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.