No Talking on a Sunday Morning

"Morning."  I said.

"Good Morning!" She replied more cheerfully.  Always more cheerfully.

"What are you up to?"

"Watching television.  A show about hoarders.  About to have breakfast.  What are you up to?"

"Reading.  Sleeping.  Rinse & Repeat.  Kind of lonely but I've had my fill of social interaction."

There's something that happens when you're in a serious, long term relationship.  You become...serious.  You become comfortable.  Perhaps too comfortable in some cases, but in most cases its a phenomenon in which only the best of circumstances can lead to; the right alignments of moon and stars, the proper balance of humors, just the ordinate number of clouds in the sky.  And its the things that you can't recreate, of course, that you miss most.  Its those pangs which twist hardest in that chamber of mind and soul where desire is housed.

I do miss her still.  Oh god, do I miss her.  Last week a friend of min, a certain diminutive young lady with curly hair the colour of breathed-upon embers, was in my kitchen.  She was cooking.  Well, she was making macaroni and cheese; apply whichever verb to that you wish.  And, in the process of looking for something she managed to get a fingertip on the bottom of the high locker and, unable to reach any higher, pried the locker open and stepped back, nearly across the room, looking for some spice or the other and muttering curse words to herself.  The likeness; not of the person but the situation; was uncanny.  I nearly wept. 

Days like today would go unscripted, but perfectly orchestrated.  I've already made my omelette.  As usual it was more than any one person should eat in the morning.  If two were to share it...well.  There's no helping that now, is there?  And then, I turned the television on and without even changing the channel, turned it off.  I turned on the radio and, without really listening to anything, turned it off.  At the end of my restlessness I went to fetch the light book. (I've gotten into the habit of reading two books at a time: One heavy; 'The Black Jacobins' in this case, and one light; Diane Setterfield's 'The Thirteenth Tale.)  I'm only a few chapters from the end, the remaining pages gathered together look about the width of a church hymnal.  I began to read, then fell asleep.  When i woke up, I began reading, and fell asleep.  There was no smell of shampoo and body butter to wake me.  No tingle of hair in my nose or on my cheek.  And no warmth.  At around the third bout of waking I went to fetch my heavy sweater, an over-sized hoody, and an extra pillow.  The pillow I held close to me, close to my chest.  The sweater made it seem as though the thing had warm blood flowing through it; had a pulse and a furnace of life somewhere in its center.  If I could have figured out a way to have it rise and fall in a rhythm matching, but not quite in sync, with my own, then perhaps I wouldn't have thought my next thought.

And that thought was: How sad you must look?  A grown man spooning a pillow, burying his face into it in between burying his face in pages, and an equally sad looking dog nestled in the crook of his knees.  If someone were to come bursting through the front door this very second, what would you do?  How would you justify this?  Have you no shame sir?

But I did not have any shame.  Only want and a nerve wracking sort of nostalgia.  The house was quiet, except for the occasional passing traffic, and I was warm.  And comfortable.  But...it was only a pillow.  I was still lonely.  I would have loved to hear someone else gasp when the uncertainty first cropped up.  I would have liked to laugh quietly while I wiped the tears off of someone's face, and they off mine, before we both turned the page.  I would have liked someone to be there.  Not someone to talk to.  Not someone to frolic with.  Just be there.

I suppose I could have called someone.  But then, I suppose I couldn't.  Who would i call? 

"This is really weird." My cousin Delsia would say, to which I would have to agree and wonder how it was I managed to convince her to let me hold her that close to begin with.  Then, invariably, the conversation would turn to something much too practical for a Sunday morning.

"Aw, are you crying because he found his family?" Meghann would say in a tone that made her sound sweet and compassionate.  I'd nod my head meekly and she would frown and reply dryly "That's so gay."

Jamira would never sit still long enough.  Maria would want to talk about her boyfriend.  Anyone else would want to talk.  Talk, talk, talk. 

'I haven't seen you in so long.  Lets catch up!' 

'He broke my heart.  Why couldn't I have found someone like you?'

'Is this all we're going to do today?'

'Where'd you get this sweater?  Can I have it?'

'Its too quiet in here.'

'What is this?  A futon?'

'Something's poking me in my back'

'My feet are cold.'

There's no talking in the serious, long-term relationship.  When your feet get cold, you wrap them among the legs of your partner.  You get comfortable.  You are comfortable.  You are free to simply be there.  There's no need for the chase.  Not today at least.  Not on a Sunday.  You have your mate.  She's gripped close to your ribs.  Her fingers are waiting at the corners of the page because she knows you read slightly slower than she does.  There's no talking.  You kiss her neck, and she turns the page.

There was one I could reach out to, of course.  But...She's still a danger in my mind.  Missing one is bad enough.  Missing two...can that even be done?  Should it?  Perhaps I need to sleep on it.

Ninth Night

It was all planned out!  Weinerfest, we'd dubbed it.  Backyard Shenanigans!  It was a breakthrough idea!  Well, it was for us anyway.  Let me give you some background.

You see, my roommate Alexis and I are perhaps the only ones in our group of friends who do not live with our parents.  This makes our house the de facto party house.  Any big shindig or hullabaloo or even minor get-together that didn't take place at a bar or club or restaurant happened at our house.  And it was always a mess.  The house, that is.  The parties were great but there would either be something in the kitchen like a pile of unwashed dishes or a counter still dusted with flour or sticky from some spillage; that we would hope everyone could just completely ignore, or the kitchen would start off clean and come to be in some disastrous state through the course of the night's events.  And do you think anyone showed up to help clean?  No.

But its still our place.  And we still want to chill out there from time to time with our friends.  So, one breezy day we got the bright idea to invite a bunch of people over for drinks, but lock the front door!  We took tables and seating from inside and placed them in a convenient, conversation friendly circle.  We took baskets and emptied them of their display fruits, and instead filled them with peanuts and cheese puffs.  We took the cooler and spread down a bed of ice, and propped the bottles of rums and mixers and beers in it, and another pitcher that held just ice, and we set that in the center of the circle.  And it worked.  Like a dream.  The first few times were all guys, so there were even a few odd instances where I wound up begging them to go inside.  Don't piss on my wall just outside my bathroom or bedroom window, please?  And for the love of God, don't continue talking to me while you're doing so!  I know the conversation might be rich and engaging, but unless we're in some kind of intimate relationship, you should let the conversation pause while you attend to your bodily functions.

And that goes for you too, ladies.

And so, as weekends came and went, the intricacies of the Backyard Shenanigans developed.  Until finally, September was upon us.  And this time, instead of a completely random gathering, we had a reason.  Ninth Night!  The eve of the Celebration of the Battle of St. Georges Caye!  The eve of Carnival Weekend!

When I came home I set out to sweeping.  Then mopping.  Then cleaning the sink and toilet in the half bath near the living room.  Then changed exterior light bulbs and making sure there was toilet paper in the bathroom.  Then I filled a pitcher with ice and let the ice maker take its time in replenishing the fridge door stock.  You will notice, I did nothing with the kitchen.  That is the beauty of the outdoor party.

Later Alexis brought over the grill.  Then the coal.  Then a bottle of rum and a pack of 'Sausage on a Stick'.  I balked at it and ran out to get spicy itallian which, cut to the right length, made an awfully good foot long.  By the time I got back Alexis had the grill lit, the coals getting ready for their night's work.  Meanwhile I cleared some stuff out of the yard and chained up the dogs.  By the time I was finished putting food down for them our first guest, J, had arrived.

Oh, the simplicity of the Backyard Barbecue.  Why didn't I think of this sooner?

I offered J a drink.  She only drank beer.  I was about to get her one of the Amstels we got specifically for September Celebrations when I realized...she's gonna drink them all.  I must hoarde.  I must keep my beer supply safe.  There are twenty other days in September, and about half of those are days when I can sit back and enjoy a cold one.  I had to pace myself.

"I'll take a quick shower."  I told her.  "And we can go get some."
"Get some?"  She asked, and gave me a bit of a smile.
"Yeah, some b--" I started to say and then suddenly realized...this could be a very good night for me.

After my shower we went in J's jeep, stopped at the bank, and then to the only store I knew of that still sold alcohol after nine.  I'd only found this place a few months ago and in fact it had only opened a few weeks before that, but in walks J and up goes the proprietors mood!  "J!" called the Chinese woman behind the counter, as if Jam was some relative she was glad to see.  J also calls her by name, Miss Helen, I believe.  Its impressive, not only for the fact that its actually happening (I hadn't started drinking by then) but the fact that she called her Miss Helen.  Miss Helen.  Not just Helen.  And certainly not China or Chiney Gial.  There was an affectionate, respectful tone to her voice as she tacked on the that universal Belizean title of elderly respect.  I liked that.  A lot.

Then she slid a fifty dollar bill across the counter and said 'How many Heineken can that get me?'

We headed back and put another bottle of rum and some soda water in the cooler, along with J's eleven Heineken (just in case you were curious).  Coming out of the store I'd seen my friend Keino, who'd just gotten back from studying medicine in Cuba, and basically told him to head over to our house.  By then others had arrived too; Leon and his date for the night, Diane.  And Leanne and Jorge, one of the cutest couples I know (when they aren't fighting.)  And, as they were instructed, each of these people brought a pack of hot dogs, whatever they wanted to see on the grill for that night.  And the grill itself was quite loaded.  The party was in full swing.

But it wasn't enough, was it?  So I sent a text to all the folks I knew in town.  Male or female, it said the same thing.  "Weinerfest at my house!  Come on over if you're hungry for some sausage!"

Because who doesn't love getting a suggestive message after nine o'clock?

We drank, we ate, we talked, about nothing in particular.  At some point I realized I'd had too much to drink when I stood in the middle of the yard with Leon and Timo arguing the merits of the Barbados economy and workers unions at the top of my lungs.  We were the last three there.  The party was over and i didn't even realize it.  But there existed within me a sense of something incomplete.  "Should we head to Cabana?" Leon asked suddenly.  The yard had gone silent.  Sausages cooled and shriveled and the very last of the coals glowed orange in a bed of ashy white.  I nodded once, firmly, and then began putting all our yard paraphernalia back into the house.

Now, I should point out that I'm really rarely this eager to go out, but it was indeed a really nice night.  I wasn't fall down drunk.  I wasn't thinking of depressing, sober things.  I'd been flirting all night with a girl I would slot neatly into the cute category, and in fact, here she was at the Cabana.  J found us out of the crowd and immediately started grinding her short, chubby body against mine, in particular her sizable ass.  She pumped her arms in the air when they weren't holding on to my belt loops pulling me closer, and flung her red, orange, and yellow dyed hair around.  She was on fire!  Alive and young and fully aware of it.  And it was exciting to be around.  Sexy without trying to be alluring.  Just like her nose ring.  She went to join her friends after that, and one of my friends came over, goading me in her direction.  "No."  I explained to him "I'm not gonna chase her.  I'm just here to have a good time."  And I wasn't gonna chase her because I wasn't going to give her the idea that I wanted her.  Or more to the point, that I wanted to keep her.  I like having her around, that much is obvious.  And if something were to happen...well.  But I'm single now.  I'd rather not get involved with something as fiery and volatile as that just yet.

I was even talking to Merri's dad at one point, and she swooped down as if from the sky, booty shaking and hair throwing and fist pumping.  All in good fun, he seemed to take it.  He laughed and gave me a slap on the shoulder.  "You have a good night."  he told me at 2 in the morning.

I didn't intend to meet J at Club Twilight after that.  It was, once again, one of those things that just happened.  The music was so loud, and the drinks kept coming, and she kept up her manic fun-time dance.  She dragged at my shirt collar until my ear came to her lips and shouted what sounded to me like 'My eggs are in my side and it hurts.'  Later on, when my ears stopped ringing from being crammed inside the giant speaker box that is Twilight, I realized that what she was saying was probably something like "My ex is here tonight.  Lets flirt."  There goes another train I missed.  No matter.  There's always next time.

Somehow I wound up on top of the highest hill in Belmopan with Dianne (Leon's 'date') and Karteek.  We watched the sunrise, tried to identify which direction it was coming from through the cloud and fog.  Instead we just noticed the gradual brightness.  Felt the heat descending on us like smoke from the sky.  It really wasn't as romantic as I make it sound.  We were still drunk, and kinda tired, and acutely aware that there might very well be a pit of vipers lurking somewhere in this knee high grass. 

"You wanna get breakfast?" I asked the others.  Dianne looked at me incredulously and asked "Where the hell do you get breakfast at this hour?"  Karteek nodded knowingly.  He smiled at the thought of hot beans and hotter fried jacks.  Eggs.  Cheese.  Piping hot coffee.  No one else around to bother you.  "Market."  He intoned, and headed off to the cars.

Only, as we descended, Karteek took off like a flash, racing down the hill ahead of us.  And by the time we got to the market, he wasn't even there.

"I guess he went home for his own breakfast", Dianne said.  We laughed about it, stopped circling and parked, and made our way past the bleary eyed fruit vendors just setting up, ourselves still bright and smiling and slightly tipsy and smelling of club smells.  Cigarettes, booze, and sweat.  We found one woman who was open.  We asked her if she had breakfast.  She said it would take a while.  I frowned and asked her if she had tacos or burritos.  That would take a while too.  "Well then we'll wait for the breakfast."  Dianne said, taking charge.  The little while was hardly a little while at all.  It was just enough time to scald my tongue on some coffee and have her laugh at me for it, as well as get to know one another a little better.  When you've watched the sunrise with someone and moved on from there to coffee, modesty sort of flies out the window.  We asked tough questions, getting right to the meat of things.  And the alcohol and lack of sleep tends to make you honest.

Sadly, it tends to make you stupid too.  By the time I'd finished breakfast I'd already started yawning every three minutes or so.  By the time I dropped Dianne off, my brain had gone sent every part of it that didn't need to drive home into shutdown mode.  Which is why I sat there for about five minutes while she asked for my number.  And why I didn't think to ask for hers back.

Sleep never felt so good.  But damn, that was a good night.

Sunday Evening Coming Down

Its after nine.  I smell like Spicy Italian Sausage, onions and sweet peppers.  Oh, and menthol cigarettes and body butter.  I'm a glutton for punishment.  Why smoke?  So I can sigh freely.  What's it to you?

I've spent all day sleeping, waking occasionally to change locations or the speed on the fan.  Felt sick at the end of the day so I started cooking savory things for supper.  That wouldn't usually be the case except I had a feeling that a day with nothing but sleep and blackberry wine on the stomach probably wasn't a good idea.  And, in fact, there was very little sleeping involved.  It was mostly laying there, thinking.  Lacking the motivation to get out of bed sounds kind of scary to me.  There might be something wrong.  If only it were an easy thing of placing a finger on this feeling and saying 'Aha!  There's the button.'  If only fixing it were as simple as pressing a button.  There's loneliness, certainly.  Which sounds easy to fix, right?  Find other people.  Problem solved.  Except I hate the idea of my happiness being dependent on the whims of other fucked up, fallible people, especially those with their own selfish motivations. 

That sounded harsh, I bet.  Fuck 'em.

Right now there are two editors in two different places reading separate examples of my writing.  I should be excited.  Instead I'm just anxious.  And a little bit angry.  its been year two of this 'plan' and I'm no closer to a school or getting paid than I was to begin with.  I've got more in me.  New ideas every day.  I'm just too frustrated to write any of them down. 

Somewhere, also, in a land far, far away; there's someone thinking of me.  Not the way that I'm thinking of them, of course.  Some hours ago she was probably having one last beer for the weekend, along with the cigarettes she insists she doesn't smoke anymore.  But she needs something to shakily bring to her cupid's bow lips.  She needs to sigh freely.  She might play with a bottle cap, and remember a time when she suggested we collect them.  And then she'll toss that one away, just like the rest.

And there's no way I'm going to sleep anytime soon.  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Things that I would say to you

Its so heavy.  My reality is so heavy right now.  I'm weighted.  Weighed down.  I feel like I'll never fly.  I feel like I'll never get to where you need me to be.  I feel like you'll never understand that. 

I've smoked all the cigarettes I had in the house.  Most were broken.  Some were wet.  All were your brand.  I don't smoke.  I don't have a brand.  You're my brand.

Don't roll your eyes.  I'm allowed to miss you.  I don't care what you have to say about it.  It was real to me.  It was worth waiting.  I didn't do all those things all those years to make you love me.  I did them because I loved you.  I love you.  I miss you.  I can't turn it off.

God I wish I could turn it off.

I've been trying.  I've been trying to replace you.  If I were any good at it, though, I wouldn't be drinking alone right now, smoking your cigarettes.  With your lighter.

I used to look up at the sky and imagine you, across the sea, looking up at the same sky.  I know you weren't now.  I know you're not.  You're fast asleep.  Probably in someone else's arms.  Am i really that easy to get over?

A million, billion stars.  I'm the only one looking up.

So back to this person.  This replacement.  She's not a replacement.  That is, she can't ever really be.  Too many bad habits that we don't share in common.  Except for one: living in the past.  Of all the things we share in common I wish we didn't share that.  I see her doing things I've been doing for a year now.  Its been several years for her.  How can I be with someone that makes me think of you?  Besides, it wouldn't be fair.  Not to her.  Not to me.

And not to you.  A good part of it is to get back at you.  Its someone you don't like.  But...that's a long list, aint it?

I'm sorry.  That was me being an asshole.  But really, you have to do something about your hatred for other women.  That can't be healthy.

And why do I even want anyone anyway?  Because you have someone?  Because I want to get back at you?  Because I'm horny as hell?  I don't need to like someone for any of those.  I've had the opportunity for something meaningless.  That's not what I want.

I just...I want to kiss someone.  I want to know that I'm still worth the emotional investment.  Not just to you, but to anyone.  And I want to know that I haven't lost the one.  That I can get by.  That I can recover and keep moving.  That there's something after this.

Shut up.  Don't say anything.  Just sit there.  Drink this.  Smoke this.  Just...be here.  Listen to this song. 

There's a shadow beneath the sea
There's a shadow between you and me
I've learned that love is scared of light
Thousand seeds from a flower
Blowing through the night

See?  Its about us. 

Your blackened kiss on my cheek
Your blackened kiss runs river deep
A stranded fish dear, i'm on the sand
Blue water from a pool
Up to the clouds i'll land

I'd really like to kiss someone.  Fuck, I'll settle for someone resting their head on my chest.  You've ruined me. 

Though i am dark 'bout the whys of wanting
Though i am dark, i'm still a child
Gonna dig a coal mine, climb down deep inside
Where my shadow's got one place to go
One place to hide.

Its such a relief to know you'll never read this.

Today's the Same as Yesterday, Only Today I Know

So I'm single again. Officially. No, I won't be gorging on Ice cream. No, I didn't cry myself to sleep last night. I'm not a woman. And I won't be heading out to promptly bang every woman I can find. I am a man, but I'm not a stereotype.

I am, at present, eating alone. but I've been doing that for a while now. So how do I feel about it? Oddly...free. Relieved. And of course, guilty that I don't feel worse than this. Sadness has always been something I shrugged off. An emotion that doesn't really require immediate action. if any action at all.

But that was before Merri. Back then we'd both be sad for a bit, and I'd toss my lode into the pile of sadness that I generally ignored, and she'd still be sad. And I'd feel guilty for not being sad. Which would make my great pile of sadness impossible to ignore. There was a lot of crying in those days. Mind you, there was also a lot of undirected anger in the days prior to them. Had I not had that time; had she not happened to me; I'd have probably become like one of those that I now try to avoid. (Violent when drunk, Constantly spoiling for a fight, seeking sex filled relationships with women who don't seem to mind being slapped around every once in a while.)

Yesterday, upon reading her reply, I was sad. Quite sad. I was, however, also angry. Angry that this had to be done by email. That I had to be ignored to the point of outrage before she finally just told me. And what impotent outrage. A letter. A short story. A recounting of waking dreams as I calmly went about my day and pretended nothing was wrong. As if I didn't already know what was wrong.

I guess I'm still a bit sad, and a bit angry. but as I said, this has been happening for a while now. The only difference is I don't have to feel guilty about my imaginary accusations and doubts. And I don't have to feel guilty about fantasizing about other people as the memory of her voice, her face, her touch all fade. (That's a lie. How can I forget that face?) I don't have to worry about who's going to see me when I'm out with friends, smiling and looking happier than i ought to. And I especially don't have to feel guilty for thinking, "She calls me more than Merri does." I don't have to feel bad about liking this fact.

But that's still significant, isn't it? She calls? She calls...often for no reason. Perhaps, with this release, I'll be seeing more clearly now.

A final note: I think at the core of my relative un-sadness is the implaccable thought that...we'll be together again. We've circled one another so expertly in the past that I can't imagine we won't be together again in the future. i'm not counting on it, mind you. Not aiming for it. but I do believe it. Just like i know we were broken up before I was actually told, I know we'll be getting back together. I'm just waiting on confirmation.

You always know.

A gate of ivory, A gate of horn

Once, back when Merri was still here, back when we regularly shared the same bed, I had a dream.

In my dream I was in the most perfect place.  A paradise I could hardly recognize.  And it was the perfect day.  I was leaving a tiny room through a plain wooden door and I stepped outside to greet the rising sun ambling skyward, steaming as it rose from the sea.  I dipped my toes in the sand, considered the hues of color in the sky for a moment, and began walking.  I still don't know where I was going, but I was alone.  And I wanted to find...someone.  Anyone to share this day with.  I was walking to her.

I didn't know who she was or what she looked like, but I did know who she wasn't.  She wasn't Merri.  This was an odd brand of guilt.  One flavored by elation, excitement and disappointment.  Not disappointment for my behavior or actions.  But...for being allowed to behave this way.  That doesn't really explain it.  I don't know if I can explain it.  For that matter I don't know if I should.  It was just a dream.

But after i'd stepped out into the perfect day and went out looking for her, I didn't really get very far since...she was already on her way to find me.

On her way to find me.

You might be thinking 'Okay, this is where things get hot and steamy.  He's gonna talk about breasts and penises now.'  Its not.  Sorry to disappoint.  We just sat, once we'd found one another.  Sat and chatted a bit, but I was still buzzing with the idea that she was looking for me!  The elation I was feeling in my dream-heart just talking to her was just as good as infidelity.

Especially considering the fact that every time I turned to look over my shoulder I would see Merri.  Sitting there.  Looking blankly, though not at me.  Never at me.  I'd call her name but she wouldn't respond.  We'd go on chatting, me and she, and every so often I'd look back at Merri to find...she wasn't all that concerned.  So...I thought...what else could we do?  Right here?  In front of Merri?

When I woke up she was on the far side of the bed and for the first time...first of many...our backs were turned.  I should have paid attention to this.  I should have paid attention to a lot of things.  But sometimes...you're so desperate to hold on to the good things, that you let the bad ones slide. 

Anyway, I was wracked with guilt.  I turned and pulled her to me, kissing her firmly awake.  I didn't tell her about the dream.  It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

***

That was ages ago.  Don't even remember the date.  But today...today I had the most wonderful day.  I haven't seen Merri in a year.  I haven't spoken to her in months.  People ask me about her.  I smile and give them old information.  I think about her constantly.

This morning I showered, and got dressed, in the bathroom of the tiny Hotel room Sean and I are sharing for the weekend.  I stepped through the green wooden door and onto the 'lawn' of the hotel, which is all sea sand.  The sun was already up.  The waves were sparkling under it.  A cool wind blew at me from nearly all directions.

I did go looking for her.  I'm loathe to admit it.  I feel so guilty.  In fact, i felt pretty dumb since she wasn't looking for me.  She wasn't even awake yet.

But she did wake up earlier.  And she had been looking for me.  Or at least she seemed to be.  She tends to talk in her sleep.  It might have been real.  It might have been just a dream.

Random Memory

So this one time my mom was choking.  I can't remember what she was doing.  Eating chocolate or mixed nuts or something.  But we were both on the couch, just chillin, and all of a sudden:  "GAAAAASP!  ACK!  KAF!  AHACK!  ACK!"

My mind immediately went to all the first aid training I'd seen Merri giving.  So, I start with what she calls the 'Keith Swift Question'

"Mom?  Mom, are you choking?"

Her response?

"GHASP!  WHEEEEZE!  ACK!  KAF!"

Alright then, that confirms that she isn't only choking, but that she needs immediate help.  So, I start with step two.  I stand her up and turn her around, and with one hand holding her shoulders straight I give her a single, firm strike to the back.  SMACK!

Immediately she reels and SLAPS THE SHIT OUT OF ME!

"Weh di RASS wrong with you!"  She screams.  "You nuh  DO that to people!"  And she ran off to drink a glass of water.

Sometimes I wonder if it would't have been better to let her choke.

Leave me on the corner

Its probably not a good habit. I guess its something born of my own survival instincts or coping mechanism. I le go. I give up. I'd rather not have that feeling of the things i love; people, relationships, friendships; taken from me. Or, perhaps more damning and honest, I'd rather not acknowledge the fact that i may be even partially responsible for losing them. So i hold on, but loosely. And when they're finally gone I'm not the one that lost them. They just left.

Save the condemnations. Coward. Fool. Selfish ass. There's not a single one I haven't called myself.

So what's the point of self-analysis if you don't do anything about it, right? I'll have to get back to you with that. It might take me a couple years, though. Years that i'd much rather spend with you. Years that you've convinced me you don't have. I've never had to 'fight' to hold on to something. Someone. I'm not used to it. I don't know how. I've never set out to change myself either. That, I think, will take even more time. And that's part of our problem.

No. My problem shouldn't be your problem. My problem. Mine.

(Written some time around the beginning of 2009. Entry not dated.)

An Argument that Never Happened

"Maybe we shouldn't do this."

You mean maybe you don't want to do this.  Based on nothing more than your own doubts, neuroses, and personal hangups.  Things that you search for so keenly in me because then you don't have to feel so guilty about having them.

"We're not going anywhere."

We've already come so far!  But maybe you're right.  I'm not willing to get hitched and get you knocked up so you can fulfill your dream of living without any clear means of supporting ourselves.  Sorry I wasted your time.

"I thought you would be the one to turn it all around."

And I thought we were meant to accept one another, faults an all.  I wasn't aware you needed fixing.

"I think I give up."  "I'm too tired."

Me too.  I don't know what else to do if "I love you" doesn't work.  If showing it doesn't work.  If I haven't convinced you by now, I don't know if I ever will.

[A dark day in January, 2009]
[Which is truly worse: The things we say to the ones we love or the things we only say to ourselves?]

Against the Light

In New York they walk against the light.
There'll be no delay of our daily pursuits
No insincere righteousness to fix us
to someone else's worn, bitter road.

Why should we walk when our goal is flight?
Why should we stop?
For a little thing like danger?
A little thing like fear?
A litle thing like failure?

For a little thing like the loss of life?
Which, until we stand to lose it
we have no idea of its true value.
And what would a life spent be worth
having never walked against the light?

[5:40 PM, watching the sun set from 5th floor window at Filene's Basement across from Columbus Circle. Also inspired by waiting at interections, holding Merri's hand, and wondering....]

Book Lists

[January, 2009 - Giving myself plenty of time to buy gifts. All of these were chosen using What Should I Read Next]

For Erica

"Staying Dead" - Laura Anne Gillman
"Fire Me Up: An A isling Grey, Guardian Novel" - Katie Macalister (Book 2)
"You Slay Me" (Book 1)
"Light My Fire" (Book 3)

For Merri

"Asleep" - Banana Yoshimoto
"The Nature of Water and Air" - Regina McBride
"Homeland and other Stories" Barbara Kingsolver
"Pope Joan" - Donna Woolfolk Cross
"The Woman Warrior" - Maxine Kingston

For Mom

"Love Medicine" - Lousie Erdrich
"Homeland and other Stories."
"The Woman Warrior"
"The Women of Brewster Place" - Gloria Naylor
"Ceremony" - Lelsie Marmon Silko
"Saint Maybe" - Anne Tyler

A Sudden Spark

I do this thing online.  Its a game really, but its much more than just marbles or jacks.  It’s a world built loosely around a system of rules and structure.  I create realities, worlds, people and scenarios, and keep this imaginary, mostly fictional world spinning with nothing but the combined creativity and imagination of the players involved.  With that kind of strain; purposely exhibiting multiple personalities, emotions, even personal ideosyncrasies; its no wonder that we occasionally get burnt out.

Burnt out.  As in ’no fuel for the fire’.  That’s how I’ve felt lately.  Like I said, it’s pretty common when you Roleplay, and the solution is pretty much accepted and understood.  A player cries ’Burnout’ and everyone essentially says ’Go home.’  Go take a nap, or a week of naps.  Play with your dog, write a letter, go to the beach, watch TV, do something but get away from the computer and just recharge.  Simple as it was, it worked, at least for me.  You fell off the face of the internet and and came back a month or so later feeling good as new.  It works, every time.

But not this time.

I feel like its because my rest isn’t as restful as it used to be.  And no, I’m not talking about insomnia.  My sleep is so precious these days that I wouldn’t dare miss a moment if I didn’t have to, chemical imbalance or not.  No, I mean my downtime.  My time away from imagining.  It used to be filled with fun things, or at the very least, gentle, relaxing things.  I’d be too busy with work or pretending to be someoee else, so i’d write to remember who the real person was.  I’d absorb the good vibes my friends put out so I’d spend endless time with them doing nothing in particular.  And I’d read.  I’d read because i loved words, and loved the pictures they put in my head. I’d read the worlds these other writers had conjured up and i’d be struck with admiration.  I’d do these things until I fell asleep, and when I woke up I’d do them again.  And I’d feel whole after a while.

Now all I do feels like work.  If I write it’s because I haven’t written in a while, and I know i’ll be expected to say something at a show, so i’d sit and force something out of my head, squeezing and clenching my creative muscles.  If I go look for my friends its because I’ve been so busy doing other stuff that my relationships deteriorate into loose acquaintances.  I didn’t even know that my best friend had a near stroke until he was out of the hospital and chatting to me online.  I haven’t seen my friend’s or my cousin’s babies, and the latter is already four months old.  Organizing a dinner with friends is almost as difficult as organizing these Poetry Night shows, which is suffering as well.  And I only read because I’ve been reading the same book since the start of the year and I’m ashamed to admit it.  People say ’Are you alright?’ like I’m terminally ill or something.  The few close friends I have left come right out with it.  "You look like Shit."  Alexis said to me one night, which was disappointing because I was actually smiling that night.  I was happy.  Jubilant, even.  I haven’t been truly happy in so long.

My colors were faded.  I don’t know if everything went gray.  I was too busy to notice whether there were actually colors or not.

So I called Merri, in whom I confide all things (even the things I probably shouldn’t) and told her I was depressed.  I explained that it wasn’t a ’Toe in the shotgun trigger" depression, so much as it was a "What’s the fucking point" depression.  I told her I’d deal with it, and life went on.

and on...

and on...

and on...

At least that’s what it felt like.  At one point I’d confused motivation with worry, and realized that the headaches I had at the end of the day were from me furrowing all day.  Everything else was an obligation, and some obligations weren’t worth bothering with.  I did  I’ve been doing what I swore I wouldn’t do and, rather than bow out of certain responsibilities I simply left them hanging.  But I remain now, as I did then, numb.

There is hope though.  The other day I received a delivery for work.  Two servers that I submitted the specs for myself, and a 3000VA UPS and extended battery pack.  At first there was only the worry of how heavy all of it was, and how I’d find time to set them up.  Then, with the help of an unexpected friend I discovered that they fit almost perfectly into the Server Rack we already have.  As I stood there with this bahemoth of a machine in my hands and regarded all the potention 3 Terrabytes of disk space held, I felt a bit of a flutter.  It was a sudden and fleeting spark of happiness, and excitement, without any sign of anxiety.  It reminded me of when I first started working here, back when I still felt I could learn something, and when I reveled in the freedom being able to stay in the office as long as I wanted.  It was only a second, but it was so glorious.  I felt something for the first time in months, and it was unsullied by anything else.

So maybe there’s a light just up ahead.  Who knows.

---

Also, just a few hours ago there was another bout of pure emotion.  This time Heartache.  Not ideal, perhaps, but it too lasted just about a blink long.  And it too was atypical in its intensity.  Maybe I’m not so numb afterall.