years. I did whatever she wanted to do, I encouraged her to explore her senses, I taught her sign language, I showed her how to blow bubbles, I let her explore the contours of my face, we covered every inch of the house with toys and games.

One morning he lingered and played with us, I instructed him in her routines (even when playing with toys she had very specific actions that had to be played out precisely or started over) and he taught me things he had learned about her and we laughed and played and talked. When yoga came into the conversation, I expressed my frustration (and still it is a frustration) that I could not do the crow pose. It is a balance pose where you squat and lean your legs over your upper arms and lift your toes and legs into the air behind you while resting your weight on your arms. And he became a crow in front of me, with a giddy grin, his daughter staring up at him in awe and surprise and his joy broke my soul.

Imagine you found the love of your life. He was everything you ever imagined a person ought to be. And then you realized you couldn't have him. He didn't belong to you and he never could or worse, would. And then imagine the ache.

I tried very hard not to become enraptured. I sometimes felt the knot of crying in my stomach from just having to lie to him and tell him it was a bad morning or I was grouchy from no coffee or I didn't feel like talking today, so that I didn't have to laugh with him and seemingly adore him. It was bad enough that eventually I couldn't work there. I had no belief that anything would happen or he felt some way. I was fully aware that my feelings were completely one-sided and nothing ever happened to initiate the swell of emotions, he never did anything other than be who he was. Even now I will say he was always honest and true, a man to admire among a sea of those who do not arrive when expected.

For a while I believed that he was the father figure I had missed. And then I felt a brotherly feeling of fraternity and good spirits, the sort I had with my brothers before we parted at drugs and peer pressure and idealized pretenses. Eventually I felt a camaraderie with him that felt very natural and welcoming. And then something changed. It was beyond the physical, the smell of him, the look of him, the hard working he did, the smiles, the british accent, the thick black rims that held his eyes, his hands always expertly manipulating whatever they held. It also went beyond the intellectual stupor of him, that he was the communications guru, that he teased me about prunes and marmite, that he teased me about everything, that I could make him giggle and snort, that he was probably one of the smartest men I'd ever met.

The first time it happened I was so caught up with him that I almost forgot the whole thing, that it would never be. It was a phone call to arrange my hours for the next week, that lasted nearly an hour. Then he would drive me home at night, even though I lived less than ten minutes away, it would take an hour. Frequently, we stopped off at the grocery store and goofed off in the aisles, like two kids. Eventually, we decreed that a ride home must take a different route each time. As time went on, the would never be part began to sit on me like a metal safe and I thought I could not take it anymore.

After spending the most blissful half hour to an hour with him, I would go home to him, he, the supposed love of my lifetime, and I would see the misery I really had in such stark contrast that it was unbearable. I couldn't indulge in it though, except for those late night encounters, which I suspect he began to enjoy as much as I did. He certainly was the one at the helm for all of it, and I was his willing partner in crime.

Things carried on that way for some time, perhaps a year had gone by where I let him drive me wherever he liked and I wondered how she felt, but couldn't worry about her. Sometimes when we were all together, I would try to be conscientious of her feelings, but if he was in the mood to be silly, I could not resist the invitation to play, our words and laughter rang out and it was probably one of the strangest feelings, to be so completely thrilled by someone who did not and could not and would not ever belong to me.

Then I did a stupid thing. I could have passed off all of it as a pure sense of enjoyment and not enchantment, I could have not hurt her, and I promise I didn't mean to, I wanted to share with her the joy I felt for her daughter, who was growing more interesting as she began to speak and create new games for us to play, so I shared with her an entry I wrote about her daughter. In it, I mentioned him and how I would have loved to have had his children. She was startled and I was mortified. I think that was what brought out the shame I felt, and why I began to pull away from him, trying to pretend he had no effect on me, because she read that flippant comment about him and it was inappropriate for me to reveal that to her.

Ulitmately, I withdrew, finding being there too difficult. They hired other babysitters, two or three, and since we still had friends in common, I would hear of them sometimes. Months went by. Time was a balm I relished and savored. I was welcome in their home for birthday parties for the baby, and I occasionally did babysit in the evenings, so they could have date nights, but I tried my best not to indulge him on the rides home. I knew I had crossed a line and I wanted to show her that I respected her place with him, perhaps I didn't respect her as a person, as a mother, but I respected that she had him, that he was hers, that he belonged to her.

the frozen sister and the three of us [pt 1]

In the beginning, there was her sister. She was small when I met her, about five months old. The walls, they were painted this blue that I imagine they paint the basins of swimming pools, except this pool was frozen. It was so cold in there that winter, I don't know why, it never was so cold after that, but there was an air of frigidness in there, and she was cold and stiff and frozen. I don't think they knew what they had done, they didn't know what they were doing, although I feel like he gained more confidence and realized she wasn't going to break, how could she? she was a block of ice.

It took a lot of effort to engage her. She didn't respond to cooing, being held, being sung to, being whispered to. I bombarded her with so much, too much, until her eyes began to focus. It may have been a month before I saw her blurred eyes sharpen in understanding. Eventually, she melted, her arms loosening, and her hands grasping, her eyes following, her head, and the last things to be free, to move about with freedom were her legs and it was a long time, eighteen or nineteen months until she walked unaided. She wasn't lazy, she just was frozen in that house, with that mother.

It seemed to me their marriage was strained somehow. Except they had been together for some time before the arrival of the baby, so perhaps it had something to do with the arrival of this new much more intense routine of responsibility. I have a feeling she may have had post partum depression. Because he handled it so well, so carefully. I don't think she felt motherly toward her and I wonder if she saw that her baby was frozen and it came out of her and what must that mean?

Often times when I was there, she was just trying to get back into the routines of her old life, like someone frantically trying to replace the shreds of something destroyed into its original shape. She was a shattered woman, but some part of me suspected this was just another thing in her life that she had been shattered about and it had happened before. He had that air of having been tested by her so many times that he fell under her lash willingly, devotedly. In the end, he didn't even say a word to me, after all that happened, I was so hurt by that.

But how had I hurt her? She laid in bed and wondered where he was countless times and then brought it up days later when we all happened to be in the same room. I don't know how she really felt about it, but she sure acted like she believed something had happened between us. I would have done anything to assure her out of my own pride and indignation, except I was so mad at her for wasting him (one of the best men I have ever encountered in the world, who I adored so mightily out of regard for so many of his kindnesses not just to me, but every man, woman and child I witnessed him encountering, he was the same tender jovial man who spread so much joy).

Even more appalling, he was so devoted to her that even if she shoved a woman into bed with him, he would never do anything with someone who was not her, and also someone who was not his wife, the woman he promised his whole being to, with complete understanding of the marriage vow. He was not someone who took his word lightly. And even though I ached for him and wanted him, sometimes feeling him urging me to do something, I could not and would not. Because I didn't want to lose him if he had to break his vow, which seemed like it would shatter him. And I knew he would not reciprocate and if he did he would hate me for making him make that choice. She needn't worry so, it seemed to me, because I was there with him and even I knew nothing would happen; she was not there and convinced he would betray her.

"I never thought of running, my feet just led the way..."

I am the best at disappearing. I can suffer any which way as long as I don't have to be in the same vicinity with who or what's bothering me. I have made a career out of disappearing, though not a full-on run to another city, another state, another country (oh how I envy those that have). I've left people, jobs, apartments, awkward situations, all for the hope of peace.

Lately, as I have been peeling away at the emotional build-up that's been wreaking havoc on my life (you let a little thing like that shock run your life for two years and the clean up is incredible), I've noticed that running away isn't so alluring. Sometimes I stand my ground. Sometimes I even manage to stick up for myself. Often, I speak up about something that's bothering me. And, when I've exhausted every possibility and the effort of being in the same space as the miserable thing I've endured is too much, I walk away.

And, in some cases, you have to walk away. There's nothing better to do than walk away.

I hailed this summer at its onset as The Summer of Getting Unstuck. Perhaps it would have been better named The Summer of Walking Away.

I have said goodbye to Siena, the cafe, that place that had been my constant, the one place in the world that wasn't ever going to change, no matter what crazy shit was going on in my life, no matter that I had moved twelve times since working there, it was always going to be there. And then it got sold and changed and now it is not the same place I knew, the place that literally has been the font of nearly my entire life. Losing that place was the beginning of this alteration, this transformation, this awakening.

I let go of the needless, reckless acquaintances and the worry of what they would think of my disappearance. All those barflies, of whom I was a part, don't miss me, don't worry for me, and if they do, I cannot exert effort into pleasing them any longer. They will carry on, holding court and judging all. I could and can no longer participate. They were a strange part of my life, it was a comfort at times, truly, despite their bitterness and nastiness, they helped me see I was not alone, that I wasn't the only one who wanted to kill the incessant thinking, the tireless observations, the weary and alarming ability to be so very aware of everything. I drank to try to be normal, and they were my companions.

To be rid of her, and those of her ilk, the ones who need more assurances than there are to give, who care not for a single beat of someone else's heart or mind, I am feeling both exhausted from stopping (you never notice how tiring someone can be until you are away from them) and thrilled at being free. I will try not to let them ensnare me again, despite the fact that I can be kind and giving and loving (to not be because of them would just be another kind of prison) and I am just the sort of person they latch onto and drain.

Then there is me, the physical being that walks about in the world. I have lost myself in that shock, gotten lazy with myself and my actions, let myself fade. In finding myself again, the hair is coming back, the body is coming back, the smile is coming back, I see that I have grown, changed, become something new, suddenly I am a woman and no longer a girl, no longer able to disguise myself as anything but a woman, unable to hide in the fashions of younger women and girls. I am pleased to see her, the woman I have always been, at least in my mind, a somewhat attractive, slightly sophisticated, mostly put together woman.

As I lose weight, I will lose favor among those who call me their friend. As I begin to dress up differently (no longer needing to wear the worn clothes and scruffy outfits for the cafe), I will find objections from them. As I emerge, I have a feeling there will be many other things and people that I will have to shed from my life. I can already see it, the disparity, and it hurts a little, I want to hang on mightily to all that I love and even hold the scraps of that misguided love shined in my direction, but if anything, I've learned that growing up is not about disappearing, it's about following your feet.

"if I didn't have to kill myself doing it, maybe I wouldn't think so much of you"

[Fuck you. Yeah, you. You are the voice that stops me from saying what I want to say, making me delete and repeat, so fuck you. I don't know how you became such a nemesis of mine, but I will tell you this, I don't miss you and I never really did, do you understand? I know you don't understand why (because you are the opposite of me, because you hate everything for no good reason and I just couldn't do that too). I know it burns you up and pisses you off that I not only lived my life, but I didn't miss you in the process, well, I'm sorry about that.]

As I learn to undo the bindings I imposed on myself, one of them, a big one, a difficult one is saying no to offers of friendship that just don't suit me. I said yes for so many reasons, I didn't want to say no, I didn't know how to say no, I thought, meh, why not? I didn't have a lot of friends. I didn't know what friendship was. As you get older, your tastes get more nuanced, and your hopes for complete understanding begin to fade. At least mine did.

So along the last seven or eight years, as I was learning what I liked and didn't like, what I cared for and what I didn't, I realized I had acquired friends that didn't really suit me, but I still tried to keep them on, like an ill fitting item of clothing, out of some deference to their liking me, out of some strange obligatory feeling, despite the fact that my initial reaction was one of repulsion. I suppose it is so rare that I immediately like someone and get along with them that I tend to discredit my intuition. Every so often, it does turn out that I was wrong about a person. Usually it gets muddled as it grows more intimate, so it is harder for me to really say how I feel about someone.

Lately, time is reconciling the balance of these tiresome relationships in my life; it seems every year after that initial massacre of my friendships (three close friends hacked out of my life in one summer), then came the serial killings (a calculating measure of everyone and gone were two of my good friends), and lastly, there was the perfunctory expulsion of some people who I never really understood why we had friendships in the first place (sometimes being a raft means I get boarded by desperate drowners). The pace was abruptly halted from its steadily declining maliciousness (I may have turned into an absentee friend or faded from consciousness like normal people end friendships) because of that shock, in which I have spent the last two years endeavoring not to hurt anyone the way he had hurt me.

Except in not saying no to people who have run the gamut of wasting my time, stressing me out over unnecessary things, making me feel shitty for not being whatever it is they thought I was (despite my protests and attempts to be exactly who I am), I am finding myself in the misery of not having trusted my instincts.

Some of them are huge drains (they decried my assessments of her and time has told me that I was not wrong, yet daily I am forced to be offended by her in one way or another), others are slight annoyances (she still likes me, oh praise the lord, I didn't know how I was going to get to sleep without her affections validating me; me, the woman who is ten years her senior and twice as experienced in life), while still others are tangled in intimacy and the threat of love (he claims, but never settles over me; he is here, but is vacant; he is a joy and a delight, but he scares me sometimes with his needs).

Strangely, fending them off, especially backed with a rap sheet as long as my legs (so many emotional crimes I've committed against them), they have resisted so mightily that twice I've been forced to question myself, something I haven't done in a while because I was fairly settled back then. I long for those days when I kept resolute and firm, despite the anger it provoked. With them, I cannot be so sure, because I don't know if I can trust myself about them.

Those rest who have stood with me now for years and years, they are mine and I am theirs. I see in them gladness at my arrival, pleasure in our company, a smile rests on our lips and the conversations between us are both languishing and accelerated, a magical feat I realize has more to do with who they are rather than how I view them. My eyes may be shrewd and observant. My tongue may be critical and lacking tact. They are people who can withstand me because they have no guilt, no shame, no worries. Rather than inspire queries, they inspire awe. I find that the more time I spend with them, the less I need those who confound me.

present

Summer

the curly mane is coming back

It's been so long since I had them that people don't even remember them. I thought they were memorable, they seemed to be so big and took up so much space. I mean, sometimes, it felt like my curls wore me.

When I cut them, they weren't too long, but I didn't want them anymore. The curls required a lot of work and get this: they still didn't look good. I had to use a smelly stupid icky hair product and my closet is full of the rejected gels and potions that never tamed my hair the way I'd hoped. I then forced myself follow an elaborate overnight scheme (suffice it to say there was a lot of thought put into those curls and the hair in general) that still resulted in what I derisively called "clown hair," "the mop," and "cousin it."

I charmed the babies with the hair. They loved playing peek a boo in that mane, in my arms, their faces buried so close to mine, but lost in my hair. Otherwise, it was a tool of defense; it cloaked me from prying eyes.

When I sat there, in front of her, she teasingly suggesting that she could do a makeover hairstyle for me, that she could give me a haircut that was drastically different, I had no hesitation in saying, yes, chop it off. No one understands except those who have reached a point of no return with their hair (she cut hers off in desperation, those long blonde locks and her shorn head a stunning sight, to learn her anew, a face, details, her body no longer the ultimate silhouette of womanhood and beauty; another had hers taken by accident and it also brought her into focus, a dazzling wit, a sparkling conversationalist, a brain of such staggering depth, intelligence and a moral compass so pure, I trust her judgment above all; and me, nothing could be worse than being shorn so short as a boy in fourth grade when I was already such a struggling wobbling mess of a person.). I was tired of it, it was too much to deal with. So I promised I wouldn't cry to assure her suddenly doubting mask and she tore into my hair, and in the end I had something even more startling, a hairstyle that did not match me even more than that big poufy hair. It wasn't a bad haircut, you see, it was just not the right haircut for my wardrobe, my job or my life.

She took all the curls, cut my hair into a bob and straightened what was left. My hair touched the edges of my cheeks and for the first time in a long time, my neck was open to the world, she cut the curls all the way to the roots and left jagged sharp bristles behind.

I don't think I went through the same sharpening upon having new hair. I had had haircuts before that didn't suit me, but this one was so well styled that no matter how easy it would have been for me to muss it up, I couldn't. It actually was easier than the curls, I learned slowly and with a yawning surprise. I didn't need any products. I ironed my hair with a flat iron to make it straight. My somewhat chiding inner environmentalist lectured, Sure the energy from the flat iron was a part of my footprint, but as least the physical by-product of using electricity compared to the "recycled" bottles was lower. It may not have suited me across the board, but it definitely looked good on me.

For the first year of the two years of pretending to have straight hair, I allowed my hair to be cut short and the curls at the nape of my neck removed. The second year I grew bored of the hair, spurned by photos of me wearing what looked like a wig but was in fact my own hair and began the tedious process of letting my hair grow out.

After a year of growing and one setback haircut in that time (she didn't listen to just a trim and took about five inches off. I had to start all over) the curls are slowly crawling out of my scalp, they wrestle each other at night and when I look in the mirror in the morning I don't see what I used to see (the bad things), I see the hair that is mine that I am scared to wear outside.

A wild tumble of big loose curls that do not allow for timidity, hiding or shielding me from the world. To wear those curls, my real hair, I would have to learn how to look past the stares again. So I began to tell them, as a warning about the curls. They scoffed and swore no memory of the mass that only two years prior had begun to feel like it was alive and growing and gaining on me and I needed to exorcise it. I told them that I was ready to have curly hair again, outside in public (I have been practicing at home with the curls, feeling them, pulling them into ponytails and shaping them into giant curls tumbled into pastries at the nape of my neck; my curls have a tendency to hold any shape under little coercion it is thick, rope like, there is a lot of it, it feels like a blanket across my arm.).

Somehow, it seems strange to say that accepting my curls, letting go of what anyone else thinks or wondering what they think behind those blank dead staring eyes, rather than getting my hair cut to remove the veil, I need to accept my hair, curly gray and wild to return to my natural womanhood, to allow the beauty I have been hiding these past two years (from that shock and so many other things); she will emerge, and then I will be truly sharpened into who I am and have always been.

"cold hard knot of hate"

It sits at my throat, where the words come out. It is a talisman, a reminder, a symbol (that I would burn into my skin if I could, if I had the guts for it), my scarlet letter.

How it can be all of those things, and beautiful, and belong to me is incredible.

It almost makes me feel bad, the cost of it, both ways. It came with a huge struggle, a decision that every so often I still wonder about, but don't regret. That's not what this is about. What's done is done.

Instead, let's say the years had gone by and the memories were fading and I had reached a dead part of my life, in which I had burned off all that I could and stood back looking at the charred remains of my life (it was the second time; the first being connected to the thing that woke me up, that made me alive and the diamond I wear at the base of my neck).

The paper was gone, all gone. The trinkets, the things, they disappeared to taste and time. The day to day stuff was gone in a poof, almost like when you push a pin into a very full balloon it doesn't deflate slowly, it pops with a surprise from the pressure. The last thing left was a white box with a cheesy satin-esque fabric (despite its highbrow upbringings, it had some issues with classiness). It lasted three or four moves, it sat in the same spot after each move, temporarily in a box, then it resumed its spot in the lower left hand of my topmost dresser drawer. Every time I opened the drawer, I saw it, and pulled it close to me and then pushed it away.

I had an idea, to take the diamond out.

At first, it was suggested that I get another to match it and make earrings. Even though part of me flushed a little at the idea of my wearing diamonds atop posts in my ears (to be poor, really really poor, there are certain things you imagine you'll never see and that is one of mine), so I demurred, besides, I didn't want to buy another diamond. I wanted to make the one I had something else, was all.

After some pondering, it was newly suggested that it could be flanked by a red gold circle and the thinnest and most delicate of red gold chains and meet at the nape of my neck in a clasp. Initially it seemed ironic that I could adore something that was so not me, and be such an obvious symbol of being chained, which is exactly what I could not stomach of it in the first place. It was almost so repulsive that I hated it for a time. I instantly hated it. Any chain on my neck shouldn't be delicate, I insisted, and it made the diamond look too big.

The diamond, it amuses me. When I met it for the first time, inside the ring, it seemed so small. It was, in comparison to what usually lands on the left hand ring finger. And yet, the more I got used to it, I realized it was perfect. It suited me just fine. I didn't want to be like anyone else with a giant rock, I could go for a tiny rock and be satisfied. Even now that it has belonged to me (before it was just a thing I wore) it seems to be what I would have chosen all along, despite the charred ruins of my life.

Because it wasn't accepting the size that turned me into won me over, even though that seems likely, it was another thing that emerged in changing it to something else, a surprising thing; because I was informed, I was chided, that the diamond had been chipped somehow, during the years it rested on my finger, amid the trials and tribulations of the cafe, but it could've happened anywhere knowing me (it would be gorgeous if it happened on a keyboard while I was typing frantically away, to him especially, but any of that, really). And then it belonged to me and I belonged to it.

Well before then, they had gifted me the red gold earrings I wear everyday. A similar reaction occurred, and one might step back and look into a mirror of mirrors and see that inside each decision I make from hate, I have always honored more purely than that made from love. I learned I secretly love all that I abhor. The day that I am able to love without limits, to love without justification, to love without reasons, I will have found transcendence.

With the earrings, the necklace is whole. It makes sense with them. Strange, when I received them, that was the last time I saw him, I think, or what I remember. More importantly, it was a point in my life when the old and new met and clashed, and I saw the truth of things, and I grew up with a strange realization, despite who I had been and where I came from, I could wear pretty things, I could be beautiful, and I could be happy.