I sit here trying to squeeze my mind into spilling thoughts, I have them, I feel them, they are a quagmire of hot, bubbling quicksand, every now and then a bubble bursts with a satisfying release of warmth, expelling a ball of pressure, but then the moment is gone as I continue to flail back into the thickening mass. Why is it so hard to bring these thoughts into cohesion?
How do I feel? I am screaming for the answer, what do I want, what makes me happy, who am I, am I shallow, am I selfish, am I smart, who am I? Am I a bad person, a bad mother? Who is judging me, am I judging myself? Where does all the guilt come from, who am I accountable to, why do I feel accountable? I don’t know and I want to know. I want to know whom I love, why I love. I want to know what makes me content, am I happy in the world, then where in the world? Why am I searching? Why can’t I just be?
I’m so plagued with guilt, its like evil seeping into corners of my mind, making me doubt, clouding what decisions are mine and what decisions belong to this being that lives and breathes in my mind. I have this being I house, that I nurture in its darkness. He lives in my mind, comfortable in the darkness and fed by my thoughts, my fears, my guilt, robbing me of what I need, hiding what I need in a sick game of hide and seek in the chemical pathways of my brain. Trapped, in a maze, being given pieces, sometimes a reprieve, but never the answers, never a path out of this captivity, hitting darkness, the occasional shard of light piercing through, the blank walls, the tantalizing delight of the windows cracked momentarily. I’m reaching, I'm reaching, I cant get through the bars, not far enough, not wide enough, I'm not strong enough to rip them from the walls, they’re so strong, they’re always there, closing me in as the light sets, random, at times bringing me light for days, and other times shrouded in gray for weeks.
It’s a love game, a destructive, co dependent relationship, thriving off weakness and fear. I can’t get away from you, I need you, you possess me, I own you, you’re mine, and I am yours forever. You keep me here, wrapping those long thin, bony arms, like reeds twining around a bark, around and around me; I don’t know what its like to not have you. Do I love you, can I live without you? Safety, safety in the dark, in your voice, your familiar voice ringing in my head, cocooning me, helping me know who I am, what my worth is, you love me, you hate me, but you need me, like I need you.
Sometimes you let me go, I get to skip through the streets, pretend I am free, swing my arms, dance in circles, laugh. I think, I really do think it’s me, I am alive, I am making my choices, I feel so empowered, so strong, so smart, so liberated. I swagger, I posture, everyone is watching me, like a child in her first school play, reveling in the audience and the attention, they want to see me, they see me, and they love me. But your jealousy reels me back, you remind me that I belong to you, that what I get is what you give me, I didn’t make any of that, you gave me that, you let me go, a treat, a day out in the park for the good girl, but don’t forget, don’t forget that I belong to you. Because when I do forget you punish me, shackle me into that dark place and whip the notion that I thought I was standing on my own into pieces, tearing into my flesh till I bleed, hating me, I hate me. Crying into the cold floor, feeling the pleasure in the pain of the welts, wanting to be hurt, make me sorry for who I am, for ever doubting, the heat of my blood pooling and dripping off of me makes me feel real, there is a me, its warm, it gives me comfort, I crave that, I want you to hurt me more, I want you, you make me feel alive, you’re the only one who understands me, I want you to hurt me, suffuse me in me, bring out my pleasure in my pain, enveloped, I am enveloped by your hate of me, it makes me safe, you want me, you always want me, you love me when you hurt me. Only you want me, always, anytime, and when I give you my loathing of what I have done, you love me more, nothing matters to me when I surrender to you, because all there is me and you, so why do I fight you?
Because I have seen the lights, I am curious, I am mad, I want you to let me see. I am a big girl- daddy let me go. I don’t want you to not take care of me, will u always be there for me; let me play with my friends. I won’t rebel, ill be good, I will listen. But you’re scared; scared I might love someone more than you, might love me. You don’t want me to love myself, I won’t need you anymore, where would u go, would u die, would u fester and rot in my head, taking me with you in your disease. Taking my nutrients like my children did, killing me with you, leaching me, leaching my blood, and we can die together, forever together.
I feel that cavity you inhabit, I can see the halls, I know where it is, I can feel you walking through, running your hands down the sides of the walls, my walls, I know you’re there. You live in the left side of my brain, you live in my brain, my epicenter. I know the address well, the hallway curves into the back of left eye, traverses through to the back of brain, I see the curve in the hall, rounded, smooth, when you're mad you have your stick, you scrape it on the walls, the walls of my mind, you pierce it, you scream, you scream for me to hear you. I hear you, I always hear you, please stop piercing me, your anger presses into my eye, the pressure, I assuage you with drugs, try and calm you, move you back into your haven, the space within me. Stay calm, please stay calm, why do we live in the oppressive darkness, why are our hallways so small, so dark, there’s never anything there, just a never-ending path, it’s always red, such a morbid brackish red. No wonder we keep moving, live in the external world, beautiful places, beautiful things, we can pretend, pretend that our home is a happy place. I can paint the outside, change our locations, make people like us, see how pretty we are, see how smart we are, isn’t it lovely here, our new home, look what we can do with it, it can change, not like our real home, this home can be fixed, it can be beautiful, it can be light. This place we’re in, all the amazing people, they want to make me happy, and can you believe that, they want us to be happy.
Why do you want me, why does anyone else want me? They think they love me, sometimes I believe them, I do believe them, they love what they see, our pretty home. But they haven’t met you, they don’t know the evil I am, we come together, I am taken, I hate, I hate so much, can they see that hate, the gurgling nastiness that courses through me. I just want to laugh, scream, be hysterical, they don’t love me, they love this figment, this amazing creature, the creature you’ve made, you taunt them with me, lure them in, bring them close, its like the walk in the park, sometimes I believe, believe I can be with someone else, that they love me and know me like you do, but they don’t, they don’t love me like you do, you’re saving me, you show me their weaknesses, how they don’t know what to do with me, they turn away, they can t see, why cant they see, see how much I need, you do, you always do, stroke me, stroke me when they disappoint me, hug me, bring me home, they need to go, why did I trust them, they always fail. Your life is I, no one can be that, be like you can be, I love you even when I hate you, even when I want you to go away, I don’t know who I am without you.
How pretty I am tonight. I have a new dress. I put my make up on, I know people will like me; they’ll want to see me. I am so happy they see me. I look good, so strong and fearless, such an amazing person, don’t they wish they were me. I spun in front of the mirror, who would notice me when I walked in. you didn’t want me to go, I know you didn’t but you didn’t complain, I felt a little sad, but I wanted to feel special. You let me. I'm sad. You know I am sad, I am not really special, its just an act, another act in the play, let the audience clap, but you know, it feels good when they do, even if it ends, I got the adrenaline, I did something, they watched me, they didn’t see the make up, the clothes, the script, I convinced them it was real, I was real and they watched, they applauded, they wanted more, it makes me forget that I am not happy, that its only a stage. I love the stage, but I need to keep it changing and moving, new props, new sounds, locations, I cant disappoint because they wont clap, they’ll get bored, ill leave them, don’t get bored of me, I need you too, I need your applause, but don’t touch me, stay away from my stage, don’t come into my life, you can applaud and pet, but do not hurt me. Ill hurt you. It’s my stage, my house of cards, don’t hurt it, I don’t need you to hold it up, I can do this alone. You might drop my cards, forget the lines, make the applause go away. I hate you. You hurt me.
Look at the beautiful girl, in the beautiful hotel, isn’t she beautiful, isn’t she lucky, don’t you want to be her, look what she has; she has nothing, nothing, nothing. She has nothing. A beautiful girl, a beautiful woman, with nothing inside, I have nothing inside. Its rotten, its spoiled, its broken, everything is broken inside but isn’t she pretty. What happens when I am not pretty?
When I am old and ugly, when the audience finds someone new, all ill have is you. Then you will have me, they won't come for me anymore, they won't look anymore, and they won't care. But you care, ill move into your darkness, we'll take apart our decaying outside, no one wants it anymore, it’ll just be the ugliness, inside and out. The ugliness you love, you’re waiting, waiting till I have nothing but you, and you will own me. You’ll kill me won't you? I'll want you to.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
The Baby Sitter, part 2
Don’t you hate it when people read the last page of a novel before they take the time to enjoy the story? This irks me to no end, like fast forwarding to the end of the movie before you watch the beginning to make sure Julia Roberts does indeed give up a life of prostitution, or maybe googling the winner of American Idol from the east coast results before you watch your finale on the west coast so u can fraudulently psychically predict who loses. It’s just not right… like fixing your mindset on what to expect so nothing deviates and you’re confirmed of your outcome. I’m the kind of girl that gets wrought if I hear a whisper of what is to come, like Avril says in her teen anger and angst… “So much for my happy ending!”
Wasn’t sure if babysitter was in the cards again after he fled into the darkness of the hotel parking lot in a single bound. Yes, he had mentioned some mumbo jumbo about it not being about the red tide and he’d call. Blah, blah, blah, he’d call? Perhaps my cynicism of Big is getting the better of me, do any men use the phone anymore? At some point during the previous night I had asked him to the wedding reception, as had been invited with date, but only option at time was ACman and he seemed to view weddings and morgues in the same category and probably expected me to kiss him and maybe even do the nasty with him, and he is just too short, nice and I've decided too furry for that (I’m sorry…). So I invited the sitter and then immediately regretted it.
Who’s to know all the connotations surrounding inviting someone to a wedding?? Who knew it was such a big deal laced with innuendo!? Next time I’ll have to pick up a copy of The Rules I and II before I make a single decision about men! I mentioned extending invite to girlfriend and she just about doubled over and toppled over at my insanity. Dude, I invited him as my guest to a wedding not to rush the altar. But backtracking, inviting sitter to wedding is classic diarrhea mouth syndrome, this inane ability I have to spout out and do whatever I happen to be thinking at time and failing to consult the stars, the oracles, my shrink, or the scribes of etiquette before even thinking about talking to a man. Ok, so maybe the ladies have some cause for concern as did disappear to live in Mexico with Manuel after knowing him for a raucous week, causing father to not speak with me, and the end of my Masters at Cornell (which btw, saved me a lot of money). Like to think am genteel lady in mid 30s now and not so prone to such extreme whims of fancy… like to think.
So now had said invitation hanging overhead for next morning. Problems with making rash decisions is you then need to get up and find resolution or be plagued through the course of the day. Groan, of course not as rash as bounding into babysitter’s lap in moment of heated frenzy the night before and now having to live with wanton, so not cool flagrancies. Please don’t remind me.
Where to go from here? We all know the connotations with sleeping with a man on the first date, I never read the subtext, and does this include men in different countries? How about extraordinary zing? Cabana boys? Once in a lifetime? I’m not sure I need to give him that much kudos and he isn’t a cabana boy, though those can be fun too, right girlfriend (wink)? So while prancing through town with old buddies, babysitter kept popping to mind and impending communication. Much easier if he could be a rat bastard in which case would never hear from him again and could relegate this to the big mistake category, feel like an idiot and go on with life knowing never to trust my karmic feelers again. The part that makes me woman, is knowing that there probably was not an iota of this much thought going on in his world… in his world, we’re looking at basics, post-modern learn-to-read books: boy meets girl, boy snogs girl, girl bleeds on boy, boy leaves girl, boy chalks off bedpost and goes golfing.
Did I fail to mention that when we did come together off our night of champagne, bowling and double entendres, it was really quite magical? I had my apprehensions, can anyone really manifest outwardly what you believe you want and also deliver when all inhibitions had been stripped down and we became two people bare off all defenses? What if the knight didn’t ride me off into the sunset (serious, no pun intended but funny eh?) and completely failed, this would ruin all my libidinous fantasies about him and my Rabbit for months! Sometimes it is best to not know, as imagination usually presents a better tryst than actuality as one gets exactly what one wants. Unfortunately, even given all our setbacks of the evening, there did come oneness and tremendous warmth between two strangers, in our bodies, minds and air. So much so, that I willed my mind to turn it off and not release completely to the moment, emotion has a powerful strength over the mind and I was not willing to relinquish mine not knowing what it would do to me. Maybe this was the ultimate cause of my menstrual cycle, karmic bleeding????
So, again, day two dawns and we are back on the inevitable question in life, to call or not to call? To text or not to text? Of course to compound matters girlfriend had spoken to him as we drove in circles looking for a place to eat, surrounded by gorgeous, young, male surfer bodies (sorry, extraneous information) and he has mentioned probably not coming to the reception to her. Hold on, you aren’t going with her, I invited you, information through the messenger is so not hip, like soooo not hip (tally book is back out). Ok, now wouldn’t it make sense to tell me this?? I think men forget that in the grand scheme of life, women like to be in the know, we NEED to know, we are genetically engineered to implode if we don’t know and we cannot read minds (though truly try very hard). So was not impressed that we are now at lunchtime and still no word… except through girlfriend, which does not count.
Being completely brash I decide that all this crap about waiting for the man to contact you is a serious and complete waste of time. If he wants to think that I am not playing by retarded rules made up by bored spinster in colonial times then so be it. I had a wedding and reception to go too, and having planned many weddings (no, not mine), ultimately you save the bride some calamity by being able to tell her how many people plan to be at her soirée. So, I do the deed and text the boy, who comes back with the fact that I'm lame (my addition to the dialogue) and he is immersed in existential life thoughts and deep painting and I am worried about a place seating (also my addition)? Sigh. Then to compound matters, I realize, bleeding on boy and him turning into the Flash is no way to end my fairytale, and that existential life thoughts can always be paused and replayed at later date (expiration: death) and I needed to re-visit the situation to ascertain whether or not I was out of my mind or there truly was a blip in time.
Plus, was not enjoying wedding, as was far too conservative and had marks of too much Hollywood romance movies thrown in which made me blubber. Adding insult to injury, priest managed to say, advertently or inadvertently (you can never tell with these holy types) that the only people worth anything on this earth were single heterosexuals who had or were planning on joining their unions under God. Translation: if you are not Presbyterian, are separated, divorced or gay be prepared for that hole to open up, the blast of lightening to bolt down, and be incinerated and flushed downwards. I was so nonplussed that had definite urges to get up and leave at the close mindedness placed in front of me but decided to wait around and see what my bolt of lightening looked like and whether the underworld needed any help re-decorating.
Babysitter was not piling on the points by explaining that did not feel like getting dressed, socializing and in any case was planning on watching I (heart) Huckabees. Hello? So, let me get this straight… you have on one end of the scale, Demi Moore (have decided prefer older, sexy woman analogy) in town for the night and obviously wanting your company versus Lily Tomlin, the epitome of sexuality- NOT. Though, with Jude Law, Mark Wahlberg and Naomi Watts in the cast, I admit some eye candy competition (if you like men and blondes), including the fact that it is a movie on existentialism. Sadly, he ended up watching sci-fi movies making it worse by choosing fictitious alien fembots in skin tight lycra over non fictitious very real me! Do we hear a lesson here? HES JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU! I never read that book…
Did I fail to mention the girl in the OC, not Mischa Barton or Rachel Bilson as that would then be the end of this story. But close, we have young 25 year old, exotically Persian, and studying for her Masters in Fiction. Ok, so being realistic is almost 10 years younger than me, and probably not having to work so hard at being 25 than 34. Note: However, what’s she going to look like at 34 with two kids, I’m already a proven case and point that body and soul are important to well being. Not being catty, aren’t beautiful Persian women akin to the gorgeous Indian and Italian women that once the ring gets placed on the finger the ripcord gets pulled? Cant answer that, have not wed any of the above. Next, the exotic bit, hard to beat as am a pure mutt and not sporting the glamour of a nation in war. Note: Did have a tsunami and slogged through numerous refugee camps, though still am not exotic. May have to lose this point. Masters in fiction, I can see the draw, babysitter is an author (when not selling animal cages and being artsy), common ground, things to talk about, ponder deep rhetorical views, hash ideas, etc etc… meanwhile I write chick lit, bemoaning the end of Sex in the City and the escapades of neurotic women. Perhaps not so deep, but then again, have not displayed any of my deep writing as is too deep and rather scares me that such literature can come out of my mind. Note: I’d have to say depending on what’s wanted, I don’t need a Masters in Fiction to write and would probably be too obstinate to listen to someone explain to me how to think and besides really want a life in Art (nope not fiction). Did I lose this point too? Why did I write this paragraph, how depressingly self -flagellating? I could beleaguer this point, age & experience vs., youth & innocence, its all a matter of choice in the end and hence am not too worried, to each his own, I am who I am: 34, fun, feisty, awesome in bed, divorced and with wonderful kids. C’est fin.
Am now feeling melancholic. That was a tough paragraph to write and highlighted the fact that men want innocence. How many 35+ year old men do I know dating under 25 year old students, I’ve met 3 this month who have told about the joys of their younger, accommodating companions. Thankfully was not interested in other two as would have been dashing blow to ego and may need to revisit nunnery. Caveman instinct to protect, to guide, to mold and to teach and places the man at the top of the pedestal with woman learning under him. He-man has forged his way, now he will lead female (bad 80s cartoon analogy) to forge hers within his path. I’m sure it feels good and powerful, and as women we do want to feel safe, but as you get older, you don’t want to provide adulation, but instead a balanced relationship based not on being molded but through growth and compromise of two adults understanding who they are, souls fulfilled not seeking and coming to work in tandem to realize a future of two level lives becoming one with autonomy and respect. Jeebus, this is getting a bit too deep for chick lit, time to jump off the tangent wagon and head back to simplicity and smiles.
Where were we, fembots vs. Demi? I have to give kudos, he did come out (must mean something to him?), did brave a few moments of the reception (points) and off we went arm in arm. A tick awkward, do we kiss? Do we hug? Though had manic urge to throw him up against Cayenne and snog him as did look quite hot, did manage to pat down the Samantha within. Though looking back shouldn’t have done, damn it! Now, back again to awkward car moment. Had my sufficient fill being imbued with alcohol so no gumption to hit a bar, and was satisfactorily fed by bridezilla. However, going to his place or my hotel room again placed me into the wanton friggin’ hussy category again. There’s just no winning this.
Wasn’t sure if babysitter was in the cards again after he fled into the darkness of the hotel parking lot in a single bound. Yes, he had mentioned some mumbo jumbo about it not being about the red tide and he’d call. Blah, blah, blah, he’d call? Perhaps my cynicism of Big is getting the better of me, do any men use the phone anymore? At some point during the previous night I had asked him to the wedding reception, as had been invited with date, but only option at time was ACman and he seemed to view weddings and morgues in the same category and probably expected me to kiss him and maybe even do the nasty with him, and he is just too short, nice and I've decided too furry for that (I’m sorry…). So I invited the sitter and then immediately regretted it.
Who’s to know all the connotations surrounding inviting someone to a wedding?? Who knew it was such a big deal laced with innuendo!? Next time I’ll have to pick up a copy of The Rules I and II before I make a single decision about men! I mentioned extending invite to girlfriend and she just about doubled over and toppled over at my insanity. Dude, I invited him as my guest to a wedding not to rush the altar. But backtracking, inviting sitter to wedding is classic diarrhea mouth syndrome, this inane ability I have to spout out and do whatever I happen to be thinking at time and failing to consult the stars, the oracles, my shrink, or the scribes of etiquette before even thinking about talking to a man. Ok, so maybe the ladies have some cause for concern as did disappear to live in Mexico with Manuel after knowing him for a raucous week, causing father to not speak with me, and the end of my Masters at Cornell (which btw, saved me a lot of money). Like to think am genteel lady in mid 30s now and not so prone to such extreme whims of fancy… like to think.
So now had said invitation hanging overhead for next morning. Problems with making rash decisions is you then need to get up and find resolution or be plagued through the course of the day. Groan, of course not as rash as bounding into babysitter’s lap in moment of heated frenzy the night before and now having to live with wanton, so not cool flagrancies. Please don’t remind me.
Where to go from here? We all know the connotations with sleeping with a man on the first date, I never read the subtext, and does this include men in different countries? How about extraordinary zing? Cabana boys? Once in a lifetime? I’m not sure I need to give him that much kudos and he isn’t a cabana boy, though those can be fun too, right girlfriend (wink)? So while prancing through town with old buddies, babysitter kept popping to mind and impending communication. Much easier if he could be a rat bastard in which case would never hear from him again and could relegate this to the big mistake category, feel like an idiot and go on with life knowing never to trust my karmic feelers again. The part that makes me woman, is knowing that there probably was not an iota of this much thought going on in his world… in his world, we’re looking at basics, post-modern learn-to-read books: boy meets girl, boy snogs girl, girl bleeds on boy, boy leaves girl, boy chalks off bedpost and goes golfing.
Did I fail to mention that when we did come together off our night of champagne, bowling and double entendres, it was really quite magical? I had my apprehensions, can anyone really manifest outwardly what you believe you want and also deliver when all inhibitions had been stripped down and we became two people bare off all defenses? What if the knight didn’t ride me off into the sunset (serious, no pun intended but funny eh?) and completely failed, this would ruin all my libidinous fantasies about him and my Rabbit for months! Sometimes it is best to not know, as imagination usually presents a better tryst than actuality as one gets exactly what one wants. Unfortunately, even given all our setbacks of the evening, there did come oneness and tremendous warmth between two strangers, in our bodies, minds and air. So much so, that I willed my mind to turn it off and not release completely to the moment, emotion has a powerful strength over the mind and I was not willing to relinquish mine not knowing what it would do to me. Maybe this was the ultimate cause of my menstrual cycle, karmic bleeding????
So, again, day two dawns and we are back on the inevitable question in life, to call or not to call? To text or not to text? Of course to compound matters girlfriend had spoken to him as we drove in circles looking for a place to eat, surrounded by gorgeous, young, male surfer bodies (sorry, extraneous information) and he has mentioned probably not coming to the reception to her. Hold on, you aren’t going with her, I invited you, information through the messenger is so not hip, like soooo not hip (tally book is back out). Ok, now wouldn’t it make sense to tell me this?? I think men forget that in the grand scheme of life, women like to be in the know, we NEED to know, we are genetically engineered to implode if we don’t know and we cannot read minds (though truly try very hard). So was not impressed that we are now at lunchtime and still no word… except through girlfriend, which does not count.
Being completely brash I decide that all this crap about waiting for the man to contact you is a serious and complete waste of time. If he wants to think that I am not playing by retarded rules made up by bored spinster in colonial times then so be it. I had a wedding and reception to go too, and having planned many weddings (no, not mine), ultimately you save the bride some calamity by being able to tell her how many people plan to be at her soirée. So, I do the deed and text the boy, who comes back with the fact that I'm lame (my addition to the dialogue) and he is immersed in existential life thoughts and deep painting and I am worried about a place seating (also my addition)? Sigh. Then to compound matters, I realize, bleeding on boy and him turning into the Flash is no way to end my fairytale, and that existential life thoughts can always be paused and replayed at later date (expiration: death) and I needed to re-visit the situation to ascertain whether or not I was out of my mind or there truly was a blip in time.
Plus, was not enjoying wedding, as was far too conservative and had marks of too much Hollywood romance movies thrown in which made me blubber. Adding insult to injury, priest managed to say, advertently or inadvertently (you can never tell with these holy types) that the only people worth anything on this earth were single heterosexuals who had or were planning on joining their unions under God. Translation: if you are not Presbyterian, are separated, divorced or gay be prepared for that hole to open up, the blast of lightening to bolt down, and be incinerated and flushed downwards. I was so nonplussed that had definite urges to get up and leave at the close mindedness placed in front of me but decided to wait around and see what my bolt of lightening looked like and whether the underworld needed any help re-decorating.
Babysitter was not piling on the points by explaining that did not feel like getting dressed, socializing and in any case was planning on watching I (heart) Huckabees. Hello? So, let me get this straight… you have on one end of the scale, Demi Moore (have decided prefer older, sexy woman analogy) in town for the night and obviously wanting your company versus Lily Tomlin, the epitome of sexuality- NOT. Though, with Jude Law, Mark Wahlberg and Naomi Watts in the cast, I admit some eye candy competition (if you like men and blondes), including the fact that it is a movie on existentialism. Sadly, he ended up watching sci-fi movies making it worse by choosing fictitious alien fembots in skin tight lycra over non fictitious very real me! Do we hear a lesson here? HES JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU! I never read that book…
Did I fail to mention the girl in the OC, not Mischa Barton or Rachel Bilson as that would then be the end of this story. But close, we have young 25 year old, exotically Persian, and studying for her Masters in Fiction. Ok, so being realistic is almost 10 years younger than me, and probably not having to work so hard at being 25 than 34. Note: However, what’s she going to look like at 34 with two kids, I’m already a proven case and point that body and soul are important to well being. Not being catty, aren’t beautiful Persian women akin to the gorgeous Indian and Italian women that once the ring gets placed on the finger the ripcord gets pulled? Cant answer that, have not wed any of the above. Next, the exotic bit, hard to beat as am a pure mutt and not sporting the glamour of a nation in war. Note: Did have a tsunami and slogged through numerous refugee camps, though still am not exotic. May have to lose this point. Masters in fiction, I can see the draw, babysitter is an author (when not selling animal cages and being artsy), common ground, things to talk about, ponder deep rhetorical views, hash ideas, etc etc… meanwhile I write chick lit, bemoaning the end of Sex in the City and the escapades of neurotic women. Perhaps not so deep, but then again, have not displayed any of my deep writing as is too deep and rather scares me that such literature can come out of my mind. Note: I’d have to say depending on what’s wanted, I don’t need a Masters in Fiction to write and would probably be too obstinate to listen to someone explain to me how to think and besides really want a life in Art (nope not fiction). Did I lose this point too? Why did I write this paragraph, how depressingly self -flagellating? I could beleaguer this point, age & experience vs., youth & innocence, its all a matter of choice in the end and hence am not too worried, to each his own, I am who I am: 34, fun, feisty, awesome in bed, divorced and with wonderful kids. C’est fin.
Am now feeling melancholic. That was a tough paragraph to write and highlighted the fact that men want innocence. How many 35+ year old men do I know dating under 25 year old students, I’ve met 3 this month who have told about the joys of their younger, accommodating companions. Thankfully was not interested in other two as would have been dashing blow to ego and may need to revisit nunnery. Caveman instinct to protect, to guide, to mold and to teach and places the man at the top of the pedestal with woman learning under him. He-man has forged his way, now he will lead female (bad 80s cartoon analogy) to forge hers within his path. I’m sure it feels good and powerful, and as women we do want to feel safe, but as you get older, you don’t want to provide adulation, but instead a balanced relationship based not on being molded but through growth and compromise of two adults understanding who they are, souls fulfilled not seeking and coming to work in tandem to realize a future of two level lives becoming one with autonomy and respect. Jeebus, this is getting a bit too deep for chick lit, time to jump off the tangent wagon and head back to simplicity and smiles.
Where were we, fembots vs. Demi? I have to give kudos, he did come out (must mean something to him?), did brave a few moments of the reception (points) and off we went arm in arm. A tick awkward, do we kiss? Do we hug? Though had manic urge to throw him up against Cayenne and snog him as did look quite hot, did manage to pat down the Samantha within. Though looking back shouldn’t have done, damn it! Now, back again to awkward car moment. Had my sufficient fill being imbued with alcohol so no gumption to hit a bar, and was satisfactorily fed by bridezilla. However, going to his place or my hotel room again placed me into the wanton friggin’ hussy category again. There’s just no winning this.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The Baby Sitter, part 1
Part I, The Babysitter
Sometimes when you least expect it, life takes an imaginative turn of its own. Though I’d have to say with my life I don’t really need more turns, but obviously I wasn’t given a choice in it. Went down to a wedding in San Diego this weekend, and through some immense brain aneurism I managed to not read everyone else’s itineraries and was set to arrive hours before anyone else into a town that is reputedly fun but who the only person I was familiar with is married to a neurotic single-female fearing woman... oh and the lesbian documentary film maker, also not high on the list.
To compound matters my girlfriend ended up sucked into the hurricane calamity and remained on the east coast, a day delayed. But being the good friend she is began a campaign to find me a babysitter for the night. I remember a remarkably similar event in high school, where same friend somehow engineered to have me roller skate around school in a silver lame evening dress with inserts and a sign around my neck stating, “I need a date”. Horrid friend.
I still haven’t figured why I needed a babysitter as upon last check I was 34, with all limbs functioning and had probably accrued enough solo frequent flyer miles to round the world twice. Playing along with the game and for my amusement, I got a babysitter. Lets just refer to said being as “the babysitter”. I didn’t know much about babysitter except friend said he was interesting, good looking, but perhaps not tall enough for me. This final bit of information managed to have me imagine the quintessential Napoleon complex, short man with immense attitude who talked too much and feared he was balding too… great.
I’m not sure I did anything to prepare for the night, we were going for dinner, and my escape hatch from Napoleon was I was sooooooooooo tired from flying. Good thing about situations as such, there is no reason to obsess neurotically over perfect outfit, attitude or bum size. You assume the worst and seriously do not want to look your best or may have super freak hanging on you forever. Jeans and an Old Navy tank top was just right, throw in a pair of no name streets of Bangkok shoes and I was styling really low. Top it off had no shampoo as had left house in manic frenzy at 5:30am, so after valiantly fighting with hotel shampoo and conditioner hair was in weird state of disarray… as had forgotten all styling potions as well.
He was coming in a Porsche Cayenne; my Napoleon dread was coming close to breaking me out in hives. Who drives a Porsche Cayenne but short, balding 40+ year old real estate agents who live in West Vancouver dreaming of dating nubile 25 year olds during their midlife crisis? Plus, Car and Driver had likened it to a piece of &^* on a field… I have to sheepishly admit I did test drive one when choosing my last car.
I got in the car and I was stymied, great smile, boyish, devil in the eye, very controlled, and overwhelmingly there (presence), was it just me I wondered, or did he feel this energy too? Did I ooze knock-em-dead energy too? I really had to rethink my togetherness, as the babysitter was not what I was expecting?!! Kind of like hopping into a car with Paul Walker (The Fast and the Furious) when you’re expecting Danny DeVito, and having to put on your best Jessica Alba with bad hair and frumpy clothing. Definitely off guard, definitely, definitely, DAMN, hate that!
Hate to be cheesy but he was pretty neat (is that the best adjective I can think of, YES). Did the mundane chitchat about this and that, and the awkward here and there, each of us jockeying for the right tone and attitude, and doing the once over. Somewhere on the drive to wherever we settle into sarcastic banter (love sarcastic banter), which is always a plus point in my man tally book, so he was gaining some and losing some (still not sure on car). Bits and pieces elude me but unquestionably there was more than hope to a definitely entertaining evening. Ok girlfriend, you get some brownie points, this was much better than having to take your 10th grade boyfriend to the Christmas Formal for you!
So, not sure if he was planning on taking even Attila the Hun to this restaurant, which was pretty swank for just any old chick that may or may not have been fun, but somehow ended up on twinkling outdoor patio, with view of ocean and enough atmosphere to not be weirdly romantic, but accurately fun. At this point we’re falling into Mr. Big territory, but doesn’t quite cap seaplane to island with sunset dinner on rocks with seals on cue (though must note that Big is currently in the doghouse and not being entertained at present (see The Demise story)). Plus, babysitter had no forewarning if he was getting messy Jessica Alba or Roseanne so thinking quick garners a few points too.
Somewhere in here I get a bit fuzzy, but do remember going to bathroom wondering what my ass looked like in my jeans. Would have checked in bathroom but swank restaurants are not immune to puking women and was quite nasty in there (perhaps a California thing?). We had some champers (per norm) and I watched him eat more than I ate but that’s neither here nor there as was not hungry, and no, not due to him (lame), but due to the burger I devoured upon arriving. Not sure why this particular point is necessary in the story…
Sometime as the sun set and the evening darkened, we moved from easy discussions to the more substantial, and then I quit tallying. He asked me if I meditated which I though an odd question, never had that asked before, and wasn’t quite sure where to go with that. I am touchy on my meditation, my rocks and pelicans on the beach, but surprising myself did tell. I wanted to wax lyrical about the thousands of fish surrounding me every evening, the turtles, all the little odd creatures and the bliss of going from the ocean to my sheltered rock that takes me to my meditative state but was sure that would scare him half to death so refrained. Of course later I find, OF COURSE, that his meditation is so far further into the next realm than mine, that I’m almost jealous but since I'm not currently ready to leap through my mental lands at the fate of my mind, I’m quite happy to sit in my itty bitty land of nothingness and peace for a while. Ok, so maybe I’d be cooler if I could meditate daily (want to be cool meditative person) and not rely on fish and rocks, I mean who needs fish to meditate??!!
Now here I can’t help but chuckle, we run through some life stuff, most of it eludes me now, but trust me it was deep. And I swear he said he needed to go bowling after dinner. I’m thinking I'm not channeling Jessica Alba so well if he has to go bowling, I may be better off with The OC back in the hotel room. And is he serious? He’s saying he has to bowl to dump me, I’m just starting to bring the tally book back out when I realize he’s dead serious (thankfully had not said rotten things about bowling and am secret bowling geek). He’s in a bowling league, now how cool is that AND I get invited to come watch, way cool. Ex husband used to think bowling was totally lame but also thought that flowers were reserved for funerals and not Valentine’s Day, so what’s the point?
So got to go to bowling alley, en route may I point out that babysitter had gotten a bit friendlier, arm on back, a little closer, etc etc, do you think they think we don’t notice? I’m thinking he’s thinking he’s going to get lucky, I mean why on earth would I want to go to the bowling alley if I didn’t want him neked (do u think they think that way? That’s just gross…). Serious, was furthest thought on my mind at that point (was geekily interested in bowling), sex that is, am not one for hop in sack on first meeting girl, took me a friggin year to do the deed with ex bald boy and though momentary fling with Paul Walker may have sounded good, not sure wanted to live with that, didn’t even go there with Big and that’s saying a lot. Though could argue am now single, 30 something year old, with no constraints and past the sexual revolution and should try and use and abuse men more for their carnal abilities. A la Carrie Bradshaw I should be toting around my designer condoms and mini lipstick vibrator with remote in chic Balenciaga purse. My Rabbit doesn’t fit in my purses, which are Kate Spade, Marc Jacobs or Fendi, and my condoms are Trojans and live happily in my non-portable bedside drawer with Rabbit friend. Giggle.
Bowling. Fun. Odd. Troubling. Memorable.
The leather clad biker homosexuals canoodling with also homo-effeminate, nerdy, GQ types bowling at the end of the room, coupled with babysitter league of leave it to beaver skinny guy, porn photographer layered in coloured catholic guilt tattoos, bio tech-meditating, Porsche driving Paul Walker and not really a trucker but I’m sure as heck going to look like one brother who may have had a mullet under the ball cap. Oh my. Neighboring league consisted of characters straight out of That 70s Show (and I’m not talking Ashton) complete with insecure NAPOLEAN bowler with gay hand flick bowl (I knew Napoleon was going to show). I could have written a sitcom, it was all too much, down to custom bowling balls, the requisite very asexual, somewhat plump women, pooch bellied daddies, the “cool” bowlers who were so not, stuck in the 80s tight jean, white heel wearing skanks, the occasional Asian to remind us that we are in the modern age and the trite neon lighting and bizarre graphics of bowling balls mutating into angels and triple x porn stars. If I didn’t know any better this could have been a really psychedelic mushroom trip. At one point had to retreat into pool room, which reminded me awfully of scene from The Accused which wigged the heeby jeebies out of me that I gave up watching CSI in subtitles on the bar TV while ducking pool sticks and horny players.
Not much convo during bowling, though got to know cast of characters who were really swell and incredibly nice people. Truly liked porn photographer to the point that would actually want pictures of me in the buff done. Sincerely, all had hearts of gold and it was a lovely night in the bowling alley, and I found out a lot about salvation and redemption, why to wipe your ball as well as how to fix your bowling handicap… I am sure this will all come in handy in the next generation of Trivial Pursuit.
Now, awkward post bowling moment, I was anticipating being dropped home so was a bit surprised when asked what plan was next. Perhaps am so used to Vancouver dates with nice Vancouver boys who go to bed at midnight and don’t dare kiss u for days that I was a bit stupefied. More? We had some existential life talk in car which I was trying to decode from “I’m being a sensitive man” to “I want you in bed”. Did he really feel a connection or was it a line? I had mentioned early in the evening that you could tell if someone was meant to be, and had the misfortune of having it thrown back at me. Acting coy while feverishly thinking if I say “yes, I do feel that for you” then I’m feeling really out there in vulnerable land, and he may be grunting “Score!!” but if I say “no” that sounds a bit insulting and would be so not true. As Jewel sings, “these foolish games.” This must have been traumatic as I have conveniently forgotten my own response to save self-embarrassment, but must have muddled though with some half assed non-committal statement in very unworldly way. What would Carrie have done? We know Samantha would have launched at his belt buckle in a millisecond, Charlotte would have passed out and Miranda would have said go to hell. I think I started in Charlotte, considered Miranda, guiltily thought through a Samantha, and ended up as Carrie.
He did ask if we should head back to his place as he did have wine there. How cliché is that, negative tally in book??? I wanted to see him more, so did, but so did not want to give off the wrong vibe as did really like the boy for who he was, knowing it was short lived more time together was nice, but how does one convey that without sounding like a hussy? I mean what self respecting woman ends up with a man at her hotel room at some ungodly hour of the morning and not expect them to be counting down the seconds till your clothes come off (am secretly fearing gave off hussy vibe). Oh, did I forget to mention stopping at the bar for champagne that wasn’t really champagne w/ 2 flutes, cliché, after cliché, after cliché, I’m killing myself. It was emotion over logic and logic was putting forth a great effort in the ring, “go to bed”, “say goodnight”, “you only have so much willpower, use it now”, “don’t go upstairs”, “stop, stop, stop”. We know logic is generally right, but I’m damned with these female hormones that rampage around my body making me act irresponsible, hate it. Why can we not be as detached and single focused as men… because then we’d be stupid (right I remember now why we don’t want to be men), plus we’d have distracting appendages hanging off of us that get sweaty and cause us to grope ourselves and we’d have to give up our Rabbits.
Sigh, yes it was a knockout for logic and upstairs we went, emotion and I, to Never Never land. Never Never Never land, the dice had been thrown, I was officially in the game. Why, I've asked myself this a million times, why? How many boys (sorry men) do I date, send them home, write amusing stories, answer idle texts and calls, and feel no zing, lots. And when I give them a chance to prove some zing (sorry HSBC man) there’s still no zing and then I need to pretend zing to make their egos feel like they’re zinging. And when they do zing they end up being Big and need to be unzinged. Maybe it was the moment, never see you again, different country, sayonara, you seem perfect and I need to see if that’s a well rounded assumption requiring you to be naked to judge. Gasp, did I just say that??????? Plus, was working the “c’mon girl” you’re a single liberated woman what’s wrong with having fun (conscience… ), you’re so not into the men you’re dating, live it up.
Ok, one thing led to another and fate intervened and I got my period. Horrors of all horrors I kid you not. Mortification was the only word that comes to mind and if could have done an ostrich and buried my head in the pillows, and gotten away with doing it gracefully I would have. It wasn’t quite the walk of shame but perhaps the scarlet letter would have been more appropriate. At this point babysitter retreated rather rapidly which was a tad alarming, a) was definitely looking for score and had failed b) no zing c) found out I had kids d) faints at sight of blood e) all of the above
Faster than a speeding bullet, he leaped into clothes, quick good night something or other, here a kiss for the girl and he was off in his wonder Cayenne. What’s a girl to think? Have messed up royally and truly? Messed up what one may ask (other than the sheets)? A one night stand, not much on the accomplishment roster so ok to disregard. Life’s true mate, getting a little too karmic (though secretly believe said being does exist), reputation, doubtful as you’ll not meet again, so what’s the bother. The bother is (long sigh) girl likes boy, girl hopes boy likes her too, and… to be continued.
Sometimes when you least expect it, life takes an imaginative turn of its own. Though I’d have to say with my life I don’t really need more turns, but obviously I wasn’t given a choice in it. Went down to a wedding in San Diego this weekend, and through some immense brain aneurism I managed to not read everyone else’s itineraries and was set to arrive hours before anyone else into a town that is reputedly fun but who the only person I was familiar with is married to a neurotic single-female fearing woman... oh and the lesbian documentary film maker, also not high on the list.
To compound matters my girlfriend ended up sucked into the hurricane calamity and remained on the east coast, a day delayed. But being the good friend she is began a campaign to find me a babysitter for the night. I remember a remarkably similar event in high school, where same friend somehow engineered to have me roller skate around school in a silver lame evening dress with inserts and a sign around my neck stating, “I need a date”. Horrid friend.
I still haven’t figured why I needed a babysitter as upon last check I was 34, with all limbs functioning and had probably accrued enough solo frequent flyer miles to round the world twice. Playing along with the game and for my amusement, I got a babysitter. Lets just refer to said being as “the babysitter”. I didn’t know much about babysitter except friend said he was interesting, good looking, but perhaps not tall enough for me. This final bit of information managed to have me imagine the quintessential Napoleon complex, short man with immense attitude who talked too much and feared he was balding too… great.
I’m not sure I did anything to prepare for the night, we were going for dinner, and my escape hatch from Napoleon was I was sooooooooooo tired from flying. Good thing about situations as such, there is no reason to obsess neurotically over perfect outfit, attitude or bum size. You assume the worst and seriously do not want to look your best or may have super freak hanging on you forever. Jeans and an Old Navy tank top was just right, throw in a pair of no name streets of Bangkok shoes and I was styling really low. Top it off had no shampoo as had left house in manic frenzy at 5:30am, so after valiantly fighting with hotel shampoo and conditioner hair was in weird state of disarray… as had forgotten all styling potions as well.
He was coming in a Porsche Cayenne; my Napoleon dread was coming close to breaking me out in hives. Who drives a Porsche Cayenne but short, balding 40+ year old real estate agents who live in West Vancouver dreaming of dating nubile 25 year olds during their midlife crisis? Plus, Car and Driver had likened it to a piece of &^* on a field… I have to sheepishly admit I did test drive one when choosing my last car.
I got in the car and I was stymied, great smile, boyish, devil in the eye, very controlled, and overwhelmingly there (presence), was it just me I wondered, or did he feel this energy too? Did I ooze knock-em-dead energy too? I really had to rethink my togetherness, as the babysitter was not what I was expecting?!! Kind of like hopping into a car with Paul Walker (The Fast and the Furious) when you’re expecting Danny DeVito, and having to put on your best Jessica Alba with bad hair and frumpy clothing. Definitely off guard, definitely, definitely, DAMN, hate that!
Hate to be cheesy but he was pretty neat (is that the best adjective I can think of, YES). Did the mundane chitchat about this and that, and the awkward here and there, each of us jockeying for the right tone and attitude, and doing the once over. Somewhere on the drive to wherever we settle into sarcastic banter (love sarcastic banter), which is always a plus point in my man tally book, so he was gaining some and losing some (still not sure on car). Bits and pieces elude me but unquestionably there was more than hope to a definitely entertaining evening. Ok girlfriend, you get some brownie points, this was much better than having to take your 10th grade boyfriend to the Christmas Formal for you!
So, not sure if he was planning on taking even Attila the Hun to this restaurant, which was pretty swank for just any old chick that may or may not have been fun, but somehow ended up on twinkling outdoor patio, with view of ocean and enough atmosphere to not be weirdly romantic, but accurately fun. At this point we’re falling into Mr. Big territory, but doesn’t quite cap seaplane to island with sunset dinner on rocks with seals on cue (though must note that Big is currently in the doghouse and not being entertained at present (see The Demise story)). Plus, babysitter had no forewarning if he was getting messy Jessica Alba or Roseanne so thinking quick garners a few points too.
Somewhere in here I get a bit fuzzy, but do remember going to bathroom wondering what my ass looked like in my jeans. Would have checked in bathroom but swank restaurants are not immune to puking women and was quite nasty in there (perhaps a California thing?). We had some champers (per norm) and I watched him eat more than I ate but that’s neither here nor there as was not hungry, and no, not due to him (lame), but due to the burger I devoured upon arriving. Not sure why this particular point is necessary in the story…
Sometime as the sun set and the evening darkened, we moved from easy discussions to the more substantial, and then I quit tallying. He asked me if I meditated which I though an odd question, never had that asked before, and wasn’t quite sure where to go with that. I am touchy on my meditation, my rocks and pelicans on the beach, but surprising myself did tell. I wanted to wax lyrical about the thousands of fish surrounding me every evening, the turtles, all the little odd creatures and the bliss of going from the ocean to my sheltered rock that takes me to my meditative state but was sure that would scare him half to death so refrained. Of course later I find, OF COURSE, that his meditation is so far further into the next realm than mine, that I’m almost jealous but since I'm not currently ready to leap through my mental lands at the fate of my mind, I’m quite happy to sit in my itty bitty land of nothingness and peace for a while. Ok, so maybe I’d be cooler if I could meditate daily (want to be cool meditative person) and not rely on fish and rocks, I mean who needs fish to meditate??!!
Now here I can’t help but chuckle, we run through some life stuff, most of it eludes me now, but trust me it was deep. And I swear he said he needed to go bowling after dinner. I’m thinking I'm not channeling Jessica Alba so well if he has to go bowling, I may be better off with The OC back in the hotel room. And is he serious? He’s saying he has to bowl to dump me, I’m just starting to bring the tally book back out when I realize he’s dead serious (thankfully had not said rotten things about bowling and am secret bowling geek). He’s in a bowling league, now how cool is that AND I get invited to come watch, way cool. Ex husband used to think bowling was totally lame but also thought that flowers were reserved for funerals and not Valentine’s Day, so what’s the point?
So got to go to bowling alley, en route may I point out that babysitter had gotten a bit friendlier, arm on back, a little closer, etc etc, do you think they think we don’t notice? I’m thinking he’s thinking he’s going to get lucky, I mean why on earth would I want to go to the bowling alley if I didn’t want him neked (do u think they think that way? That’s just gross…). Serious, was furthest thought on my mind at that point (was geekily interested in bowling), sex that is, am not one for hop in sack on first meeting girl, took me a friggin year to do the deed with ex bald boy and though momentary fling with Paul Walker may have sounded good, not sure wanted to live with that, didn’t even go there with Big and that’s saying a lot. Though could argue am now single, 30 something year old, with no constraints and past the sexual revolution and should try and use and abuse men more for their carnal abilities. A la Carrie Bradshaw I should be toting around my designer condoms and mini lipstick vibrator with remote in chic Balenciaga purse. My Rabbit doesn’t fit in my purses, which are Kate Spade, Marc Jacobs or Fendi, and my condoms are Trojans and live happily in my non-portable bedside drawer with Rabbit friend. Giggle.
Bowling. Fun. Odd. Troubling. Memorable.
The leather clad biker homosexuals canoodling with also homo-effeminate, nerdy, GQ types bowling at the end of the room, coupled with babysitter league of leave it to beaver skinny guy, porn photographer layered in coloured catholic guilt tattoos, bio tech-meditating, Porsche driving Paul Walker and not really a trucker but I’m sure as heck going to look like one brother who may have had a mullet under the ball cap. Oh my. Neighboring league consisted of characters straight out of That 70s Show (and I’m not talking Ashton) complete with insecure NAPOLEAN bowler with gay hand flick bowl (I knew Napoleon was going to show). I could have written a sitcom, it was all too much, down to custom bowling balls, the requisite very asexual, somewhat plump women, pooch bellied daddies, the “cool” bowlers who were so not, stuck in the 80s tight jean, white heel wearing skanks, the occasional Asian to remind us that we are in the modern age and the trite neon lighting and bizarre graphics of bowling balls mutating into angels and triple x porn stars. If I didn’t know any better this could have been a really psychedelic mushroom trip. At one point had to retreat into pool room, which reminded me awfully of scene from The Accused which wigged the heeby jeebies out of me that I gave up watching CSI in subtitles on the bar TV while ducking pool sticks and horny players.
Not much convo during bowling, though got to know cast of characters who were really swell and incredibly nice people. Truly liked porn photographer to the point that would actually want pictures of me in the buff done. Sincerely, all had hearts of gold and it was a lovely night in the bowling alley, and I found out a lot about salvation and redemption, why to wipe your ball as well as how to fix your bowling handicap… I am sure this will all come in handy in the next generation of Trivial Pursuit.
Now, awkward post bowling moment, I was anticipating being dropped home so was a bit surprised when asked what plan was next. Perhaps am so used to Vancouver dates with nice Vancouver boys who go to bed at midnight and don’t dare kiss u for days that I was a bit stupefied. More? We had some existential life talk in car which I was trying to decode from “I’m being a sensitive man” to “I want you in bed”. Did he really feel a connection or was it a line? I had mentioned early in the evening that you could tell if someone was meant to be, and had the misfortune of having it thrown back at me. Acting coy while feverishly thinking if I say “yes, I do feel that for you” then I’m feeling really out there in vulnerable land, and he may be grunting “Score!!” but if I say “no” that sounds a bit insulting and would be so not true. As Jewel sings, “these foolish games.” This must have been traumatic as I have conveniently forgotten my own response to save self-embarrassment, but must have muddled though with some half assed non-committal statement in very unworldly way. What would Carrie have done? We know Samantha would have launched at his belt buckle in a millisecond, Charlotte would have passed out and Miranda would have said go to hell. I think I started in Charlotte, considered Miranda, guiltily thought through a Samantha, and ended up as Carrie.
He did ask if we should head back to his place as he did have wine there. How cliché is that, negative tally in book??? I wanted to see him more, so did, but so did not want to give off the wrong vibe as did really like the boy for who he was, knowing it was short lived more time together was nice, but how does one convey that without sounding like a hussy? I mean what self respecting woman ends up with a man at her hotel room at some ungodly hour of the morning and not expect them to be counting down the seconds till your clothes come off (am secretly fearing gave off hussy vibe). Oh, did I forget to mention stopping at the bar for champagne that wasn’t really champagne w/ 2 flutes, cliché, after cliché, after cliché, I’m killing myself. It was emotion over logic and logic was putting forth a great effort in the ring, “go to bed”, “say goodnight”, “you only have so much willpower, use it now”, “don’t go upstairs”, “stop, stop, stop”. We know logic is generally right, but I’m damned with these female hormones that rampage around my body making me act irresponsible, hate it. Why can we not be as detached and single focused as men… because then we’d be stupid (right I remember now why we don’t want to be men), plus we’d have distracting appendages hanging off of us that get sweaty and cause us to grope ourselves and we’d have to give up our Rabbits.
Sigh, yes it was a knockout for logic and upstairs we went, emotion and I, to Never Never land. Never Never Never land, the dice had been thrown, I was officially in the game. Why, I've asked myself this a million times, why? How many boys (sorry men) do I date, send them home, write amusing stories, answer idle texts and calls, and feel no zing, lots. And when I give them a chance to prove some zing (sorry HSBC man) there’s still no zing and then I need to pretend zing to make their egos feel like they’re zinging. And when they do zing they end up being Big and need to be unzinged. Maybe it was the moment, never see you again, different country, sayonara, you seem perfect and I need to see if that’s a well rounded assumption requiring you to be naked to judge. Gasp, did I just say that??????? Plus, was working the “c’mon girl” you’re a single liberated woman what’s wrong with having fun (conscience… ), you’re so not into the men you’re dating, live it up.
Ok, one thing led to another and fate intervened and I got my period. Horrors of all horrors I kid you not. Mortification was the only word that comes to mind and if could have done an ostrich and buried my head in the pillows, and gotten away with doing it gracefully I would have. It wasn’t quite the walk of shame but perhaps the scarlet letter would have been more appropriate. At this point babysitter retreated rather rapidly which was a tad alarming, a) was definitely looking for score and had failed b) no zing c) found out I had kids d) faints at sight of blood e) all of the above
Faster than a speeding bullet, he leaped into clothes, quick good night something or other, here a kiss for the girl and he was off in his wonder Cayenne. What’s a girl to think? Have messed up royally and truly? Messed up what one may ask (other than the sheets)? A one night stand, not much on the accomplishment roster so ok to disregard. Life’s true mate, getting a little too karmic (though secretly believe said being does exist), reputation, doubtful as you’ll not meet again, so what’s the bother. The bother is (long sigh) girl likes boy, girl hopes boy likes her too, and… to be continued.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
The Unknown
Is it possible for tears to gather for something you never felt? Can you miss something you never experienced? Can you feel a loss for something you never had? Can your body and mind truly connect to a soul that almost never existed, a glimmer that came through your life, a slice of what might have been, but never was?
The sun began its journey into night as my plane made its way home. Somewhere in the twilight the humanity surrounding me in the confines of the cabin moved from a roar to a fading white noise, to nothing but the heat in my chest and the beauty of the world. The magic of the moment so intense it suffocated, that there could be such a wondrous world, bathed in the innocent light of the fading day, glimmering with a halo of calm from the setting rays, and the maddening quiet of my mind trying to understand how I could be within such harmony and feel inexplicably torn by the torrent of my soul.
Why are we given the experiences we have and what do they mean? The tears that welled and almost came, tears of happiness capturing an idyllic moment of time, and the sorrow of a heart yearning to absorb yet unable to break the confines of life. Unable to understand the mysteries given, the fate handed out and the choices to make.
How do you know if you are to take the path less trodden, to take the straight and narrow or to stand alone with nary a path. Are we meant to be alone, can I be alone, am I safer alone? I have worked so hard to tame the beast, to find and open tiny windows of light that had been shut for so long, to allow happiness to play unfettered, to bridge the chasms of uncertainty. My individual journey to the recesses of my mind, to the dark chambers, to the wars and the murky poisons, slowly facing the residents and claiming back life rightfully earned. The land is still pockmarked but there is a stronger light at the end of the tunnel, where once it seemed ready to falter and flicker into darkness, it now throbs brighter, a beacon in the soul, illuminating the still long and dangerous path, but shedding enough hope through the shrouded caverns to make me want to forge ahead where before I wished it to crumble and take me with its fall.
I met a soul where I thought none existed. A soul outside the walls I guard with care. Karma says it was meant to be, but where does it play to my destiny and what did it mean. Is it a test to my resolution to stay within my gilded cage, to deny the golden fruit, and continue with my song? There lies a kindred spirit within its own glass confines, revolving within its own walls, in a separate universe, seeking similar truths to mine but in a different land. Do I reach out to find and possibly fail or stand course and take this poignancy never knowing what it meant in the road of life.
I met a man, I felt a man, I saw a man, I became one with a man, and I left a man. I don’t know what he means, I don’t know what that means, and I don’t know what this means. For now, it needs to go into the box in my mind, where all things that confuse be placed, to make it recede. I don’t understand this lesson, I may fail this step, I cannot answer the riddle of the sphinx. Are their more similar souls in glass houses, do I take a step out or do they, and can our houses, filled with so much selfish energy, become one? Become one without undermining the sense of self and living within positive energy that does not leech but instead builds. When is the time and what is the sign? When do we relinquish fear and step into the waves of the unknown? How overwhelming does a moment need to be to make a mark? And how certain do we need to be to show our mark?
The sun began its journey into night as my plane made its way home. Somewhere in the twilight the humanity surrounding me in the confines of the cabin moved from a roar to a fading white noise, to nothing but the heat in my chest and the beauty of the world. The magic of the moment so intense it suffocated, that there could be such a wondrous world, bathed in the innocent light of the fading day, glimmering with a halo of calm from the setting rays, and the maddening quiet of my mind trying to understand how I could be within such harmony and feel inexplicably torn by the torrent of my soul.
Why are we given the experiences we have and what do they mean? The tears that welled and almost came, tears of happiness capturing an idyllic moment of time, and the sorrow of a heart yearning to absorb yet unable to break the confines of life. Unable to understand the mysteries given, the fate handed out and the choices to make.
How do you know if you are to take the path less trodden, to take the straight and narrow or to stand alone with nary a path. Are we meant to be alone, can I be alone, am I safer alone? I have worked so hard to tame the beast, to find and open tiny windows of light that had been shut for so long, to allow happiness to play unfettered, to bridge the chasms of uncertainty. My individual journey to the recesses of my mind, to the dark chambers, to the wars and the murky poisons, slowly facing the residents and claiming back life rightfully earned. The land is still pockmarked but there is a stronger light at the end of the tunnel, where once it seemed ready to falter and flicker into darkness, it now throbs brighter, a beacon in the soul, illuminating the still long and dangerous path, but shedding enough hope through the shrouded caverns to make me want to forge ahead where before I wished it to crumble and take me with its fall.
I met a soul where I thought none existed. A soul outside the walls I guard with care. Karma says it was meant to be, but where does it play to my destiny and what did it mean. Is it a test to my resolution to stay within my gilded cage, to deny the golden fruit, and continue with my song? There lies a kindred spirit within its own glass confines, revolving within its own walls, in a separate universe, seeking similar truths to mine but in a different land. Do I reach out to find and possibly fail or stand course and take this poignancy never knowing what it meant in the road of life.
I met a man, I felt a man, I saw a man, I became one with a man, and I left a man. I don’t know what he means, I don’t know what that means, and I don’t know what this means. For now, it needs to go into the box in my mind, where all things that confuse be placed, to make it recede. I don’t understand this lesson, I may fail this step, I cannot answer the riddle of the sphinx. Are their more similar souls in glass houses, do I take a step out or do they, and can our houses, filled with so much selfish energy, become one? Become one without undermining the sense of self and living within positive energy that does not leech but instead builds. When is the time and what is the sign? When do we relinquish fear and step into the waves of the unknown? How overwhelming does a moment need to be to make a mark? And how certain do we need to be to show our mark?
Saturday, September 10, 2005
The Baby Sitter, part 3
I’m not sure what to make of the baby sitter situation. I think a “situation” may give it a negative connotation when really it should have more of a surreal quality to it, like baby sitter trilogy (except we haven’t gotten past the prologue). I feel like there should be a manual in the library that explains rationally to me how one can possibly feel zing for someone you technically don’t know, have spent no more than 8 hours with and don’t even live in the same bloody country and have not seen each other in a month. Truly, is this not the fodder for romantic-comedies, where you laugh and cry, wish it would happen to you, but know it’s all a bunch of hooey thrown together by writers congregated over a table drinking beers and leering at Cameron Diaz. So really, though we want our own private Notting Hill with Hugh Grant, we don’t actually expect it, and instead spend money to sit and watch it in surround sound with a good bucket of popcorn and some Kleenex projecting our inner Julia.
So, when the beginning of said encounter does occur do you say to one’s self, ok self, this has to be bullshit. All this pent up regressed romantic trash starting from when I thought Rob Lowe and Demi Moore where the epitome of romantic perfection in About Last Night, is now starting to get to me. I held up my High School crushes to this very relationship standard till I realized it only worked if the relationship did not exceed 96 minutes.
So babysitter and I, we kind of waffled, or maybe I waffled. I went through much iteration, and primarily ending up with didn’t want to be friends and hang around while babysitter sussed out exotic Persian woman, kinda like a lame Barbara Cartland novel from the 70s. There had to be better things to vest one’s time in. So with that firmly in mind, mitigating all expectations, had casual back and forth with babysitter, ok, fine, perhaps not soooo casual but not toooo non-casual, excepting the R-rated sexual story (plus he thought it was rather PG-13- what does that say about impending sex life???). I was fine for him to gallivant off with exotic lady as I was gallivanting off to exotic locale. Plus had enough trouble trying to politely evade physical contact with “nice” HSBCman in Vancouver, then constant bombardment of texts and invites from JC, and finally having to deal very delicately with Sailor in the BVI (which is a whole saga still unwritten).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, attention is nice, but unfortunately, I likened the Babysitter in previous story to a lingering cold. It’s frustrating enough trying to juggle men in your inbox, texts and vicinity (shit I know many women would love to have this setback-I’m not complaining, I’ll remember these days fondly when I’m 60, Botoxed and filled with Perlane), and thinking it should be fun to go out with them, but I have this damn head cold and it won’t cease and abate making everything look and taste rather unappetizing. So, stalked about muttering imprecations at Babysitter and sheer nonsensical nature of all this, and perhaps cursing him for the setback in my dating life. Unlike men, women actually need to feel some modicum of attraction and interest for a man to warrant a date without drooling into our meals and falling asleep. We don’t have that capacity to shut our minds off and work off other heads…
Getting away from myself? So babysitter kind of niggled away amongst all the other predators. San Juan airport was a feeding frenzy… Latin men have absolutely no inhibitions, and if I was a mean and evil woman could have had a lovely dinner, loaded shopping trip and a night dancing and gambling all on several tabs. But, thanks to lovely upbringing and conscience, exited very neatly from all entanglements and had a fun night at The Palm with Architect and lost $20 gambling at Blackjack. Dealer kept giving me tips on what to do (hold, hit, split) and kept apologizing whenever I lost with a wink and a smile. He seemed to think Architect was far too old to be a date (which he wasn’t) so completely ignored him much to Architect’s chagrin (sorry Architect). Of all the shenanigans, thankfully Bran was not on island (actually did not ask as felt would just complicate life even more) as that would have just topped the charts and capped this trip off with too much drama. Last encounter with Bran was alternating stressful and laughable that I truly should write a story about it but may end up getting sued so best to not.
Ok, so had a lot ongoing that lingering babysitter flu was doubly frustrating and causing me to hive. Then came fist cryptic email “you and I will be seeing each other”, this was in response to flippant email sent by me asking how revelatory trip with exotic girlfriend was going (it was an honest email!!). Well what the heck did that mean, it didn’t work to read it a few times over as it only consisted of 8 words with no punctuation. I’m thinking, “I’m not seeing you if you have a girlfriend…” so ignored email and all connotations and instead cc:ed him on rambling tales of adventure in tropics. Then got second cryptic message saying he was “free (literally)… call anytime”, ok, ok, ok what does that mean? I mean I know it MEANS he’s FREE? Like here’s your Get Out of Jail card, please proceed to Park Avenue? Free, she’s gone back to school (school?)? Free, they broke up? Free, have decided to have open relationship and engage in threesomes, I dunno, free friggin what??!! I was thinking highly unlikely to have parted ways with exotic creature, as she seemed rather delectable with her youth, fiction and my imagined fabulous look she had. So, ignored responding directly to that email as well and just wondered if was going slowly insane. Do men really need to communicate in 10 words or less? I’ve just written a page and a half and I’m not even halfway there.
Ok, much to my surprise upon actual conversation in Admirals Club, after frantically trying to get off phone with first LaVida and then litany of IMs from JC so could talk to Babysitter (jeebus, he was the only one I wanted to talk to), find he has parted ways with exotic Persian from lands afar. For me? I wish! That would be way too much like (quick, think of romantic movie)… Serendipity. Oh my gosh, this is what this whole interaction is, its Serendipity (go rent the movie now)! Ok, so obviously something went awry in spending minutes, hours, days and nights together. Yes, yes, yes curiosity is killing me, I am female, I don’t deny it. Mind has been racing through the write your own endings… lukewarm copulations? Poor repartee? Laughs not forthcoming? Poor oral hygiene? We know its not because she bled on him (har har har, snort, snort).
Setting up to not have expectations, am now stumped, what does this mean, did not have any damn expectations and am now poorly prepared? How terribly foreign in an unexotic way, maybe that should be me, “foreign in unexotic way”. Digressing… I need a script, have not been in this scenario before and am lacking stage directions and emotions in nice parentheses (i.e. Show laughter, then throw up on stage left and exit). It’s too Hollywood and Hollywood doesn’t exist but on celluloid, I mean there have been 4 splits in Hollywood couples married under a year this month… (serious, certifiable source, People magazine) so let’s not hold high hopes off the golden screen. Then even more curious, is that in its foreignness and inexplicable weirdness of it, it seems right. Nothing overwrought, nothing freaky, nothing neurotic or insecure, just feels pretty calm and mellow, like this is the way it’s supposed to be. Two strangers, a night in San Diego, poignant, friends, not, and now, time to end the prologue and start the first chapter. Something in the air says, girl, it feels all right, go check it out… (cue: JT, I Want to Rock Your Body)
First and foremost must divest of HSBCman, if I was Catholic this would be a near death experience, the guilt is eating me up. I just haven’t found the right time and place, and being away receiving all these “sweet” (ack!) emails is so wrong, wrong, wrong. The sweeter it gets the more I want some Splenda substitute, make him stop, nice man, nice, very nice, just “boring” (I spent hundreds in therapy to have someone tell me that…). Last email I received was an attempt to be seductive which just about made me fall of my chair, buried head in hands and hastily shut computer. Of course then came home hours later to another email stating quite simply “obviously I am the only one who feels this way”. Was tempted to respond with “Ummmm…. Yes?”, but felt was not prudent for future friendly relations. So, am still in quagmire, trying to meet in non-threatening, least embarrassing to male ego forum. Where I can tactfully mumble something about not the right time in life, friends, think you’re great, not ready, it’s all my fault, and by the way I’m taking a stranger on a romantic vacation to the tropics in a week… instead of you.
So, when the beginning of said encounter does occur do you say to one’s self, ok self, this has to be bullshit. All this pent up regressed romantic trash starting from when I thought Rob Lowe and Demi Moore where the epitome of romantic perfection in About Last Night, is now starting to get to me. I held up my High School crushes to this very relationship standard till I realized it only worked if the relationship did not exceed 96 minutes.
So babysitter and I, we kind of waffled, or maybe I waffled. I went through much iteration, and primarily ending up with didn’t want to be friends and hang around while babysitter sussed out exotic Persian woman, kinda like a lame Barbara Cartland novel from the 70s. There had to be better things to vest one’s time in. So with that firmly in mind, mitigating all expectations, had casual back and forth with babysitter, ok, fine, perhaps not soooo casual but not toooo non-casual, excepting the R-rated sexual story (plus he thought it was rather PG-13- what does that say about impending sex life???). I was fine for him to gallivant off with exotic lady as I was gallivanting off to exotic locale. Plus had enough trouble trying to politely evade physical contact with “nice” HSBCman in Vancouver, then constant bombardment of texts and invites from JC, and finally having to deal very delicately with Sailor in the BVI (which is a whole saga still unwritten).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, attention is nice, but unfortunately, I likened the Babysitter in previous story to a lingering cold. It’s frustrating enough trying to juggle men in your inbox, texts and vicinity (shit I know many women would love to have this setback-I’m not complaining, I’ll remember these days fondly when I’m 60, Botoxed and filled with Perlane), and thinking it should be fun to go out with them, but I have this damn head cold and it won’t cease and abate making everything look and taste rather unappetizing. So, stalked about muttering imprecations at Babysitter and sheer nonsensical nature of all this, and perhaps cursing him for the setback in my dating life. Unlike men, women actually need to feel some modicum of attraction and interest for a man to warrant a date without drooling into our meals and falling asleep. We don’t have that capacity to shut our minds off and work off other heads…
Getting away from myself? So babysitter kind of niggled away amongst all the other predators. San Juan airport was a feeding frenzy… Latin men have absolutely no inhibitions, and if I was a mean and evil woman could have had a lovely dinner, loaded shopping trip and a night dancing and gambling all on several tabs. But, thanks to lovely upbringing and conscience, exited very neatly from all entanglements and had a fun night at The Palm with Architect and lost $20 gambling at Blackjack. Dealer kept giving me tips on what to do (hold, hit, split) and kept apologizing whenever I lost with a wink and a smile. He seemed to think Architect was far too old to be a date (which he wasn’t) so completely ignored him much to Architect’s chagrin (sorry Architect). Of all the shenanigans, thankfully Bran was not on island (actually did not ask as felt would just complicate life even more) as that would have just topped the charts and capped this trip off with too much drama. Last encounter with Bran was alternating stressful and laughable that I truly should write a story about it but may end up getting sued so best to not.
Ok, so had a lot ongoing that lingering babysitter flu was doubly frustrating and causing me to hive. Then came fist cryptic email “you and I will be seeing each other”, this was in response to flippant email sent by me asking how revelatory trip with exotic girlfriend was going (it was an honest email!!). Well what the heck did that mean, it didn’t work to read it a few times over as it only consisted of 8 words with no punctuation. I’m thinking, “I’m not seeing you if you have a girlfriend…” so ignored email and all connotations and instead cc:ed him on rambling tales of adventure in tropics. Then got second cryptic message saying he was “free (literally)… call anytime”, ok, ok, ok what does that mean? I mean I know it MEANS he’s FREE? Like here’s your Get Out of Jail card, please proceed to Park Avenue? Free, she’s gone back to school (school?)? Free, they broke up? Free, have decided to have open relationship and engage in threesomes, I dunno, free friggin what??!! I was thinking highly unlikely to have parted ways with exotic creature, as she seemed rather delectable with her youth, fiction and my imagined fabulous look she had. So, ignored responding directly to that email as well and just wondered if was going slowly insane. Do men really need to communicate in 10 words or less? I’ve just written a page and a half and I’m not even halfway there.
Ok, much to my surprise upon actual conversation in Admirals Club, after frantically trying to get off phone with first LaVida and then litany of IMs from JC so could talk to Babysitter (jeebus, he was the only one I wanted to talk to), find he has parted ways with exotic Persian from lands afar. For me? I wish! That would be way too much like (quick, think of romantic movie)… Serendipity. Oh my gosh, this is what this whole interaction is, its Serendipity (go rent the movie now)! Ok, so obviously something went awry in spending minutes, hours, days and nights together. Yes, yes, yes curiosity is killing me, I am female, I don’t deny it. Mind has been racing through the write your own endings… lukewarm copulations? Poor repartee? Laughs not forthcoming? Poor oral hygiene? We know its not because she bled on him (har har har, snort, snort).
Setting up to not have expectations, am now stumped, what does this mean, did not have any damn expectations and am now poorly prepared? How terribly foreign in an unexotic way, maybe that should be me, “foreign in unexotic way”. Digressing… I need a script, have not been in this scenario before and am lacking stage directions and emotions in nice parentheses (i.e. Show laughter, then throw up on stage left and exit). It’s too Hollywood and Hollywood doesn’t exist but on celluloid, I mean there have been 4 splits in Hollywood couples married under a year this month… (serious, certifiable source, People magazine) so let’s not hold high hopes off the golden screen. Then even more curious, is that in its foreignness and inexplicable weirdness of it, it seems right. Nothing overwrought, nothing freaky, nothing neurotic or insecure, just feels pretty calm and mellow, like this is the way it’s supposed to be. Two strangers, a night in San Diego, poignant, friends, not, and now, time to end the prologue and start the first chapter. Something in the air says, girl, it feels all right, go check it out… (cue: JT, I Want to Rock Your Body)
First and foremost must divest of HSBCman, if I was Catholic this would be a near death experience, the guilt is eating me up. I just haven’t found the right time and place, and being away receiving all these “sweet” (ack!) emails is so wrong, wrong, wrong. The sweeter it gets the more I want some Splenda substitute, make him stop, nice man, nice, very nice, just “boring” (I spent hundreds in therapy to have someone tell me that…). Last email I received was an attempt to be seductive which just about made me fall of my chair, buried head in hands and hastily shut computer. Of course then came home hours later to another email stating quite simply “obviously I am the only one who feels this way”. Was tempted to respond with “Ummmm…. Yes?”, but felt was not prudent for future friendly relations. So, am still in quagmire, trying to meet in non-threatening, least embarrassing to male ego forum. Where I can tactfully mumble something about not the right time in life, friends, think you’re great, not ready, it’s all my fault, and by the way I’m taking a stranger on a romantic vacation to the tropics in a week… instead of you.
Friday, August 19, 2005
The Big Glimmer
The Glimmer
A few days ago, in a happy texting mood, and a need for affirmation from men, I sent off a few texts to a few of the men in my dating life, including one to Big. Nothing profound to Big, just a “hi, how are things?” as per norm, I didn’t expect to hear back, but wanted him to subconsciously remember my existence. I fear this may be a very sad statement to make, but its true and done.
All the regular males came beeping back with adulation and I was fully satisfied. Much to my surprise, a few days later, there was Big, with not one, but TWO texts, saying he was in town and how did I feel about getting together. HOW DID I FEEL? HOW DID I FEEL?!? I feel YES, I feel HAPPY, and I feel MY HEART BEATING! I feel I wonder how long have you been in town? I feel did you not call me as soon as you arrived here? I feel I shouldn’t text you back right away? I feel like I need to play cool! YES YES YES (I did wait an hour).
I went to the shrink. Yes, I did, I went to my shrink, $140/hr to get confirmation that I am truly neurotic and pathetic in scientific terms. Believe it or not, she likened him to a crack hit and I was a BIG crack addict (funny that shrink). I was going to take the euphoric hit and come crashing down into withdrawal. Have decided am truly a Big crack addict as knowing all consequences and potential self-destruction; I chose the drug over rehab.
Am skipping about the house gleefully, we’re meeting for a walk, dinner and miscellaneous unsaid activities. ☺ I am petrified he is going to call and cancel. My heart is a metronome threatening to spill out of my chest with the intensity of anticipation. I’m pushing all the negative thoughts into that nifty little black crawl space in my mind with the one-way glass, loads of time to deal over some Kleenex, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and Sex in the City reruns after he leaves.
So, we’re supposed to go for a walk, he suggests some unknown area of town and rather than feel non worldly, I Google it instead of asking him, then call sister for some helpful tips to sound knowledgeable, pull out restaurant guide to ponder dinner options in case asked for opinions. I am picking him up at his office, so want to come across as business-casual-elegant (because I do have a life), but also need to be walk-ready, and romantic-dinner friendly, and not cold. Is a bit of a conundrum as business-casual-elegant does not normally involve sneakers for walking. Decide to go with best impression first and consequence later, and don linen pants and fabulous Bebe top with nifty bows and ties, and orange heels. Pull in a lime green Coach bag, pop in not too tight Rock n Republic jeans, linen tank top, a smashing orange pashmina and a pair of XXX fashionable runners and my (embarrassed look) overnight case.
Did I fail to mention I have a 5am flight the next morning that I have sent down to same nifty little crawl space? Never mind suitcase needing to be packed, prescriptions needing to be filled and documents needing some tlc, BIG is in town, earth stops revolving around sun and begins to revolve around self-centered, non-committal male with no special feelings for me.
Am jittery, feeling ready to throw up, not wanting to pace, and down right nauseous waiting for him to come join me. Outside façade I must admit is cool, calm, sophisticated and elegant, that I am sure I take him a step back with my presence. Giggle, score! We kiss and the little birds dither about my head (note he kissed me, score 2), walking down to car he places arm around me, score 3. Feeling buoyed with an arsenal of I am she-woman we end up at his place to let him shower and get out of his work clothes and for me to slip from business-casual-elegant to chic, sporty, cute mode. End case, we end up steamily in bed for the next 3 hours, cute mode non existent, replaced by smoldering-captivating Aphrodite in DKNY lingerie.
I liken him to an on-off switch, when he’s with me the bulb is burning brighter than bright, illuminating me and everything in our little world and I know with intuitive confidence that I am not wrong that when he is with me I am his Venus. What pains me is his ability to switch it off, all energy gone, and no light between us till he flips that switch again. I’m not a switch, I am a far more sophisticated and problem plagued dimmer, I may contain the ebb and wane but the energy annoyingly lives there in continuous power saving mode.
Can I say that somewhere within me, I am hoping he will realize what there is between us and not fight it; this is why I hang on in this self-flagellating limbo. He has baggage; I have baggage, so much overweight baggage the charges are not worth taking the baggage with us. Perhaps should send down to nifty little crawl space too. After we unraveled and took ourselves into the shower with our stomachs grumbling, a couple of champagne cocktails on the waterfront with sailboats lighting up the sky and ferries chugging slowly through, we found our way to life, dreams and wants, and his fear of giving me any expectations and assumptions of him. In most unnatural a Big moment, he confessed to actually thinking of me and wanting me to come join him on his latest trip but could not get himself to ask or correspond for fear of giving me any expectations. What am I supposed to do, words of rebuttal are clamouring their way up my throat but I don’t want to close off this small chink in the armour. So I smile, treading delicately, a sliver of hope and a fission of pain all unraveling within me, not knowing where this is going, but it will need to end before it takes me too far down to recover and feverishly hoping he will see the light that is me before it extinguishes.
We end our night par for course, big wrapped around me caressing and cuddling, peppering kisses down my back and whispering his good nights and me wide awake, unable to sleep, staring into the darkness blindly, wondering if this truly is real to just me.
Note: alarm rang at 4am; I smashed it to pieces, spooned back into big and missed my flight.
A few days ago, in a happy texting mood, and a need for affirmation from men, I sent off a few texts to a few of the men in my dating life, including one to Big. Nothing profound to Big, just a “hi, how are things?” as per norm, I didn’t expect to hear back, but wanted him to subconsciously remember my existence. I fear this may be a very sad statement to make, but its true and done.
All the regular males came beeping back with adulation and I was fully satisfied. Much to my surprise, a few days later, there was Big, with not one, but TWO texts, saying he was in town and how did I feel about getting together. HOW DID I FEEL? HOW DID I FEEL?!? I feel YES, I feel HAPPY, and I feel MY HEART BEATING! I feel I wonder how long have you been in town? I feel did you not call me as soon as you arrived here? I feel I shouldn’t text you back right away? I feel like I need to play cool! YES YES YES (I did wait an hour).
I went to the shrink. Yes, I did, I went to my shrink, $140/hr to get confirmation that I am truly neurotic and pathetic in scientific terms. Believe it or not, she likened him to a crack hit and I was a BIG crack addict (funny that shrink). I was going to take the euphoric hit and come crashing down into withdrawal. Have decided am truly a Big crack addict as knowing all consequences and potential self-destruction; I chose the drug over rehab.
Am skipping about the house gleefully, we’re meeting for a walk, dinner and miscellaneous unsaid activities. ☺ I am petrified he is going to call and cancel. My heart is a metronome threatening to spill out of my chest with the intensity of anticipation. I’m pushing all the negative thoughts into that nifty little black crawl space in my mind with the one-way glass, loads of time to deal over some Kleenex, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and Sex in the City reruns after he leaves.
So, we’re supposed to go for a walk, he suggests some unknown area of town and rather than feel non worldly, I Google it instead of asking him, then call sister for some helpful tips to sound knowledgeable, pull out restaurant guide to ponder dinner options in case asked for opinions. I am picking him up at his office, so want to come across as business-casual-elegant (because I do have a life), but also need to be walk-ready, and romantic-dinner friendly, and not cold. Is a bit of a conundrum as business-casual-elegant does not normally involve sneakers for walking. Decide to go with best impression first and consequence later, and don linen pants and fabulous Bebe top with nifty bows and ties, and orange heels. Pull in a lime green Coach bag, pop in not too tight Rock n Republic jeans, linen tank top, a smashing orange pashmina and a pair of XXX fashionable runners and my (embarrassed look) overnight case.
Did I fail to mention I have a 5am flight the next morning that I have sent down to same nifty little crawl space? Never mind suitcase needing to be packed, prescriptions needing to be filled and documents needing some tlc, BIG is in town, earth stops revolving around sun and begins to revolve around self-centered, non-committal male with no special feelings for me.
Am jittery, feeling ready to throw up, not wanting to pace, and down right nauseous waiting for him to come join me. Outside façade I must admit is cool, calm, sophisticated and elegant, that I am sure I take him a step back with my presence. Giggle, score! We kiss and the little birds dither about my head (note he kissed me, score 2), walking down to car he places arm around me, score 3. Feeling buoyed with an arsenal of I am she-woman we end up at his place to let him shower and get out of his work clothes and for me to slip from business-casual-elegant to chic, sporty, cute mode. End case, we end up steamily in bed for the next 3 hours, cute mode non existent, replaced by smoldering-captivating Aphrodite in DKNY lingerie.
I liken him to an on-off switch, when he’s with me the bulb is burning brighter than bright, illuminating me and everything in our little world and I know with intuitive confidence that I am not wrong that when he is with me I am his Venus. What pains me is his ability to switch it off, all energy gone, and no light between us till he flips that switch again. I’m not a switch, I am a far more sophisticated and problem plagued dimmer, I may contain the ebb and wane but the energy annoyingly lives there in continuous power saving mode.
Can I say that somewhere within me, I am hoping he will realize what there is between us and not fight it; this is why I hang on in this self-flagellating limbo. He has baggage; I have baggage, so much overweight baggage the charges are not worth taking the baggage with us. Perhaps should send down to nifty little crawl space too. After we unraveled and took ourselves into the shower with our stomachs grumbling, a couple of champagne cocktails on the waterfront with sailboats lighting up the sky and ferries chugging slowly through, we found our way to life, dreams and wants, and his fear of giving me any expectations and assumptions of him. In most unnatural a Big moment, he confessed to actually thinking of me and wanting me to come join him on his latest trip but could not get himself to ask or correspond for fear of giving me any expectations. What am I supposed to do, words of rebuttal are clamouring their way up my throat but I don’t want to close off this small chink in the armour. So I smile, treading delicately, a sliver of hope and a fission of pain all unraveling within me, not knowing where this is going, but it will need to end before it takes me too far down to recover and feverishly hoping he will see the light that is me before it extinguishes.
We end our night par for course, big wrapped around me caressing and cuddling, peppering kisses down my back and whispering his good nights and me wide awake, unable to sleep, staring into the darkness blindly, wondering if this truly is real to just me.
Note: alarm rang at 4am; I smashed it to pieces, spooned back into big and missed my flight.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
The Big Email
Big showed up on email today. There he was in my inbox, subject “hello”. I had finally gotten myself into a space where I no longer scanned my inbox every morning for the sight of his name, trying to fool myself I wasn’t looking but knowing perfectly well I was looking with microscopic detail. Murphy’s Law, life starts to go back to normal, you’ve settled your demons and the demon shows up in your inbox.
Short and sweet, he’s coming back to town today, how about dinner? What is it with me, the man leaves my house 3 weeks ago, leaving me standing here wondering if I will ever see him again, not a word of correspondence for 3 weeks and here I am ready to implode with glee at one email? My one pathetic email I sent to him in a moment of weakness went unanswered and I am now insanely happy he’s written me 3 lines, let alone wants to see me! Someone whack me with a sledgehammer now please!
Did I mention I have a date with Bankman tonight? We made this date days ago, picnic on the beach, wine, cheese, sunset and just bursting with romance and all I can think is Big is back in town. Fingers’ working on its own impetus off goes an email, dinner, OF COURSE. A text message, dinner, SURE. Another text, dinner tonight, ABSOLUTELY? I’m a moron, an absolute and total female idiot. So much for coy and unattainable…
So, now I have 2 dates for tonight. I consult the two ex boyfriends via instant messenger and ACman in France on what to say to Bankman. Why on earth I’m asking a man I’m technically dating for advice on another man is for another day, let alone the exes. All say, tell him the truth. I secretly think they’ve all got an agenda to rid the planet of another member of the Vida fan club. I ignore all three of them, and send Bankman a text, lamely saying that a “friend” just came into town and could we rain check. My conscience is killing me. He texts back that it’s fine. WHY did he have to be so darn understanding and such a nice man!?! Here I have on one hand, Bankman: Cute, beautiful body, great eyes, successful, considerate, romantic, anything and everything a girl could want and then there’s Big, who is essentially a younger Chris Noth with a smaller nose and who doesn’t give a hoot if I exist and tells me he has no “special” feelings for me. I know I should kick him in the nuts and tell him to head to middle earth… I know.
Reality, my conscience is still killing me about Bankman, I’m too honest for my own good. I send him a text saying I HAVE TO meet him. Meet me he does, looking so fresh and sweet, with his gorgeous big smile, and I want to die! Repeat to oneself, stupid-stupid-stupid woman. Sigh. On a little park bench surrounded by a babbling brook, blooming flowers and shady trees (thankfully it isn’t the perfect romantic spot as he’s being eaten by mosquitoes) I re-affirm that I am not looking for a relationship (unless you’re BIG), want to date casually (unless you’re BIG) and need to keep my emotions in check to focus on myself (unless you’re BIG). Of course, he perfectly understands, thinks I am an amazing woman, thinks we have great chemistry, and it’s fine to date casually (please make him stop). Here’s the kicker, he stands up saying “I thought you were asking me here to tell me that a man you’re dating is flying into town and I was going to tell you that was OK” (weak laughter emanates from me, I am sure someone up there is laughing). We do the awkward kiss good bye, and I slink back to my car feeling like a void needs to open up and send ME to middle earth.
However, I am seeing Big in two hours (cue violins and pretty little birds) and I need to find that perfect casual, just threw on, dead sexy, very wholesome outfit. The closet is a battlefield; I throw everything in the room inside and slam the door shut. Straighten the bed because I so want him in there! Music and lights, but not too planned because heavens I’m not expecting him to stay the night. I’m making myself ill. Perfect outfit on I stalk the house maniacally, then settle down on the laptop refusing to look at the clock because I know he will be late. I surreptitiously glance at my mobile in case he sent a text. Uuuuuuuuugh, I know he hasn’t why did I look?! Doorbell rings, heart stops, stand up, compose and skip down stairs nonchalantly. There he is, my devil incarnate, bouquet of flowers in hand, goofy grin and absolutely adorable. How can I not melt, he brought me flowers!!! We kiss and the fireworks are exploding in my head, this man drives me crazy, my knees threaten to buckle, my heart pounds and my hormones are, are, are everywhere. I just want to throw him into bed but a moment of sanity snaps me back to reality and I re-assume the cool, composed, completely in control Vida who insists we need to put the flowers in water.
We walk down the seawall hand in hand, arm in arm, seals bob in and out, the sun starts to settle into twilight, happy couples and families stroll by, we stop periodically to gaze at the perfection, kiss, slow dance in the street, manifest the perfection of a couple in love. I am repeating to myself through my haze of euphoria the mantra that this is not real, embrace the moment and let it go, he has “NO SPECIAL FEELINGS FOR YOU”. Dinner is fabulous; we talk through, laughter and excitement bubbling in and out over a pitcher of sangria. We lopsidedly make our way out, giggling like children and hail a cab home where we dive onto each other in the foyer, in the hall, on the steps, clothes flying and passion igniting a trail to the bed. Later (much later) his arms wrapped around me he strokes my hair, nuzzles my neck and kisses me good night and I want to cry. How can this not be real? How can he not feel this? How can something so beautiful to me be nothing to him? I don’t sleep a wink and the next morning he gets up and leaves, no plans, no commitments, I smile and say good-bye, friends with benefits, a monster of my making. Readers, I know, I know, I know, it’s all wrong and I am fooling myself, but I can’t let go, I need Oprah, Dr. Phil, Deepak Chopra, or just a copy of “He’s Really Not That Into You” rammed into my skull.
Short and sweet, he’s coming back to town today, how about dinner? What is it with me, the man leaves my house 3 weeks ago, leaving me standing here wondering if I will ever see him again, not a word of correspondence for 3 weeks and here I am ready to implode with glee at one email? My one pathetic email I sent to him in a moment of weakness went unanswered and I am now insanely happy he’s written me 3 lines, let alone wants to see me! Someone whack me with a sledgehammer now please!
Did I mention I have a date with Bankman tonight? We made this date days ago, picnic on the beach, wine, cheese, sunset and just bursting with romance and all I can think is Big is back in town. Fingers’ working on its own impetus off goes an email, dinner, OF COURSE. A text message, dinner, SURE. Another text, dinner tonight, ABSOLUTELY? I’m a moron, an absolute and total female idiot. So much for coy and unattainable…
So, now I have 2 dates for tonight. I consult the two ex boyfriends via instant messenger and ACman in France on what to say to Bankman. Why on earth I’m asking a man I’m technically dating for advice on another man is for another day, let alone the exes. All say, tell him the truth. I secretly think they’ve all got an agenda to rid the planet of another member of the Vida fan club. I ignore all three of them, and send Bankman a text, lamely saying that a “friend” just came into town and could we rain check. My conscience is killing me. He texts back that it’s fine. WHY did he have to be so darn understanding and such a nice man!?! Here I have on one hand, Bankman: Cute, beautiful body, great eyes, successful, considerate, romantic, anything and everything a girl could want and then there’s Big, who is essentially a younger Chris Noth with a smaller nose and who doesn’t give a hoot if I exist and tells me he has no “special” feelings for me. I know I should kick him in the nuts and tell him to head to middle earth… I know.
Reality, my conscience is still killing me about Bankman, I’m too honest for my own good. I send him a text saying I HAVE TO meet him. Meet me he does, looking so fresh and sweet, with his gorgeous big smile, and I want to die! Repeat to oneself, stupid-stupid-stupid woman. Sigh. On a little park bench surrounded by a babbling brook, blooming flowers and shady trees (thankfully it isn’t the perfect romantic spot as he’s being eaten by mosquitoes) I re-affirm that I am not looking for a relationship (unless you’re BIG), want to date casually (unless you’re BIG) and need to keep my emotions in check to focus on myself (unless you’re BIG). Of course, he perfectly understands, thinks I am an amazing woman, thinks we have great chemistry, and it’s fine to date casually (please make him stop). Here’s the kicker, he stands up saying “I thought you were asking me here to tell me that a man you’re dating is flying into town and I was going to tell you that was OK” (weak laughter emanates from me, I am sure someone up there is laughing). We do the awkward kiss good bye, and I slink back to my car feeling like a void needs to open up and send ME to middle earth.
However, I am seeing Big in two hours (cue violins and pretty little birds) and I need to find that perfect casual, just threw on, dead sexy, very wholesome outfit. The closet is a battlefield; I throw everything in the room inside and slam the door shut. Straighten the bed because I so want him in there! Music and lights, but not too planned because heavens I’m not expecting him to stay the night. I’m making myself ill. Perfect outfit on I stalk the house maniacally, then settle down on the laptop refusing to look at the clock because I know he will be late. I surreptitiously glance at my mobile in case he sent a text. Uuuuuuuuugh, I know he hasn’t why did I look?! Doorbell rings, heart stops, stand up, compose and skip down stairs nonchalantly. There he is, my devil incarnate, bouquet of flowers in hand, goofy grin and absolutely adorable. How can I not melt, he brought me flowers!!! We kiss and the fireworks are exploding in my head, this man drives me crazy, my knees threaten to buckle, my heart pounds and my hormones are, are, are everywhere. I just want to throw him into bed but a moment of sanity snaps me back to reality and I re-assume the cool, composed, completely in control Vida who insists we need to put the flowers in water.
We walk down the seawall hand in hand, arm in arm, seals bob in and out, the sun starts to settle into twilight, happy couples and families stroll by, we stop periodically to gaze at the perfection, kiss, slow dance in the street, manifest the perfection of a couple in love. I am repeating to myself through my haze of euphoria the mantra that this is not real, embrace the moment and let it go, he has “NO SPECIAL FEELINGS FOR YOU”. Dinner is fabulous; we talk through, laughter and excitement bubbling in and out over a pitcher of sangria. We lopsidedly make our way out, giggling like children and hail a cab home where we dive onto each other in the foyer, in the hall, on the steps, clothes flying and passion igniting a trail to the bed. Later (much later) his arms wrapped around me he strokes my hair, nuzzles my neck and kisses me good night and I want to cry. How can this not be real? How can he not feel this? How can something so beautiful to me be nothing to him? I don’t sleep a wink and the next morning he gets up and leaves, no plans, no commitments, I smile and say good-bye, friends with benefits, a monster of my making. Readers, I know, I know, I know, it’s all wrong and I am fooling myself, but I can’t let go, I need Oprah, Dr. Phil, Deepak Chopra, or just a copy of “He’s Really Not That Into You” rammed into my skull.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Gilded Cage
Can one feel guilt on top of guilt? Can you be condemned for your actions when all you wanted to do was erase your existence, knowing that your existence causes pain for you and those around you? However even knowing that your own existence causes you pain, and that ending it would bring you peace it brings others pain. What is right and what is wrong? They don’t want you to die, yet are tortured by who you are. Feeling pushed and pulled, there is no right answer, whom are you doing this for, for all the people that want you to try? For the guilt you feel if you don’t try? For the children you don’t want to scar? Why do they want you to try when truly, having you around haunts them, the effort drains them, the responsibility of your existence a burden. Angry with you for your weaknesses, but not proud of you when you make a decision. I made the decision to die, not for anyone but myself. I wanted it, I felt it, but the back lash, the responsibility for these actions, you are now forced to live and deal with them, all that you wanted to get away from, now placed before you, guilted before you, because in the never ending circle you cannot win, cannot win for yourself and for those who love you.
Do they think I’m happy, I wonder to myself. Has anyone asked me whether I am glad I am alive that I didn’t die? Have I asked myself, am I happy I was “saved”? Am I happy in my hamster cage, with my trainers, my pills, my exercise and my guilt? I know the answer, and the answer fails all your tests but mine. Ask me how I feel! I didn’t want to die to hurt you, I wanted to die to take my hurt away, not to ask for help, not to show my needs, not for anything outside of me, I didn’t do it for you, I died for me. And I lived for you. And I am in my cage trying to pass the tests, cheating at the answers because I cant tell you I’m happy I’m alive, you want me to be, but I’m not. I wake up every morning looking for enough to make it through the day, till the sun has gone down so I can sleep. Sleep is my death, my peace, and morning is my punishment, my life.
Even in the act of death, my need to please sabotaged my need to leave. I should have gone quietly but the guilt of not telling you hung on me. Would you feel guilty knowing that you let me die, feel like it was your fault? But if I tell you, and you know and tried to save me, but I still died, does it make it better for you? You feel like you tried, you didn’t fail in trying to save me. How can I feel responsible even in process of ceasing to be? Responsible to how you feel even when I am no longer with you. When does this end? They ask me why I want to escape, run away, be invisible? Because I become an unknown, not beholden to anyone, no one cares, I am nothing to anyone, my life becomes insignificant, and easy to give away. What a fairytale, the modern princess, there is no prince, no frog, no cake, no castle atop a hill, just a gilded cage, some happy pills, your fairy godshrink, and a good heaping of guilt.
Fuck the prince, I suppose that is what I do, fuck the prince and send him away, there aint room in the damn cage, the fairy godshrink is going to turn you into a toad, and I secretly love you but hate you, and trust me, life sucks in the pretty cage. You can’t win, you can be the best fucking prince in the world, and all you’ll get is a fuck, you’ll give me all the treasures in the world, I’ll love you and then kill you. Kill you for having all the feelings I can’t have, kill you because you make me guilty, kill you because you make me feel, kill you because feeling hurts, kill you because that’s all I know what to do. Gilded cage: occupancy: 1
Do they think I’m happy, I wonder to myself. Has anyone asked me whether I am glad I am alive that I didn’t die? Have I asked myself, am I happy I was “saved”? Am I happy in my hamster cage, with my trainers, my pills, my exercise and my guilt? I know the answer, and the answer fails all your tests but mine. Ask me how I feel! I didn’t want to die to hurt you, I wanted to die to take my hurt away, not to ask for help, not to show my needs, not for anything outside of me, I didn’t do it for you, I died for me. And I lived for you. And I am in my cage trying to pass the tests, cheating at the answers because I cant tell you I’m happy I’m alive, you want me to be, but I’m not. I wake up every morning looking for enough to make it through the day, till the sun has gone down so I can sleep. Sleep is my death, my peace, and morning is my punishment, my life.
Even in the act of death, my need to please sabotaged my need to leave. I should have gone quietly but the guilt of not telling you hung on me. Would you feel guilty knowing that you let me die, feel like it was your fault? But if I tell you, and you know and tried to save me, but I still died, does it make it better for you? You feel like you tried, you didn’t fail in trying to save me. How can I feel responsible even in process of ceasing to be? Responsible to how you feel even when I am no longer with you. When does this end? They ask me why I want to escape, run away, be invisible? Because I become an unknown, not beholden to anyone, no one cares, I am nothing to anyone, my life becomes insignificant, and easy to give away. What a fairytale, the modern princess, there is no prince, no frog, no cake, no castle atop a hill, just a gilded cage, some happy pills, your fairy godshrink, and a good heaping of guilt.
Fuck the prince, I suppose that is what I do, fuck the prince and send him away, there aint room in the damn cage, the fairy godshrink is going to turn you into a toad, and I secretly love you but hate you, and trust me, life sucks in the pretty cage. You can’t win, you can be the best fucking prince in the world, and all you’ll get is a fuck, you’ll give me all the treasures in the world, I’ll love you and then kill you. Kill you for having all the feelings I can’t have, kill you because you make me guilty, kill you because you make me feel, kill you because feeling hurts, kill you because that’s all I know what to do. Gilded cage: occupancy: 1
Sunday, July 17, 2005
The Suicide
It was so calm, the moment. I woke that morning detached, almost in my skin but not, lagging behind watching the sensations and motions ahead of me. It seemed like a normal day, normal like all the days had been, a trance of subdued emotions, imagine a flat line on the heart monitor, not dead but never expanding either up or down, interacting with my body but not my mind.
Walking in a bubble, perhaps shrouded by a mist, I was in myself but working within a trance, unfeeling and going through the motions. My morning cup of tea, I sat with my computer and survival routine kicked into gear of its own accord, the body following its rout path of safety and distraction.
Then the anger came crackling through, but the serenity remained on the outside, talking and performing on cue. Normalcy was the backdrop, calmness were the lines. Burning, burning anger that heated in my core and threatened to spill out like bile onto the carpet, staining the stage, rose in me, strangling my heart. I walked out of chaos, eyes blank, and body moving; mouthing words I couldn’t hear to appease the audience.
I needed to be clean, clean to die. It was so calm, like the eye of the storm, I saw with clarity, death. A single directive, one order in my self, I knew the goal, I felt the ripples settle, and I knew without a doubt I was going to a destination. I locked down the hatches of doubt in the shower, naked and crouched in the corner, water washing down my face and body, alleviating the voices with its steady beat on my skin, and under the sheets of water another being came to be, a robot with a single line of code, not human, I couldn’t find me, didn’t want to, I ceded control, and it felt so liberating.
My bedclothes on, I climbed into bed, and working with limbs that did not feel like my own, watching like a spectator in a hushed crowd, I picked up the bottles of pills one by one. It wasn’t me, but it was, and there was no fear, no guilt, nothing, I felt absolutely nothing, flat line, I was in a vacuum of space, nothing existed, just my motion. I took them slowly and surely, still looking on from the stands, wondering how I would die, would I feel it? And as if I was somebody else, like the puppet following the movements of the strings, unconscious of what he would do next, I picked up the phone and said good-bye. Good bye, nothing more, I did it, I am going away, smile, I did it, put the phone down. Wait.
An angry child, why are you here, in my space, don’t enter my reverie. I block you out, you’re not here, I continue to take the pills, hand to mouth, and you don’t exist. I don’t see the tears, I don’t hear my voice of despair, its all an act, and a show for you, take my bow, and the understudy is on. I can’t see you, just the bright shining light at the end, I am making it there, each pill a succession bringing me closer, I can sense, eyes open but closed, the enrapture of being there, and nothing else matters. Keep talking, keep grabbing, keep pulling, I don’t see you, I am waiting for nirvana, I am waiting for the pills to melt into my blood, suck the anger out, seep the warmth of calm through my bones, make me melt away, bring me to relaxation, I want it so much, I am waiting for the eyes to close, for nothing to begin, for the light to take me to darkness.
Never have I felt so absolute in a decision, and though death did not come, the hand on the clock did stop, my world cyclones to a cocoon of unknowingness. Nothing moved, not even a whisper of a wind in the mind, we had shut down, closed the doors, and like sleeping beauty’s castle, darkness gave us solitude and calm and within it we slept the sleep of the dead.
Walking in a bubble, perhaps shrouded by a mist, I was in myself but working within a trance, unfeeling and going through the motions. My morning cup of tea, I sat with my computer and survival routine kicked into gear of its own accord, the body following its rout path of safety and distraction.
Then the anger came crackling through, but the serenity remained on the outside, talking and performing on cue. Normalcy was the backdrop, calmness were the lines. Burning, burning anger that heated in my core and threatened to spill out like bile onto the carpet, staining the stage, rose in me, strangling my heart. I walked out of chaos, eyes blank, and body moving; mouthing words I couldn’t hear to appease the audience.
I needed to be clean, clean to die. It was so calm, like the eye of the storm, I saw with clarity, death. A single directive, one order in my self, I knew the goal, I felt the ripples settle, and I knew without a doubt I was going to a destination. I locked down the hatches of doubt in the shower, naked and crouched in the corner, water washing down my face and body, alleviating the voices with its steady beat on my skin, and under the sheets of water another being came to be, a robot with a single line of code, not human, I couldn’t find me, didn’t want to, I ceded control, and it felt so liberating.
My bedclothes on, I climbed into bed, and working with limbs that did not feel like my own, watching like a spectator in a hushed crowd, I picked up the bottles of pills one by one. It wasn’t me, but it was, and there was no fear, no guilt, nothing, I felt absolutely nothing, flat line, I was in a vacuum of space, nothing existed, just my motion. I took them slowly and surely, still looking on from the stands, wondering how I would die, would I feel it? And as if I was somebody else, like the puppet following the movements of the strings, unconscious of what he would do next, I picked up the phone and said good-bye. Good bye, nothing more, I did it, I am going away, smile, I did it, put the phone down. Wait.
An angry child, why are you here, in my space, don’t enter my reverie. I block you out, you’re not here, I continue to take the pills, hand to mouth, and you don’t exist. I don’t see the tears, I don’t hear my voice of despair, its all an act, and a show for you, take my bow, and the understudy is on. I can’t see you, just the bright shining light at the end, I am making it there, each pill a succession bringing me closer, I can sense, eyes open but closed, the enrapture of being there, and nothing else matters. Keep talking, keep grabbing, keep pulling, I don’t see you, I am waiting for nirvana, I am waiting for the pills to melt into my blood, suck the anger out, seep the warmth of calm through my bones, make me melt away, bring me to relaxation, I want it so much, I am waiting for the eyes to close, for nothing to begin, for the light to take me to darkness.
Never have I felt so absolute in a decision, and though death did not come, the hand on the clock did stop, my world cyclones to a cocoon of unknowingness. Nothing moved, not even a whisper of a wind in the mind, we had shut down, closed the doors, and like sleeping beauty’s castle, darkness gave us solitude and calm and within it we slept the sleep of the dead.
Monday, July 11, 2005
The Crevasse
A crevasse in my heart that yaws open, plummeting to the deepest reaches of my soul, with an ache that permeates, so hollow in its pain, seeking fulfillment to fill the void that aches with everyday that goes by. Emptiness so lifeless that it exceeds pain, where pain becomes a relief to the inconsolable hungriness of this yearning needs to be fulfilled. Like sorrows that stack up starting from the ends of my toes, building as it creeps up my body, permeating my pores with a sadness that leaks from me. I at times wonder if people can feel this sadness that pours from me, a misguided halo that never leaves, that behind the smiles and even the times of happiness it sits on my skin, like a tingling blanket that rests so lightly on me, the faintness bringing a pulsating nervousness to my hands and feet. A tension that curls my toes and emanates from the tips of my fingers like darts, begging for a release from the nerves of sadness.
My arms wrap around a beautiful child, a child that finds more safety and comfort in my arms than I ever will. To him I am his beautiful being, his cloak and shield against the world, a haven where no storms can touch, his absolute refuge from the world. At times my baby stares into my eyes, his eyes in their innocence lock into mine and I wonder if he can see the burning flames of hell racing through me. I breathe in their essence, their breath lapping against my nostrils, gentle waves of warmth and love. I inhale their being into my core, wanting to fill my void with their beauty and strength. Like a black hole the moment is fleeting as it plummets into my crevasse, the energy dissipating, torn and eventually gone, increasing the ache, widening the gap, tightening my pain. I stare at them, grief encompassing me, remembering every detail of their perfection, searing it into my mind. I never know if this will be the last I see of them.
Tired, always tired, behind my eyes the war to keep the gates from falling, a battle that repeats, the walls shudder, the heavy doors bend with the weight of the enemy pressing to get in. Always a battle, a battle of strategy and deceit, deception, masquerade, detour the enemy, fend them off, keep them running. Always a game to stay a step ahead, to plan the game, make the rules, and always at attention. A lull, a false sense of security and the rush will bring you to your knees, the conquerors pillaging and raping the kingdom of your mind, and you are helpless, watching, chained, and willing yourself to die than witness the annihilation of your core. Because they don’t care, their mission is not to care, to make you scream, scream for mercy, for the saviour, and when all is lost, you scream for your death, the warmth, the escape, the closure from the raging battle behind your eyes.
Hearts do ache. Mine aches. As if I am in there, in a hollow, walking through emptiness and pushing at the wet walls, reaching up and trying to envelope myself, curling in a corner, covered in dampness and moisture listening to the metronome of my heart beating its plea. The sound echoes through, pulsates in the hollow, spreading the walls, and reverberating an ache through to the surfaces of my organ. A steady gong, a white noise, an aching that wills me to try and reach through my chest, to squeeze the compartments of my heart into one, to mesh the walls, swallow me, and force the hollowness out, make me whole, make the constant pulsing reminder of my void find another home. Find a satisfaction in squeezing my heart, like a sponge, twisting and smashing it between my hands, grasped so tight in my fists, to feel the gush between my fingers, every last drop of sorrow and ache dripped out. How scary to know that I can visualize that act, can feel the relief in creating that picture in my mind, wishing that I could, wondering if I would, tear my heart from my chest to free my soul.
My arms wrap around a beautiful child, a child that finds more safety and comfort in my arms than I ever will. To him I am his beautiful being, his cloak and shield against the world, a haven where no storms can touch, his absolute refuge from the world. At times my baby stares into my eyes, his eyes in their innocence lock into mine and I wonder if he can see the burning flames of hell racing through me. I breathe in their essence, their breath lapping against my nostrils, gentle waves of warmth and love. I inhale their being into my core, wanting to fill my void with their beauty and strength. Like a black hole the moment is fleeting as it plummets into my crevasse, the energy dissipating, torn and eventually gone, increasing the ache, widening the gap, tightening my pain. I stare at them, grief encompassing me, remembering every detail of their perfection, searing it into my mind. I never know if this will be the last I see of them.
Tired, always tired, behind my eyes the war to keep the gates from falling, a battle that repeats, the walls shudder, the heavy doors bend with the weight of the enemy pressing to get in. Always a battle, a battle of strategy and deceit, deception, masquerade, detour the enemy, fend them off, keep them running. Always a game to stay a step ahead, to plan the game, make the rules, and always at attention. A lull, a false sense of security and the rush will bring you to your knees, the conquerors pillaging and raping the kingdom of your mind, and you are helpless, watching, chained, and willing yourself to die than witness the annihilation of your core. Because they don’t care, their mission is not to care, to make you scream, scream for mercy, for the saviour, and when all is lost, you scream for your death, the warmth, the escape, the closure from the raging battle behind your eyes.
Hearts do ache. Mine aches. As if I am in there, in a hollow, walking through emptiness and pushing at the wet walls, reaching up and trying to envelope myself, curling in a corner, covered in dampness and moisture listening to the metronome of my heart beating its plea. The sound echoes through, pulsates in the hollow, spreading the walls, and reverberating an ache through to the surfaces of my organ. A steady gong, a white noise, an aching that wills me to try and reach through my chest, to squeeze the compartments of my heart into one, to mesh the walls, swallow me, and force the hollowness out, make me whole, make the constant pulsing reminder of my void find another home. Find a satisfaction in squeezing my heart, like a sponge, twisting and smashing it between my hands, grasped so tight in my fists, to feel the gush between my fingers, every last drop of sorrow and ache dripped out. How scary to know that I can visualize that act, can feel the relief in creating that picture in my mind, wishing that I could, wondering if I would, tear my heart from my chest to free my soul.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Beautiful Broken Girl
Stunning, gorgeous, the woman that other women love, admire and simultaneously hate and envy, men wish they have her, or are in love with her. Large, dark eyes, pools people call them, pools that you fall into when you stare into them, or as you make love to her. Her smile, a real smile, a wonderful laugh, she’s always smiling I’m told. The longer you look at her the more beautiful she seems, every time you see her face you’re struck by something new. Not tall but slim enough that she has a body with all the curves in the right places, sexy curves that hold clothes right, and a posture that begets confidence. Amazing legs, shapely, curved and a man's greatest desire is to stroke her legs, have them wrapped around them. Burnished bronze, a warm brown, a pale mocha, a colouring that water runs off like rivulets down a golden stream. Skin that you want to stroke, always soft, always begging for touch, gentle slopes and lines that call to be caressed, the curve of her hip, the flatness of her stomach, the clarity of her back and the roll of her derriere. Innocence, a vulnerability that men want to protect, a beautiful girl they can care for, a woman that gives them sexuality. Eyes that show them the world, a body that takes them to heights, and they want to make love to her, claim her, they want to be part of her. This beautiful creature they all want to possess and be loved by.
The beautiful girl, the beautiful, beautiful broken girl. But you never see the broken, even she forgets how broken she is. Its like playing charades with yourself, put enough masks on, control enough things and you’ll never know you're broken till the cracks start to come through the papier mache you lovingly layered on piece by piece. But water and paper only last so long before they begin to peel and the ugly starts to glare through, like needles piercing up from the skin.
She wants to scream till her veins break the surface of her skin, yell till sound ceases to be, damn you, you don’t know her, you don’t, its hell, its an illusion, an illusion that makes her seem so beautiful. You see the only thing she has is this beautiful girl, this beautiful shell that hides all the tears, the hate, the broken, broken soul that lives inside. You love her, you love this image you see, this creation that she cares and tends to, to hide all the ugliness that tears inside. If she didn’t have this shell, the haunting vulnerability you find so endearing, would you still want her, crave her, need her, admire her, lust for her and idolize her? Ask yourself that, what is it that you want of her?
She’s nothing, this beautiful girl, she is her affirmation, it brings you to her, to love her and make her feel whole and wanted. You see, she needs you more than you need her. She thrives off your love and adulation, she doesn’t have it, she doesn’t make it, and she doesn’t see it. I see it in your eyes, your words, your actions, your touch; you make her feel whole, affirmed and wanted. You don’t see the ugly hiding in the corner, and you make her forget about her, that beaten, insecure, weak creature that she is. But she’s my heart and soul, she is I, the me I want to erase, but I love her. She is my heart, a heart so covered in scars that I cant give you any of it, I cant find it, I don’t know if its there, does it still work. Please don’t ask for that heart, please don’t ask me to feel it or find it, I don’t know how to feel, I don’t know how to access, its gone, long gone. But I have this beautiful girl for you, but if you push her too hard, try to find the path into the ugly, she’ll hurt you, don’t go near her, she’s untouchable, she’s my ugly, she’s the ugly you cant see, because she breaks me, breaks the beautiful girl to nothing, to pieces, and maybe to death.
But, you know what, she’s there, and I cant ignore her because she cries with me and is a part of me. We’re twins, born together, married through sickness and in health, till death do us part. And I can’t forget about her, she needs my strength, I need hers or we’ll both die. This will consume us.
The beautiful girl, the beautiful, beautiful broken girl. But you never see the broken, even she forgets how broken she is. Its like playing charades with yourself, put enough masks on, control enough things and you’ll never know you're broken till the cracks start to come through the papier mache you lovingly layered on piece by piece. But water and paper only last so long before they begin to peel and the ugly starts to glare through, like needles piercing up from the skin.
She wants to scream till her veins break the surface of her skin, yell till sound ceases to be, damn you, you don’t know her, you don’t, its hell, its an illusion, an illusion that makes her seem so beautiful. You see the only thing she has is this beautiful girl, this beautiful shell that hides all the tears, the hate, the broken, broken soul that lives inside. You love her, you love this image you see, this creation that she cares and tends to, to hide all the ugliness that tears inside. If she didn’t have this shell, the haunting vulnerability you find so endearing, would you still want her, crave her, need her, admire her, lust for her and idolize her? Ask yourself that, what is it that you want of her?
She’s nothing, this beautiful girl, she is her affirmation, it brings you to her, to love her and make her feel whole and wanted. You see, she needs you more than you need her. She thrives off your love and adulation, she doesn’t have it, she doesn’t make it, and she doesn’t see it. I see it in your eyes, your words, your actions, your touch; you make her feel whole, affirmed and wanted. You don’t see the ugly hiding in the corner, and you make her forget about her, that beaten, insecure, weak creature that she is. But she’s my heart and soul, she is I, the me I want to erase, but I love her. She is my heart, a heart so covered in scars that I cant give you any of it, I cant find it, I don’t know if its there, does it still work. Please don’t ask for that heart, please don’t ask me to feel it or find it, I don’t know how to feel, I don’t know how to access, its gone, long gone. But I have this beautiful girl for you, but if you push her too hard, try to find the path into the ugly, she’ll hurt you, don’t go near her, she’s untouchable, she’s my ugly, she’s the ugly you cant see, because she breaks me, breaks the beautiful girl to nothing, to pieces, and maybe to death.
But, you know what, she’s there, and I cant ignore her because she cries with me and is a part of me. We’re twins, born together, married through sickness and in health, till death do us part. And I can’t forget about her, she needs my strength, I need hers or we’ll both die. This will consume us.
Sunday, May 1, 2005
Cyclone
Interesting that I am staring at a blank screen incapable of writing even as a torrent of emotions and thoughts are cycloning through my head. Even now, as always, I know the reason, none of these thoughts are coherent enough to manifest themselves clearly in my mind for me to pull them apart. They come and go teasing me negatively, one after the other till I my mind is confused and my body unable to do anything but sit comatose waiting for the next picture to begin in my mind.
Obsessive, obsessive about everything, scared and physically and mentally incapable of mustering an ounce of enthusiasm, excitement or desire. Watching from the outside I am the flat green line on the heart rate monitor, I am sitting here but I am dead, and if not dead, immobile except for my mind that keeps me here.
I am tired, I want to take my mind out and put it aside for a few moments to take away the painless ache of not knowing what’s going on. There are a few pictures, but no answers, why can I not move forward in this lethargy, why is it only my mind that is working within scenarios, scenarios not of my choosing?
My limbs are heavy, my arms tired, I can see, I see what I can do… go for a walk, go for a swim, go watch a movie, but there are no senses flickering to guide me in any of those directions, flat green line.
Work, it's a huge void. I cant even touch it, its turned into this gnarled mass of a jungle, impenetrable, I cant see where or how to start. I don’t want to go in there. I am standing at the edge, not even wanting to look in, but feeling compelled to be there when I just want to run in the opposite direction. I see all the thorns, the brush, and the animals, all ready to bog me down as I make my way through. Why am I here, I don’t want any of it, I don’t like jungles, how did I get here and why did I think I needed to be here.
Affirmation, pushing at me to pretend to do things? Can I answer this question, why am I working? Is it for me, or is that some other part of me, an ego talking. Do I like it? Can I answer this question? Am I in sane mind? I think I like it? Oh fuck, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
People, they can all go away, go go go go away. I can’t explain to you what’s wrong with me; you all have your ideas, your thoughts, and your suggestions, just shut up. I know I should go out there, but such an inhuman effort to put that face out, pretend that I am excited to talk to you, to see you, to even remember who you are. Its all a farce, I couldn’t give a shit, and you make me tired. Maybe if you just don’t ask anything of me, but even so… you know what, I cant coalesce this thought.
I am tired of Ila, I am tired of Hugh, I am tried of Bestos, I am tired of it all. Someone make it all go away without it coming to bite me in the ass and I repeat this process again. I suppose this is why I cannot step away, I know its coming back. These people are always here unless I lock my self in a box, a hospital and then they can’t exist, they can’t touch my world, they cannot enter my consciousness. But still, things will fall apart. I look at the path I am on and almost know one day I am going to be in a hospital. Maybe I am deluding myself, perhaps that is where peace and happiness lies and I am afraid of the stigma that surround a mental hospital. I am sure it s a nice place, they make you do things; they tell you you're ok and everyone understand that you're crazy and its ok. People in there have my mind, I can tell them things, the demons, the Gollum, the incapacitation, and they will understand. Affirmation?
Are we back to affirmation again, I need all this damn affirmation or I cant function. Jesus Christ! The world comes crumbling down, piece-by-piece. Don’t come close to me, because then I need you, and when I need you I am vulnerable. Why don’t u like me? What’s wrong with me? Am I too needy?
Obsessive, obsessive about everything, scared and physically and mentally incapable of mustering an ounce of enthusiasm, excitement or desire. Watching from the outside I am the flat green line on the heart rate monitor, I am sitting here but I am dead, and if not dead, immobile except for my mind that keeps me here.
I am tired, I want to take my mind out and put it aside for a few moments to take away the painless ache of not knowing what’s going on. There are a few pictures, but no answers, why can I not move forward in this lethargy, why is it only my mind that is working within scenarios, scenarios not of my choosing?
My limbs are heavy, my arms tired, I can see, I see what I can do… go for a walk, go for a swim, go watch a movie, but there are no senses flickering to guide me in any of those directions, flat green line.
Work, it's a huge void. I cant even touch it, its turned into this gnarled mass of a jungle, impenetrable, I cant see where or how to start. I don’t want to go in there. I am standing at the edge, not even wanting to look in, but feeling compelled to be there when I just want to run in the opposite direction. I see all the thorns, the brush, and the animals, all ready to bog me down as I make my way through. Why am I here, I don’t want any of it, I don’t like jungles, how did I get here and why did I think I needed to be here.
Affirmation, pushing at me to pretend to do things? Can I answer this question, why am I working? Is it for me, or is that some other part of me, an ego talking. Do I like it? Can I answer this question? Am I in sane mind? I think I like it? Oh fuck, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
People, they can all go away, go go go go away. I can’t explain to you what’s wrong with me; you all have your ideas, your thoughts, and your suggestions, just shut up. I know I should go out there, but such an inhuman effort to put that face out, pretend that I am excited to talk to you, to see you, to even remember who you are. Its all a farce, I couldn’t give a shit, and you make me tired. Maybe if you just don’t ask anything of me, but even so… you know what, I cant coalesce this thought.
I am tired of Ila, I am tired of Hugh, I am tried of Bestos, I am tired of it all. Someone make it all go away without it coming to bite me in the ass and I repeat this process again. I suppose this is why I cannot step away, I know its coming back. These people are always here unless I lock my self in a box, a hospital and then they can’t exist, they can’t touch my world, they cannot enter my consciousness. But still, things will fall apart. I look at the path I am on and almost know one day I am going to be in a hospital. Maybe I am deluding myself, perhaps that is where peace and happiness lies and I am afraid of the stigma that surround a mental hospital. I am sure it s a nice place, they make you do things; they tell you you're ok and everyone understand that you're crazy and its ok. People in there have my mind, I can tell them things, the demons, the Gollum, the incapacitation, and they will understand. Affirmation?
Are we back to affirmation again, I need all this damn affirmation or I cant function. Jesus Christ! The world comes crumbling down, piece-by-piece. Don’t come close to me, because then I need you, and when I need you I am vulnerable. Why don’t u like me? What’s wrong with me? Am I too needy?
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