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.