mais oui...

Happy New Year!

May it be full of wonder, magic and awe.

all my love!

the end of the love life musings.

This is the first time in my love life where things don't make sense. I can't rely on the information I know, my experiences to guide me, other people's opinions to illuminate things. Everything I think I know turns out to be total bullshit. I can't decide if it's a matter of finding out the truth or trusting myself above all. I guess in a way it's a little bit of both, because even if people present me with what's true for them, I don't allow it to undo me, because I can't.

Unnecessary accessory boy has been randomly texting me plaintively for the last couple weeks. And I decided I'm done with him. He is bad news. He has nothing but a vein of the purest misogynistic anger that I have ever encountered. Yet, his presence in my life left its mark. I think of him often, I feel confused about why it went so wrong. I know that I did my thing that I do in relationships, but it was met with resolute anger and a wall of meanness. And I will not go out with someone who's a contrary bastard. I did that for three and a half years and it left me empty, I have no more fight left. All I can do is whimper and shut down in the face of that.

So I randomly texted him my reason for not responding. His missives (eight or nine) followed quickly, one after the other, at first neutral, then filled with some of the most vile things, attacking me on many levels. I read them, I still have them on my phone, but I know myself, his opinion of how it went simply isn't true. His idea of being in a relationship is having all the control, and he does that through manipulation and truth bending. He even denied sending me any texts.

With the Man of the Year, my intuition began to falter in the last few days because I'd communicated with him in various ways and had not gotten a response. Maybe there was simply nothing for him to say, but the agony I felt over the last few days just makes me wonder. Do I want to be with someone who can't be bothered to give me a simple response? Just as I began to give up on him, with the full bag of tears, frustration, inability to concentrate on anything else, he texted me back. He had no apologies, no promises, but there was a depth there that implied we'd gone beyond pleasantries. I even wondered if he'd been drinking.

Once you've gone to the brink of despair about a man, it's very difficult to turn back and act like nothing's wrong. And that's what I do in relationships. I get all about them, and then I go into despair, and then the chance of having a proper relationship based on trust is gone. I hold them to a high standard, if I give you something, it ought to be acknowledged. Maybe even reciprocated somehow. I have gotten better at not lashing out if this doesn't happen. People are who they are. They're not like me. I have a wellspring of words to give. When I put my bet down and roll the dice, my optimism fades. I gamble like it's the only chance I've got.

I figure over the last three months with the man of the year, I've made a lot of progress. I have despaired, but then returned, not stiffly, not with anger, but with understanding and love. I've done other things I need to do. I know it's not about me, whereas in other relationships, it was always my fault that they couldn't love me enough. Even though I have one foot out the door, ready to bolt at the slightest shadow, I have waited for him.

I'm tired of struggling over my relationships with boys. I feel the urge to give up, focus all my energies into grad school and the next year and just be happy in my own life, with myself. Every time I resolve to do this, they return, in small ways or big ways, and I am distracted by the possibility that this time it might be the message I was waiting for. Instead it always disappoints. And I must do the work of retracing my steps and returning to what's important.

The good news is, I take fewer steps back each time.

here comes the storm

The Man of the Year has made bold moves in my direction. He has gone out of town for the "holladays" and has not only responded to my texts in kind, but has also emailed me. He asked for my email some days ago; I presumed in an attempt to locate my myspace page. He has filled out an address entry in his email for "Christena Coffegirl." What infatuation I once held has become full-on fervor. His email contained the most personal and confidential information, the sort that one might share with a close friend. And yet, he shared it with me, the coffeegirl.

And now, I shiver and tremble, waiting in my spot, biding my time, wondering how it will go, and if this means anything, if this means we are having a relationship, if this means we will actually spend time in each others' vicinities without a countertop between us.

I feel I cannot force the issue. I fear I will cause whatever this is (progress?) to take a turn for the worst. I am terrified. I want to grab him and kiss him. I want to run away and hide. It is the oddest feeling. I want to ask him out for new year's eve, but I feel I must let him do the next step. I wonder how the time passes until it simply does, and I find myself in bed unable to sleep for the giddy thrill that races through me each time my mind skips across his name, or replays his last great laugh, or sees again that infamous wink (and it's companion, the once mentioned, dulcet stuffed, "Hey, peaches").

And it is Christmas. And he is somewhere thinking of me. He is somewhere far away and his mind is fingering the dark curls of my ponytail, the freckles on my skin, the easy conversations we've shared.

This has been the most unusual of holidays. I have spent my morning audibly tickled by my father, and my evening languishing in conversation with my mother.

I spent the time in between with Marilyn, whose gifts for me were far more sophisticated than I can hardly understand, yet they suit me perfectly. Her presence in my life has been steady and kind, and I have felt us growing closer, almost like two indistinct entities who have always been this way and none other, and we have a deep understanding of each other. She is my best friend. I feel completely known by her, and it is pleasant to spend time with her. Her ways amuse me, and she feels loved. She says, "It would be nice to drink some champagne!" and then a laugh, "Too bad I drank it all!" I surprise her with hysterical laughter that bubbles from the core of my being, for she is something else, and I know her all too well.

For one of my friends, my Christmas text to her was all too precise, and she called me with tears in her voice, and her heart in her throat, and I forgot the weeks since we'd seen each other last, and we melted into sorrow together.

I spent time with my family, and it was hectic. We are growing. There are more of us. They are small, and wanting for attention. And my smile grows wide when they are around.

Sitting on the front steps with her in my lap, her laughter wrapping around us, her beautiful dress billowing over my legs, her tickle spots unearthed, her sadness pushed away just for me, I asked, "Should I have Grandma take a picture of us together?" She shook her head no. I could see the pleading in her eyes. And like the other times we've spent together, we don't need words to communicate, I know her and she knows me, and we are one and the same, and we are beautiful together and there is nothing that is necessary when we are together and she wants nothing more than that moment to belong only to us; to have grandmothers coming over to take pictures would spoil the entire thing. So I persist in tickling her and she throws her head back and laughs and exposes her neck, the most ticklish area of them all, and I love her. Right then, I love her more than I've ever loved anyone in my life.

They leave in a flurry and we are alone again. We are back to our small bunch. We are shiftless and restless together. We have no reason to be together. We don't match anymore. I feel this most with my brother, whose reason for living is muddled by the realities of the world and its unfairness, and its lack of maps for some of us, and its oversight of him and his way in the world. Who is he supposed to be? When is he supposed to be? And he falls asleep, drifting into a world that makes the time pass and doesn't ask anything of him.

While he tosses and turns on the couch, my mother and I speak easily together, and the words follow the cigarette smoke between us, and I feel like crying when I tell her all of my hopes and dreams for the next year, which I have declared will be the best of my life until another comes later on to surpass it. I tell her, it is the year I will get married, it is the year I will join a master's program, it is the year I will travel abroad again (and we shall do this together), it is the year when my life will truly become solidified, and she will be with me, either vicariously or by my side, and it will be the best year of her life also; perhaps.

And we talk about the men I have loved and how great they were. She loved them too, in her own way. Her face is paralyzed by tears when we speak of them and their successes. Her face is frozen by pain when we consider why the last one had gone so badly and ignored the invitation to join us at Thanksgiving, because not only would it have been nice for him to be there, but his absence was a slap in my face and she felt it in hers as well.

And for the first time in a long time, I will spend my holidays alone in my big bed, which is perfect for me now. I look forward to tomorrow. A morning with little Nina, whose face delights in my presence, whose spontaneous laughter is part of a game we used to play and I know that no matter who I have been in my life, good or bad, it is always about who I will be, and she knows that I will be wondrous and kind and beautiful for her.

In the evening I will celebrate the thirtieth birthday of my new, great friend, Annie, who is responsible for loaning me the phrase salt-of-the-earth, and whose listening of me is far beyond anything I could have mustered for myself. I am included among her small list of friends she wishes to spend her birthday with, and I feel honored by her invitation.

I am surrounding myself with only goodness, only kindness, the things I want to see reflecting back at me in the mirror, and I feel them emanating from me, I feel their desire to be a part of me, and in my own small way, I know I created the depth that runs underneath the profound love I share with others. And I love them more than they will ever know.

recovery part deux

As I let the minutes, hours and days pass, I realize I am in need of more recovery.

I got busy with school and kind of let it take over, especially since it was my top priority and it needed to be done by a certain date. In letting it rule, I dropped certain important things, my apartment (which is a disaster), my love life (which is surprisingly empty and okay), my communications with people (which I dearly miss) and my hobbies (which I've begun to slowly resume, starting, of course, with reading).

It seems strange to me that school is over. I know it is something I've been looking forward to for some time, but I feel a little lost at the moment about it. And as I await my results (so far, one "A" in Advanced Fiction), I find my mental state in that same (familiar) state of limbo. Will I apply to grad school? will I go somewhere out of state? will I attempt to become a freelance writer instead? what's next for me?

As for my apartment, it had to get cleaned at some point in the last two weeks, because I simply could not function inside of it unless it was picked up. I don't even remember when I cleaned it, and it has quickly returned to a mess. I have a lot of projects to do that involve drills, hammers, and time, and they are lying on the floor in front of their destinations, patiently waiting.

As for my love life, I'm not dating anyone right now. It feels good. It feels cleansing. Of course, I still pine for the Man of the Year, whose orbit around me feels shaky and spotty at best (dicey, even!), but I console myself with the fact that he is still circling about. We didn't see the play. We have no plans in the works. Yet, I realize that rather than inducing panic in me, or making me feel like I'm the problem, I have a lot of room for him to be weird and unlike any other guy I've gone out with. Not sure if that is because I feel so solidly that he does indeed like me and is just dealing with his stuff, or if I sense that forever is a longer time than a month or two and I can wait.

As for my communications with people, I have been lame. And a bit of the suck. And I am sorry. I feel like I can barely muster up the enthusiasm to get out of bed. I have hardly any appetite. I am experiencing a complete breakdown in my physical body. Is it that I haven't done yoga since school ended? Is it that I need some restorative rest? Is it that I am back in limbo land? I don't know. All there is to do is get back on the wagon of calling, emailing, and hanging out.

As for my hobbies, I trepidatiously brought a book with me all week and began reading it today. It was difficult to read. My brain is taxed. My head is throbbing. My eyes are weary. I read the Red Eye first. It is easy, digestable, and predictable. Yet, I found I enjoyed several lines in the novel, If on a winter's night a traveler...

slowly, I will return to some sense of normalcy, even if it is just a fresher, more confident stine, whose life is different, but not altogether new.

egads.

I am done with my undergraduate career.

when life is in your face, say hello and thanks for coming.

Intuition. I have lots of it. It sits in my bones and stares out at the world with a cold, dull stare. I eat it for breakfast. I shower a layer of it away and it builds up again. I go to sleep and find it between the covers, waiting to seep into my pores. I find it in the millipede that lives in my apartment, because nothing surprises me anymore, not even a big huge ugly creepy crawler.

More powerful than that, I have insecurity. I don't have as much of it, but that doesn't matter. It seeps out of me in my waking state, when I am around other people, when I am not sure if they like me and it pollutes the drinking water. It is the cold, hard, brutal knot of hate that sits like a popcorn kernel husk in the folds of my mind, an irritant, a thing to pay attention to during idle moments. At night I sleep with the confidence I own. During the day I conserve myself. I give my confidence to those whose bridges I've safely traversed, and even then I still step lightly, until the ground feels solid beneath me.

I notice the battle between them frequently, one is holding on so tightly, the other is trying to get in, and there are long nights of standstills, painful awful days of grappling, in which I am held hostage between them and there is nothing I can do but wait them out until they grow tired. During those hours or days, I suffer immensely, all the while knowing how unnecessary my agony is but being unable to put a halt to the stand-off.

I need them both. They balance me out, they make sure my head stays screwed on tight, and doesn't bloat from my triumphs. They are crucial elements to the make-up of me. I am getting better at listening to them instead of wondering how to exorcise them. They are the children of my mind and clamor for my attention and it is worse when I ignore them.

In the pursuit of the man of the year, I can say one thing, my intuition is stronger and it knows exactly what to do, it has all the time in the world for this busy man, this real man, this man who has "No time for love, Dr. Jones!" It knows how to talk to him (with results). My intuition knows what moves him, and it has been an interesting thing to trust myself for once when it comes to liking a guy.

In the past, my intuition always got shoved aside. Insecurity plauged me. It made me black inside. It made me bitter. I continuously shoved it aside:

in the case of unnecessary accessory boy [he paid so much attention to me, he seems to like me so much, "he validates my ego!" my insecurity pleaded] [my intuition countered, but you can't imagine him touching you. you want someone you're attracted all the way to, you know he's fucked up]

in the case of Mr. Burnham [he is doing all the right things! it feels right. he is reaching out to you.] [but he doesn't know what love is. he is scarred inside. he is phony.]

with scotty [he is creative and talented and could have any girl, but he wants you!] [he is not a match for you, you have nothing in common, you are an experiment to him.]

My insecurity has been whining about the lack of action on the man of the year's part. [Where is he? If he liked you why isn't he calling? What the fuck?! I need to know, now!]

When I listen hard, when I look at all the evidence before me, when I see that objectively, I know he likes me. I know there's something going on over there with him (aside from owning his own business and being massively busy) that has him scared of even going out on a date with me. I know it has nothing to do with me. The lack of some kind of definitive motions on his part doesn't invalidate me. I am still an amazing girl. And I overlook that a lot. That I haven't changed just because he hasn't called. I'm still living my life and being great when I can and it's not because anyone's there to see it, it's because that's who I am.

The thing about my intuition is, as I look back on all the times I've ignored it, all the times I've stepped over it to dwell in melodramatic emotions, how I tried to get my feelings validated for my ego's sake, it was always right. It always knew the answer and I fucking didn't listen.

Not anymore. The man of the year needs space? I'll give him space. Hell, I don't really have time for him anyway. I may not even be ready to be in a relationship again. I know that's what's best. It's been a whole month since he gave me those cd's? oh fucking well. he hasn't changed either. he just has life in his face and he doesn't know what to do now. and maybe he's waiting to see if I'll stick around, because the other ones didn't, the other ones wouldn't, they didn't understand the busy, they didn't have room for him to be a busy guy and be their boyfriend, maybe their insecurity sucked the marrow out of their relationship and he's afraid of anyone with teeth.

but I'm not gonna not be me. I made an emotionally risky move over the text messaging (so addictive and so easy and so careless) and I agonized all weekend for it, until I realized that just because I told him what I did, nothing had changed. he was still stuck with life in his face, and I was just being me. and putting myself on a ledge, with the knowledge, the intuition that he will be there if I let go. because intuition lives somewhere where words don't matter. and that requires faith in the intangible.

If it turns out I fall and he's not there, then at least I can move on knowing I put myself out there, even though life got in my face.

t minus panic, and one week left of mania

The most amazing thing happened to me the other day. I was sitting on the bus, I was daydreaming, thinking...

Suddenly, a young man boarded the bus. He looked familiar. He was wearing sunglasses, but I could tell he was looking at me. He had funny teeth. He looked a little like Steve Buscemi. He sat down in the seat in front of me, and that's when I realized who he was. I couldn't remember his name. Was it Adam, or something like that? But who he was, I knew. And the implications of who he was, it was like a punch in the stomach, a kick to the chest, and a blow to my head, all at once.

I met him at Uncommon Ground, that night; that night. I met him the same night that I met many other people, but namely, Rob. Oh, that was a night. I had no plans or intentions for how it went, and I ended up having an amazing time. That night created deep chasms in two of my most important relationships at the time. And the crazy thing is, it was probably the most thrilling night of my life thus far. I was the most self-expressed and comfortable in my own skin than I have ever been.

Many of you know the story of that night. I think the only one who doesn't know is my daddy. I didn't write about it on my blog, because the truth is, I never write about the things that hurt deep down, the things that infect my core, plaugue my thoughts, and turn rotten inside me.

I wanted to reach out and tap this guy on the shoulder and ask him, "Where can I find Rob?"

I didn't. Instead, I sat there and mentally grappled with the idea of what was the best thing for me.

And in the end, I got off the bus and let that story in my life close, even though the universe offered me one more chance at a connection with a guy that I had the most intense immediate attraction to. The truth is, I know what's best for me and right now, it's not a guy with no home, no phone and no motivation. It's not a guy who comes off like an idiot to everyone around him. Yes, he doesn't meet my criteria, which, much to my surprise, has become the focal point of my dating landscape, and everything along the way to that point is just a distraction and I can't be bothered.

And it amazes me. that night still continues to echo in my mind. And I wonder, what would have happened if it had been Rob on the bus and not Adam. Would I still feel so triumphant? Would I still be so sure of myself?

hands of euphemisms

I know that winter is really here, not because of the snow that fell, or the cold temperatures, but because my hands are dry and cracked and full of pain.

This comes at the worst time, this swollen skin, these flecks of pain, at the end of the semester with numerous amounts of writing (or typing at the keyboard) to do, and I never thought it would hurt to write/type, but it does, it hurts in every knuckle and on every other finger, and the stretching of my fingers across the keyboard doesn't help.

I've tried band-aids, lotion, neosporin, but when you use your hands the way I do, and you have a centimeter of skin that has spilt open just above the knuckle on the thumb you often use, there is no remedy.

I keep trying to tell myself that it'll all be over soon. Soon I won't have to worry what kind of condition my hands are in, soon, I won't have to care about anything school related, until I have to again.

and when the winter passes, my hands will heal, they will mend themselves back to normal.

an update of frantic proportions.

School's almost over. My undergraduate career will soon be a memory and not a reality. I can't quite fathom what it's gonna be like. And I'm so overwhelmed with the final projects and things to do that I think I will get a total of ten hours of sleep this week.

my apartment is starting to come together. I've been shopping at urban outfitters like a madwoman.

I bought myself new clothes today for the first time in a while. I bought size 12 jeans! hooray for me. I am very pleased at the results of this summer's attempt at losing weight. I know everyone thought Marilyn and the cleanse was fucking nuts (trust me, I was right there with you), but I have to say, that was the best thing I did for my body in a while. I feel so much lighter and better.

the man of the year and I are going to see Edward Gorey: The Musical. I asked him. I feel this is an acceptable way to get the ball rolling in some direction. He seems to be pleased about it being a musical. That tickles me. We've been having very awkward interactions, there was some coffee spilled and some gazing and some verbal tripping over tongues happening.

unnecessary accessory boy feels unduly blamed for how it went between us. it is highly confusing.

ran into eric at a bar and despite our previous progress, we took five steps back and ended up arguing at the bar, likely due to a high level of alcohol. and basically, he is still very angry with me. that will take some time to dissipate.

I have been working a lot.

I miss you.

somehow this settles me

a text, one that I knew would come, even hours before I said, you know, it's just been too quiet on his end, and I've been quiet on my end, so I just have a feeling something's going to happen over there, with him [unnecessary accessory guy].

and wouldn't you know it, there he was. not on his knees, but not in top form. And lucky for him, I was watching the Bears game and drinking my liver dry, and I hadn't had dinner and my head was a sea of beer, and I texted and called him and told him my true feelings (which I didn't even know I had; amazing how booze causes a reaction similar to truth serum in me).

the result of which he admitted (after some questioning from me) that he thinks about our time together.

for some reason, this makes me happy, if there was anyone in the world it would be hard to entertain and keep the boredom at bay with, it was him,

and somehow that he's bored enough with the rest of his life and feels the need to make contact with me again (despite my efforts to remain passive and uninterested and writing him a eulogy in the flog blog!) makes me feel glad.

and yet, the truth is, I know he simply wants to poke and provoke me and get a rise out of me. I have no thoughts of any other motive, and wouldn't believe him if he tried to object to that assessment.

so the good news is I get to know him, without having to be in a real, intimate relationship with him, which would be as damaging to me as eating glass for breakfast.

and I get to use all the metaphors and similes and write the way I like.

preening myself for failure

just when I think it's all a wash, that the man of the year is just a case of botched snake-charming and bad timing, the universe sweeps us into each other's strong magnetic pulls and we are stuck, saying words that sound mechanical, gazing at each other, trying to make sure the other is seen, heard, felt, understood.

sometimes, I wish I could always say what I really mean, that I could look him in the eye and just lay it on him.

Instead, I smile. and then I listen to what he has to say. and agree or counter. and the moment passes. And the feeling of dire, insane, wanton affection is thwarted by my timidity.

and the Man of the Year falls away like petals off a bouquet that is still in the vase two weeks later.

It never seemed so hard to charm them. or break through the icy crust of being polite.

also, for the first time in a while, I am unsure, shaky, wondering how I can stand next to him without out passing out from lack of breath.

it's been a long time since he winked at me. but he is a bundle of nervousness now, so I cannot be sure that the lack of winks means anything other than he is just terrified by my charms and discombobulated around me.

when asked about this situation, chuck, who is certainly a guy who has said plenty of funny things before, said, "There's nothing that turns a guy into a doofus like a woman."

and so, I'm back on the waiting list, figuring that nothing bad has happened yet, and it is just a matter of being patient.

"don't you know that patience is a virtue? that life is a waiting game?"

wah.

[with the exception of two boys: pete & lehn]

boys suck.

fiction dept journal entry

I don’t have a writing process. I have nothing resembling a set of steps I take to produce writing. I have no things that Must Be In Place in order for me to write. Maybe that’s my problem. I tend to sit in front of my computer and stare at the screen until I start writing. I tend to write the way I think, let all the words flow, except when I know I’ve misspelled something and then I must go back and fix it before I move on to the next word.

And sometimes, I write a lot. And sometimes none of it is any good. Sometimes, I write nothing. I sit. I wander mentally through my list of things to do. The list is always more convoluted in my mind than in actuality. Sometimes, when I grow tired of sitting and waiting for the words to come, I will turn to the internet. Then it is very hard to write. I find myself saying, you’re just opening your mind to new topics, I say. Oh, research, I say, you’re just doing research. Yeah. right. sure.

It’s like an alcoholic saying just one sip. Or someone who’s actually managed to quit smoking say just one cigarette. We all know that “just one” is a lie we tell ourselves. It will never be just one. My “just one” hour on the internet inevitably becomes two or three. I’ve found some interesting things, just today, for instance: mydeathspace.com, where people post a little article and photo of someone they’ve recently lost, usually to a tragic and untimely death. Or these siblings in a band from Indiana whose parents named every one of their five kids the same name (even the one lone girl). And, did you know the entomology of pontificate is bridge?

When the writing does happen, it’s a beautiful thing. This sputter of words happens. It’s like a balloon in the middle of being blown up, when it escapes the fingers and flies through the air. Physics. Physics are cool. And then I look over what I’ve written and what’s still left to say. I turn back to the internet and my mind huffs and puffs at another balloon. I come back to the word processing and type in a frenzy of fingers. Over and over again.

Sometimes, the good thing about the internet is that I have two or three writing outlets that make me feel marginally better for not being able to write in the word processing program. I write for a blog that my friend started about the art scene in Chicago. I feel pretty accomplished when I manage to write a review, especially if I can’t seem to get any fiction writing out. Problem is, we don’t go out to see art things too often, so I tend to use that writing opportunity up quickly. I have a personal blog that I use to write about an array of topics and things, usually pretty personal. Sometimes the lie I tell myself about this is that it’s okay because I’m just getting the bad writing out. If I’m really feeling guilty about not writing, I’ll send a huge batch of e-mails, thinking someday, if I become famous and someone have saved our correspondence, I can say, see that e-mail there is from a time when I wasn’t able to write.

I think another part of my problem is that I’ve moved three times since school started. Initially I had no computer at all, then had too many computers and a printer, and now I only have my laptop, but it is an apple and doesn’t have microsoft office. I never thought I would miss Microsoft word, but hell, take something away and suddenly it’s something you can’t live without. For a while at least.

This last move was a Big Move. One of those life altering moves that you look back on and realize you’re not the same person and it began the moment you packed your things and you signed this lease and you’re in this new, strange place. The hard thing for me is that all the things about my old apartment that I was used to are gone. It’s almost like relearning to walk or talk. I feel so lost and confused and occasionally weep for no reason other than emotional stress.

Last semester, when I had writing homework, I would sit in my room on my bed and write in microsoft word like a speed demon taking out a fancy car that can handle triple digits. I had a huge monitor on which the text was displayed three hundred percent. I would sit back against the wall with a wireless keyboard on my lap. And just type away. Sometimes I would listen to music, but not to accentuate my “writing process,” I needed the music to drown out the sounds of Cartoon Network and my boyfriend and our roommates laughing hysterically at Family Guy. The music could only be something I was so familar with that it would blend into the background while the writing was happening, and then provide a familar respite when the moment of frenzied writing was over.

I think the funny thing about having people around all the time--for now I am alone, horribly and miserably alone--is that the people are always the reason why things don’t work out. Truth is, roommates, they just make good scapegoats, but when you’re alone there’s just you. I don’t even have a tv to blame for the lack of my writing. I just sit here and stare at the screen and then promise myself just one hour of interneting, and boom, it’s midnight.

Maybe my problem is that I have no routine, no formula, no sure fire way to set the mood to lure my writer out. I’d worry if I did. She’s not a trained seal, she’s no clown here to make you laugh, she’s not expected to perform on demand.

It took me a while to get into the whole story workshop methods. I rarely wrote longhand. My first semester was agonizing. I would sit in the semicircle and listen to the in-class writing of the other students and sit stunned by the transformation of their giggly demeanors instantly turned into serious writing. Most of the in class writing from that time I would never want to read back. I would sit with my hand over my notebook and hope the teacher wouldn’t call on me. She did.

Now, I simply try to accept that there’s moments when I’m more inclined to write and there’s times when I just won’t and can’t and really, really want to but it’s not there. I try not to get too down on myself, I try to be accommodating and make additional face to screen times, because I know one thing for sure: I am a writer. I’ve never been anything but and it’s not like I can divorce myself from that, or move away from it, ever. Eventually, my writer takes over the pause, the lull, the blinking cursor in the white screen and does what she does best.

Besides, I owe her the benefit of the doubt to make up for all the times I’ve held her at gunpoint at midnight, strapped to a comfortable but slightly awkward office chair, forcing her to produce yet another draft of a five page paper for my English class due, of course, the next day.

The good news is because I have no process, I can literally write anywhere. I can write in any lab at school even if people are talking the background (the roommates provided plenty of practice for my skill of selective hearing), but of course, I prefer the energy of the fiction writing lab. I can type on my bed with my laptop, music playing or not. I’ve even used my laptop on the train. I love it when people can’t stop reading the words on the screen. And thanks to the story workshop method, I can even write in a notebook. And my writer is uninhibited, with no qualms, no demands, and the privileges associated with freedom.

the great mental divide

I know whenever I write my friend Adam, who lives in New York and reads my letters but doesn't respond to them, I am in a contemplative and secretive mood. I can also see that my blogging abilities somehow dry up, as if all my words have been cut off at the knees and sit plaintively waiting to be reconnected to something that will allow them to stand.

I told Adam today in a letter that I was keeping my thoughts and opinions in close orbit around me.

I think the whole thing with boys has made me very mentally vulnerable, and as I begin the process of really seeing how it went between Eric and I, thanks to his side of the story, I feel a lot of guilt and sadness. And that doesn't make for great blog writing. Maybe interesting, but not great. And the sting of unnecessary accessory boy's cristicisms are still there. I know it shouldn't bother me, and for the most part it doesn't, but sometimes, it does.

Also, I have been low on time. I've been running to and from things, spending my time with school and projects for school and homework (in the grand pursuit of another stamp of "Dean's List" on my transcript), working, always working, and hanging out with people; enjoying my friends.

In the end, I hope you know from experience that it will likely pass. My tendency to blather on and on about certain topics has always returned, even after the driest of times.

And, I hope you know that I haven't been stuck under the covers wondering when life will happen. I could never do that.

It's just that now that I'm really alone, now that there are no boys in my face, or even on the horizon (yes, the man of the year is still in existence somewhere, but not in a path toward or around me), I am finally doing that hard work that it takes to grow up. I spent this summer in utter shock. This winter I will restore myself. I am already doing the recuperating, allowing myself to spend my time well, with people who are kind, people who only want the best for me. I have been in touch with Eric and have seen that my ability to forgive and forget is not lost. I've also been focused on what is important, rather than what is not. I've also been taking long hard looks at who I am really am, and who I want to be.

Notably: Yesterday, I ate a delicious chocolate doughnut. I watched the Bears game and drank beers at Red Lion. I had dinner in Chinatown with Natalia. I read books 5 & 6 of "100 Bullets." I watched Shopgirl. I finished reading All the King's Men. I bought caramel sauce for Siena. I submitted a piece of writing to the Atlantic Monthly's Writing Contest. I am heading the Alumni Project for YCA. I bought a new book at Borders (for the first time in years), it was Dava Sobel's The Planets.

word of the day: fathom

yams and marshmallows.

sometimes, all you need is something other than love, which is most assuredly given out of love, but it is all the more valuable: time.

I've spent my time well with my friends these last few days. It's part relief and part reassurance I feel. I know the people in my life are there because I like them and they like me.

word of the day: guillotine

real short news break.

No breaking news on any fronts. Just been busy working, busy with homework, trying to fill the days, looking forward to the end of the week.

Have a presentation due on Hokusai tomorrow. Whittled all my time away, so that I have tonight and tomorrow morning and you know me, I'll get it done, though how ravaged I'll be in the end is the question.

Thinking about doing the Prague Summer School thing. That same thing I really wanted to do last spring but it didn't work out. I know, it's a crazy thought, but it just might be a lot of fun and too good to pass up. Besides, what's five thousand more dollars on top of a huge pile of debt?

be well.

word of the day: pontificate

she had clay for eyes

After weeks of not seeing her, suffering through the most minimal of glances (almost to the point that I even wondered if it was her), yesterday our paths happened to cross--yet again!--and I wonder why.

Why? Why must I see her? There are thousands of kids that go to Columbia. There are so many circumstances that must conspire to bring us together. And yet, there we were, her going one way down the sidewalk, me going another, eyes searching out the familiar.

The weird thing about her is I recognize her, but it always takes me a moment to remember her. Certainly she is something which is like an object in the room that you notice only some three days after spending time in the room. But also, when I see people I know, they tend to look glad to see me and she always looks ambivalent, which confuses me. I see her eyes on me, I see her face turned my way and I look at her, and for that one fraction of a second, I can't place her or where I know her from.

And it's not like she's out of context, or she's changed the way she looks, or anything else logical.

Yesterday, she was staring so hard at me, as if she was going to say something that I actually said, "hey" to her before I realized who she was. She said nothing in response. Of course.

Maybe it's my fault. I'd been thinking about her a lot lately, and earlier that day I'd pulled up her pitiful myspace page (which she'd begun at some point last year and hadn't altered one bit whatsoever), which had changed since the last time I'd seen it.

She had actually entered information about herself into her profile. And she had one friend who was not Tom. Although, for some reason, as I contemplate how myspace profiles are almost like indicators of a personality, she still has not submitted a photo of herself for perusal. And that didn't surprise me.

She is like that chameleon sitting on the rock in the sun in Florida that you didn't see until it moved. What is it about me that moves her?

word of the day: sheathe

new post at chicago arts blog

check it out: chicago arts blog

a revelation, of sorts.

So, after spending most of my weekend lamenting (i.e. mulling over and processing information about) the man of the year, I've come to some surprisingly adult conclusions:

1) I've got no money and no time for dates right now anyway!

2)I am doing that thing again where I focus on what didn't happen (why didn't he at least ask me out for coffee?!) instead of what has actually happened (He went out of his way to give me 10 albums that he thought I might like!).

3)I'm also doing that thing where I can't just be with myself, I have to always be wondering about a guy (or 3).

And so, as I do the adult thing, the mentally healthy thing, I find myself cleared up to focus on my schoolwork, of which there is plenty, and dawdling along the halls of my mind in no particular hurry. It is with a much more relaxed poise that I face the day and anticipate that feeling of accomplishment.

word of the day: sparkle

so then, this is what "Me And You And Everybody We Know*" was about.

It's hard to say what's been the most important thing that's happened to me today. Was it the obsessive thoughts about the Man of the Year, circling, hovering, over me? Was it seeing the vast array of beautiful objects at SOFA? Or some detail of either that really stands out?

I don't know why I obsess about boys. I don't know why it's easy for me to be so patient with everyone else, but when it comes to boys, I have no patience.

The art was lovely. Truly, it was a huge show and I saw so many beautiful things that my head aches. At least it was from art and not people being annoying.

How about this: Yesterday, I volunteered (something I haven't done in some time) for a Build Day at the Redmoon Theatre. I, and a group of thirty others, assisted the interns and theatre dwellers with various tasks that require a lot of hands. Also, we got to do some collage art that will be featured in an upcoming show. It was pretty fun. I enjoyed myself immensely. I realized I want to do more stuff like that; both volunteering and theatre stuff.

Of course, I thought of the man of the year excessively. His favorite theatre is Redmoon (which he just so happened to mention one day in passing) and I was nervous that he might be there since he's quite the laborer. As soon as I realized he was not, I began to enjoy myself and my nerves were soothed by the monotony of black paint and strokes with a paintbrush.

word of the day: palpable

*"We have a whole life to live, fucker, but it can't start until you call."

it's no wonder

Just when I was beginning to seriously consider the idea of lifting the blanket of love we had and laying it over myself in a new relationship with him, logic got the best of him and he pulled it back.

He said he was sorry to have confused me. And he still has feelings for me. But one night does not a relationship make. And I agree wholeheartedly, and though I experienced some tragic sadness, I am willing to accept that things are the way they are and it is okay. I thought that I was over him and that spending time with him would be different. I hadn't anticipated how much I had let our relationship go, but not the love I had for him. So we are doing what's best for our separate selves and leaving the door open to talking, but not to sharing a bed, or hearts, or minds.

"there is no solution but to love and to be loved..."

And somehow, even though it doesn't match what other people might call love, that we could approach this summit and look down at both sides together is really something, and couldn't have happened without that love.

And, of course, as soon as my mind had settled those things for myself, another man stepped right in to take Eric's place. I think most of the time, I seek out the next man, but he simply showed up on his own volition. Although, I'll be honest, I was thinking about him. The Man of the Year. I was wondering if he'd been by in the morning. His coffee card was filed neatly away, indicating he had not. I looked for him in the nearby deli where I ran into him once. He had a panini and was puzzling over a red eye sudoku. But today he was not there. I even quelled my urge to ask about him, because after all, I'd just been mooning about Eric, and it was just hours ago that he was the guy for me, until I knew again that he wasn't. Not now. Not yet.

I was idly eating lunch and staring outside when I saw a car pull up in front of the coffeeshop. Then He jumped out of it, and I was surprised to see him. The Man of the Year. I felt very surprised. He bounded up the steps with a stack of cd's in colored jewel cases in his hand and plopped them on the counter for me. His usual smile and banter was absent, he was all business with me. Nervous? Not expecting me to be there? Does it matter? As I looked down at this package--bound together by a plain rubber band and a note on top--I asked, "Is this for me?"

My heart must have been beating so loud that I lost all my hearing, I know he said something but I don't know what. Even moments after he left I couldn't tell you what he said.

Then as I held the cd's and looked up at him, he said, "I gotta go."

And just like that, he was gone. It was the oddest thing. And yet, it thrilled me to the core of my being.

The note was the epitome of sweet. I mean seriously, it could not have been more perfect. It was apparent that he'd spent time thinking of what to say, reviewed it and made changes, and he even put drawings on there for me. It would have been fine just like that. Just to know he'd given me music (ten cd's!) I might enjoy listening to that much thought would have been plenty. That he'd come out of his way to drop them off for me was even more amazing.

But then, there it was, vertically written along the border: his phone number.

His phone number! You haven't seen a smile that wide on my face in some time. I went to the bathroom and looked at it in the mirror, because I wanted to see what it looked like. And I was so giddy with joy that I literally bounced around the coffeeshop for the following hour.

Now I sit holding his note in my hands and think to myself, this is it. I have to choose. I have to decide if I want to play the game with him. I have to choose whether or not I'm ready to begin the rigor of Dating Another Person. I thought I was ready, but I don't know if I am. I want to be ready for him, I want to be my best for him, and I don't think I'm there yet. I'm close. Closer than I was with [the man who associated himself with an unnecessary accessory]. I think seeing Eric and really getting all the things about our relationship talked over made a tremendous difference in my general well-being. I don't feel so much like a victim, and I don't feel so much like terrible girlfriend material.

I know I can try taking it slow. Or seeing what happens. Or playing it by ear. Or maybe nothing will happen. Maybe we'll go out for coffee or dinner and immediately know that we're not the right person for each other.

What scares me most is that he might absolutely be the right guy for me.

He's goofy, intelligent, observant, a reader, an artist, a hard worker, a lover of animals, someone who searches for quality, his aesthetic sense is well developed, his fashion is on target, but not the most expensive brand just for the sake of having a name brand, he has a funny laugh, he has great taste in music and he winks. he's excellent at the winking.

it's no wonder that I'm absolutely terrified.

when it surprises you.

My work got read aloud today in class (among others) and it was heavily recalled, and for the most part, I think people really got the point of the story, really got the feeling I was going for.

The triumph in that is it is probably the piece that is closest to my journal writing style, and yet it still has its own feeling apart from me. Also, it was a rare piece of mostly fiction (I tend to have about half real life instances and half made up scenarios), in which the characters I'd envisioned grew beyond what I'd seen for them, and the scene unfolded in a way I hadn't predicted.

Moreover, I was pleased with the subtle sense of extended metaphor in the piece, something I hadn't noticed I'd done til I read it through a couple times.

Or, as Steve Martin says in my favorite Steve Martin Movie, "Sometimes, I even amaze myself."

If you'd like to read the piece in question, send me an email and I'll send it to you.

this whole thing

I look to the future and know there will be a time in my life when the landscape of men is behind me, where I forge ahead with one truly great man who is my equal and also challenges me to be my best, as I do for him, and we share a love that is bigger and more consuming than we have ever known.

The world we move with parts before us like the breaks in a crowd, and we innovate, excel, create dynamic things wherever we go. We do not simply allow life to come to us and swallow us whole.

We do not need to remind each other of our greatness, for it beams out of us like lighthouses; an ever present ray that illuminates everything. We merely provide the support needed to regain footing, and we do so with compassion and generosity.

Those who know us personally will bear witness to our great love, and see no facades, just the simple structures of our love, expressed in kindness to each other, a mutual respect for our words and actions, and the joy that comes from loving and being loved by another person in perfect synchronization.

Yeah, that's what I'm playing for. And I'm not letting just anyone in anymore. I may not find this with the next person I choose to give my love and time to, but I will be looking for its potential all the while.

"Are you the love of my lifetime 'Cause there's been times I've had my doubts"

Funny, how people are. I can't blame them. I spent the bulk of the last year waxing and waning on why, how, what the hell was going on in my relationship with Eric. And at the slightest hint of letting him back into my life, I've heard opinions that run the gamut from "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" to "Oh, well, it's your life."

Anyway. The truth is, I'm going to do whatever it is I'm going to do. I know I have a tendency to make declarations and not stick to them, but there's some things you don't get a chance to have again, and Eric is the love of my lifetime. I'm not going to avoid seeing him just because I said I never would again (which was clearly the hurt five-year-old inside me talking).

Plus, nothing has happened yet, just wonderings, just feelings, just knowing that there's certain people in the world who you will always love, no matter what they do to you, because that is the nature of love, especially unconditional love.

Other than that, I've been out a lot, busy with homework, and my brain is full of musings personal and plentiful. Miss you.

frustrations abound

what. the. hell?

He asked me to go to ohio [a month in advance] to see this band play.

so I said yes.

Then I found out they were coming here five days later.

so I bought tickets.

tonight's the night.

and he's sick.

hollow 'ween

This is probably the first Halloween in a while that I am not doing anything. I don't really know why (because you're getting old, hahahahahaha! ). Is it that it's on a Tuesday? Is it that I didn't buy a costume? Or couldn't think of one that I wanted to be (other than the tried and true: Wonder Woman or The Statue of Liberty, both of which I've been in various incarnations).

I have loose plans with the ex-roommates to go to a bar near my new apartment. They've fallen in love with some band that plays there every Tuesday. The fact that it's a block away from my apartment and the band will be playing so I won't have to talk to them makes it kind of appealing.

I doubt anyone there will be dressed up, but I doubted that anyone at school would be dressed up today and of course, someone in class was. I couldn't really figure out her thing. Her face had a big bruise made up over her left eye, a trail of blood out the corner of her lips and a pretty detailed open wound on her neck. It kind of looked like she had a lot of makeup that she just didn't wash off from the night before. The outfit she was wearing seemed to have little to do with the excessive make-up. She came in late and when she sat down, a student across the room looked at her and gasped audibly. I guess she wasn't expecting anyone to be dressed up either.

Today I wore this outfit that makes me look like I've just been at the stables, whispering at horses. I figure if someone asks, I'll say that's my costume.

The weird thing is, I could have gone to a party on Saturday, but I didn't. I got invited to this party a loooong time ago, and since then, the host of the party has become the next potential owner of the coffeeshop. And since those of you who know me pretty well, know that when booze becomes part of the event, I have a tendency to, shall we say, speak loudly and without thinking about what is coming out of my mouth before saying it. So, in an uncomfortably queasy way, I opted out of going to the party, mostly because I didn't trust that I wouldn't announce my feelings about this girl who might potentially be my boss someday.

Oddly enough, I had invitations to two other parties and opted not to go to those either. Instead, I stayed in, goofed around on the internet, (wrote the incredibly dramatic last entry over at the other blog) and went to bed, because I had to work in the morning at 6:30. (how responsibly old of you!)

Anyway, my teeth hurt and candy makes it feel worse, so maybe it's for the best.

so this is what they mean by closure.

Eric and I went out for lunch today.

It was the most random act, yet it completely made sense. It took very little effort, he asked, I said ok, we met, all in less than twelve hours.

I'm not sure what this means.

However, we got to spend time with another person who knows us better than most people do, in the basking glow of a lovely day, which really feels like the last of these impossibly beautiful glimpses of summer weather. We went to lunch and then walked around the zoo. We stared at animals. Sat on benches. Followed paths.

We did a lot of talking about the relationship we had. Talking to him and listening to him really made me feel better. I hadn't realized how much not knowing where he was in the world, what was on his mind, how he spent his time this summer, even as simple as where he's living now; those things really wore me down. I kind of grouped those thoughts into the frustrations of my life that I may never understand, and tried my best to go back to doing what absolutely had to be done.

I feel a sense of completion between us, about our relationship and how it went. I'm not sure what else I sense. I don't want to make any declarations right now. It was just very good to talk to someone about this terrible time in my life who understood exactly what I was saying because he was a part of it. And it was nice to be able to laugh with this person I thought would never speak to me or look me in the eye again.