So, that pretty much sums up the last year of my little life.
0 Comments
Dreams are stupid. They are seducers, sirens that lead you to drown in your own desires. Awake, you are put together. You have no unmanaged feelings. You don’t need anyone. You don’t want a particular someone. You are perfectly content. And then, you sleep. And the dreams are the bullies and when you wake up you’ve been pantsed in front of the whole school. You’re exposed, humiliated and everyone is laughing even you are laughing at yourself on the outside. (That pathetic kid who laughs at his own torment, hoping that can hasten its end.) He held you (in your dream) He held your hand (in your dream) He told you he wanted to get you alone (just a dream) And you believed it. (ha, ha) And when the dream is over, (they're all gonna laugh at you!) he disappears, his actions, his wants are all void. Nonexistent. But what you wanted? What you believed? Vulnerable. Real. There are no take-backsies. Warm and blissful under the covers, thinking you are safe, certain you are wanted, dreaming all good, and never in a million years that your alarm will go off any second- You are not really the Prom Queen. Watch out! The pig’s blood’s about to hit. "We are like two trees that have grown together; our roots are entwined."
it's not every day you walk into a tattoo parlor and the artist is playing Mozart's Requiem. But that's what happened to my sister and me on Saturday, when we stepped out of the blistering Bakersfield heat and into the air-conditioned loft for touchups. My mind had been trailing from one thought to another before we got there- the move to England, what's going on when I get back, what I want to blog about next, the drive-thru sushi place we were hitting up after our touchups were finished. That morning I'd just read an article from the Guardian- The Secrets of Long-Term Love- and had loved the stories in it but also thought the author/interviewer had missed the whole point. The article presents six long-term married couples, all vastly differently, all equally happy, then reveals the "secrets" of the couples as if you can tuck them away and save them for later, as if they aren't snowflake-wisdoms, but instead cookie-cutter truths. Tim, our tattoo artist and an incredible guy, likes to meander in his thoughts, too, and so the three of us mused and philosophized while the requiem played and the tattoo needle hummed along. "The thing is, there aren't hard-and-fast rules. It'd be easier if there were, but it would also be pretty boring." I said, tightly holding a coffee cup in my hand while Tim worked. It's just a touchup, but it hurts worse for some reason, maybe because it's over scar tissue. I was explaining the article to them, and echoing my late-night phone conversation with a teary best friend I'd had a few nights ago. "I thought if I worked hard enough- if we both did- we could make it work. And maybe we could have, I don't know. But we wouldn't have been happy. Hard work, wanting it, isn't enough." "Well if that's true...we're screwed. What's the secret, then?" "You know those super-smug, just-married couples? They're all like 'you just know when you find the right one.' And you're like. SHUT UP. Well, if you can look past their douchey-ness and their sense of superiority, what if they're right? What if there is no secret formula?" That night I'd wondered to myself, but didn't express aloud because the topic was depressing enough without this addition, if there actually is a secret but it's not some sappy stupid romcom list. What if the secret is exhaustion. What if it's giving up. You're 32, you're tired, and by now everyone asks if there's a man in your life only out of politeness, they're all starting to give up on you. What if the secret is settling. Because if that's the secret I don't think I'll do it. But if my life is a horror film (and why not, that's my favorite genre), I might be that character that fights really hard but it isn't enough and Settling is the serial killer hiding behind the shower curtain who gets me right before the police arrive. I didn't confess any of my fears aloud in the tattoo parlor, either. Even though I was committing to a sentence on my foot for eternity, I couldn't bring myself to talk about my commitment issues. Was my getting a tattoo a mask for them? Or an attempt to prove to myself that I can overcome them? "My one piece of advice to you two- not that you need it- is this: find someone who knows how to love and be loved. Most people know how to do just one or the other, but if you find someone who knows how to do both you'll be way ahead of the game." I thought about that. How it was good advice from a sensible guy that I trust enough to permanently ink me, not too specific, just esoteric enough. How it was maybe an optimistic alternative to my secret fear. How a person like that might be hard to find but not quite mythic-level impossible. Is it, like my best friend wondered that night, 'enough'? I'm sure it's not. And that's okay, because we are not complacent enough for enough. I hope we never will be. And forever is either nice or horrifying, but whichever way it's not here right now. Except in the form of lovely, curving script that sits just before my toes, reminding me that even fleeting moments can make their permanent and lovely mark. Remember when your ex was calling you constantly and I was trying to not let it get to me? You told me it was alright and that I'm the one you want to be with and she's insane. You told me over and over again that you love me and you want me in your life forever. You told me that you wanted to marry me and have kids and a happy little country life.
Remember when I said yes? Remember when I said I just needed to finish what I started and then I will be back for you? Remember when you promised that we would be together? Me either. Have I Told You Lately?
Dear Jane Austen, Did you ever wonder if a boy and a girl would watch the credits to a Pride and Prejudice adaptation roll on Valentine's Day weekend? And, Mr. Darcy, Did your heart thump just as loudly as this boy's when you first saw Elizabeth Bennett with skirt knee-deep in mud and face flushed red? (My head was not on your chest, so I couldn't be sure like I could with this boy, but I like to think the answer's a "no.") Elizabeth, did he whisper your name, as if steeling himself for the imminent declaration, and did you sit against him on that couch, not sure what was coming next, but knowing that in the stillness it was important to wait for whatever it was? In my life, I can say I have had one perfect Valentine's Day. I lay in his arms, quiet piano tinkering along to a black screen, and he had perhaps been terrified the entire movie, to say three words to which we give far too much weight and yet somehow not nearly enough meaning- I loved you, too. I like boxes. Little ones that I can fill with things like marbles, notes, bits and pieces, reminders of our relationship between a thing and the various meanings we give it. I like that we fill things with significance, and then I like to mimic that by making empty boxes full with the odds and ends that are full now of meaning. I've filled a particularly handsome cigar box full of reminders that at some point, to someone, I have meant something. A notecard from a favorite cousin, mailed to me, that says only "I love you," important enough to not just text or email or say over the phone but to write down, put in an envelope and get the federal government in on delivering it. A post-it note from an old roommate wishing me luck on my test. Reminders of meaning that I have in turn given meaning to. I keep it for when I need it, if I do, which I don't often. Usually just knowing the box exists does the trick. Of course, meaning isn't stagnant. Trinkets that once brought comfort can become unhappy reminders of what's no longer there. I've had someone carefully comb through my happy box to spare me this fate, putting what's unwanted away in a smaller box somewhere. And you can say they're just things, but I don't buy it. When your dorm burns down and your insurance gives you money to replace your stuff, it's not a simple, logical matter of replicating the old. It's that suddenly, you're rebuilding from the ground up. And to varying degrees, we all know what that's like. I found this flyer when I was in Nashville a few weeks ago- this quirky and esoteric plea for "artifacts from past loves." It made me laugh when I read it. Then I thought about it, how it gives purpose to objects we may have set adrift in a meaningless void and perhaps wish to snatch back and reappropriate. That NY mug, those super comfy men's sweatpants, the left-behind journal, the small stuffed teddy bear can have a home again. So, don't throw them in the bin. Send them my way and we'll put them here. Why not? Sincerely, Another Box Here's the disclaimer... this post is not about dating. There may be mention of relationships but it's not about that. It's just about decisions.
I recently came to the realization that I want to leave Santa Barbara. Actually, this has been brewing in my gut for a while now. First it was the anticipation of transferring to a 4-year university. That dream was crushed by massive amounts of debt that I would have incurred. The next wave of wanting to leave came with the Isla Vista shooting. Everyone wanted to get out after that. It just isn't natural. The most recent wave of longing for an exodus came today when I realized that after this last semester at SBCC, there is no real reason for me to sick around. I have literally finished what I came here to do. I completed my Associate degree and made it in California (HA! Suck it Kris). So I'm on the Now what train. In December I have a few options. I could pack up my car and go to Arizona to join my family for the winter, stay in Santa Barbara or go visit the multitudes of friends that are stationed all around the country. At this point, the third option is sounding pretty great. Staying in Santa Barbara is a good option. I have a steady job and great friends here. But I would only be staying for that. It just feels like it's time to move on to the next adventure. I could go to Arizona.... nope. Visiting friends around the country. So... Texas, Washington, Colorado, Wyoming, Ohio, Michigan, New York and Pennsylvania... That's looking pretty good right now. So, friends, are you ready? I remember that deep, searing tired that caused me to text you that night. "I don't think this is working."
It wasn't. It hadn't been for over a year. But this was the first time I'd confessed it to you. We'd fought earlier in the evening. It's funny now, looking back and seeing that so many of our fights had begun only because we both wanted to spend time together, neither one willing to sacrifice our respective plans. We were too alike in that way- too stubborn. You were playing Mafia with a group of friends who were practically strangers to me; I had gone out with the intention of seeing a movie at the film festival then gone back home, too depressed to see the effort through. You called, of course. If you've dated someone for three and a half years and she sends a text like that, you have to call. "Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'll come over for breakfast." I could hear voices in the background. I said okay. It took a good while before I could sufficiently smother my thoughts- namely, that if someone I cared about had been crying on the phone, I would have dropped whatever I was doing to head over, not say 'we'll talk tomorrow'- and finally succumb to sleep, which is never a cure for this sort of exhaustion, but at least it's a temporary respite. ~ That morning you came in, we went through the awkward small talk and fidgetings and I was making coffee when you said- "So...about last night?" You were wearing your unhappy smile on your face. I always hated that smile, it was so painfully endearing- even in the midst of discomfort and unhappiness your first coping strategy was to try to smile. "What exactly do you mean by 'it's not working?'" "...I don't know." I wouldn't look at you but I could see you anyway, sitting at the kitchen table, your face turned earnestly toward me. "I mean, I don't know. Isn't that a straightforward thing to say?" I turned finally. "Come here." I walked over hesitantly. I didn't want this conversation to exist. I didn't understand- I still don't- how two people can try so hard to make a relationship worthwhile and yet consistently fail at it. Somehow, somewhere we'd begun that long, imperceptible descent into making someone you love something else, something it isn't possible to be. "Hey." You pulled me straight into your lap, and you just held me there. And it was the first time in a long time- and maybe the last time- that we weren't making each other into something else. I don't know how long we sat there, probably looking like total idiots at the kitchen table, letting our coffee get cold. I do know that we broke up about six months later. With time between us and what happened, I can see that still frame, not the hurtful things said and done six months ahead, as the truth: two people, young enough to believe that the sheer strength of our want could save the world. Maybe if we'd stayed there, you in the chair, and me in your lap, we'd have been folklore. Hundreds of years from now, the critics would discuss- "We've just unearthed another artifact- it's a sculpture, sort of eerie and haunting and timeless. We're calling it Boy and Girl: Impasse." "You said that these past three years have been great-- but Casey, I really don't want to be just a memory to you. I don't want you to be a story that I tell to people years down the road; I want you to be in my life. I love you, and regardless of what happens, that won't change for a while, even if I try to make it. I want to fix whatever this is that just happened. Please. Can we try? That's part of what I wrote to Casey the second time we broke up (second, not first, so that's a story for another series). The second time we broke up was not the last- but the next time (about a year later) would be.
I held onto that thought, after I'd broken up with him that last time. How I hated the idea of making someone I loved into a memory. But I write- it's what I love to do. I think I knew, and absolutely hated this because I wanted to hold on, that I'd do what I do best- I'd hurt and eventually move on and this person who mattered I'd twist and digest and break down into stories. It's destructive. It's painful. But it's also the essence of creating, and there's a fierce and lonely kind of beauty in that. When Rachel and I started this blog, I wasn't sure what I'd write. And I still don't have an exact outline, but I do know that part of it will be a series called Firsts. Casey was my first boyfriend, and I was his first girlfriend (I know, I know, we were late to the game). So there were a lot of firsts in those four years. I won't write about all of them, and they won't necessarily be in chronological order. The ones that have stuck with me, that are exceptionally hard, or exceptionally good- I'll put them here. Stay tuned for the first of the firsts with the first! Because the first thing they tell you about the grieving process is the steps can happen in any order, because life is zany and nonsensical, here are two poems, presented in the order they were written. For a long time after my breakup, there was only silence. It's one of any artistic person's cruelest realities- when confronted with a staggeringly unhappy reality, a time that should be ripe with creative material, the pain makes us mute. The sea witch cut out my tongue. But I got it back. Stage V: "My dreams are dandelions" And watch you float on bright air on memories, gold, away from me pulling on the strings of my pain fraying my tangled threads of hope or hurt they'll unravel, later. because you pulled because you glide along on sweet summer air and leave me and also, because I held you between my fingers but now the soft breeze moves from my lips to you and you are off, just like that I banish you, gently. Fly away, little dandelion seeds Fly away and surprise me, next Spring, peeking up yellow and shy and new from the earth I'll welcome you back, loveliest of weeds, most beautiful of little blossoms, I'll pick you up and take you into my arms and- My dreams of you are dandelion seeds I let you go from between my fingers- I must let you go from between my fingers- and blow Stage II: "Not" your wormish way of insinuating yourself into my life of grating, scraping against my memories, my present, my forever I've unfriended you but you're still in my newsfeed somehow asshole I've deleted you from my phone but your number's memorized stitched into that muscle that pumps blood to everything everyone asks about you still and if they don't you come up naturally in conversation naturally? bullshit. I bring you up maybe because you're in my thoughts, even if only during every waking moment when I denounce you damn you but then, ah, the blissful sleep of the undreaming? to forget? no. you are here, too, and sometimes, the unguarded underbelly of my subconscious loves you totally I have done it all the right way I have done everything correctly I have mourned I have lived I have made space for the new and it has been a year and yet here is this poem. |
Rachel & ArielTwo chicks in their 20-somethings trying to navigate the terrifying world Archives
June 2015
Categories |