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.