Saturday, October 30, 2010

"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.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

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.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

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.

Monday, October 4, 2010

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.