It’s kinda weird, this moving on thing. This letting go. It seems to happen in pieces. Or percents of me. My opinion on it differs from one second to the next. I’ve learned to keep quiet. Realizing that I usually feel differently before I even finish the thought. Sometimes I picture it like lightening bugs in a mason jar. Appearing and reappearing at uneven intervals. Blinking like broken Christmas lights.
Many days have gone by without thinking of him. Busy with a thousand other things, my life rings my door bell more than I deserve. For someone happy to spend a weekend alone or even a whole month the ding dong of consulting jobs and art projects and writing opportunities is steady. I find myself wondering on walks home what would happen if I actually tried. Maybe the whole world would burst open and I could pick and chose. Chose and pick. Like being the first kid to find the Halloween candy. It’s all Snickers and Kisses. The Smarties and DumDums are for the second wave.
But I stay busy. Even on days I would rather not.
Those days. Those are the days he crosses my mind a thousand times if he crosses it once. Imaginary conversations that have grown up from Grade A romantic comedy happy endings to me walking away and saying how I can’t do this anymore while wishing him well over my shoulder. It’s how I heal, these elaborate day dreams where I know the color of shoes I’m wearing and if my petal pink nail polish is chipping off or perfect in it’s plasticy shine. All my broken hearts have followed this well worn path. This trail from wanting to not. From better off with to better off without. It’s a journey I watch happen as much as I make happen. Waiting for the magic day where I say no thanks. I can’t predict it’s arrival but I’m never surprised when it comes. It signals the beginning of the end.
The end being when I don’t have imaginary conversation with him anymore. Where I don’t think of him at all and if I do, it passes through without much notice. Eluding the emotional radar, slipping out the back. Unlike the day I say no as opposed to all the other days where I said yes. This changing of the guard day, this haven’t thought about him in a while day, it goes largely uncelebrated but I think that may be the point. It’s the day he doesn’t matter in the same way. Where he takes root firmly in the past and I’m face forward, eyes open. By definition it can’t be celebrated because leaving him behind isn’t important anymore. It requires no ceremony. No words. It just is.
I’m not there yet. As this post attests. Right now, I’m saying no and thinking of something he could say that would make me say yes. I circle around and around but keep coming up empty. Wrestling with the uncomfortable that comes with realizing I don’t think he can be different. And knowing I can’t be happy like we were. We break up a hundred times. I walk up the concrete steps to the plaza while he stands at the bottom. By the porcelain statues of the little girls that are ten feet tall. With their polka dot dresses and rosy glazed cheeks. I don’t look back but I’m sure he walks away. Down the diagonal street to his brown building that peeks between the skyscrapers. Where they make tin cans connected by string.
Showing posts with label breaking up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breaking up. Show all posts
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
just friends
I turned my nose into the crook of his neck and breathed in. He smelled different. New detergent different. Or new shampoo different. No to both he said. “This shirt was in the back of my closet. I haven’t worn it in a while.” His hand touched the collar and stretched it to his nose. “It smells different?” “Yeah.” I said and leaned in again. Inhaled. “Still different.” He smiled. He shrugged.
“How about me? Do I smell the same?”
He stepped forward, his hands on my back. He moved in slow. His face turned to my neck. I could feel him breath me in. His lungs filling with cucumber and green tea scent. My hair sticking to his lips. I wanted to press rewind a thousand times. A thousand times. But he jumped back. Jumped. “Yes. Yes. You smell the same. You smell great.” He spun around to look at downtown. His stone building peeking through the blue glass skyline.
“How about me? Do I smell the same?”
He stepped forward, his hands on my back. He moved in slow. His face turned to my neck. I could feel him breath me in. His lungs filling with cucumber and green tea scent. My hair sticking to his lips. I wanted to press rewind a thousand times. A thousand times. But he jumped back. Jumped. “Yes. Yes. You smell the same. You smell great.” He spun around to look at downtown. His stone building peeking through the blue glass skyline.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
rehab
But but but. Why. Why. You said. But. You. Said. Again and again. But but but. Why. Why. You said. But. You. Said. Times ten. Times ten thousand. Like picking at a scab. Like stepping in front of a bus. Like hitting myself over the head with a baseball bat. But but but. You said. But. You. Said.
We fought Sunday morning.
And as all those words left my mouth. The second they hit the air. The instant my lips let them go. I was thinking. Stop. I don’t want this. Why am I here? What am I fighting for? It’s almost in slow motion. I’m sure my eyes looked vacant. I don’t remember what I was doing with my hands. Walk away. Walk away.
“What do you want?” He was exasperated with me. I could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his tone. He was looking right at me. Stopped what he was doing. I just wanted to close my eyes and disappear. Why am I here? What am I fighting for? The panic of i-don’t-know sunk my stomach. Like swallowing a lead weight.
I didn’t say that I didn’t know though. I don’t know what I said. But I know it wasn’t that I didn’t know. And while I was saying what I can’t remember I was thinking that I’ve been here before. These words. This fight. I’ve had it before. I’ve had it with him. And with him. A slide show of show downs. Me. Doing. This. Again and again. Different boys. Same me.
“What does it feel like when you’re fighting?” she asks me.
“I’m in it. I’m articulate. I can be unfair and hurtful. It has my attention. But I don’t know why. As I’m fighting, I’m wishing I weren’t fighting. I want to walk away.”
“But you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Does it feel like you’re fighting for your life?”
Remember in Me and You and Everyone We Know when Miranda July goes back to the shoe department. Remember how he burnt his hand and it’s wrapped in gauze. Like a mitten. And she asks him what happened.
“Whoa, what happened?” Miranda July asks.
He tells her she can have the long version or the short version. And she picks the long version without the slightest hesitation.
“The long one.” Miranda July says.
He says the long version is he was trying to save his life but it didn't work. She asks him what the short version is.
“Wow. What’s the short one?” Miranda July asks.
He says I burnt it.
It’s just like that. It’s exactly just the same as that.
“Does it feel like you’re fighting for your life?”
“Yes.”
We fought Sunday morning.
And as all those words left my mouth. The second they hit the air. The instant my lips let them go. I was thinking. Stop. I don’t want this. Why am I here? What am I fighting for? It’s almost in slow motion. I’m sure my eyes looked vacant. I don’t remember what I was doing with my hands. Walk away. Walk away.
“What do you want?” He was exasperated with me. I could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his tone. He was looking right at me. Stopped what he was doing. I just wanted to close my eyes and disappear. Why am I here? What am I fighting for? The panic of i-don’t-know sunk my stomach. Like swallowing a lead weight.
I didn’t say that I didn’t know though. I don’t know what I said. But I know it wasn’t that I didn’t know. And while I was saying what I can’t remember I was thinking that I’ve been here before. These words. This fight. I’ve had it before. I’ve had it with him. And with him. A slide show of show downs. Me. Doing. This. Again and again. Different boys. Same me.
“What does it feel like when you’re fighting?” she asks me.
“I’m in it. I’m articulate. I can be unfair and hurtful. It has my attention. But I don’t know why. As I’m fighting, I’m wishing I weren’t fighting. I want to walk away.”
“But you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Does it feel like you’re fighting for your life?”
Remember in Me and You and Everyone We Know when Miranda July goes back to the shoe department. Remember how he burnt his hand and it’s wrapped in gauze. Like a mitten. And she asks him what happened.
“Whoa, what happened?” Miranda July asks.
He tells her she can have the long version or the short version. And she picks the long version without the slightest hesitation.
“The long one.” Miranda July says.
He says the long version is he was trying to save his life but it didn't work. She asks him what the short version is.
“Wow. What’s the short one?” Miranda July asks.
He says I burnt it.
It’s just like that. It’s exactly just the same as that.
“Does it feel like you’re fighting for your life?”
“Yes.”
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.”
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.”
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.
(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.
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