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.

denouement

My eyes followed him all night. He was everywhere, he was the hero; and yet, he hardly acknowledges me. Is that why I find it so hard to resist him? It can't be anything else, for he is fairly average and seemingly lacking the verbal skills to satisfy me, which is hard to know for sure since we haven't had a conversation and only exchanged gestures.

He is nothing special.

And yet, he manages to capture my attention completely each time, and I cringe as I remember how obvious I must have been, my scrutinizing eyes trying to find his staring at me, but each time he was not there, and everyone around me knew it was him I wanted to talk to. She figured me out because she feels the same, we all do, panting and languishing in his presence, fiery, older, wanton, brazen, and it is just how all women are around him.

I don't understand the why; maybe it is biological, innate, something we cannot know. It must be, because he is so lackluster in the usual ways.

He seems too cool for school, so above it all, so disinterested, and that veneer is a shiny prettier version of what I hear about him, that he's actually very excited by things, he's baffled by things, that I know everyone but him is why he is so aloof. He skulks about like a panther, but he's really just a chimpanzee with poor posture.

When he is out of sight, he is out of my mind.

He greeted my friend, who he has explored, and I half expected him to go on ignoring me, fanning the flames of my frustration, but he said hello after all. It was lackluster, of course. He was already turned around and going back, but right then I wasn't paying attention and walked into the beaded curtain, which caught my face and hugged me. I yelped and spun around and bumped into the wall. Giggling, I ran into the bathroom with my friend and wondered how a chimpanzee could turn me into a goof with nothing more than a hello.

the quarters

I receive them with glee. I put them in my purse. I collect as many as I can. Imagine doing laundry, playing galaga at the dirty bird with walter, but most of all, I want to pump his meters full of quarters so he doesn't have to worry about getting a ticket or needing quarters or his beautiful gray eyed betsy doesn't get besmirched.

this random auto-assignment was something that occured to me one day as a nice thing to do, but it doesn't really make sense. but I like to do it. it gives me great pleasure to take care of people. but most of all, I like to imagine his face when he realizes I've been there. I wonder what he thinks of it; is this arrangement odd? does he wonder why I do it? does he find it charming or stalker-y?

his vehicle is a thing of beauty. it is the first time I have been enchanted by a car. I see it immediately from any vantage point, its curves slightly pushing out past the line of the typical slim hipped cars, betsy takes up space but she carries her weight well and she is amazing. he keeps her in pristine conditions, never once has she been muddied or not shining with dazzle in the sun. I imagine him at the wheel, his big hands and tattooed arm in complete control of this large beautiful thing, his sunglasses down, his teeth clutching at his lower lip, his music turned up real loud and I wish I could be there, screaming into the wind with him and betsy.

in short, it is the first time I have had a crush on someone via their car, and I don't know what to do other than take care of her, and him and hope that someday my reward will be a ride in that soft well maintained plushness with him happy to have some one at his side.

glance

There are so many years between them that I can tell she speaks in just a glance. I recognize her angry face, because I've felt it come on mine so many times for the love of my lifetime. She has nothing to worry about, despite how it looks between her husband and me, he loves her, he loves her, he loves her undyingly.

So I steal the moments I can, without guilt, with pleasure, delicious giggles waiting at my throat, delighted smiles, furtive glances in his direction, I give him my whole undiluted self, and he gives me himself in return, even in her presence, with her leering eyes projecting such admonishment, because it is too much fun to rile me up and too much fun to stop.

She punishes me with pasta, my least liked food and it twists my stomach into knots and cramps and she knows it.

and I wonder why she has him so completely, and what it might have been like if he and I had happened across each other in another life, in another way, before they cemented themselves in children, but I know that there are just not enough things that line up, that even though we enjoy each other's company to the point of lack of oxygen from sharing the same hiccupy giggle, that is not enough to build with.

I linger over thoughts about his lack of a brother, just one would be enough for me, or the bad timing, which is really a lot of years to explain away, and finally, how she avoids my curses, or perhaps bus drivers are driving better these last few years.

I sense her feelings as if she were shouting them at me: she is left out of the fun, she never meant to be a boring house mum, she was supposed to be the "cool" one, what the hell is happening?!

Try as she might, I can never muster up the sympathy for her litany of complaints or the enthusiasm for her jilted attempts at humor. It is simply too late and I am completely smitten by her husband.

My attempts at downgrading this enchantment continuously fail. All is well until I see him again and all my mental blockades come away; like a skilled hurdle runner, he expertly handles me and it is over before I am aware that the race has begun.

I have spent some months resisting him with some success, when I realized his playful banter was present with all the other women in his life, but there was no enjoyment between us. Also, I spent those months hating that he had chosen a woman who took no more pleasure in what he so obviously enjoyed, and I wished the both of them a happy life in hell. And, as he escorted me home so many many times, it only served as a painful reminder of just how awful the other important relationships in my life were.

He wins me with compliments, both deserved and flattering, his attention, which is a combination of precise observation and referential jokes (my favorite type of humor), and his playful demeanor.

He was supposed to be gone today, and I felt the surprise and joy in myself rise when I saw his smile and I knew he was smiling for me. It felt like an awkward moment in a Jane Austen novel, his wife staring at me, me staring at him, him staring at me. I tried to suppress my glee, but I don't feel bad any longer for enjoying his company.

He is hers and she is his. And I know I am just a peripheral part of their lives.

this weekend:

the apartment: dishes, floors, clothes and sheets, all of it shaken out, brushed off, washed. usually when this happens, it means that I have grown tired and disgusted of the mess I'm in. this time around it was a signal of rising out of the muck. also, a concession to the orderliness my mind prefers.

the mess of a man: I noticed a man in a cab yelling and it was him, the one who always wears a green shirt, the drunken mess I cannot greet. He was angry about some cab related offense; angry enough to spit at the partition. he spat again after slamming the door, his voice both lurid and frightening, and I found myself giddy and lightly running away.

anthony: the only college boy I liked when I was in college, who I discovered to my dismay and relief (as to why he never spoke to me) had a very awkward stuttering problem, stood on Michigan avenue with a clipboard trying to ask shoppers and tourists if they had a minute for something, but he did not ask me. His eyes flicked over my face and he moved on to the people behind me. I had a secret smile. I wondered if he chose the job as a way of getting over his stuttering, which I think is more of a social anxiety than an impediment.

my first sox game of the season: came with no warning, I had plans and then suddenly, I had the delicious opportunity to watch a game on a beautiful night. It was soured by the fact that my phone died and I couldn't invite more people to join us. It was a perfect experience except the Sox lost.

walter: and I have been spending a lot of time together and it makes me wonder if that same comraderie exists between the love of my lifetime and the girls he spends time with, if it is that same enjoyment without the necessity of sexual advances. I have never really had a close male friend before.

the city: wanted to meet and talk about the absence of our friendship, but I just couldn't.

currently reading: The Dubliners by James Joyce. If I had known that it was notated, I might not have bought it. Every other line has some corresponding footnote to decipher the meaning or relay the cultural (and usually dated) reference. The footnotes are all in the back of the book. Rather than flip back and forth, I just try to sort out the meaning through context and if I'm really confused, I'll check the reference. Also, I sometimes read the list of notations all at once at the end and find that I tend to deduce fairly well, with the exception of one or two things that I was off the mark about. I don't understand how someone can read a book and then check out something they don't understand, as in whip out a dictionary or a scholarly reference. I never see anyone stopping a movie to look up a word or check something on the internet. But maybe I just have a weird relationship to reading. Anyhow, I've been enjoying the brief short stories. They are dialogue heavy, which I like.

the love of my lifetime: I have longed for him all weekend to no avail. it is no wonder I cannot trust him. he is never there when I want him to be. I receive the morsels of his attentions while others get his whole wondrous being. he will arrive soon so we can do what we do best together: sleep.

siena: saturday marked the beginning of a fourteen day stretch of work. I can't imagine how frazzled I'll be in the end.

the smoking: is still not an issue, despite visits to bars, being just as stressed at work, dealing with awkwardnesses. on tuesday it'll be five weeks of non-smoking.

slippery slopes

the hour before his arrival, I jokingly wondered where he was and when he was going to come to siena. that he actually arrived was both pleasing and surprising. his second appearance to the shop was marked by his enormous appetite (three lunch items and a smoothie) and a few references to his last visit. then, the first song he played was a song that I loved previously, and I wondered if he played it for me. and yet, he has been girlfriended for some three years now to a sullen frigid thing who is wonderful in lots of other ways, but doesn't make him happy.

\

his visits to the coffeeshop are a disruption. I stop being myself and switch to something else. I shift gears in front of him and he knows it. he knows why. he wants to think it is the one thing, but really, he knows that it can only be that other thing, that thing that is so always a part of our communication, so stifling and restrictive, so painful and swollen that there is no ignoring that they have explored each other and what we had was nothing but a flat surface. so awful is it to see him that I find ways to avoid serving him if I can, which means the person who makes the worst lattes becomes his barista, and today was no different except he didn't want a latte, he wanted to drop off a dvd I loaned him and then give me the first season of Lost to consume. and yet, what we had was nothing. when I saw them together, I felt nothing, an absence of emotion, but I could not muster enthusiasm, so I ignored them.

\

two hours to kill. two drinks in two hours. two jobs already worked and one still remained. and yet, I was going to be around children later. but I wanted nothing more than to be at raven's, one more night.

\

his sunken eyes search mine and I look for a spark of recognition or desire, but instead I see nothing but eyes. he seems out of it, drunk, crazy even, and there's something about him that makes me want to try and wrap my arms around his mess. today was the first day I admitted some attraction, and yet, I already know that he's not worth the trouble or mental exhaustion. I resisted the urge to smile at him, to ask about him, to introduce myself to him, but just barely.

\

another night of little to no sleep, and what will tomorrow bring, what horror will I inflict on some well meaning soul, what will the lack of sleep do to infect my actions [a spilled cup of coffee, perhaps] and now there is a blackout--people are opening their doors and windows to confirm that the electricity is indeed out, as though the blink of everything on to off wasn't enough of an indicator--and my eyes are burning from the tired, but I know myself, there is nothing I can do when this happens other than honor that momentum. but I know what's best and five hours is cutting it close. and yet, what does sleep give me other than vacant time and lack of dreams?

\

rent is due soon. and yet, no amount of working seems to be enough.

almost every girl is sweetie.

but in his hands I melted,

my hair pushed away by his fingers,

and I could feel his hesitation when he reached my earlobes,

the sacred space that is so very intimate

he compensated by travelling down my back

while I pushed myself against the bar

when his hands left me there was no more pain or tightness

just the imprints of his fingertips

and an appreciation for a man I had never wondered about previously.

[oh David!]

funny how one thing can turn you,

and funnier what that one thing wil be.

[a backrub?]

I lingered there in hopes of enticing him to me once more

and I got what I wanted, which made me glad.

reporter's log:

frozen, cold, bitter, she remains, a cold, a wall, a boiled down version of what the fakery and lies have always hid, you can plainly see she is just an igloo.

the man of the year has emerged with a proposition that was largely ignored. perhaps it is for the best that the bitterness soaked through the sponge to the cracks in her and froze there, so that his message seemed unnecessary and a waste of time. game over man of the year, you can't come back now, not now, not ever. who do you think you are? what sort of tomfoolery of the mind are you up to? and when will she ever be able to hold you comfortably? we know the answer is never, but does he know that? you want to make her dinner and play scrabble, who are you and where were you half a year ago?!

pete has lost his job, which was swallowing him whole, so it was no coincidence that he was present and accounted for at the season finale of 24. what was a surprise was his relentless effort in having her in attendance. there were others, but he wanted her there. and when there is want, there is the desire to have that, even if it is friendly, even if it doesn't mean anything, so she cancelled her plans to sit elbow to elbow with the man that she has always admired, one of her oldest friends, a man she has done anything for, a man she will continue to do anything for.

the sad realization that they have explored each other, spots, moles and marks inventoried, limbs and trunks aligned on his futon, why does it hurt her, the truth is logically, it all makes sense and it is for the best, she was never convinced, but there was a part of her that loved him, that brain of his, that talk of his, that feeling he stoked in her was addictive and she wanted it all the time, all to herself. his recent odd appearances have held that same sheen of joy, but it is tinged now with their mutual exploration, and it is over, it is hard to get it that it is over and it was never gonna happen anyway, no matter how much fun it was to know him and be known. the half hour in which he interloped at the bar was filled with her calamaties and a clumsiness that she'd assumed grew out of her long limbs, but it returned in full force with a jolt from beer and hormones. it's over and it never was.

there is a mutual dislike from the lover she didn't have to love, and it has been boiling for sometime, the realization that you have shared yourself with someone less than worthy and the frustration of being shuffled aside despite how great you are. so he ignored her. and she ignored him. and the bitterness sighed a deep shuffling wheeze and wished that she would just say that she is done with him, but the truth is he shows his worthiness now and again, except he oscillates expertly between jerk and goofball and if only he could rest on the latter for good, but he is on a tear to have something filled that can never be filled...it's true.

and "are you the love of my lifetime?" is still absent from her life. that this new anger is fueled by some old unresolved drama is baffling, but precludes him from being the love of her lifetime and gives him the tagline, "because there's been times I've had my doubts" to know him to is doubt him, for there is nothing he can provide that is stability, at least not for her. his missing presence should be enough to keep him out of mind, but there are too many things that evoke memories of them, him, and sometimes she even wonders if this is it, if this is over, and if it is, then why doesn't it feel like a good thing. why does it hurt so much?

despite all the reasons to resume the stress managing habit that brought her a quick relief, a small joy, a momentary lapse in judgment, she prevailed. two weeks have passed. soon it will be two months. two years. daily there is some new trauma to dissect and dispose of properly (instead of shoving it into a tight space where the bones of long ago pains reside) and the worst of these have been the small infractions of their friendship, between her and her, the supposed bestest of best friends, which was discussed more than felt, because time steeps these things, not words, but words left welts on them, and it is possible there is no going back from this high climb into hysteria. if only she could understand the drunk girl she sees is not her friend and if only her friend could cut her a little slack for being a newly converted nonsmoker with no way to manage the small stresses of life.

the time was spent trying to make sense of all this and more, and in the end she is no better for it, just full of experiences and moments, more than would have been felt from home, more than she has experienced in a while, but it is intense and overwhelming to the senses.

boredom is an ugly burden

I assault them with the only thing that currently brings me joy, special lines of king, queen, knave: select, sleek, compact sentences that have captured my attention and yet, upon the next reading may thrill me no more than some other line of perfection that appeals to that future me, enlivened by the turn of phrase that seems so succint.

it occurs to me that this will be my world for a while, a series of indulgences that live as attempts at fending off my mind's rampant need to be satisfied and excited about someone. For now, there is no someone, a complete lack of horses on the racetrack, I sit in empty stands with the tickets of thrilled gamblers at my feet and wonder why it is that I'm still around when so many other pressing errands of life are waiting to fill my time.

the truth is I have been gambling so long and hard and with such long shots that I find I must retrain my body and brain to behave differently. I have stumbled upon this sad truth before, but now that so much time has passed, I see that it is only going to keep passing and I will keep sitting here making up imaginary races to lend some semblance of familarity to my days, when in fact, this jarring emptiness is what I should respect.

trying to figure out where it went wrong, replaying the race in my mind, fending off hindsight: these keep me awake at night.

you lived the last week without me

sigh.

no smoking: day five.

A week ago and a day ago I learned the truth about the city. A week and a day ago I incurred the wrath of the old home. A week tomorrow is when I exhaled the fresh air from my lungs.

slept eighteen hours and spent eighteen hours awake,

read another book

reconnected with an ex, disconnected with an ex

want to smoke so bad it hurts

my lungs are still damaged from monday

saw old friends and felt joy, saw new friends and felt oppressed

if ever there was a yin and a yang, it was this week, this life.

the lightness of truth

there's so many people who heard my truths today that it almost hurt, but I do feel lighter and more heady than I have in weeks and weeks, because there's no one I feel obligated to and nothing I feel bad about being.

in the end, nothing worked out the way I wanted it to, but the lesson of being an adult is that I've learned to appreciate that things won't always go the way I like and it's okay. Things ending and being clarified means that there's room for something else to happen...

after all, nothing really matters and everything is significant.

it looks like your dog died.

the impact of knowing, really knowing and understanding the things we only suspect, when you hear yourself speaking the truth as you knew it and knowing you didn't even believe it then but now you know it's true, but being unable to stop the collision course you're on because the tracks are bound to your feet and the car is closed and the doors don't open til it's the next stop and when they open you collapse on the platform and just want to breathe some fresh air, but the fresh air falls in love with your lungs even though you're polluted, ruined, fucked.

the city you see when you climb the stairs welcomes you with its concreteness, its curves, its lines, its noises, its smells, its grandiosity, but it's impartial, it's indifferent, it treats you the way it treats everyone and you are no more special to it than anyone else who crosses its streets and wonders at how remarkable it is, except it does every once in a while shine its eyes at someone special and that someone is not you.

so you go to the building where you used to live hoping to find something comforting there, inside the darkness that you know so well, but it's slowly been emptied out until there's nothing but old letters stuffed in the mailbox with your name on them, letters you don't even care to open because they don't matter anymore, and your keys no longer turn the locks and your neighbors won't even return your greetings and you realize that's because you don't live there anymore and you can't go back there ever again even though you spent a lot of time there trying to make it a beautiful place to live.

finally, you go to the only place you have, this hotel room where you sleep at night and it's got your stuff there, things that remind you who you are and you hide inside it, waiting for the next day to bring you someone worth knowing, really knowing, someone worth loving, really loving, someone you can be proud of and excited about, and hope that they don't turn out to be the things you've already known will never be the way you wish they could be.

listen negative nancy, here's the siphon hose, take a hit

the work it takes to be someone's friend can sometimes be exhausting. I spent most of my day trudging through the deep mass of my own malaise to pull someone out of their quicksandy muck, because sometimes it hurts to know someone and know that they're drowning in their own thoughts for no good reason at all.

and yet, it was a beautiful day.

there's something to be said for selfless acts and the joy of knowing another person.

everything I notice is appreciated and everything I do gets noticed. it's a weird exchange we have, an odd intimacy that begs for more, yet the idea of actually being intimate [naked and dirty] seems so absurd and unlikely and awkward.

for now, there is the unfolding of his origami shapes and I love to languish in his words.

we travelled to chinatown and I got to be a psuedo tour guide. [it made me miss natalia terribly.] there we were, sitting among a place that was foreign and new and seemed to hold its own set of rules and have its own sense of time and space, where people weren't in a hurry to arrive somewhere and no one was talking on their cell phones and it was perfect. there was nothing we had to do and nowhere to be. I think we both needed that.

a father chased his child on the sidewalk and peals of laughter rose from their lips, a well dressed couple sought out their dinner companions, sculptures presided over a square that seemed built for tai chi practice, and dried food items of the most amazing variety--from sea horses to gnarled ginger roots, to thin ivory dics of abalone to gargantuan mushrooms--all gave off a musty, smoky, heady odor. it was exactly what I prescribed: a change of scenery and an overwhelment of the senses.

he is teaching me a new brand of patience and exploration, the sort I have never been able to grasp.

to the recent past, I say merci boucoup.

depends on the angle, I guess. I want to think that there's something there, but sometimes it just feels flat and full of nothing, like the surface of something.

today while we were together, and walking, and talking, there was something, for the briefest moment that felt like a shock to me, something that I expected to come many other times, but instead that flatness prevailed, but in this instant, he was saying that if I was where he'd be he would get no work done, and his face was full of a smile, and the words seemed like they might represent something else than what he was saying, like something he was feeling, and my step faltered and I swayed, and I was surprised by that.

I don't know what is going on, and for once, I think I've finally learned not to rush things, not to ask about it, not to figure it out, just be present in each moment, enjoy what comes, and my reflections on his company and his words are still, quiet, flat, a mirror, full of smiles, contentment, and for now, that is enough.

later, they told me I looked happy, relaxed, and I couldn't believe it. I wish I could have seen myself in that moment. I'm certain I looked beautiful, and I am glad.

what is your greatest ambition? to become immortal, then die.

breathless was amazing.

godard is a genius. I can't wait to watch more of his movies, because they apparently get more and more unconventional. He was largely uncompromising in his vision and he had a fascinating theory on blending fiction with real life, creating a psuedo-documentary style movie, in which he obscured the camera so that people didn't know they were on film and he captured life as it was happening in that time and that place. That idea really appeals to me with my work, and kind of feels like the direction I'd like to take.

the funny thing is, he wondered if I would watch breathless and find it dull. terribly boring. and I wondered if I would like simply because I want to like him,

but no, it was joyous to watch and I was fascinated.

brisk

: the one gray hair separated onto his brow

: the second visit, which sparked a physical reaction

: his request that we take a smoke break

: his laughter; lots of it

: that I shouldn't

: that I want to anyway

: his lack of things I consider terribly important and therefore compelling in their absence.

: the banter, the sort that is difficult to even recall word for word, phrase for phrase, subject to subject

: he arrived early today and was it a reference to something I said, a chiding I made, the last time we saw each other

: "there's a lot of life to live, you have to be awake for it though."

: then today, [sarcastically] "I'm saying yes to life, Christine."

: frought with the intent to impress him,

: I am left pink and embarassed.

the lowest of the low

the hardwood floor, the open window, and me: splayed out, cell phone trembling in my hand, fully clothed and bundled in wintry wear, leaning against a stuffed ottoman, dizzy with drink, leaden limbs and weak will force me to lie there, just lay there, propped up, but splayed out,

and in this state for an hour or more, I exchanged text messages with the lover I don't have to love, and in between, I text him, the real love of my life, the man who makes me feel complete even though I know better than that, that I don't need a man to make me feel complete, but time stops and the world glows and I feel content in a way that is beyond me,

but it's what we don't have that I am sharing with the lover I don't have to love. it's what we lack that I need. it's the part that we've already covered and moved past, and like anyone who's in love with being in love, I want that new heady rush of pursuit and attention, I crave it, and like a monster, I was splayed out on the floor of my friend's bedroom, unable to move, but unable to stop receiving and feeding that exchange.

some time passed where I relinquished my control and leaned over and curled into the fetal position on the floor. I awoke with a groan and climbed into my friend's bed, fully clothed, fully winter proofed, my cell phone clutched. my friend had long since gone to sleep, and her face was just under the light she'd turned on and the television flickers cast shadows across her face, and I was glad she'd let me stay there, for I knew the next day was going to be a terrible experience, but it would have been worse if I'd had to trek all the way home and trek all the way back to work.

the morning came and with it, my three alarms to wake up and go to work, and I left her place in a stumble and swayed down the street until I reached the door of the coffeeshop. I worked through the throb of what had been.

and I want to laugh at how I was, splayed out, unable to move, drunk, drunk, drunk,

but really, how do I reconcile my words?

I simply pretend they don't matter anyway.

randomness with boys abounds

the thrill of them consumes me, it is a never ending array of them, and they are everywhere;

he is perfect for me in many ways, but still in love with his ex, so he is not perfect for me in the most obvious way...still, his flustered visit at the coffeeshop makes me feel like the radio is turned up too loud and my peripheral vision goes blurry like I'm on a carousel.

standing in front of a window full of cats peering out, a figure across the street catches my eye and I see him, the him of legend, the him I have only spoken to once, the him who I swear lives down the street from me. he is smoking. he is absolutely dreamy.

in the grocery store, I encounter the boy next door, whose smile still widens at my arrival.

my phone rings and interrupts our fragmented conversation, it is the burnham, calling to make plans with me.

the blonde one with the moustache and death metal leanings races toward me with a smile and a cart of potatoes. I am surprised at his delight of my arrival.

I exit, only to see the man of legends still there, still smoking, face in my direction, and I know he sees me and I wonder if he remembers who I am,

I am waiting to jaywalk and a man in a big truck holds up traffic and waves me across. I smile and wave happily and race across, giddy.

but it is the ones I haven't seen or spoken to that will not leave my thoughts:

was my last email to him too strong? too bold? too much? of course, I know I am overwhelming, but it is just difficult for me to fathom how I occur to him, how his world shakes when he encounters me, what his mind does with my words.

and him, the lover I don't have to love, with his indifference and selfishness, and his wandering eyes; he in the present is mostly appealling, but him as a portfolio is too hard to deny. I wonder what I will say the next time, for there will be a next time, and if I'll be able to refuse him.

most of all, I have been waiting to see him for weeks and he came looking for me today. and I wasn't there. and I wondered if when I was thinking of him, lamenting that he'd been back in town since last week and hadn't come to see me, he was there, coming to see me.

"just remember you called it all bullshit"

the opportunity to pay back a man with the same pain some other man has doled out to me is tempting. tempting in a slightly fantastical, probably won't really happen way, but still, an element of the appealling is there. seen from this vantage, his face appearing before mine at the most inopportune times, his subtle hints awkwardly inserted obtusely into the conversation, his specific references to our innocuous history and: I see how I must have looked to the man of the year.

of course, I will never know for sure, because he remains an enigma, swallowed by his own sense of standards which are are once damning and revealing. his loathing of drama surely is a cover for something else, especially since he has generated mostly all of what drama existed between us.

so I have willed him out of my mind, cast off into the pile of things I will never understand, but time passing is really the only solution to him, and really most things.

as for this other man: the snow swirled around us lazily, and we talked of things benign and ridiculous and I wondered why I had invited him along on my usually quiet walk, and his words tumbled out in a nervous pile of nonsense. it is refreshing to be liked. but that is a dangerous road to travel, one that I have stumbled down before and taken the turn of my life that has led me here, to this desolation. so I know the promise I need to heed is waiting to be spoken, but I wonder if I truly have no feelings for him, since of course, in his absence (some five weeks or more) I wondered where he was and if I had laughed him away for good.

my brain is addled by such hysterics, and I wonder if what really rattles me is that the man of the year has pegged me and I am just too angry to agree. but I know I saved all my soap operish meanderings and gave them others, and only presented him with the best of myself.

in case you were wondering: when is it going to feel right?

t minus panic, and one week left of mania

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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