It’s the question that drives us…
Recently a friend asked me if I've ever said "Why do you love me?" to a significant other. It's a scary question. A difficult question. An almost unfair question. A question I've posed plenty of times to every single dude that's loved me. I think we all ask it--or at least wonder it--from time to time. In an ideal world we wouldn't need the assurance of the answer, mostly because we should feel so secure in our relationships that we never need to examine them, partly because there is no single right reply.
Needless to say it's not an ideal world, so when I ask that question I know exactly what I want to hear. And though I won't share with the interwebz what that is, I will say it's close to the second half of sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda:
- I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
- but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close
Appreciating a couple of Johns
John Updike was an amazing story teller. The Creative Writer in me is deeply saddened to learn of his passing.
The following is a flash fiction story he wrote called Oliver's Evolution:
His parents had not meant to abuse him; they had meant to love him, and did love him. But Oliver had come late in their little pack of offspring, at a time when the challenge of child-rearing was wearing thin, and he proved susceptible to mishaps. A big fetus, cramped in his mother's womb, he was born with un-turned feet, to crawl with corrective casts up to his ankles. When they were at last removed, he cried in terror, because he thought those heavy plaster boots scraping and bumping along the floor had been part of himself.
One day in his infancy they found him on their dressing room floor with a box of mothballs, some of which were wet with saliva; in retrospect they wondered if there had really been a need to rush him to the hospital and have his poor little stomach pumped. His face was gray-green afterwards. The following summer, when he had learned to walk, his parents had unthinkingly swum away off the beach together, striving for romantic harmony the morning after a late party and an alcoholic quarrel, and were quite unaware, until they saw the lifeguard racing along the beach, that Oliver had toddled after them and had been floating on his face for what might have been, given a less alert lifeguard, a fatal couple of minutes. This time, his face was blue, and he coughed for hours.
He was the least complaining of their children. He did not blame his parents when neither they nor the school authorities detected his "sleepy" right eye in time for therapy, with the result that when he closed that eye everything looked intractably fuzzy. Just the sight of the boy holding a schoolbook at a curious angle to the light made his father want to weep, impotently.
And it happened that he was just the wrong, vulnerable age when his parents went through their separation and divorce. His older brothers were off in boarding school and college, embarked on manhood, free of family. His younger sister was small enough to find the new arrangements--the meals in restaurants with her father, the friendly men who appeared to take her mother out--exciting. But Oliver, at thirteen, felt the weight of the household descend on him; he made his mother's sense of abandonment his own. Again, his father impotently grieved. It was he, and not the boy, who was at fault, really, when the bad grades began to come from day school, and then from college, and Oliver broke his arm falling down the frat stairs, or leaping, by another account of the confused incident, from a girl's dormitory window. Not one but several family automobiles met a ruinous end with him at the wheel, though with no more injury, as it happened, than contused knees and loosened front teeth. The teeth grew firm again, thank God, for his innocent smile, slowly spreading across his face as the full humor of his newest misadventure dawned, was one of his best features. His teeth were small and round and widely spread -- baby teeth.
Then he married, which seemed yet another mishap, to go with the late nights, abandoned jobs, and fallen-through opportunities of his life as a young adult. The girl, Alicia, was as accident-prone as he, given to substance abuse and unwanted pregnancies. Her emotional disturbances left herself and others bruised. By comparison, Oliver was solid and surefooted, and she looked up to him. This was the key. What we expect of others, they endeavor to provide. He held on to a job, and she held on to her pregnancies. You should see him now, with their two children, a fair little girl and a dark-haired boy. Oliver has grown broad, and holds the two of them at once. They are birds in a nest. He is a tree, a sheltering boulder. He is a protector of the weak.
I underlined that one bit because it's underlined in the book I have (Flash Fiction Forward, edited by James Thomas and Robert Shapard) and I think it's quite lovely anyway.
The Poison
My friend Arwen and I had an interesting conversation this week over brunch. Certain recent events have lead the both of us to consider the poison that some people are born with. Equipped with The Poison, you can get hook and land any girl you want, and what’s more than that is you can treat her like shit and she’ll still be there when you wake up in the morning. Cheat on her? Tell her she’s ugly? Annoying? Stupid? Whacked? She’ll cook you breakfast the next day! Act like a total douche bag for years on end? She’ll max her credit card out because she wants you to love her!
HWMNBN had the poison. Before me there were at least half a dozen girls that he wooed before walking all over. It’s infuriating. I don’t know guys, I’m not usually a sappy, weakling of a person, but something about that dude short circuited a fundamental part of my brain and I turned into a sniveling pile of emo-tastic shit for three years. I was also convinced that I was unattractive, too self-pitying (that one is still up for debate) and pretty much the biggest loser ever. Go. Figure.
I finally washed my hands of The Poison. And it was hard. Very hard. My friends saved me from caving multiple times, either by calling just when I was about to dial his number or by linking me to cool heart-mending resources. Or, you know, just by talking to me when I needed to vent. And for all those things I will be forever grateful.
Surprisingly, aside from my closet taking a total dive and the window of my car deciding it was through with rolling up, I’ve been riding a pretty positive wave. And get ready for this; some of the good things that have found their way into my life include jobs! That’s right, jobs! The plural of job! And what’s more, they’re writing jobs. Hallelujah.
I’m going to save the explanation of my not-being-a-total-bum for another post because it should be its own story, but I will say that I now get up at 5am every day to write, and the sunrise and I are beginning to get to know each other a little too well. But so far that’s ok.
I just wanted to take a second to note that I am no longer in a dumb-girl trance, and I’m sorry for those of you that read the posts that were directly influenced by it. If it helps, I probably hated feeling that way just as much as you hated reading about it.
EDIT 6/2011: Miss Beyonce totally read this blog post and wrote a song about it. (Or, you know, she thought of it herself. Whatever.)
WAIT WHAT WHAT WAIT
This may or may not be getting out of hand. If you haven't yet, read the previous related instant message conversation here.
Arwen: I went and saw a play over the weekend
: The lead guy, who I met, just spent the last whatever months touring with MAROON 5 and the Counting Crows
: So basically
: I met someone who knows ADAM LEVINE
Me: WAIT WHAT
: WHAJDOLASD
: WHAT
: DID HE SAY HES A LOVELY PERSON?
: OMG
: WAIT
: I THINK I JUST DIED
Arwen: HAHA
Me: Is he going to see him again?
: Are they friends?
: DOES HE WANT TO BRING ME TO LEVINE LAND
Arwen: Send him your picture and ask him to give it to Adam
: Nothing to lose, right?
Me: Not doing that
Arwen: WHY?
Me: Because! That is cheesy
: I'll just move to LA and hang out in Adam's favorite spots
: Naked
: With a tattoo of his face on my ass
Arwen: Yeah
: Just do that
: Because clearly...
: My idea was too off the wall.
An obvious affinity for Adams
The first cassette tape I ever purchased was a Simpsons soundtrack. I don't remember where I got the money or what on earth could've compelled me to spend it on music from a cartoon I didn't even regularly watch, but I don't suppose things like that really have to add up to a nine year old --plus, some of my fondest memories from childhood involve popping that tape into our household stereo and dancing around. Even now at twenty-four, all that really makes sense in my life is the music I listen to. In fact, now that I think about it, ever since buying that tape music’s the only thing that’s consistently made sense to me, so if Matt Groening has anything to do with the one thing I really know in life then I guess I owe him a thank you or two.
When I was eleven my mom started dating a guy who was really into alternative music, so I ditched the ‘toons and thus began my appreciation for the radio station live105 and artists/bands like Radiohead, No Doubt, Alanis Morissette, Butthole Surfers, the Smashing Pumpkins, Jewel (don't judge me) and the Counting Crows, who were my very first concert and full-fledged obsession.
I remember going home after school and plopping down on my bedroom floor with my bright pink cassette player and listening to Mr. Jones and Rain King over and over and over again. Alexis, my best friend at the time, would often come over to do homework, but instead of reading like we were supposed to I'd regal her with my tales of the Lilith Fair and the BFD while Adam Duritz wailed about depression, monotonous living and failed relationships in the background. Let me take this opportunity to point out that I wouldn’t question why my parents weren’t aware of the kind of lyrics their fifth grader was listening to because all that would lead to is a very unpleasant can of worms, and I’d like to remain in the positive mood I’ve been in lately.
I haven't spent much of my adult life attending shows because, I don't know, paying upwards of eighty dollars to see famous people bounce around on a stage hundreds of feet away for three hours before being herded like cattle out of a too-small parking lot just doesn't hold a lot of clout on my daily list of things to do. But when my friend Julie called last Thursday to tell me that she had tickets to see the Counting Crows at the Sleep Train Pavilion, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of nostalgia for the nineties and I accepted.
When we showed up to the venue I immediately thought, Why the hell are all these scantily clad girls here? I mean, Duritz is awesome but dude is like, in his forties, and last time I checked he was more famous for his vocals than his looks. But then some promoter handed me a stick of new 5 Lush gum and I was lost in a haze of sweet, tropical goodness and forgot about everything else.
I’m not sure how best to segue into my stupidity, so I’ll just go ahead and say I almost shit a brick when Julie handed me my ticket at the gate and I saw Maroon 5 in print next to Counting Crows. Had she told me on the phone that they’d be performing as well? Of course she had. Had I listened? Of course I hadn’t. I tend to do this thing where I hear one part of a story that’s exciting and then don’t really listen to the rest. So standing there at the entryway into what was soon to be considered I-am-only-yards-away-from-Adam-Levine-oh-my-god land, I suddenly understood the reason for what I’m sure was a pre-show pit stop at Forever 21 for hundreds of girls.
The concert had even MORE surprises, including gigantic, free cups of beer and cheeseburgers from a friend who was working the event, a handful of more will call tickets from a dude I didn’t even know that were picked up by three more of my friends, and Augustana, who opened the show. And can I say that the band blew me away? Because they did. Their chemistry is amazing, and Dan Layus has this quality in his voice that makes me feel like I just washed my brain; so clear and refreshing.
The Counting Crows were amazing too, of course. There’s no way I could possibly explain the feeling of seeing the very first band you ever truly loved for the first time since you were twelve, but I will say that Duritz likes to jump around a lot and seeing his ass crack over a dozen times was kind of funny. I know you’re jealous.
Maroon 5 performed last and after merely fifteen seconds of their first song I already couldn’t believe I'd even considered leaving early to get a full night’s sleep. Their stage presence was like a magnet, their performance perfect, and when they slowed down for just a second to cover a bit of Roxanne by the Police, I thought I might've died right then and there.
Levine opened the set by saying, “It’s good to be in California, which in my opinion is the best fucking state in the whole country” --and then I proceeded to fall truly, madly, deeply in love with him. I never told anyone this, but several months ago I had a dream that he and I were married and RIDICULOUSLY IN LOVE. Is that creepy? I mean, I’ve always been a fan of Maroon 5 (there was a period in my life when Songs About Jane could very well have been my personal sound track and the same goes for It Won’t Be Soon Before Long) but I wouldn’t say my love for them ever came close to what I felt for Counting Crows, so when I woke up from being Mrs. Levine I kind of chalked it up to the bologna I had right before bed.
But after seeing him on stage? WHERE DO I SIGN UP FOR MARRIAGE? And Adam, if you’re reading this, you stole the words right out of my head that night:
Call me? We can talk all about what the way you were touching that microphone does to me.
Deterioration and a continuum of things
Hello adoring fans.
Did I ever tell you that I drove one of my ex-boyfriends to the brink of madness and because of that madness he joined the air force and moved three thousand miles away from me?
HAHA.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly like that. Basically, when I met him during my freshman year of high school, his parents were already pushing him to follow in the footsteps of their lineage of military men, but after we started dating he didn’t want to leave, and by the time we were seniors he was not only accepted into the same college as I was, he was going to dorm in the same building as well. Talk about crazy.
As an adult I now understand why there are a growing number of people who advise against marrying your high school sweetheart. I mean, who does that anymore? Nobody knows what kind of person they’re going to be when they’re that young, right? When my ex and I met, I had no idea that he’d turn into an old man at the age of sixteen and he had no idea that my inner party girl would begin to emerge during my freshman year of college. At some point, I began turning into a butterfly just as he starting turning into something very, very different. We fought these changes for a long time; I remember my entire senior year as being one battle after another. He wanted to stay home and talk about cars and his sixteen (seriously, sixteen) parakeets while considering retirement plans, and I just wanted to have a good time.
So you know where this is going. Two days before prom the arguments got so bad that he dumped me. Bummer. I was thisclose to not going to the big dance at all, but my dear mother pointed out (a.k.a. screamed) that she’d paid for my dress to be altered three times, and there was no way in hell she was going to let me waste that kind of money. So I went, but instead of caring about pretty shoes and pretty hair I wore some old school shell toe Adidas and a pink bandana. I probably have photos, but I think it’s too early in the year for that kind of embarrassment. Anywho, I also showed up arm-in-arm with my ex’s arch nemesis.
Ouch.
I kind of knew that it would be a bad move to show up to THE PROM with someone he absolutely hated, but at the same time I kind of didn’t (I guess I’m just a naïve jackass like that), so I was really surprised to see my ex getting reprimanded by the principal for punching the wall of the hotel ballroom out of anger/jealousy/total psychotic rage. And then I was even more surprised when, two weeks later, just before our graduation ceremony he showed up at my house with a really emotional letter that explained his thought process after prom (including the part where I supposedly took his heart and tore it in half). Before I had even gotten a quarter of the way down the page he blurted out, “I joined the military.”
Despite the fact we were two very different people and our relationship had ended, I took the news extremely hard. I mean, shit, he had made a last minute decision to leave the country because he didn’t see a point in staying if we were irreparable. That’s some serious thinking for two seventeen year olds, don’t you agree?
For the next two years we maintained an on and off relationship, and during my sophomore year of college I even flew to England where he was stationed to beat the dead horse some more. If there was such thing as an award for dragging things out, I’m sure I’d be the annual winner.
Presently he’s married with child and isn’t permitted by his wife to speak to me, but I’m okay with that. Had we still been together, today would mark our eight year anniversary and neither of us would probably have any nerves left to speak of. It seems like this day, January 12, has been and will always be imprinted on my brain. Whether I’m in a relationship or single, I can’t help but think of my past life (brace yourself):
1/12/2004: Title: Four
Today is my 4 year anniversary. I have a lot I'd like to say but it's all very personal, so I think I'll shutup for now.
However, I have no problem saying that I'm really happy right now and I feel really lucky to be here with him on this day.
Okay, shutting up.Ps. If you ever read this (which I'm pretty sure you won't because you hate blogs and everything blog related), happy anniversary. Love you.
1/12/2005: Title: It’s the 12th!
It would have been 5 years today had we not called it quits.
Regardless, I am feeling pretty fan-fucking-tastic about today and about our new found friendship (thank you for getting over your whole "if-I-can't-be-with-you-I-don't-want-to-have-anything-to-do with-you" bit, cause it was really lame).
I'm all hearts today<3
1/12/06: Title: What a spectacularly normal day
I'm posting this pint-sized entry just to say that I did not suffer from a searing migraine or blistering heartache today, and that in itself is an achievement that will most likely merit a top 5 spot in the list of my most satisfying accomplishments at the end of this year.
Thank you.
1/12/07: Title: Ha!
I have fond memories, but my new anniversary is so much sexier.
I don’t want there to be any confusion; I don’t remember this date because a tiny part of me is still in love with him. On the contrary, I think during our last telephone conversation we were talking about his wife’s jealousy of our long relationship and I remember laughing and saying that even if he were the last man on the planet I still wouldn’t want anything to do with him. --It’s just that every time this date comes around I think of my old self and I can’t believe what a bat-shit crazy lovesick bitch I was, and how little of that has actually changed.
Demystifying The Lesbionics
When you’re in high school you’ll do pretty much anything for money. Same goes for when you’re trying to make it in the art and writing world. This explains why, for the greater part of the last decade, I’ve held a job in retail. I know what you’re thinking: Retail? Seriously? Because yes, it really is as awful as everyone makes it out to be. One of my co-workers at my current job told me that when she first came to this country she got a job and Guess, and every day on her way home she’d burst into tears because she was depressed and miserable. Fortunately, if ever I get to this point with a job, it is not uncharacteristic of me to quit or transfer immediately. So that’s what I did this past summer.
Three years ago a woman who’s become one of my most favorite people in the entire world got hired into the company I mainly worked for as my boss. A couple years later another woman who has also become one of my most favorite people in the entire world got hired to be the boss of another location and the first woman, my boss, trained her. Shortly after that they fell in love and became known as The Lesbionics (watch the video here and maybe the reference will make more sense).
My boss ended up quitting this past May and soon after that my entire life seemed to fall apart for reasons I’d rather not say, but when it rains it pours and the new management that was ushered in after her was absolutely awful. There are no words that could describe the sheer disgust I felt for how far downhill the business went, and how speechless I was that nobody seemed to want to do anything about it. And then, just when I was barely a centimeter away from the point of my co-worker when she was at Guess, holding my tears on the muni train because of how much I hated my life at that moment and how far down my job had assisted in dragging my spirit, I transferred to the location that my ex-boss’ girlfriend manages and my work world turned right-side-up. It's no longer my main source of income, and I could actually quit and still survive just fine, but I keep going every Saturday because I love to help the people I love. Unfortunately, it’s a bit far from where I live so when I work there I usually stay out at their place for a couple of days and have a grand ol’ time.
Floyd Salas, a novelist/boxer says, “All considerations of language, of ideas, of symbols and metaphors serve only one function: to convey the soul of a living being to the soul of other living beings and in that process break us out of our isolation and loneliness and put us in touch with the universal spirit.” And I totally agree. So I can sit here and deconstruct these two fabulous women and hope that by the end of this post you’ll understand why in addition to the necessity of spending weekends with them when it comes to my part-time job, I also feel that it’s a necessity when it comes to my wellbeing, but I won’t. Their cool factor has absolutely nothing to do with their sexuality and everything to do with the fact that, just like the rest of my friends, there are a ton of things I see in them that I see in myself; things that make me smile and things that scare me, but as a whole, it’s just a damn pretty thing to look at.
I suppose that it’s not possible to discover the universal spirit in everyone. Some outsides are just so unlike our own that it seems pointless and even a little absurd to think that our cores would be at all similar. But it’s definitely possible to discover it in some people, and, when you do, I suggest you hold onto them tight. 2007 has been pretty rough ride for me, but I’ve survived it thanks to important discoveries and realizations like these.