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.

pitcher

The words have been stuck in my fingers for months and I don't know how to get them out. I feel like my explanations are long-winded and whiny, so I abandon them after hearing jeering voices in my ears (somehow, even though he was once my most ardent supporter of my writing, he has the king's chair in my mental court; his voice is loudest above the rest).

So instead of trying to explain and present it all perfectly I am just going to tip the pitcher over. It is full of words and every drop forced more of it to seep out of the edges and go to waste. So let's waste it all.

There is a tug between what is good and bad in my life and strangely enough it exists in each object or person.

The pitcher is trying to hold the words in...I've erased my last three attempts at sentences, but I have to push it out, I need to say it...

This year has been a shitty mess and a lovely diaster.

There is no one reason for it, I am the only commonality and I feel like I change every day, pulled by the tides, set adrift at sea. I want so much but I toss my desires away like petals; they are white and float on the black surface of the deepened ocean like snowflakes, and I realize that letting go of everything I've ever had is the only way to get somewhere new.

She left me before the winter settled into the city and that was the beginning of the algidity, of the bone chilling cold that I could not shake off. She gave me so much warmth and fuel, I felt like I had never been more alive and more aware and more turned up than that. And it was so easy. The ease we shared was joyful and I was tickled by pleasure and thrilled by being known, fully known and appreciated by another human being. I ache for her presence, for her words, for her meandering verbal forests. Not a day goes by that some detail of her does not jar my whole life into a screeching halt, and then there is a sadness in remembering that she is gone.

The winter furthered my rigidness. Gone were my walks, my explorations of the park, the ambling outside just to be outside.

And then there was them, the vast array of failures and disappointments that should no longer bother me, but I still attempt to delineate the threads of what made those loves so painful, usually coming to the conclusion that it is a puzzle I can never solve.

I tried to lose myself in someone else, but naturally that only provides so fleeting an antidote. He tolerated me; in many ways he gave me things that will take a long time to unravel. His presence in my life is an enigma, one that I try hard not to destroy with words or thoughts or questions. He makes me feel not like a girl, a figure, an object, but like a woman. Strangely, I have never felt this way with any of them. I often wonder how cruel it was of the universe to deliver me a very beautiful person trapped under a mountain of insecurity and self-doubt, much as I used to be, and not have him be enough for me and not be able to be the one to save him.

And now, the Spring has finally arrived, and I am startled, absolutely startled by how enamored I am by every breath of life I encounter, each unfurling bunch of leaves on a branch, the growth of those leaves day by day, the vast array of colors they present as the air oxidizes their newness.

I don't know if it is the end of Winter or my new neighborhood, a rather quiet set of streets with the park outside my window, a vast array of landscaping that pleases my eye the way it never has before.

the way I'll tell the story of the night we met

It was such a lark. I wasn't supposed to be there. I should have been sleeping. And you, you probably weren't planning on being there that night, which was not your usual night, but there you found yourself, a little drunk and happy to be dancing with one of the beautiful girls who sometimes worked behind the bar, probably on those nights that is your regular night, and you smiled at her face in the dark while you danced. You were hoping for something more with her, always hoping, and your pain made you feel a hundred pounds heavier, but you still tried because there was something about her, she just seemed so far away and brilliant and being close to her made you feel like you could catch the moon.
And then she left, like an eclipse, and there I was.
And instead of chasing stars and heavenly bodies, you felt like a mountain being blasted through for a tunnel, and I smashed you.
And I didn't even know. I was alone, trying to pretend I wasn't lonely, but even in that room of people all smiles I was in my head, in my own world, completely out of place and something about that appealed to you in a completely different way than the way she did, and you moved towards me, hoping above all else that I wouldn't drift off.
And we danced.
I'll interject here that my legs hurt for days.
You'll smile at me and say, mine did too, darling.
I wouldn't take any of it back though, I'll counter.
Of course not, then we wouldn't be here, you'll say.
So we danced.
And your body became a figure I was aware of, like walking through a room you know better than any, a bedroom, maybe, in which you could wander through it in the dark and you wouldn't fall, because your body could feel the room, remember the steps to take to avoid the furniture; that's what it was like to be next to you. I had no idea what your face looked like because of the dark, but in the dark your limbs and body were well known to me, as a familiar room in the night would be.
And for some reason, as soon as you engaged in dancing with me, the world fell away. I ceased to be part of the eternal flow of observations, thoughts, endless nuancing, excessive questioning and rampant worrying. I simply existed, without strategic manipulations of myself (the constant adjusting of my physical body is a tic of my thoughts). I was the way that I sometimes am when doing the things I love most. And you were still a stranger at that point.
Time flew by. It's a cliche, the best we can employ, for it really did whoosh around. The other day, well before dusk a flock of birds raced over the dome in the sky; they dived crazily and swooped ominously, and I was with a friend and we tried to figure out what sort of birds they might have been, until we got closer and realized they were bats, and those bats swooping around in a circle, that is what it was like to dance with you. Mesmerizing, I think I will say.
You'll laugh at me then, as the people across from us coo with delight, and your heart will swell a little and maybe you'll add your side of the story, that my face was like a carousel and I spun you around.
I'll continue, that finally, sometime after we began dancing, we arrived at the bar with merely a gesture of complete understanding, no difficulties, no issues, no concerns for disregarding something else, we both wanted a moment to size up our dancing partner's intellect and tastes before carrying on with our dancing.
We introduced ourselves and from my friend's point of view, we stood at the bar together, a mix of two long lost friends and also as two forces pushing wildly against each other. The bar felt us, it found us difficult to look away from, we were colliding and they all wanted to see the collision.
A drink was consumed. We were sweaty, thirsty, unapologetic.
I asked you a question, you asked me a question. We liked the answers. Your face twisted in puzzlement and your finger pointed at me, okay, you said, and I'll chuckle when I tell this, like it is the funniest thing anyone has ever said to me, because at the moment, really it was, and you said the word dealbreaker, in such a way that I understood the context of your meaning immediately and answered, yeah? in such a way that you knew I was ready for the challenge of your coda, that I could take any arrow you plunged in my direction and save it from falling into an empty field. You asked, firefly? in a tentative voice, because it really is a dealbreaker for you, no joke. And my face cracked instantly into a smile, which you say blasted another tunnel into your mountain, and I said, I love firefly!
Oh, then, I'll say, and you'll nod, I tried to make you understand that being a giant (relatively speaking) made us so powerful, and to prove it I held your arm out and we blocked the aisle with our arms outstretched and you grinned at me like we were two kindergartners who were having the best time doing nothing.
After that, we danced some more.
There was nothing left to say. We knew each other already, like two old friends, like two pieces of a shoelace pulled together to begin the lacing. We pressed against each other and knew each other. Collision. Not epic, perhaps, that epic one being so deep it still resonates inside me, like a pulse, but a collision nonetheless.
We danced so close that I could not dance and be that close to you, and our limbs tangled and my feet found yours instead of the floor so many times that I got a little self conscious and the spell was almost broken but you somehow managed to reassure me in a tone genuine enough that I ceased worrying and went back to that complete black abyss of nothing and just existing with pleasure.
The couple across the table might get a little nervous then, sensing the dramatic tone in my voice, seeing you lean in, perhaps you'll nuzzle the crook of my neck, it will make them uncomfortable how very close and delighted and able to share ourselves like this with them, so completely, so easily. This is the kind of behavior most couples reserve for their bedroom, they might think nervously, her twisting her napkin around her knuckles under the table top and him squeezing his wife's knee in the hopes that she is paying attention to how to treat him, how all men want to be treated, really how every one wants to be treated.
As if he/they/she/it/them are the center of the universe and nothing else exists.
we pretend this is false and unrealistic and unfair and yet we secretly crave that level of being known so completely that we are the only thing that exists for them, worth hearing every word, seeing every gesture, being in a sixth dimensional correspondence with.
I'll say, remember how we danced?
And you, hanging on my every word, delighted that I still remember, pleased that I smile and not just any smile, but a wicked one, the one where my eyes narrow and my lips pucker slightly, and you'll say, Yes, I remember, with the breath falling out of your mouth on the last syllable.
And somehow, even though it seems impossible, I will also be feeling that I am the only eyes in your universe, that I exist solely to languish in your presence, like a project, like an enjoyable venture, like a cross section of the most fascinating creature ever to be discovered, you will feel relished and enjoyed.
Then my friend broke the spell, he stepped in and time resumed, the clock wound itself backwards then forward to the present, reality reeled itself into focus, the room turned into a solid mass, where everyone had disappeared from, where the only people left were us, my friend, and the people paid to be there, it seemed the party I was part of managed to leave without my noticing. Ten people I'd interacted with that night became ghosts and slithered away while we danced, which is impossible to consider that I did not take any notice of their exit.
The couple will relax a little then, their shoulders will melt, their faces will slacken and a sense of relief will come over their faces, relief they didn't know they were waiting for, the tension over, the panic subsiding. You'll attest to the fact that I think incessantly, even though you try hard to create silence for me and many times have, it is hard, I am a tough case of overworking brain, or as David Caref (who has become an old man already, even though he is just a year older than me and I was shocked, just absolutely surprised to see that he is unrecognizable as the Adonis he once was, when I was in love with him and he was my moon and I was compelled by him and I managed to get him close up and I felt like I had the moon in my hand) said once, but not in the appreciative manner you'll do, "you think too much (which somehow struck through me like a sword even then, when I was sixteen and he was my everything, I knew it was wrong for him to say that, that it was wrong for him to declare that in that tone)."
And then you took my number, and again, it wasn't hard, not the way anything else with a girl has been hard, and that will be the reason it takes you a while, the reason it took me a while, for the ease to sink in, to bubble to the surface as a bubble of air will sometimes do, it mounds the water and takes on the light for a second before it pops into obscurity, with a splatter of the water across its surface and a motion that looks to the eye like the snapping of a twig.
And that, we'll declare, is the story of the night we met.

the game of chicken

Thursday there was a text, another observation, tidy and perfunctory, transportive. I stood on that corner once, just recently, so I went back to that day, when I waited for him to pick me up to drive me to the place he didn't want me to wander around, and I tried to remember if it smelled like anything that day.

It was just beginning to rain and the sky had that heavy humid iron smell and the rain drops were bigger and landed with a heavy splat! on my skin and t-shirt. And in my memory that is all I can bring back, is the smell of the rain in the summer, mixed with a thousand beakers of humidity and sucking blood out of a wound in a finger.

And so thoroughly did he move me, inspire me, impress me that there around me the walls began a quick crumble, the rocks began to fall in great heavy clumps, I turned and it was descending, like a building being demolished by bombs, like the building had knees that didn't exist before and it cracked in the middle and fell.

Yet still, I hesitated, still I let the bitterness of what's past swallow me and demand my silence, which I gave without struggle.

Then she intervened and suggested the invitation. I am so thoroughly repelled by them in general and don't consider the random texter a prospect (some loser I had the good sense to delete a while ago, um, yeah, how exciting?); I hadn't considered inviting him. So I did, just to see what the answer would be, to see if I could flush out the clues to end the mystery and I referenced his other half (the guitar he plays so well) so that if it is not the singer that is randomly texting me, they would immediately object this reference to an instrument they do not play.

I got nothing. Not a no, not a yes, not a word for a full day, nothing.

Of course, there is a worry that maybe it is not the singer and some random stranger who I once knew will wander into my home tomorrow night and I will have a choice to make about this person I hadn't considered before and hoped to never see again.

Or no one will show up and the bluff will be called, and then it will be hard to admit to not being the fool.

update: 8/2 no one showed...so, the mystery continues...

the constant itch

My curiosity got the better of me, and maybe I felt a little guilty too, for ignoring the random texter, so I sent a message Friday morning to him (her? the singer? the know-it-all prospect from forever ago? who is it?). My message was meant to nudge him into correspondence, and encourage him, since I had ignored the two previous messages. I also wanted to show some appreciation for the cleverness and humor of the last message [rats are to cheese as hipsters are to pitchfork].

I didn't expect to hear back for a while, and certainly not relatively quickly, so the response was surprising and fun, we had a couple volleys back and forth before I let it expire, with the hopes that I would hear from him later that night. But nothing came until the next day, and that was an invitation, but I couldn't go, so I gently pushed him away.

Knowing myself better than I thought I did, I deleted all the texts so I could not write during an idle moment of boredom. The mystery of it is consuming me, like a constant itch, I just want to know, but for some reason I don't want to ask.

For one thing, if it is someone I know, and wanted to talk to, I would have their number programmed into my phone. And if it is a guy that I have met over the last nine months, it's probably not someone who I want to hear from. Unless it is the singer and he's coming to his senses and realizes that I am worth doing the work for.

Also, it's kind of fun sending messages to someone and not knowing who it is. A lot of my conversations via text rely on my referencing information and details that only the other person and I know about. I have a very referential (elbow nudging, wink wink) kind of humor with people.

I feel like there was a time period (maybe after that first text) in which I should have just fibbed about losing my phone and not having the number of this friend of mine programmed in my phone. For some reason, at the time, I just didn't care. I was a little put off by that first text [what's the plan tonight], as if I was just some desperate girl waiting by the phone for him to decide to spend time with me and would jump at the chance to do anything with him given the chance. I was mad at the gall, if it is the singer, that I'd deleted him from my life and he was going to swagger in like nothing had happened.

So maybe it's not the singer. I haven't heard from him in any other medium, and usually we corresponded on facebook, but he's no longer my friend, because I deleted him from my life. It could just be some random girl friend of mine I haven't talked to in a while, but I just can't tell right now. And I suppose the mystery will stay a mystery, for now, because I have to wait for whoever it is to text me again...and I look forward to the surprise of the when.

this not about love, 'cause I am not in love*

The random texter texted again, despite being ignored last week. I don't know if it is the singer, but it might very well be.

this time, it was a comparison, a joke, an observation. I loved it and felt the thrill of being wooed by words, but again, I did not respond, I did not let it run my day, I noticed it and carried on with the things I had to do, spending maybe ten minutes discussing it at dinner with my friends.

later, I was urged to tell the timeline of our interactions, to find some meaning to it all, and in doing that, we discovered his songs, which I have already consumed, but happily did again, because despite his inability to find love when it is staring him in the face and showing up to hear him sing, he can sing about it very well.

this means nothing without him doing the work to get to know me and a random text or two is not enough.

*lyric from "not about love" by Fiona Apple

the magnetic disks

The pull of it is so strong it brought him down from his heights, from his work, from his orbiting out there in the ether to me, to stand near me, to breathe me in, to wallow in my presence. And I felt bad for him, that I've tried so hard to ignore him, that I've bickered with him for the sake of pushing him away, for the pretense that I don't care.

I do care. Of course I do. But I can't. Because one day he'll be gone. And then I'll never see him again. And I can't wait for that day. Even just ten minutes with him and I'm rendered into a paste of unformed clay. He's just too smart, so keen, the epitome of exuberant.

I push him away so that it'll be easier for me, but I never considered that it was hard for him to be around me, to see me, to hear my laughter, to see my smile, to wonder what I've been thinking.

As the days accumulate and the arrival of his departure comes closer, the breath I've been holding in is getting harder to hold and I know the release I'm waiting for will come sooner than it should and maybe, just maybe, there will be a breach in the contract we've crafted. I hope not; for it will all amount to nothing anyway.

crackled

It came as a complete surprise. It was supposed to be a nothing. A toss up. A beginning of something else.

I felt it surge through me and tried to lance it, to clamp it down, to keep it bound. And then he felt it too. He let me know with the tips of his fingers, and they travelled over me in a dance and I was delighted to imagine he felt it too. And even more impressed that he was able to express that in such a subtle perfect way.

Mmmm. Palpability is so much easier to digest. It's so gratifying. It reminds me that I've been doing it again, because something feels so much better than the nothing I've been trying to force.

Instant crackle. So so so good.

here comes the sun; fire building

I'm standing here, trying to start a fire, taking the scraps of love I have left, needling, pushing, worrying over things I'll never know, wondering if it'll work and scared about it working.

Should it be this way? To be excited and a little terrified at the same time?

I don't know. I want to ignore the need for warmth, I want to stay cold, but something bigger than me is at work. When fate calls your name you can try to avoid it, but it usually finds you. And I couldn't forget his laugh, his big huge laugh, and that moment when I was undone, completely and thoroughly upside-down.

I described it as a soul to soul moment, where two people touch each other beyond everything physical, and nothing around us mattered right then.

If someone told me I'd have that with him I would have been disbelieving. Because we've never had anything but stilted awkward attempts at conversation before that one. And I am guilty of book cover judging, in his case. He can't help that he's a perfect physical being, and I wrongly assumed that was all he possessed.

It's hard to be wrong. And in this case, I'm pleasantly surprised that I was so wrong. I couldn't have imagined the depth he has, the array of his interests, his industriousness.

I'm not sure if there will be a spark, if it will catch, if there will be a fire. I was compelled to reach out to him and put myself in his scope. His response was kind and open and full of invitations into his world. The idea of exploring another person in the hopes that I will find something amazing is exciting, but I don't want to force anything. I will never force that again, struggling against something and trying to find the brilliance I deserve.

As I was reeling from this endeavor, I joined my good friend at our usual spot, and attempted not to delight in the presence of a different man, far different than the potential fire, someone who I feel an instant chemistry with, a strong pull, a giddy thrill. He's brilliant, gregarious, charming, with a voracious laugh, the kind of guy that everyone adores instantly. I thought that it might just be my penchant for brits, but even the generally grouchy older man at the bar smiled and remarked on his personality.

With him, there is nothing to do, nothing to be, the ease we have is pleasant and refreshing and welcome. With him there is no guessing, no wondering, no waiting. He arrived on my horizons with a huge smile for me and I am eager to see that smile more and more.

And so we fell into each other, so easily, so well. Everything fell away and there was just that overwhelming spin, the carousel, the joy of being swept up by another person who has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

We have plans to spend time together and that will be the true test, when the liquids that make me uninhibited are gone, when there's nothing between us, no counters, no stools, no distractions. I have a feeling it will be easy and fun. I'm not worried about him at all, and for once it's nice to know that there's substance behind this, that it's not a bunch of vapors, a mirage, a bouquet of hopes.

And what's even better is that I've let myself heal, I've taken care of myself, I've given myself time to let go of the pain. And I did it without toppling someone else, without destroying someone else. So maybe that is why these two different men have arrived and given me hope for warmth. Now it's just a matter of choosing which fire to succumb to.

the proven pudding

It came as no surprise. I turned the corner and remembered suddenly that this has happened before. And his figure was there, the streets empty of cars, the sidewalks quiet and wide, and he stood out among the cement, a lone man with his perpetual baseball cap, his long lean body, the man that I thought was going to be mine someday.

How wrong I was. It all seems so silly to me now, a waste of time, an obvious mess. The last time I saw the drunken ambusher I was a giddy thrilled caricature of myself. This time there was the lack of his pull on me. I had no need to fall into his orbit, he had no power over me. In fact, I barely broke my stride as I approached him, said hello, and continued on.

Of course, I am still impressed by our banter, which has never wavered from top shelf quality exchanges the sort worthy of another era where puns, words and wittiness were prized above all else. It is rare that I muster up the verbal enthusiasm needed for those exchanges with people, but he brings that out in me. I am always trying to impress him, I guess.

My eyes were tearing up from a host of different things, I had just put on makeup, I'm allergic to the cats, I was saddened by the typical morning glumness of the kid, when I turned the corner. I rolled my eyes. I had to walk past him to get to the cafe, I had to wipe away the streaming tears. And they wouldn't stop. By the time I reached him, I looked up to see him expecting my approach, resigned to speaking to me, a little concern in his eyes.

He asked if I was crying. I said I was just allergic to being outside. We laughed. We said other things, pleasantries, and then I turned and kept walking.

When I arrived at the cafe I realized that clarification was needed, that our encounter was awkward in some ways, that it may have seemed like I was trying to get away from his as fast as possible. I texted him, which I haven't done in about a week and a half. And even that was a fluke. Mostly it's been three weeks, since the brit's arrival on my horizons, since I realized that feeling and having a mutual attraction was so much more worthwhile.

Our texts were still friendly, because we're more comfortable there, in words, than face to face, and I told him about not getting in to Iowa. And he didn't respond. And for an hour or so I figured he was just busy arriving to work in the cab that he stood waiting in the barren street for. After that, I realized that he didn't register it, because it was sandwiched in between two unrelated sentences. No one could be that self absorbed and insensitive. Well, I didn't think he had it in him, despite his track record.

And I didn't hound him, or wonder or care. I actually forgot all about it until I saw him again this morning, except this time I was already at the cafe, walked down the empty street figuring he'd been and gone, but an hour later his figure ambled into my peripheral vision and my eyes were drawn up from the newspaper to see who was there. And he waved, smiled, and I did the same in return and he kept walking in search of his cab.

My eyes went back to the paper, but the memory of his ignoring my news returned, so I launched up out of my chair and headed out after him. His eyes were desperately scanning the streets and he welcomed my arrival at his side with those eyes, the kind of sad sick eyes that you never want to see, the sort of eyes that glaze over you as an obstacle blocking the road ahead.

I tried to tell him, but he was too frantic, too stressed about being late to work, too freaked out. When it finally broke in, he actually stopped, he actually lost that distant faraway look and looked me in the eye, not afraid of me anymore, and gave me his sorrows, offered me a hug and mourned with me. And I told him, what I've tried to tell the rest of them, but it felt real telling him, not like a defense mechanism, that it's okay, because it doesn't matter, and now, the now is so much more exciting than that.

And the cab he needed arrived and he said it, he knew it, he said that the world was mine now.

And even though in my heart I've never loved him more than I did in that moment, when he was able to step out of himself and really be with me even just for a moment, and not just be with me, but get me completely, I don't feel like there's anything more to do or say with him. I don't feel the need to chase him into my life again. And that is what the brit gave me. And I am so glad.

a song to pass the time

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

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

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

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

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

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

conducting electricity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and fall I did.

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

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

And yet--

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

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

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

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

the ghost

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

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

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

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

Thankfully he moved away.

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

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

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

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

the first airplane

He sits in my periphery, a hope, an idea, bubbling with potential. His construction is sound, the logical expectation is that he will fly.

And yet, doubt fills me, fear overtakes me and across the field I see my friend has come to join me, to help get him up or at the least, to listen to me wonder what it might take to get things off the ground. The closer she gets to him, the more she takes his side, the more she begins to love him.

As I stand aside while she admires his lines and capabilities, I see the sun shine a little brighter, I see her face glow from excitement. And so, because I'm scared of flying I offer him to her. I hope that she will oppose the idea, but she enthusiastically jumps inside and sets herself up in the seat.

I want to tell her to get out, go away, but instead I admire his ability to fly. I'm happy that he works the way I knew he would.

the element of surprise

I was completely baffled by a man yesterday. He came out of nowhere. He took the sheet of my armor and flicked it away. He made me feel instantly comfortable and witty, smart and beautiful. He put me so at ease that when he kissed me I was surprised. I wasn't expecting it at all.

Because technically speaking, we're friends. About two years ago, when I first met him I thought he was absolutely gorgeous and smart to boot. There was one big problem though. He was still in love with his ex. It was so painful for him that it completely gripped his entire identity, and there was nothing left for anyone else. So I settled for being his friend.

And then Eric and I got back together. As he was beginning to loosen the noose of his ex's grip, I was slipping mine happily back on. And so I watched him take home my smiling friends, who reported that it was fairly ho-hum and they never spoke to him again. I tried not to be jealous or unkind. I simply observed.

Recently, he's hasn't been around the nightspots. Or on the weekends he pauses at the coffeeshop when I look my worst. Once I was riding the bus by the cafe and I happened to see him look in the window of the cafe and walk on, because I wasn't there. He often waves as he walks by.

The last time I saw him before yesterday, he was with a girl young enough to look like his daughter. He refused to come over to talk to me. He smiled and cajoled from afar, but he was on a date. And it was obvious that he was not going to be interrupted by my antics. The next time I saw him at the cafe, I teased him mercilessly, something I love to do. He was amused and unrepentant. We both blushed.

And then there was yesterday. Yesterday, he was a guy at the table with a buddy. He was having a beer and a slice of pizza. He was already there when I arrived. I arrived drunk. I didn't notice him at first. My friend pointed him out to me. And I was indifferent. Oh him? Whatever. We talked a bit and my friend pointed out that he wouldn't even catch her eye. I said, he will look at me if I look in his direction. And he did.

Outside, we smoked and he tried to strike up a conversation with me. I teased him. Oh now you want to talk to me...I see how it is. We laughed. We talked. I met his friend. I thought his friend was great and we had a lot in common. Slowly, I transitioned from my friends at the bar to a seat at their table. We talked, we drank, we smoked. We had a great time. And amazingly, I never once imagined being kissed by either of them. I thought they were both great, but that was that. I'm still holding out hope for my quiet french major. At least, I was.

Now there is the familiar tailspin, the sense of regret, the feeling of uncertainty. I could see us falling into each other fairly easily but I'm not sure either of us wants that. I think we might be able to get to what we what if we can just get past the fact that I was in his house and we stayed awake til the sun rose. Also, I've seen what happens when he takes someone home. They never talk again. I'm worried about that. I'd rather be friends with him than awkwardly not talk to him at all. It will all come about in time. Thankfully, I made my feelings known straightaway. I'm no longer hiding behind what if's and what could be's?

And if he does turn out to be as great as he promises, then I look forward to losing myself in someone else for a while.

proximity

There he is, far away, a random occurrence in my world. His initial reactions to me were always cold, mean almost, a stern meeting of the eyes, a quiet fuming. For the longest time I thought he was a huge snob. A force to be reckoned with. And then I spoke to him. What I discovered is that it was all a cover up for someone who just wasn't very bright. There he was surrounded by verbose, loquacious folks and he had nothing to say in response. Half the time he was probably trying in great earnest to keep up with the swirls and whirls of our conversations.

Once I learned this, the power he had over me expired. I was no longer set into a trance when I met his eyes. I was no longer nervous about the uncertain man at the bar. I stopped being immediately clumsy because he was so mysterious and handsome. I didn't care what he thought of me because he could barely think!

About the same time his appearances at the bar tapered off. He'd moved away. He still came, but infrequently; I rarely saw him.

Then one night, we happened to both be there at the same time. And we both happened to be alone. And we happened to be in close proximity to one another. We had a very long, very nice conversation. I realized I'd been presumptious yet again. He could and did think, in fact, he had quite a lot to say and most of it was coherent and structured thinking. We talked so long and so much that the next day everyone assumed we'd spent the night together. Our conversation was so deep and connected that everyone else fell away.

I would never go home with him because he has a girlfriend, despite their obvious arrangements (I often see him escorting women away from the bar). And, I would never go home with him because I imagine I would fall harshly in love with someone that couldn't really be with me.

And yet, it is fun to play with him. Before, we stared at each other with blank faces, now we stick out our tongues at each other across the bar. I discovered that his knowledge of music is vast, but he has similar tastes to mine. We choose songs at the jukebox together. When I arrive at the bar and he is there, we greet each other warmly with smiles.

Lately, we've taken to hugs. Sometimes the nicest thing about the range of human contact is a hug. This last time I received a hug from behind, his long arms swooping across my chest, his head nuzzled in the crook of my shoulder and he whispered in my ear, "I'll see you later. Have a good night."

I turned to ask him about a band I made him promise to listen to. He'd forgotten it. He told me to text him. I said I didn't have his number and "who are you (one of my favorite jokes, because he seems to be a new person to me each time)?" He saw my phone sitting on the bar and reached for it, typed in his number and said, there, now you have my number.

And I have to admit, even though I know it's nothing, even though I know nothing will ever happen between us, it sends a thrill through me that I'm embarrassed about.

the unlikely francophile

As I linger in giddy thoughts of him it is hard even to know where to begin.

Him is the one that is quiet, focused, his physical body perfect for me, his personality a little too unformed, I suspect.

Babysitting for the kid affords me random hours with nothing to do and nowhere to go but I have to stay in the neighborhood, so naturally I go to the cafe. It was in one of those hours that I was able to speak to him again. He smiled when he bounded up the steps. It was like he knew I'd be there. He said a cheery hello and ordered his coffee. We talked about school, that it was ending, what he still had left to do, etc. His main worry was a twelve page essay on terrorism. He's a political science major, I learned. And then, he said the words I most dreaded. After school was finished, just a few days away, he was going to go home for the six week break.

I told him to stop by when I was working next. I worried the desperation I felt would drown out my words. He left with a distant air.

I didn't expect to see him again for six weeks. I hoped he would come in when I was working. I planned ahead. I got a postcard and wrote him a note with my number on it. I didn't know if I would get a chance to give it to him or not. I didn't know if I should give it to him. It seemed really very dorky.

And then, he came! I was so excited I had to turn away from him and smile at the coffeepots. I turned back to his smiling face and what followed was too much to recount. He stayed for over an hour. We chatted constantly unless a customer was there, and even then he often joined in the conversation. His volume went from a quiet two to a six. He talked about himself a lot more than he ever had. He didn't just nerd talk me, like I was someone he went to school with and had nothing better to talk about.

And I found out the most amazing thing ever. Not only is he a political science major, he's a french major. He's been to France. He speaks French fluently. Fluently! I asked him, really, not like a parlor trick? And he mused, no, not like a parlor trick...

Things were going so well that I didn't want to spoil the mood by giving him the postcard with my number on it. Walter suggested I give it to him before he left, and I'd even decided against that while he was there and we were having such a good conversation. I was hoping he'd be able to do the job on his own.

Finally he began to leave. He made this little speech about how he didn't know when he would see me again, so I gave him the card. A customer came in the interim and we both awkwardly said goodbye.

And even if he doesn't call, if we never go out, if we aren't even friends someday, I just loved that he turned the volume up and seemed more comfortable being himself than he had ever been before. That is what makes me smile about the whole thing.

prospect decipherings

I feel I should preface this with a slight disclaimer that I a) do not go out to bars with the intention of meeting the perfect guy for me, and b) I do not expect to meet a guy at the cafe either. That these things will happen seems likely, since both places are festering with lonely, available guys; and finally c) I'm in no rush to be relationshipped again.

The first time I met him I was drunk. I was mad. I was manic. I had been out all night and arrived at work that morning with no sleep and booze on my breath. It was one of the stupidest things I had ever done. That day the marathon passed by the cafe, my boss was already waiting for me at six a.m. and I had stopped drinking at 5:30 a.m. To say that I was fucked was just putting it lightly. But somehow, my boss did not catch on that I was drunk.

He arrived at an hour before the marathon passed through to do his homework and without his foreknowledge, to laugh at my many hilarious comments which I delivered because he was there. His presence made my shift palatable. His stoic focus on his homework was strange and intriguing. Here were twenty thousand people running by, another few hundred spectators ringing cow bells, yelling and clapping and he was not distracted at all by them. He was distracted by me. But not by them.

After that, it has been a desperate climb on the the sill, my fingers barely able to hold on, his presence is so far and few between and unpredictable and his demeanor toward me different, as if that day had never happened. I adore him but I think there is no way he could love a girl like me. I imagine so many scenarios, but I can't imagine how it will ever get off the ground.

He suits me most as a physical being. His personality is strangled and muffled and too quiet for me, I suspect.

As for the other one, he suits me most personality wise, but his physical being is not my ideal. And yet, where others have failed in this department, he has somehow snuck in with such vitality that it doesn't matter to me at all.

He is a regular everywhere. I have often seen him, noticed him, drank with him. Not long ago, I began to look forward to his visits. I sought him out at the bar. And what I found there was better than I could have imagined. He sat with me a long time after he'd paid his tab and I tried maybe too hard to play it cool. When he finally left the entire bar had invented that he had a crush on me and I was too mean to notice. I countered, it doesn't matter that you think he likes me, because I already like him.

The next time I saw him I surprised him with these revelations and we managed to clumsily meet somewhere in the middle, between chin and nose. He was tender and sweet and loud and wonderful and we spent the morning laying in a bed he made from a box with instructions. And now he says he will call me to discuss a date. Except he hasn't called at all.

I realize that I was not even on his radar a week ago. In fact, his presence on mine was a surprise to me as well. He's the kind of guy I usually avoid because I know his type. I've dated his type. I'm not interested in being that girl who's with That Guy. You know, the loud crazy guy at the bar who buys everyone shots... And yet, he expressed great admiration for someone who'd read the seven volumes of Proust. He actually knew that there were seven volumes. He'd actually tried to read them and only made it through the first two. So I must relent my stereotypes, I must let down my notions and admit that he may not be That Guy.

The fact that he's a know-it-all only makes him all the more enticing.

So I snuck into his life and into his bed with the element of surprise on my side, and I wonder if he's thinking too hard about it all instead of just getting to know me.

It's exciting to have some prospects. I imagined that it would be a slow road in this area, that my heart would be too cold to even let someone near me. I've been accused of doing this all too soon, of setting myself up to be hurt again, but in the end, I know myself better than anyone does. I know that I wouldn't even bat an eye if they weren't something worth seeing. I also know at the end of the day an empty bed awaits me in my apartment by the lake and it doesn't make me yearn for anything but sleep.