Tuesday, May 29, 2007

how to let go

I’ve started this story a dozen times. Each time losing my way in setting the scene. Never getting it where it needs to be. Mentioning the light (it was navy blue) mentioning the sounds (just wind and cars) mentioning how I was sitting (in a way that made me feel very small) have let me down. My old couch, a curious cat and my hands wanting to hold his, but holding each other instead. It doesn’t get me there. What if I tell you he opened a beer with the base of a fork? What if I tell you I think that’s sexy? It’s still not right.

Sitting on my old couch in the 9pm navy blue light of summer. In the near quiet. We were talking.

See?

That’s not it.

We were hanging on every word.

No.

We were.

Maybe.

I had given him a book to read. Stumbling on Happiness. It’s one of those socio-philosophical-pop culture books that slices and dices together a picture of how we are. We as in humans. Are as in our often talked about condition. One part. Early on. Making the point that it’s our frontal lobe that is responsible for all of our future plans the author interviews a man who lost his. Tragic accident. Instant science experiment. This man said when he thinks into the future all he sees is a white room. All he sees is nothing. Like me thinking about really hard math. Or you maybe thinking about the endlessness of space. You open the door and there is nothing to see.

“It’s like that.” he said. We were talking about falling in love. “I open the door and all that’s there is a white room.”

“Does it have furniture in it?”

“No.”

“Are there windows?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Do they look out to grass and sky or just to more whiteness.”

“Just to more whiteness.”

When he said that, when I heard it, my entire response was seen in my open palm on the pillow between us. Sending him wishes of sky and grass. Of furniture and cans of paint. Just like 20 minutes before when he tried to fix me. With his hand in my hair and tilted head look into my wet eyes.

On an old 1950s couch. Navy blue light. It’s summer. It’s 9pm. She is sitting in a way that makes her seem small. There are pillows between them. They are not holding hands.

Man: “I hate that you beat yourself up for that.”

He puts his hand in her hair. A car drives by. She is glassy eyed and tired.

Woman: “I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t.”

Monday, May 28, 2007

next year, i will wear a sparkly dress

It was my friend Buster’s birthday party last night. I admire his dedication to having the party on his actual birthday. Even if it’s a Sunday. Like last night. A Sunday night birthday party is usually just dinner somewhere, a few presents and if you’re at a Mexican restaurant, some complimentary flan. But Buster goes all out. It’s really commendable.

Buster is the only other person I’ve ever met who names their birthday years. I name my birthday years. This is year three of me naming my birthday year. I look at the name as more of a theme, he refers to it as his “birthday wish” and believes that birthday wishes have special powers. This sounds silly when I type it but if you’re ever in a conversation with him about birthday wishes and he tells you this theory, you just believe it. He has conviction.

I’ve only known Buster for two birthdays. Below is a chart:

Buster’s Birthday Wishes / Heather’s Birthday Year Themes
2005 : unknown / Year of Debauchery
2006 : Higher Highs, Lower Lows / Year of Conscious Choices
2007: Double Down / Year of Actualization

As you can see, his are more abstract. Mine are like fortune cookies. We both agree however - your wish/theme will make itself known. In other words, if you are considering naming your birthday year - be careful. It comes true. If you remember nothing else from this story, remember that. I’d hate for you to have an accidentally crappy year. You don’t deserve a crappy year. You deserve a year filled with as much good stuff and as many valuable lessons as 365 days can fit in. To that end, I don't recommend having a Year of Debauchery.

At the party, there was a survey to fill out. Buster is making a friendbook. This is like a yearbook but made of friends instead. See, he really does go all out. Even on a Sunday. I thought I would share some of it with you. And that you would fill it out. Everyone likes surveys. It’s a chance to get to know yourself better. It’s a chance to feel like you are getting interviewed for a magazine.

Here are my favorite questions (and answers):

What’s your favorite food? (doughnuts)
What’s your spirit animal? (crow)
Would you rather bet everything on red or black? (red)
Squid are: beautiful, tasty or weird. (beautiful)
When is the last time you cried? (today)
Do you believe that black swans exist? (yes)
What are you striving for? (happiness)
Likely or unlikely that you’ll get what you’re striving for? (likely!)
Are you a good example of the kind of person you think people should be? (sometimes)
What’s something awesome? (resilience)
What’s something beautiful? (dewy grass)
You are beautiful and awesome. (So are you.)

That last one isn’t really a question. It’s a statement. It’s a statement that I liked reading. Just like when someone with a Sharpie writes “you are beautiful” across the bottom of the mirror in the ladies' room. The management probably isn’t very happy about having a written on mirror, but I love reading it anyway. I am beautiful. And so is the next girl who washes her hands. Beautiful. Look at us all. So different. So wounded. So healed. So optimistic. So cautious. So wonderful.

And you.

You are beautiful and awesome, too.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

in which it all could have been just fine

Bob and I were sitting outside of Koots Greet Tea illegally. Meaning we hadn’t bought anything from Koots Green Tea. And the little ceramic plaque that kindly asked us not to do that had become a coaster for my bottled water. Bottled water purchased from somewhere else.

(Koots? Yes. Koots. Didn't they know that was slang for vagina? Didn't anyone tell them?)

I had asked him if he wanted to go see The Hold Steady. And woven in his reply (of no) was that he was now a fan of the Arcade Fire. He might have been a fan the whole time we’ve know each other. Almost 7 months on that day, 5 of them crappy. But I had no idea. And knowing it now made the sleeveless t-shirts he wore under other t-shirts or around the house suddenly not all right. These were homemade sleeveless t-shirts. Not store bought. Oversized. Armholes almost dipping down to his waist. “White.”

I had overlooked these t-shirts for 7 months, 5 of them crappy. I had decided to find his scissoring skills “cute” and his ability to resist the temptation of new t-shirts “thrifty.” Figuring he’s like the secret millionaire that lives next door to you in the cardboard box with the 1982 Honda Civic that backfires. I can respect that. That fuck the Jones’ attitude. Fuck Mrs. Jones on her fucking brand new Pottery Barn dining room table. Rip her J. Crew khaki capris off her Bally’s Total Fitness body and spank her recently hot stone massaged ass. Yeah! I can completely get behind that. Even better if you make her late for a PTA meeting. But now that he likes the Arcade Fire “a lot” my house of Bob cards fell in slow motion all over the patio we were not supposed to be sitting on.

I think this is where I tell you why. But I sound like a pretentious ass. Like the kind of person who would link the acceptance of wardrobe choices to one’s favorite music or something. But they suck and not in a specific way. That’s what’s so terrible about them. They suck in the same way all emo bands suck. With their accordions and girl back up singers and chain smoking. Can you please stop looking at your shoes? Really? Can you? I like bands that kick those band’s asses. And whack them over the head with guitars and mic stands and stuff. Keep in mind the man who stated his preference is a 41 year old recovering do-it-your-fucking-self punk rocker. He has balls (!) that apparently retreat up into his groin when he presses play on Neon Bible. Special Edition.

“Do you like them?”

“Not really, no.”

(The building above us was empty when he and I met. And now the condo patios have outdoor furniture and potted plants polka dotting the once quiet facade. It was a nice day that day. Breezy and sunny. Blue skies. I like it when birds fly higher than you expect birds to fly. I remember looking up and settling my view on a wooden bench on what could have been the 25th floor. Birds zipping by. Landing on railings. When they are up that high and we look like specs of dust moving around do they know we are the same things that scare them away when we walk by and fill birdbaths for them so they can be clean.)

All of a sudden I wished for peeling off pink nail polish to be on all 10 of my fingers and we started talking about something else. Lunch was almost over and we both had to head back to our 9 to 5s. Or 10 to 4s. Or sometimes 11 to 3s (with a lunch break, of course.) We stood at the foot of Denny Hill and he reached out to hold my index finger on my right hand.

“Oh. That’s your sore finger. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah ... it is.”

He works one way. I work the other. It was just me walking up Denny Hill. Like it’s usually just me walking up it two/three times a day. It’s steep. Could be stairs steep. And each time I walk up it’s different. Sometimes easy. Sometimes hard. My thighs will ache or my calves will hurt. And if I had to predict how it would feel each time at the base and evaluate my prediction each time at the top, I’d be wrong except for the times I got lucky. It’s the same hill every single time. But I’m a different girl.