time to pull up stakes again

The very first entry I wrote here was about meeting him for lunch again, after so many months had passed, after I'd practically lived another life in just six months. I'd had two disappointing relationships, two places to live, and an ache for him that was bigger than I could have imagined. I wouldn't say that I was hoping for more, just that we had encountered each other and it went well.

Almost two years have passed since that entry and it is time to bury that relationship in the ground. I am done. It is dead. There is no more to say. I cannot write here anymore and see his name or read about the things we've done. I can't even feel tempted to peruse this collection of memories.

If you want my new blog address, feel free to email me, leave your email in a comment, or let me know somehow.

Thanks for being here with me and attempting to feel what I've felt for the last two years.

here I am

What an amazing three, four (I seem to have lost count) weeks it has been.

I don't have the internet as freely as I did before, so forgive my absence. I hope I didn't worry anyone.

Basically, I have found out that the love of my lifetime is a slimy snake who has been charmed by someone else. It was a concern I had throughout our relationship and the second I stopped worrying about it and just let him be, he was gone. Rather interesting that I accused him time and time again of wanting to be with someone else, anyone else, and he was always stubbornly refuting that claim. I became secure in myself and in his assurances, and then he was gone into another woman's bed.

Upon learning this information (a good two weeks after it happened, I might add) I left immediately. I began packing that day. I stayed with friends. I walked through my life like a trauma victim. I felt like a fool. I felt like a giant asshole. I felt like the world's biggest loser.

Two weeks later (on the first of the month, after I pulled my head out of the sand) I moved into my new apartment. It is in boystown. It is very close to where I used to live before I met him, before he dazzled me with his flashy heart and empty promises. I like to think that it is my way of taking myself to that time, to who I was before I met him, to a fork in the road that I made a promising, but ultimately erroneous turn.

We made three trips back and forth from my new apartment to his place. I couldn't believe I had so much stuff. I gave a lot of stuff to salvation army before moving in and there were still three car loads worth of crap. I still have a dresser there that I need to retrieve. On the third ride back, I saw him riding his bike away from his place. He had likely walked in to find that my piles of boxes were gone, and a scattered array of the things that were meant for the third trip cluttered his living room. He immediately got on his bike to find solace with his friends, I presume, as he was heading in their direction. I am glad we did not encounter each other.

Looking back, I see the signs, I see the old issues ripping open scar tissue, I see how I was. Again, I probably accused him so fiercely because I myself wanted something more, someone else, and one night I found it in someone else's bed. I didn't tell him about it until we broke up, because I knew it was wrong and I knew that what I really wanted, what I didn't want to sacrifice or lose was us. I have a terrible habit of destroying my relationships when I don't know what to do about them, and I also have an incessant need to be adored. This mixed with a night of heaving drinking led me to another man's bed. We did not have sex, but we were intimate with each other. And I wrote it off as a mistake I would never make again.

I feel the need to say this here because I don't want the scales to be improperly balanced. I don't want to make him the bad guy. We both fucked up. We both fucked each other up. Sometimes that is what love looks like.

As I begin the transition of living alone again, of finding things to do with my time, of looking myself in the mirror, I feel that things will work out somehow and I will be just fine. I will probably always wonder about him and miss him, but for now, I am just enjoying the feeling of being by myself and it feels pretty good.

I reckon

Breaking up is like sky diving.

The free fall is at once terrifying and exhilarating. I have no idea where I'm going and no idea where I'm gonna land. But I do know that the ground is coming, the fall will stop and I will be just fine.

Besides, I've had my parachute on for a long time.

interference

I thought we were past of all the past. I thought we could deal with anything. I thought we'd figured it all out.

As for them, they became peripheral, part of the landscape, part of the deal, but not the deal breaker. We'd see them periodically, but with some angst, especially for me. That I've seen them less than the fingers on my hand in the last year makes it a smaller pill to swallow.

Somehow, maybe because I've loosened up a little and decided that being friends with them didn't matter anymore, that it wasn't ever gonna happen, we actually have had some good times. There was that grown-upish dinner night, and the fourth of july party where all our friends convened, and there was that birthday party we had, but she wasn't there. Most of them when I see them it's bad. I hate it. But I tolerate it, them, him and them, because that's what people have to do. That's what I have to do to love him.

Lately, it's been getting harder for me to make nice. Maybe because we've been seeing them more often. Maybe because the mere mention of her name makes us rabid, to the death fighters.

The last one was the worst yet, and I really felt like she wasn't even trying to make nice either, which made me want to give up my half of the charade. It made me want to decree that she's not welcome in my house. Ever. I didn't tell him that, just let that fester inside. I figured, I was snarky from having my day off snatched away from me. I figured, she was bitchy cause she had to put the cat down.

Now it's another weekend, another day, another opportunity to be the better woman. And I was up for it, to a point, until he picked a fight with me about it. And then he did something was was out of line. Deciding that I needed a personal invitation, he asked her to call me and invite me. What the fuck? I'd just told him I hate her. And now she's involved. If I don't go, she knows something is up. If I go, I have to pander to these fucks all night.

So I say fuck it, I don't care anymore. It's time for war and truth. At the end of it, there may not be an us, but at least I never have to see that face of hers again.

hair today...

As a person with an ample head of hair, I have the luxury of being able to alter my hairstyle with dramatic results. I have been a redhead, a blonde, a brunette, a bob, a sleek shoulder length, a mop of wavy curls. This time, my criteria was simple. No more ponytail.

Now that summer is over and I don't have to worry about humidity for at least six months, I figure it's time to commit to blow drying and flat ironing. I don't even really work that early in the morning anymore. And it was raining yesterday when I got my haircut, so we left it curly and it looked pretty good. It actually looked better curly than it did today all blown out and straight.

Strangely, my hair cut has done something I did not expect. It makes me look kind of grown up. And it sort of really suits me.

Most of the time when I have a hair style it's just not quite right. I envy those women who have found their cut, the one that is wash and go, looks great every day; good for them, I say. I still don't think this is the hair for me (it feels a little soccer mom), but I'm happy for the change.

the trucking life

Sometimes I wonder why the stars aligned to bring my father into my life. He has caused a lot of heartache in his time. A lot of it is derived from the sort of misunderstandings that sensitive people collect along the way, but some of it is downright dirty lashing out on his part.

I have never condoned the actions of my father; both present or past. To say that I understand them, that I can have empathy for the sort of pain he feels first, well that would be closer to it.

As he faces another incredible struggle with his health, one that amazes and astounds doctors at his stubbornness, his sheer will to survive, his ability to tolerate so much physical pain. He can do it because he has suffered so many pains in his heart and mind, the body is just a thing. His heart is a black hole of hate and desperation and profound and complicated love.

I worry for him. I love him. I feel guilty sometimes for doing so, but I can't help myself.

As I contemplated applying to Iowa again, I realized that my manuscript had to be material that was a bit more universal than a goth girl working in a liquor store on clark st (not that there's anything wrong with that...). As I sifted through some of my notes and half told stories, I found a beautiful piece I'd written to accompany a photograph my father gave me on one of my rare visits with him. The piece itself was ignored by my instructor at the time, a guy who writes light hearted fiction who thoroughly enjoyed the goth girl. I assumed that must mean the piece about my father wasn't very good.

Most of the time when I read things I've written all I can see is a terrible writer. I cringe at every awkward metaphor, each lengthy sentence, poor use of grammar, etc. This piece, despite flaws of those kind really still had a sense of life, a sense of awe, a sense of curiosity. I wanted to know more. I wanted to write more.

Has my father come into my life to give me the one thing I have always wanted? His stories of living the trucking life, traveling with a carnival, trying to make it big somehow, is this his gift to me? In my heart I know that what kept me journalling for so long was knowing he was there to read it. I always thought I got my sense of writing from my mom, but in a lot of ways, it's my dad that has nourished my writing.

a weekend alone to ponder

he has travelled and I love him, fuck I love him

but. Yes, there is always one of those.

I feel guilty for saying this but I'm glad he's gone.

I never realized how much I liked living alone. No one to chide. No one to question. No one to wonder about. A freedom from worrying about people.

Anyone who knows me fairly well has noticed I like to take care of people. Some might say I have a insatiable urge to take care of people. A select few might have some psycho babble as to why.

I used to hate to be alone, probably because I needed to feel needed. My entire existence was contingent on someone else's feelings. If someone didn't like me, it might be the end of my world.

I guess I didn't realize that aspect of me has changed. I saw the effects of it, being less angry with people, feeling less fear of others, cutting off people who always needed me. I never imagined that my true angst was never being happy with being alone. I used to be guilty; who I am ignoring now? What friend have I not called in a while? How can I opt out of this Halloween party two years in a row? Now, I don't care. Very often the best days I have involve no humans at all. Except for television humans, who are in a different class of "people" from those you might "see" on your day off. After all, they don't demand your complete attention; just the television stations do.

Spending time alone feels like a long ago memory. The kind you might still retain that heavy physical memory of. Or as they say, "It's like riding a bike." As a kid, I loved to read. Some of my fondest memories are tied into books. In a house with four other people, people who were needy and wanted attention, reading was seen as anti-social behavior. But you know, not said that way, more like, "You always have your nose stuck in a book." And then the eye rolling, to let me know that wasn't as cool as I seemed to pretend it might be.

Once, since I've lived here with him, I read a book in his presence. It was the sort of book that demanded to be read, that lured as I walked past, that I did not resist. I wonder if he knows that he has his own versions of this, diluted so that his attentions can oscillate toward me after my repetition of the question. Lately, I've begun to enjoy our together/alone time. Sometimes we both sit here with laptops in each lap and something better to do, but we futz around, I play sudoku on my dashboard, he surfs the message boards of some geekboy review site. And we get to pretend that no one else needs us and no one is going to bother us. Maybe someday we will funnel our energies into something collaborative. For now, we are still feeling out the mine field and wondering where to step next.

Today it was the out of sight beauty routines women should avoid sharing with their mate. That whole face mask stuff. I mean, seriously do you think the goo on your face is cute? At all? Not so much. Plucking the eyebrows. Another thing that cannot be fun to watch. Hairs pulled. Pain. Ice. Numbness. Redness. Eww. Clipping your toenails. I still can hardly stand when he does it in front of me. I try not to do it when he's around because I hate that noise and imposing it one someone else seems horrrible. (Once I was on the bus and someone was clipping their nails. On the bus. Shudder.)

And I then I spent a long time zoning out to television that he would never let me watch, even though I watch tons of his dumb shit just because it's his tv and he's more pushy like it matters and I know they rerun my shows all the time and a week from now it'll be on again; hell half of the reruns I've seen already. In fact I avoided watching anything he would want to watch that I've become used to and half enjoy and watched horrible things instead, like: What Not To Wear, The Oprah Show, and recent emmy winner (they'll give any one emmy these days, won't they?) The Tyra Banks Show. I like to imagine I'm watching the part that will end up as a clip on The Soup. But I digress.

Sometimes I spend my days spinning like a top from person to person. Even when I wasn't dating him, there was that feeling. Sometimes I forget to slow down, I forget to let my limbs out, and then I lose myself in trying to keep everyone else in focus while I spin. So here's to stretching out in the bed, taking up the couch, and leaving my stuff laying all around. In a few days he'll come back to a refreshed me. Then I'll be glad he's back.

when he was well

goodybe Pablito

Pablo spent the last days of his short life outside, where he enjoyed listening to the sounds of the night, with the people who loved him petting and brushing his decimated body with a soft brush.

His family and friends gathered the night before he was to be euthanized at the veterinarian’s office. To many people who have never experienced a pet relationship, this get together might not be understood, but for the people who loved Pablo, it made perfect sense.

It was a way to say goodbye and share our grief with each other. It was our way of coping with the loss of such a vibrant cat.

The Lint Graveyard

This is the kind of thing I find fascinating!

A mended regret

My war with As I Lay Dying began at least a decade ago. I can hardly remember my exact age at the time. I remember that it was the first Faulkner book I'd attempted. I was encouraged by my then voracious biblophile boyfriend who had long since digested that great book and has since read tomes I might never be able to pry open.

I remember reading the first few chapters. I remember not understanding what was going on. And then I put the book down.

I encountered Faulkner again in the supportive environs of a writing class in pursuit of my degree in writing. The book was Go Down Moses and it came with a geneology printout, a list of vocabulary and a stern warning from my teacher. Apparently, the word had gotten around that Faulkner was "difficult to read." Our teacher assured us that we would take things slow and answer lots of questions. But read it we did. And I found that Faulkner was not so bad to read. And that I had lived a little helped immensely.

And so, I went to a bookstore to rescue that forgotten title, but again it was too much to bear. After just ten pages, I could not understand it, so it went onto one of my many bookshelves and languished there, forgotten again.

When I moved in with Eric the first time, I had to pare down many of my belongings into a category I will call Things I Cannot Fathom Never Seeing Again. So I parted ways with that book once more.

Last summer I was successfully reading Faulkner (as you may well remember) and I made the purchase of that same book again. This time I vowed I would read it no matter what. In fact, I devised an elaborate plan to read it in a supported way, this time with my own little writing group. Because neither of my companions had no interest whatsoever in that book at all, it floundered in my world once more.

I attempted to read it in the travel time I have to and from work, a tactic that has served me well with many many many other books, but this book could not be treated that way. It demanded a detail of attention and a focus that I simply could not give it on a crowded bus in the middle of summer.

I left it sitting out to guilt me into reading it; it sat in my hallway near the door for two months. So I finally picked it up again one night. I discovered that I had read nearly half of it and did want to keep reading. I think it was the word "moiling" that really intrigued me. It took another couple of weeks, but I have finally finished this book that has haunted me for years.

It is funny. I had a similar, though not as lengthy, experience with Cosmicomics by Italo Calvino. And other books that I have really loved were wrestling matches as well. I rallied through East of Eden because I knew from experience with Steinbeck that something good would come out of it. And now I have wiped away the burden of my deepest book regret and finished that book.

It left me the way many of Faulkner's books do: envious, humbled and exhilarated. And if Oprah can read it, well then so can anyone.

the truth about her

I'd almost forgotten her. The sting of her stealing his heart and discarding it so easily had begun to diminish. She had him so completely and left him aching. He gave her his entire self in the form of absolute truth, a thing I could never have with him because we were never friends first. And then she said a firm no to his advances and I was roused back into life from the dead.

That we live on a street that is her name seems to me no small coincidence. The apartment has its charms and I try to forget that part. Anyway, he chose it and it is something I will never be able to understand, but I accept it.

That they worked together in such closeness drove me insane, but I managed to keep that turmoil deep inside my brain.

And then, one day he left and it was done. There was no mention of her. She was not his coworker. She was just a name. She was just a memory.

And then she had something to share, some photographic event that she sent via text. He pretended he was not interested. And I tried to forget that she was a name in his phone and not just a random sequence of numbers that she had been once.

A few days went by and I had forgotten her again. I was at my favorite bar with my favorite people. I had my hair down and my smile on. And then she appeared in the doorway with her girlfriend.

When people muse that time has the ability to stop completely in a moment with a significant pause and then stagger to regain its balance and then accelerate to make up the difference, well yes, I believe it can. It did in that moment.

She may or may not have seen me. It was busy there in the bar. And I made no attempts to welcome her or greet her, even when she passed my table. I wanted to grab her by the hair and demand answers, instead I felt like I was going to vomit or pass out from the adrenaline rush. And she passed me, with her manly companion and I let her pass.

Later, after the bar had cleared, after the booze had settled into my limbs, I wandered back into the bar with a friend to catch a glimpse of her. The friend casually glanced. She went to the bathroom and there was no way she could pretend not to notice me. So she walked past me and I knew that there was still something there in her heart for him. If there wasn't she could freely gallivant all over me, victorious, greedy, malicious, but there was something in her that did not want to be hurt by me.

Sometimes I wonder why she could not let him in. He was certainly willing. She was eager to share his world in many ways. They went on trips and had great times. I never imagined that it was because he still loved me. Sometimes I pretend it must be something else, but there is no pain greater than knowing you cannot possess someone completely.

Navy Pier

post script and follow up

I never thought I'd see him again. And probably, because I wished that one embarassment never was is why he ambled back to say hello. I've always found coincidence fascinating, because it leads me into so many strange encounters. This one was no different; I opened the door of the cafe to the cooler weather, he just happened to be walking by in that moment I lingered by the condiment bar to restock it. Fearing he'd be noticed walking past and avoiding me, he boldly stepped inside to inquire how I was.

I hardly recognized him. He'd gained weight and dyed his hair a bright yellowish blond. It was his smile that clued me in and I was shocked to see the man of the year standing in front of me, a ghost of what was and smiling at that.

We fumbled through an awkward conversation, taking the year and a half that has happened since and wrapping it up into a few lines. He's been travelling across the country. I've stayed here working and grad school was a no. And then he left.

It's strange. It's not like I realized immediately that I'm better off for never having the misfortune to immerse myself in the mess that he was. I remembered how excited I was about him, how thrilled I'd be after he came by. And that same thrill travelled through me. I looked in the mirror and studied my face, I wondered how it looked to him. And then it ran it's course and I was back to reality, back to realizing that there are more important things in life than thrills.

Also, I was warmed by the thought that I'm with Eric now and things between us are fantastically good. I know now that I have always been his and he's always been mine, and having these attempts at relationships with men like the man of the year only underlined the fact that things between Eric and I were never muddled, never hard to begin, and I never had to wonder about him. Of course, that kind of peace of mind only comes with time for me and six years finally knocked me over the head.

Gardening may be for Grandmas.

Three months since we planted the garden and things are in full bloom. We did lose the tomato plants that we planted too close together. The brussels sprouts also blocked their sunlight and starved them. Eric won't give up though and bought three new plants to replace some of them. We went through a cycle of snap peas and have started a new crop of them. They are fun to pick off the fence and munch while checking out the rest of the garden. The watermelon have taken off and grown outside our plot along the ground. We had four pepper plants that the brussels sprouts crowded out, but one has managed to push out and continue to grow, quadrupling in size without our noticing.

fun. fun. fun.

Watermelon in training!

And yes, it's the only we have so far...

How I've Spent My Summer (A Cellphoto Essay)

Eric's new haircut

Ducklings on North Pond.

Arcading after Wall-E.

The beach by my old apartment.

Sunset on the train.

Guitar Heroes.

Great America; Superman ride.

The kid.

Navy Pier; view of lighthouse from telescope.

The saddest cotton candy salesman ever.

There's no one behind you....

She said, as I looked around.

There had been. I was sitting on the bench, reading my book, waiting for the bus when a male presence asserted himself to my right. There were grunts and groans as he settled onto the bench, leaning into it from behind, trying to get my attention.

I wouldn't flatter him with a glance. I wouldn't even dare give in to my curiosity. I closed my book and waged a mental war and sat up sturdy and watched for the bus. And at some point in my earnest attempts to pretend he didn't exist, he disappeared. The bus arrived and I stood up worried about my skirt clinging to my thighs, climbed aboard and appeared to be crazy in front of the bus driver. I looked left and right for that presence, ready to abate my curiosity, ready to see who I was angry at.

There's no one behind you, she said, with a hint of laughter on her lips.

My sunglasses were on and the difference between full sun and harsh bus lights gripped me for a moment too long as I tried to discern the moment that he'd left my side, given up on getting my attention, walked away. I walked down the aisle and passengers moved away from my lurching body, unwilling to be touched by my hips, my legs, my skirt.

For a moment I wondered if he was even there or not, if I'd imagined the whole thing, but I remembered that at some point, a man in a car listening to a blaring song with the line, "Players only love you when they're playing..." This man looked back at us, and yelled, "I love you!" I didn't respond. The man beside me grunted loudly at him, "What?" The man in the car screamed out, "I'm not playing," and then turned left at the light.

The point is, he was there. And when the bus arrived he was not. He did not intend to get on the bus. He simply settled in to observe me and for some reason, even though that was hours ago, I cannot stop feeling my skin crawl from that fact.

Maybe it is the neighborhood. The men of Humboldt Park are so different than men anywhere else. They not only seem to want to let me know that they like me with playful hoots or pleasant beeps of their horns, but are not satisfied when I do not respond. They do not just carry on and find the next girl to honk at, they seem to want to make me see them. And I will not speak to them, I will not encourage them. As the summer wears on, I find it necessary to wear tank tops and skirts. The sad thing is, my version of a tank top shows no cleavage, and my skirts fall well past my knee. This does not seem to matter. I am a woman, and I feel like they think I must want men to hoot and snicker and call out to me, so they gladly do so.

Last week, I took the long journey to the nearest laundromat. It is a distance of four blocks, which seems quite far with two giant duffel bags packed to brimming, rolling behind you in the hot sun. I have made this journey many times over the last six months, and what always amazes me, because the street borders a park, there is no end to how many men like to sit around and hoot and holler at women walking past. Even in the middle of winter I've been honked at, usually from behind, as if men are trying to say hello to my ass.

In that four blocks five separate honks occurred, the last of which was followed by a truck slowing down and the men inside trying to speak to me. I would not turn my head. As I was nearing the last block, feeling the weight of the laundry in my muscles, sweat rolling down my face from the sun, I noticed three men sitting near the corner where I was due to pass. They heard the wheels of the duffels scraping the sidewalk and turned at my arrival. Each of them made noises at me, cooed at me, but two of them gave up as I passed. One of them would not stop and even stepped towards me at which point I turned my head and raised my middle finger up. I don't think I've ever done that, no matter how many times I've wanted to. It scares me that my rage could circumvent my internal editor and make me do things I'm not proud of.

Today I wondered what a world without men would be like. If women were in charge of the U.N. would they really have a good cry, roll up their sleeves and clean things up, as Diane says? Are men only useful for expanding life beyond the current generation? Would I miss the world as we know it if every man was gone? Sometimes these imaginings are foolish and I'm not afraid to admit it. It's strange, feminism has done so much, yet sexism still remains. I feel like I can't walk down the street alone or sit at the bus and cross my legs because it will encourage a man to initiate some kind of contact with me.

And next time a man sits behind me just to stare at me, I'll get up and move.

4th

The fourth from a palatable distance.

The Week of The Red Bumps Part 1

The Week of The Red Bumps Part 2

At first I thought it was just irritated skin from my overzealous eyebrow tweezing the day before. Then I imagined the pest ridden garden apartment was to blame; who knows what crawls over my sleeping face? Now, I'm not sure, but I think I may have some sort of facial rash of the sort that will require me to visit a dermatologist.

For those who know me fairly well, you will remember that having no health insurance means I tend to avoid any and all doctors even at great risk to my own health. I'll never forget the pseudo pneumonia I barely survived in 2003. Neither will Eric; I complained excessively. Somehow, vanity holds a higher calling card and I am desperate to visit a dermie. I'm even walking a dog for a week--a task I pretty much loathe, from having done it regularly for a year--all in an effort to make some extra cash to pay a doctor. Ugh.

Just like all of my affairs, I have asked lots of people about this horrible set of red bumps on my right eyelid and everyone seems to have their own secret treatment that I worry about implementing and possibly making things worse.

It's strange to feel that my skin has some horrible flaw. I imagine eyes being drawn to those bumps, I feel like a monster. I haven't been wearing makeup because I'm not sure if that was the source (and I imagine covering the rash up with a bunch of makeup can't be good for it.), but without makeup, I feel naked and awkward.

I wonder if all of this is punishment for the way I encountered the woman at Whole Foods who I asked about neem oil. I walked up to her and as I was asking my question, "Excuse me," she turned around, and her face was terrifically scarred from a fire, "Do you happen" a terrible fire, "to know" focus on her eyes, for fuck's sake, "where I can find neem oil?"

And then instantly wondering what a main character with horrible scars from burns would be like, how she would cope with life, a lifetime of people avoiding seeing what is so obvious, that haunting feeling that people are always staring at you a little too long, wondering what happened and how you had the misfortune to be there and survive.

Then again, I know my body has been holding small rebellions, slowly disintegrating into bone on bone devastation, to dust. I know my body hates me and this is just more proof that I cannot manage to exert the discipline I don't have to keep it in good working order. And now my face is just part of the mutiny.

Six weeks later...

The garden has a prettier side, and it's this one. The broccoli are doing well, the brussels sprouts are gigantic and the snap peas are climbing up the fence. Things at the other end of the garden are a little sad, the peppers are floundering from the lack of sun and warmth, the green beans are stunted and the watermelon is taking its sweet time to grow. I highly recommend that everyone try a little gardening, even indoors if you can't do outside, it's really gratifying to watch something you planted growing.

the show stealer

This broccoli is on the end and gets unobstructed light, so it's doing really well. Next year we'll have to get a bigger plot, since we didn't follow the recommended space between each of the broccoli and brussels sprouts, they are quite crowded.

my broken heart

Packing for a move reveals the things that fall into the cracks and crevices; today it was photographs of the children I used to babysit for. I wept with much bitterness and realized that even though three months have passed, my heart is still broken up over the loss of them from my lives.

Now that the anger I had is gone, I imagine that there might a solution to this ache, that I might be able to see my boo boo and squish once more. There is no reconciling that I can have with her, the mother, so that will be impossible. She cracked through my veneer maliciously and left me ruined. I cannot ever see her or speak nicely to her again.

The photographs from each year of the older child's life and random ones I happened to take were the most difficult to look at. Her year old picture that was sent out to family and friends is one I took of her in the garden pressing a finger to her nose (in response to the question, Where's your nose?), which was deemed by her, the mother, a cute way to show that she'd turned one. As for the squish, there is an ever present ache, for the adoration we shared was quite intense. I do not need photos to show how absolutely adorable she was, how responsive and curious she was, how she clung to me and was relieved to see me most days.

The entire matter of our breech is still a mystery to me, how my behavior was so misinterpreted, how every thing I did was seen as a move against them, despite the fact that I gave up my life for three weeks to be there. Futhermore, the absence of her husband from all of this means that this was entirely her decision that he supported her in and that might be the biggest hurt of it all.

literary milestone

So I bought Absalom, Absalom! less than a couple weeks ago and I finished it today. I read it while travelling on the bus to and from work. It's the third or fourth Faulkner book I've read in the past year. I was amazed by how different it was structurally, but it still had the same tone and themes I've come to know from old Bill. Basically it's one person telling another a story, but at a glance it can be extremely long sentences and paragraphs that sometimes leave two facing pages with no anchors for the eyes, no pause or rest from a paragraph break. Essentially, it was like drowning in words.

Every so often, I would have to stop reading. I'd still have lots of time left in my bus ride, but I just couldn't do it anymore. Midway, right before I was just about ready to toss the book aside completely, Faulkner connected the dots between the characters that had me flipping through the next chapters earnestly. It was probably the hardest book I've read in a while. But it was worth every frustration.

I realize that reading a book makes me no better than anyone else. It's not like I read Moby Dick, which I hear is beastly to slog through. I think one of the things about reading that I love is that I so often finish the books I start, which I rarely do in other arenas. I have loads of unfinished projects and floundering attempts at things. I even have a few books I've abandoned in my library. So I do feel a small sense of accomplishment when I actually finish a book, especially a Faulkner.

further entanglements

So it is finally official. After receiving my lease under my door (how fancy and professional of them) I have been forced to finally make a decision regarding moving in with Eric. My general decision making process usually involves me putting it off until the last minute or carefully avoiding the subject as long as possible.

Imagine my surprise when I drunkenly stumbled into my apartment after traversing the city with a large red duffel I'd packed to remove all evidence that I'd ever been to Eric's place and finding two paper clipped copies of my lease and the demand that I make a decision on the heels of the one I'd just made. I was just angry enough and just stunned enough to sign them both and throw them under the office door (at two a.m.) but something in me could not close the door on him (again), so I put them on my dresser and went to bed.

In the light of day things looked different, of course. After ten hours of sleeping it off, things seemed different. But still I wondered: Can I spend the rest of my life trying to convince this guy that I'm not a fucking asshole, and can I stop acting like a fucking asshole (on the rare occasions when his idiocy rears its ugly head), and can I just accept that we bring out the fucking assholes in each other, but we also do bring out good things too?

The truth is, we make each other crazy, but we're crazy about each other.

So I will move in with him and we will add another layer of commitment to quell the deep sense of pride we have in needing no one, but desperately wanting someone, and perhaps this will do something, this will break something inside me that attempts to ruin every good thing I have in my life.

Sometimes I wonder what our relationship would've been had I moved in with him when he'd first wanted to, when we were fresh and new and my many opionated older friends warned that moving in with him would be a complete diaster. I'm sure I would have found a way to destroy that scenario anyway.

For now, it sort of feels like I'm on a high cliff and climbing and if I look down it's scary, but if I keep thinking about the up, the journey, the adventure then it's exciting, but not in a happy way, if that makes sense. And if I can just keep my mouth shut about the bad parts, maybe I'll get somewhere.

implausing the plausible

Once again I've torn the smallish blanket of trust off of us, and left us naked and cold in the rain. And miraculously, he was able to pull it back over us and say that everything was just fine.

What drives my incessant need to know everything? What makes me such a crazy psycho bitch about him? Why can't I feign indifference as he does so easily?

I could travel the day with a million demons at my side and indulge in them all and he would not suspect or wonder about a thing I've done. Maybe that is his way of loving someone, to not care, to not wonder, to not think about your love.

I imagine I should tear myself away from him, find someone new, start over, but I instantly feel the floor come away and my smile gone. I have crossed myself a hundred times as I promised never to see him again, but here I am, in his bed, in his life.

We are healing, but the old habits are hard to break.

by the budding photographer Joycelyn

baptism morning

stuff afflictions.

I have tried to take this space and fill it with things. They look different this time. Last time it was an accumulation of things that I came across, this time, I chose things that comfort me.

It's hard to believe I've been here for almost two years. Even harder to believe that I've had a growing pile of crap in my kitchen for two years. Most of it is stuff from Marilyn that I never wanted in the first place, but I feel bad about throwing it away (every gift given had a declared actual value followed by its much lower purchased cost). Among those items are bits and pieces that I've grown out of, lost interest in, or just generally don't need anymore.

The last time I moved in with Eric after living alone, I had to pare down most of my life. It settled into nine large garbage bags that made their way to the Salvation Army (via a very helpful Jill who was thrilled to drive there with my boyfriend). A lot of it, of course, was the elimination of duplicate items that a household of three people was sure to have. And even then I still had a lot of stuff. I would have never admitted it before helping Val move yesterday, but I have waaaaaaay too much stuff.

Due to recent events (the uber commitment of the family plan), I've thought about moving in with Eric. As I contemplate what might stay and what might go (using "might" just as a paranoid, precautionary measure to avoid jinxes and the like) I find that much of my decor is probably considered "girly" and won't do at Eric's place. Yet, I like many of the things that are girly, like my curtains, comforter, and large silk wall panels. Of course, much of what I like and don't want to part with I bought on the cheap at Urban Outfitters. But those purchases were my triumphs into my own sense of style and I don't want to give that up. Enter compromise, which neither of us are very good at doing...

There are a few things that will be welcomed. My strange array of dressers. My printer, I suspect will come in handy. My few pieces of "real" furniture and not the shaky ikea items he has from five years ago. My few random baking items will supplement his. His heart will soar at the arrival of the big palm tree I hijacked from a friend of Marilyn's under the guise that I would give it a good home. I said this with the full knowledge that in the past, I had a plant death care facility. I think he likes it because it is the biggest living thing you can have in your home that doesn't move. He would also love to watch me fawn over Dustin's plant, which turned the tide of my black thumb.

Then there is the problem of the bed. It has been with me for almost six years now. But I don't think it will fit in his place. He already has a bed (a mostly land locked sea of memory foam). The idea of giving it to someone I know seems fitting, and yet, I've, um, you know, done a lot of things on this bed. Aside from the obvious, it's been my version of a couch, and it's been with me during some good times. I would love to give it to my mother, who purchased it for me, but it just seems a little icky.

Otherwise, what I know I must do is get rid of all the little items people tend to accumulate through the years, either from sentimentality or inability to toss lame last minute gifts out of fear the giver will notice its absence. Eric has plenty of these sort of items, they occasionally commit kamikaze style leaps off of the top of the fridge and I suppose I will have a surface area to cover with my own assortment, but I don't think I'll get to have too much room to place random items I love.

In a way, I guess the cleansing of unnecessary items from one's life is a good thing. Perhaps it just means I'll have more space to fill up eventually with things that we accquire together. And I hope to report that this might be my last move for some time, at least long enough to best my recent pattern of two years here, two years there....

slaying the villain

All it took was a phone call. It helped that I was a little drunk. I picked up the phone and I called them and asked them to go to dinner with us, which turned into a grill out at their place. He could have done it, but I did it instead.

This is significant because I spent a good deal of time trying to hate these people. I actually went out of my way to loathe them on the sly--while living with them, which is probably one of the most stressful things I've ever done to myself. I can't say if I was successful at the attempt, but they still seem to have some fondness towards me or perhaps they have the better poker face.

In my tyranny, liking them was not allowable because they were just so awful to live with. Now that I don't live with them and neither does he, dealing with them isn't so bad and I've actually discovered that I don't mind them too much.

Mind you, she is still a drooling cesspool of desire around him and I hate her for the way she captivates him. I hate him for being captivated. My cover was almost blown in one disgusting moment in which they exchanged their completely out-of-place platitudes and another friend of theirs bore witness to the emotional tsunami brewing inside me.

As I grow more and more comfortable in my own skin, I am finding that I stand my ground and interrupt her attempts at captivation. I assert my place next to him, after she somehow manages the feat of sitting down right beside him; several times I've asked her to move over or switch places with me.

And maybe it is that I realize that my anger and fear were so irrational, so illogical that I needn't worry anymore. She can throw herself at his feet as much as she likes, for that matter, any of them can, because he is mine and I am his and everything else is just what happens until we are together again.

community garden

planted

new phone love:

I wish I could take a photo of my new cell phone. It is silver and sleek and cool. It's a motorola Krazr. I'm no longer embarassed to take out my phone in front of people and make calls!

I switched providers. I got on the family plan with Eric. [I know, big commitment, right?!] I feel a little heady with the change of it all.

It has a camera so I'll finally be able to continue taking random photos and posting them here with vaguely loquacious yet nonsensical captions.

The irony is that not too long ago I could live without a cell phone and now you would have to pry it from my cold dead hands. I just hope I don't lose the damn thing.

currently:

I've picked up smoking again. We still don't agree with each other, the cigarettes and I, but here we go again. It's been a month or so. I haven't really been wild with it, but I'm hoping to diffuse it before it gets out of control. Oddly enough, the smoking ban has made it worse because when I'm at a bar with my friends and they all go outside to smoke, I feel silly sitting all by myself. I haven't been drinking as much, maybe because of the winter, or maybe because I've been broke, or maybe because I've been busy with Eric, but I'm glad that I've slowed down. When I was in England I drank maybe three pints in three weeks. I know that my friends are drinky-drunks, but they are good friends.

I'm in the middle of reading The Book Thief. It always amazes me when people are practically buying the book for me and then I read it and it's not very good. This also happened with Water for Elephants. Maybe I'm just getting highbrow or something, but nothing thrills me more than reading Faulkner or Nabokov. I'm reading Lolita again and it's just as stunning as I remembered it to be. During writing sessions I pull out As I Lay Dying, which was the first Faulkner book I ever tried to read and quickly failed to get past the first few--what seemed to me then--strange chapters. Now I have to resist reading it on the sly. I have gotten out of the habit of reading on the train, which resulted in my reading about a book a week for most of last year. I also still have six or seven of the birthday books left to finish.

I've really begun to realize how lazy I am and how I cover up for it by working a lot. That way, when I am tired from working I simply don't have to do anything I should be doing because I'm just so tired. I've been trying to push past it, but it is a bad habit. Since I've started working at the cafe again my feet have begun to exhibit signs of the foot pain that I was just beginning to recover from. When I was in England I walked so much, but my feet didn't hurt as much. The standing around for six hours is what does hurt. Due to the lack of my only accepted form of exercise (long distance walks), I have slowly been creeping up the scale again. I am back up to a size 16 and there is nothing more saddening to have that once vanquished insecurity best me again.

I have absolutely no idea what I want to do about grad school. I suppose I could keep applying to Iowa until they set a limit on how many times you can apply. Helpful others have mentioned lots of alternatives, but that is the only place I want to go. Of course I have considered my options, but that is my decision to make. I've thought about possibly doing freelance, but I don't know if I want to go into non-fiction writing at this point. I don't know if I care enough about it to do it. Also, there's something happening with non-fiction writing, things are changing, formats are changing, people can read reviews online by "real" people and I suspect that the sort of writing I would be good at (reviews, namely) will someday be obsolete unless I am extremely well educated on the subject. This may just be some of that laziness talking though...

I am really tired of my working situation. And yet, I like the unconventionality of my jobs, and according to my attempts at budget making, I should be in the plus, but I'm often scrounging for money, avoiding going out for anything over five bucks and paying my bills late. I seemed to be doing okay with my finances for a while and then suddenly around the holidays things went badly even though I did not buy a single Christmas present for anyone (I made gifts or gave away things I had). I even gave my brother and his wife a Target gift card that someone gave me, because I knew they wanted something more tangible than a craft project or a book they'd never read. Before I left for England I put my loan payments on hold, so I'm not even paying those now, but there's still no relief.

Every day there is a blissful respite from the world at large, whether it is in his words, his gaze, his arms, his bed; I find that I have no fight left when he is in my mind. I wonder if this is a good thing when we are apart, but I forget about it all when we are together and maybe that is all I need.

a bitter taste lingers

[Forgive me for turning this blog into a once-a-month-update page. I am also disgusted.]

Six weeks later, the physical wounds from England have healed; a splinter from the parqay floors finally exited the toughened skin on the bottom of my foot and gone are the blisters I accumulated while walking excessively. Slowly the rest of it is healing too, until one day maybe I'll forget that I ever loved someone else's children as if they were my own. There is no tidiness in this breach, it overlaps other friendships, put things into jeopardy, caused me to wonder if I shouldn't be friends with anyone that knew them.

I realize that when I am hurt or wronged or mad at someone I pull out the guillotine and let it fall without thinking. Leafing through a photo album of my previous birthdays revealed the faces of those long dead ghosts, who keep haunting me. I hear of them, people think I want to know things and I languish in that knowledge. It's not that I don't care what they're up to, it's that I care too much.

Today it was Marilyn, who is getting married. Last week it was Laura, who confronted me in person and I ducked away. Recently I learned that Deanna is back in town and done with school.

I don't regret the loss of these friends. I imagine every day is a cleaner, fresher, more stable day because they aren't in it. I know that I am a happier person for their absence. I am absolutely complete with how things ended with each of them and I can't say there's anything to repair or fix or say or apologize for.

And yet, somehow hearing of their lives, both successes and failures, I feel an urge to rekindle what good parts I have allowed to remain in the muck of my memory. I feel like congratulating them, supporting them, but there's something about the decision I made in not being friends with them that is so strong it holds me back from even bothering. It's been over a year since I talked to two of them in person and I only feel this way when I hear about them.

There is something special in having someone around you that knows you for who you really are, somehow who cares for you no matter what you do, it's just too bad that it was not always there from me or them.

As I've survived the emotional fallout from those situations, I find that I am less likely to readily accept the offer of friendship. I used to gobble up any attention anyone gave me. No more. I'm friendly, but not open for business. I have hibernated this winter and come out leaner and feeling better than I have in a long time. Those that I want to know and be on good terms with I've tried to be in touch with to let them know I'm still interested. I've rarely chosen my friends and I'm still revelling in the greatness of it.

I worry that I keep cutting off my older friends and that it's a bad sign if someone doesn't have any friends from childhood or school, but I'm fairly sure if I met Val or Walter ten years ago we'd be close today.

Apparently Laura announced to everyone at the coffee shop that she was disappointed in me because she thought we were "friends for life." I guess all break-ups are hard, even if you treated the person like shit. And what a better life I get to have now!

birthday blues

After years of throwing away countless recyclables in the form of milk cartons, beverage containers, plastic cups and newspapers, I decided I would direct these products out of the cafe to the recycling station recently opened at the Nature Museum. To my current diet of disappointment, I added what was essentially a glorified garbage bin. To call it a station is to call a television with no cable watchable.

To make matters worse, it was accompanied by a wet slap of snow in the face. I spent much of the day with soaked shoes and socks. Had it been a light snow, rather than that heavy mess fueled by winds that propelled the flakes sideways, I might have been delighted to see the snow.

Emotionally, I feel like a jack o'lantern. All that I used to muster up the enthusiasm to carry on idle chatter, emanate concern for the smallest of offenses, and maintain a projection of happiness is gone. I am empty. For now, I feel most comfortable with those whose words are endless to soothe me.

It is no surprise then that the kid leaves me restless. I have no patience for his moping, his quietness, his dullness. Awkward silences plague us while I mentally grapple for something, anything that will coax conversation out of him, but he stubbornly refuses my attempts; he is on spring break so I have to spend all day with him in this state.

And then there is him. Every smiling phrase is an arrow directly in that closing wound, every word spoken from that asterisked list sours our conversations, every thought spirals back toward his attempt at deceit. Some say this is a cycle, one that I won't break. To me, every situation like this one is an isolated devastation that leaves me haunted. I imagine packing my bag and leaving. The part of me that loves him does so with such unconditionality that I cannot follow through. I hate questioning him and by proxy, myself, I long for that time to be over, for that wondering to end.

Why do I keep looking? Simply because I keep finding something to see. Perhaps these are the symptoms of my psyche's patient zero or maybe this is just part of our mutual intolerance. Maybe it is because I am at the threshold of another event, this one another year to add to my age.

Today was the first day in a long time that I imagined finding another city somewhere else to disappear to, where I have no one to answer to for a while, where recycling is not a farce, where I could do something different. For a few blocks it was Paris, for twenty seconds it was Heidelberg, Germany, and in a store it could have been Portland, Oregon.

Then I paid my overdue cell phone bill with my tax refund. That's the punchline.

the fucking center of attention

I hear her words race through my brain and on the one hand they sound crazy, but on the other hand she has found me out, she has seen past my fakery and found the truth but she's warped it into what worked for her to drive me away. And there is nothing but an empty space for them and a wellspring of fresh hate for her.

I couldn't deny that I didn't like her. I never did. That it took so long for her to figure it out and to reveal me in such an uncivilized way was more to dislike.

At some point, I mourned for the man I'd never hold, the man he was for her, the life I would never have. I remember it. A dirty train, a subway, a strange city, and them reflected in the darkness, smiling at one another with their children between them, I realized then that all my crazy thoughts and half hearted wishes had some deep longing that would never be fulfilled. And I actually right then and there began to cry. In the meantime she was trying to get my attention and I wouldn't give it to her.

That was the day I stopped caring enough to hide my disdain for her, yet another woman in the way of what I wanted, another undeserving wretch who didn't measure up to me. I thought I could hide under the brim of my hat, in the shadows of the days, in the din of family, but she watched me, she scoured me, she made sure before she let loose the words that would break us and send me back into another bout of uncertainty. And I relied on all the other people I'd fooled in the past, all the other poor souls who sensed my disgust and carried on as if nothing was wrong.

I hate who I am sometimes more than I can love myself. I know the difference and it is whether or not I can maintain a semblance of normalcy, a pretense of organization, and a sense of control. Just when I thought everything was fine, she pulled my hat off, she shone the light on me, she listened for me in the fray and she left me exposed and vulnerable to everything.

I was manic and she was my depressive.

Some things never change

[Forgive my absence. I can only say that it has been a long foul winter and I found myself in something of a rut or a routine and things were fairly pleasant for a while.]

Back with him. Back at the cafe. Back to zero.

He has let down his walls and we are truly together again. There seems to be nothing that can divide us, even recent bitter battles (which can be counted on one hand) had no major impact and maybe even showed us how much we do love each other. It's a relief, in a way, because I loved him so much and wanted it to work out. And it is. It's been over a year since we've been dating again and I've asked for nothing more than his good company and we've had good times.

The cafe. It is funny. In an act of financial desperation I returned to the easy thing I know. It is like riding a big bicycle with lots of gears. I am no longer babysitting for those I travelled to England with (it is a long complicated story for another entry) and with less than three dollars to my name, I agreed to return to the cafe. My first day was yesterday and it was exhausting but also familiar and comforting.

Iowa said no to my application. It is nice to know. I can't explain how every waking moment I had to push the wondering away with something else. I suppose that is why I lingered in routine, to keep myself busy while I waited. It is better to know than not know. I am glad they gave me word so quickly. I hadn't expected to get in, but I thought I had a good chance. Now I am not sure what to do next. At the very least, applying for that program got me writing on a regular and consistent basis, which I am grateful for. I sometimes write more now than I did in school. I have no idea what will happen next, but I feel it is likely I will work on stablizing some of my finances and perhaps going in a different direction (creative nonfiction?) and I will continue to write twice a week. I may also reapply for next year with a new manuscript.

I am not at all as disappointed as I thought I would be by this turn of events. I think I deny myself things that comfort me because it means I am not being strong enough or tough enough.

the feeling's mutual.

It seems silly really. Only two days have expired since I saw her last. And yet, all morning I've been anxious to see her. All day I've been waiting to get to five o clock when I was due to arrive. I duly distracted myself, and when 4:30 came I turned into a frenzy and considered taking cabs and had to get there as soon as possible. I wondered about the fastest routes, sighed over a laboring North ave bus until finally when I got off the bus I felt relaxed and excited.

I walked up the steps and peered into the window. She wasn't there. She must be having dinner. My heart fell. I entered and greeted her father and sister who invited me to watch television with them but I wanted nothing more than to burst through the door and interrupt her supper so I could see her little face.

Finally, she realized I was here. She heard the door open, she heard my voice. She wouldn't take any more food, she wanted to see me. They said it was alright so I opened the door. She looked up and seemed to take a while to fully recognize me. Then she immediately wanted out, and I was so happy. I picked her up and she was happy to be in my arms. She made noises that I mimicked, then we laughed. And then she sweetly let her head rest on my shoulder and held me, and I have never been so loved by a child in all of my experiences.

She raised her head and looked up at me, and patted my chest and I patted hers and said, "Squish (my nickname for her)."

And then it was back to nestling on my shoulder and I could not have been happier. And strangely, she could not have been happier.

I have always loved the children I cared for to some degree, some more than others, and some liked me too, but none has loved me the way she does. And I have never loved a kid this much.

Before, to get me here on a daily basis, I was disgruntled. I was put out. I was annoyed. Now, I cannot stand to miss a day, to not see her. I have often come by just to visit on my day off. Sometimes I go out of my way to see her even though I will see her the next day.

When I have to share myself with her sister, I am frustrated. Her sister, who once fascinated me with her ways, now annoys me supremely. I had a similar beginning with her sister, but it was far less joyous. As a baby, she was a big heavy blob that watched the world in dour earnestness. She began to loosen up a little when she walked and talked, but that was almost seven months after I'd been taking care of her. She was a terribly boring baby, one that I felt needed a lot of prodding to make sure she developed normally.

Six months with the Squish have been unparalled. She is very observant, but she is also playful, cheerful, focused but also open to things. If she wants something she will get it, no matter what. She will make you get it for her if she can't reach it herself. With no words and just the flailing of her arms and her annoyed noises, I can usually figure out what it is, but if I can't, I can usually distract her with something else.

I've always said that I've had my fair share of child rearing, almost to the point that if I somehow didn't have children, I wouldn't feel as if I missed much. I had no idea these little beings could love you back before they reach the age where they learn how to love. I had no idea that they could show love before that age where they use it against you.

I had no idea that I could feel that kind of love for a baby that wasn't mine. I panic when I don't hear her breathing on the monitor, I once woke her from a nap because I peeked in and she was sleeping on her stomach, today when she was taken away from me for bed, she cried and a part of me wanted to cry too.

"Bite me like that...."

Just when I thought I had it under control or somehow tricked myself into believing that my feelings had dissipated, they've taken hold of me again.

It was just as innocent as always, a smile here, a teasing there, an observation made.

Then it was the banter. Heavy, suspicious, secret, it keeps out even the most demanding about us and there is no one but us in those moments.

Then it was one move. It was a yoga move. It was a sudden proof that he could do anything I asked of him. And he planted his palms on the floor and shifted his weight onto his forearms and he turned into a crow.

I retaliated by ignoring him, and turned my attentions away. His teasing searched for me and I was so easily swayed. I began looking forward to spending time with him, I'd abandon everything just to spend a few minutes alone with him. I'd brighten when he arrived and gloom over when he departed.

And now he has found another way to torment me, another layer to add to the mix, another sense to evoke. He has begun to wear a cologne that is the most perfect mix I've ever smelled. It is not too much of any one thing: a musk, a sweet, a bitter, a citrus. It is very subtle and soft, almost like something that would suit an older man.

And there in the smelling of it and him mingling was my near demise, I let my eyes close and my nostrils flared and I swooned a bit and I worry that someone saw. It feels like a matter of time before the shatter happens.

reality check

Given that everywhere I go I seem to know someone, it didn't surprise me that his face felt familiar. Boyish, clean cut, cute even, as soon as I heard his voice I was certain I knew him.

It only took a couple minutes for the memories to bubble up...he was a friend of a friend, it was years ago, we shared only a moment at his halloween party.

Back then, he was in improv, and I remember him being one of the rare good performers I saw, so I asked him if he was performing somewhere.

He faltered. His face shrank a little. He said no. He started to say why, what the reason was, and then, in a spark of honesty that impacted me like a natural disaster, he said he was just too lazy.

The news was doubly horrific because we were customers, at his table, he was our waiter and we were at Ed Debevic's.

There is nothing worse than being reminded that the thing you love to do is a phantom that you have abandoned by a stranger while you are at work. Well, maybe there are worse things, but that is pretty bad. This happened to me for a six year period of my life when I wasn't doing any writing and it is the sort of red hot raw embarrassment that makes your skin crawl. I can't imagine being found out in Ed Debevic's of all places.

He carried on with the routine--which, oddly enough is kind of like performing--and all was well.

At the end of our meal he brought us our bill. He stood in front of us and wrote on it while teasing us and for an agonizing moment, I was so sure that he was writing down his phone number, I was so hoping that he wrote down his phone number that I was shocked when I saw the words "Smell ya later!"

Part of me was relieved. I couldn't really call him anyway. Not now. Not anymore. Not now that things with Eric are back to some kind of normal. Still, there was something so tragic in his complete honesty that made me want to pick him up and love him. He was a great performer. It's too bad that he's not doing it anymore. He's not my mess to clean up.

a lesson on being harsh.

It is one thing to let relationships become houseplants that wither and die. Of course, you had the best of intentions. You meant to water them. You wanted to get them enough sunlight. You hoped they'd revive themselves after your neglect was apparent and if they don't...well, it's not like you really cared, cause if you did, you would have done something to keep that from happening.

It is quite another thing to cut someone off from you. Having never done this before, I find that it feels harsh. I feel like a bad person. I am sensitive and being sensitive is hard.

Two people who have been very difficult for me to be around both asked me to get over it and stop behaving like they did something wrong. I told both of them that I didn't want to speak to them any longer. Now they suddenly want my friendship back. One was the very person who drove me to find this new blog address. The other is a friend from a long time ago who I recently wrote about. As I put it somewhere, she demanded everything I had, then took my heart out and stomped on it and asked for more.

I had different things to say to them. To him I was cold. Very cold. I told him there was no point in being friends. He would simply invade my life in ways that would slowly spiral out of control and I would be embarrassed and unduly stressed and there would be no one to blame but me because this has already happened before.

To her I was slightly kinder, but not much. I used words that had been used on me, to cut me free from a friend, to give her space from me. In a way, I see the reasons she had clearer now; I understand why she did that. And so, I borrowed her words and gave them to that supposed friend.

Neither responded. Perhaps they could see that I was not going to relent. I can be very extreme sometimes. My words were very cold. They both pushed me too far and if I actually acted like everything was okay and I could just pretend to be their friend again, I would hate myself.

The only person who has survived this sort of emotional fallout has been him, the love of my lifetime, Eric. No matter how many times I swear to myself that I will never look at his face or hear his voice or feel his touch, I always relent.

I want so much to be a good person and a good friend but I find that it requires a lot of my time and energy and frankly, it is difficult to maintain. I would much rather read, knit, or write than muster up the enthusiasm some people seem to want so badly.

As I contemplate being mean to those two, I realize that nothing could make me return to those times when I loathed seeing their phone calls, or answering their texts, when we spent time together and I felt like I was watching a reality tv show I couldn't turn off, or especially when I had something to say and it went completely unheard.

funny you should say that

I miss this too.

I'm not sure why exactly, but the words wouldn't come. I would sit here, I would wait and nothing. I would think about writing here and nothing. I was busy. I was without internet. I was living.

I miss my dad. Him not being here means I am adrift, floating in the waters of my mind with no anchor. He has been here, in the various forms of here, for years. He has read every word I've written. And now, he does not.

I am holding my breath until the word comes from Iowa. I did all I can do, however badly it went, it's done now. More waiting.

I have been snake charmed.

I have been disappointed.

I find myself back in love with him and it makes me hurt.

I have been doing the other kind of writing, which dries me up.

I am still all the things you might remember about me, but I am being reduced into a compact shape. Don't forget who I was.

I am tired of noticing everyone else's life going somewhere and having mine be stuck.