Just thought I'd post some of my old stuff on here so that it's all in one place. If you're a brave soul and you're going to read it, start at the bottom and work your way up.
June 17, 2008
I am not a poet. but this is how the words came out:
life these days it trickles by
not carrying me away
but creeping meekly drip by drop
instead of rushing waters high
which sweep me up and take
me for a ride which threatens not to stop
my words these days they hardly spill
like dreams expressed out loud
for they stay stuck against my soul
but when life is that rushing ride
my words they flow and sound
of truths I barely know
my heart today is quite subdued
its cries and lies are hushed
for it lies dormant and in wait
not long ago it sounded strong
its beats and breaths like thunder
of this silence lasting is what I am afraid
May 1, 2008
Carla met Jacob the day after she turned twenty-four. They met at a party given by someone they both barely knew. She typically doesn't go to these kinds of parties, the ones given by people she doesn't care too much about. It usually takes a lot more than an acquaintance and a wine bar to get her to leave her apartment on a Sunday night. But the next day was a holiday – the kind where the banks are closed – so the office wouldn't be expecting her and she was restless like she gets sometimes. So Carla decided to go to Susan's party. And so did Jacob, though it's much less out of character for him to show up at such a party. But in any case they were both there.
She first noticed his hair from across the room: dark and full and falling across his forehead in glorious loose curls. Since she's not the type to approach strange men, no matter how beautiful their hair, Carla adopted the more subtle strategy of floating through the crowd towards him throughout the evening. She meandered in a sleek stalk until she found herself back to back with Jacob Kettler. Of course Carla didn't know he was Jacob Kettler, she only knew he was the guy in the soft brown sweater who smelled like autumn and had those glorious locks. The first time he made eye contact with her she raised her left eyebrow (it's the only one she could raise) in an attempt at a flirty gesture, and he made his way over to introduce himself.
They spent the rest of the party on Susan's roof, despite the blistering February weather. He had a pack of menthols and Carla had the zippo her older brother had given her for her eighteenth birthday. The two combined their resources and blew streams of minty smoke into the cold night together. Carla thought that the cigarettes left her mouth feeling clean and fresh like she'd just been to the dentist, only less sore. She hates the dentist, because of her sensitive gums.
Now Jacob knows all about Carla's aversion to the dentist, because that night on Susan's roof was five months ago. And things are different now. For one thing, they've both stopped smoking, and the zippo sits on top of Jacob's bureau gathering dust. For another, Carla has learned to raise her right eyebrow. They spent a rainy Sunday sitting on the floor in front of the full length mirror, Jacob struggling to teach her to control her facial muscles. They laughed so hard that day – the kind of laughter that hurts your cheeks and stomach – maybe from all the white wine. Oh, and Jacob never liked white wine before he met her. But she loves it and begged him to try it and somewhere along the way he forgot to dislike it.
Her favorite thing about him is the way his eyes fill up when he smiles. Not like her last boyfriend – his face scrunched up when he smiled so that his eyes disappeared. She always thought there was something disturbing about a man whose eyes disappeared when he smiled. When she told her friend Janis about this concern Janis only laughed, but Carla never could get over feeling as though she lost a part of him when he smiled. She couldn't be with a man like that. It's easier to trust Jacob because she can see his eyes fill up when he smiles.
April 20, 2008
We are a people who hurt: we get hurt and we do hurt. We're breakable, and we break; we're wounded, and we wound. No matter how badly we want to rise above this part of us, it is who we are, and we are forever inflicting it upon those we care for the most. Bleeding all over one another is just what we do, and there isn't any changing that.
Despite this, ironically, it is actually loneliness that is the worst hurt of all. Because when we're hurting, we want someone there. Not because it lessens the pain, but it does make it more bearable. With someone by our side we can face what we have to hide from otherwise. When we hate what we see in the mirror; when our ghosts appear anew to haunt us; when we don't have words and the tears are forever on the verge of breaking free… this is when we most need another's hand in ours. This is when we shouldn't have to sleep alone, when we shouldn't be allowed to go through a day without someone pausing to really see us.
And yet, we are constantly failed, and failing one another. Even those who should be there when we are in need – those who have promised to be there in moments just as these – sometimes fail us. In the absence of their commitment, what are we left with?
We are left with You: You who have allowed the pain we feel to slide through your sovereign fingers; You who see the nuances of our hearts with clarity; You who orchestrate the details of this life which seems to be against us. You rush over us like the ocean's waves on the jagged rocks of who we are. And over time, the crashing bursts of water smooth our rough edges, widen the crevices, and make openings out of the cracks. You create in us more room to love and to be loved. Because of You; all because of You.
June 17, 2008
I am not a poet. but this is how the words came out:
life these days it trickles by
not carrying me away
but creeping meekly drip by drop
instead of rushing waters high
which sweep me up and take
me for a ride which threatens not to stop
my words these days they hardly spill
like dreams expressed out loud
for they stay stuck against my soul
but when life is that rushing ride
my words they flow and sound
of truths I barely know
my heart today is quite subdued
its cries and lies are hushed
for it lies dormant and in wait
not long ago it sounded strong
its beats and breaths like thunder
of this silence lasting is what I am afraid
May 1, 2008
Carla met Jacob the day after she turned twenty-four. They met at a party given by someone they both barely knew. She typically doesn't go to these kinds of parties, the ones given by people she doesn't care too much about. It usually takes a lot more than an acquaintance and a wine bar to get her to leave her apartment on a Sunday night. But the next day was a holiday – the kind where the banks are closed – so the office wouldn't be expecting her and she was restless like she gets sometimes. So Carla decided to go to Susan's party. And so did Jacob, though it's much less out of character for him to show up at such a party. But in any case they were both there.
She first noticed his hair from across the room: dark and full and falling across his forehead in glorious loose curls. Since she's not the type to approach strange men, no matter how beautiful their hair, Carla adopted the more subtle strategy of floating through the crowd towards him throughout the evening. She meandered in a sleek stalk until she found herself back to back with Jacob Kettler. Of course Carla didn't know he was Jacob Kettler, she only knew he was the guy in the soft brown sweater who smelled like autumn and had those glorious locks. The first time he made eye contact with her she raised her left eyebrow (it's the only one she could raise) in an attempt at a flirty gesture, and he made his way over to introduce himself.
They spent the rest of the party on Susan's roof, despite the blistering February weather. He had a pack of menthols and Carla had the zippo her older brother had given her for her eighteenth birthday. The two combined their resources and blew streams of minty smoke into the cold night together. Carla thought that the cigarettes left her mouth feeling clean and fresh like she'd just been to the dentist, only less sore. She hates the dentist, because of her sensitive gums.
Now Jacob knows all about Carla's aversion to the dentist, because that night on Susan's roof was five months ago. And things are different now. For one thing, they've both stopped smoking, and the zippo sits on top of Jacob's bureau gathering dust. For another, Carla has learned to raise her right eyebrow. They spent a rainy Sunday sitting on the floor in front of the full length mirror, Jacob struggling to teach her to control her facial muscles. They laughed so hard that day – the kind of laughter that hurts your cheeks and stomach – maybe from all the white wine. Oh, and Jacob never liked white wine before he met her. But she loves it and begged him to try it and somewhere along the way he forgot to dislike it.
Her favorite thing about him is the way his eyes fill up when he smiles. Not like her last boyfriend – his face scrunched up when he smiled so that his eyes disappeared. She always thought there was something disturbing about a man whose eyes disappeared when he smiled. When she told her friend Janis about this concern Janis only laughed, but Carla never could get over feeling as though she lost a part of him when he smiled. She couldn't be with a man like that. It's easier to trust Jacob because she can see his eyes fill up when he smiles.
April 20, 2008
We are a people who hurt: we get hurt and we do hurt. We're breakable, and we break; we're wounded, and we wound. No matter how badly we want to rise above this part of us, it is who we are, and we are forever inflicting it upon those we care for the most. Bleeding all over one another is just what we do, and there isn't any changing that.
Despite this, ironically, it is actually loneliness that is the worst hurt of all. Because when we're hurting, we want someone there. Not because it lessens the pain, but it does make it more bearable. With someone by our side we can face what we have to hide from otherwise. When we hate what we see in the mirror; when our ghosts appear anew to haunt us; when we don't have words and the tears are forever on the verge of breaking free… this is when we most need another's hand in ours. This is when we shouldn't have to sleep alone, when we shouldn't be allowed to go through a day without someone pausing to really see us.
And yet, we are constantly failed, and failing one another. Even those who should be there when we are in need – those who have promised to be there in moments just as these – sometimes fail us. In the absence of their commitment, what are we left with?
We are left with You: You who have allowed the pain we feel to slide through your sovereign fingers; You who see the nuances of our hearts with clarity; You who orchestrate the details of this life which seems to be against us. You rush over us like the ocean's waves on the jagged rocks of who we are. And over time, the crashing bursts of water smooth our rough edges, widen the crevices, and make openings out of the cracks. You create in us more room to love and to be loved. Because of You; all because of You.
March 17, 2008
Tonight I will write. Maybe because I’ve had several beers and half a pack of cigarettes, or maybe because I watched Across the Universe earlier and it made me feel artistic. It doesn’t really matter why. We get our inspiration wherever we can: awkward sex, shitty breakups, or death. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m sitting on my kitchen floor in sweatpants and a pair of pink Ugg boots that aren’t mine, smoking out the window. And that I’m going to write.
I’ll write about how we’re all so fragile, so fucking breakable. And about how our strength always fails us at some point – wherever we believe it comes from, whether from something obscure within us or from God or from the faces we see every day. At some point it just isn’t enough, or we can’t find it, or we’re too covered up in ourselves or our sin or that of the world for it to do us any good. And we end up shattered, curled up on the cold, peeling linoleum floor, hoping someone will find us.
I’ll write about how there are seasons in life… about how that analogy suddenly makes sense to me. Because sometimes you just aren’t in a place where you have anything to give, and sometimes your heart is quivering and simply cannot take another blow. So you need to hide, to find a safe place to collapse and lick your wounds. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re ruined or that you’ll stay that way forever. It just means you’ve got to spend some time letting those broken pieces of yourself mend into some sort of makeshift whole that you can live with.
And I might mention that healing is a process like none other. Because even when you think you’ve got it together, even just in one area, something happens to split your world wide open and suddenly you realize your old wounds are still there, raw and red and throbbing. And there just isn’t any other way around healing them. You have to rub the salve of time and tears and hope and love into them and let them scab over and let the harsh fingernails of the world – and its completely fucked, totally imperfect state – pick the scab off and then you have to start the whole process over again. Most importantly you have to let go of your idea of what the salve looks like, what form the healing comes in. And even when it’s "complete", you have these scars all over your body: all these pink stretchy blemishes on your skin which constantly remind you of the battles you’ve fought. The battles you’ve survived.
And then I’ll write a bit about how we’re not supposed to experience life any other way but this horrible, broken, constant-fight-for-healing way. And that this is due to the marvelous and unfathomable truth that we are not meant for this world. Our souls are abandoned and starving here because it isn’t where they belong. So our hearts will forever be breaking and our souls forever be longing for more. And we will never ever manage to stop bleeding all over one another. Because this world doesn’t offer what our deepest selves are grasping for; it’s only a cheap-ass imitation.
I’ll conclude all this writing by saying that this – this horrible depressing truth – is actually what frees us. It frees us from expecting more than we can ever have, from those expectations which trap us because they can’t possibly be met. We must somehow get to the place where we can see this life as the blip of existence that it is… otherwise we’ll always feel cheated, wronged and desperately hopeless.
Oh, and at the very end of all of this I’ll admit that I only wrote about it tonight because I do indeed feel cheated, wronged, and desperately hopeless. And that I’m currently doing my best to peel my cheek off the cool linoleum, collect the pieces of my most recent heartbreak, find some salve somewhere, and start the never ending healing process once again.
March 11, 2008
It doesn't really matter where you are when you hear it. Sometimes it's on a voicemail, sometimes as you're riding in a car, or sometimes you actually watch it unfold in front of you. The location isn't important except for the sake of your memories. When you're in bed during especially long nights, for weeks and years later, replaying the moment when you heard it, you'll remember where you were so very poignantly. And that's the only way in which it matters. But regardless of the setting, the message is the same. I tend to have a slight premonition before the moment I'm to hear such a message. I would never classify it as a premonition at the time, but once the bomb has been dropped it occurs to me that the shifty queasiness I felt was a warning I should have paid mind to. But even if I had, I still would've stumbled somewhat blindly into the moment when things begin to fall apart. Because no matter how prepared you think you are, the news always hits you like someone launching a bowling ball into your gut. And then that blunt pain starts to subside and is replaced by something like shards of glass dancing a polka somewhere behind your ribs. All of this is bearable… you can grit your teeth and steel yourself against the impending destruction of your life. If you've had a lot of practice you can even sport a convincing smile and manage to release some brave and mature words. But when you've finally escaped the moment, when you're alone in a bathroom stall or on your way home, that's when the real pain descends. It's a death, really, of some part of your deepest self. And it's not a quick or merciful death like a shot to the head. It's slow and agonizing, like dying from AIDS or cancer or some other disease that erodes everything strong and brave about you, and stretches on and on. And on. Eventually you do emerge, because life demands your presence. So you participate, you pull it off, albeit a little more ghostlike than before the moment you got the bad news. And this, I'm coming to believe, is just life on this side.
(Oh, and one more thing. The next time you find yourself in such a moment, you'll be a little more prepared, a little less taken aback. Your smile will be wider and your words will be wiser. But the bowling ball still slams into your belly, and the jagged pieces of glass still do their dance, and the death is still just as miserable, and your existence just a little more ghostlike. And this, this... is life on this side.)
Tonight I will write. Maybe because I’ve had several beers and half a pack of cigarettes, or maybe because I watched Across the Universe earlier and it made me feel artistic. It doesn’t really matter why. We get our inspiration wherever we can: awkward sex, shitty breakups, or death. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m sitting on my kitchen floor in sweatpants and a pair of pink Ugg boots that aren’t mine, smoking out the window. And that I’m going to write.
I’ll write about how we’re all so fragile, so fucking breakable. And about how our strength always fails us at some point – wherever we believe it comes from, whether from something obscure within us or from God or from the faces we see every day. At some point it just isn’t enough, or we can’t find it, or we’re too covered up in ourselves or our sin or that of the world for it to do us any good. And we end up shattered, curled up on the cold, peeling linoleum floor, hoping someone will find us.
I’ll write about how there are seasons in life… about how that analogy suddenly makes sense to me. Because sometimes you just aren’t in a place where you have anything to give, and sometimes your heart is quivering and simply cannot take another blow. So you need to hide, to find a safe place to collapse and lick your wounds. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re ruined or that you’ll stay that way forever. It just means you’ve got to spend some time letting those broken pieces of yourself mend into some sort of makeshift whole that you can live with.
And I might mention that healing is a process like none other. Because even when you think you’ve got it together, even just in one area, something happens to split your world wide open and suddenly you realize your old wounds are still there, raw and red and throbbing. And there just isn’t any other way around healing them. You have to rub the salve of time and tears and hope and love into them and let them scab over and let the harsh fingernails of the world – and its completely fucked, totally imperfect state – pick the scab off and then you have to start the whole process over again. Most importantly you have to let go of your idea of what the salve looks like, what form the healing comes in. And even when it’s "complete", you have these scars all over your body: all these pink stretchy blemishes on your skin which constantly remind you of the battles you’ve fought. The battles you’ve survived.
And then I’ll write a bit about how we’re not supposed to experience life any other way but this horrible, broken, constant-fight-for-healing way. And that this is due to the marvelous and unfathomable truth that we are not meant for this world. Our souls are abandoned and starving here because it isn’t where they belong. So our hearts will forever be breaking and our souls forever be longing for more. And we will never ever manage to stop bleeding all over one another. Because this world doesn’t offer what our deepest selves are grasping for; it’s only a cheap-ass imitation.
I’ll conclude all this writing by saying that this – this horrible depressing truth – is actually what frees us. It frees us from expecting more than we can ever have, from those expectations which trap us because they can’t possibly be met. We must somehow get to the place where we can see this life as the blip of existence that it is… otherwise we’ll always feel cheated, wronged and desperately hopeless.
Oh, and at the very end of all of this I’ll admit that I only wrote about it tonight because I do indeed feel cheated, wronged, and desperately hopeless. And that I’m currently doing my best to peel my cheek off the cool linoleum, collect the pieces of my most recent heartbreak, find some salve somewhere, and start the never ending healing process once again.
March 11, 2008
It doesn't really matter where you are when you hear it. Sometimes it's on a voicemail, sometimes as you're riding in a car, or sometimes you actually watch it unfold in front of you. The location isn't important except for the sake of your memories. When you're in bed during especially long nights, for weeks and years later, replaying the moment when you heard it, you'll remember where you were so very poignantly. And that's the only way in which it matters. But regardless of the setting, the message is the same. I tend to have a slight premonition before the moment I'm to hear such a message. I would never classify it as a premonition at the time, but once the bomb has been dropped it occurs to me that the shifty queasiness I felt was a warning I should have paid mind to. But even if I had, I still would've stumbled somewhat blindly into the moment when things begin to fall apart. Because no matter how prepared you think you are, the news always hits you like someone launching a bowling ball into your gut. And then that blunt pain starts to subside and is replaced by something like shards of glass dancing a polka somewhere behind your ribs. All of this is bearable… you can grit your teeth and steel yourself against the impending destruction of your life. If you've had a lot of practice you can even sport a convincing smile and manage to release some brave and mature words. But when you've finally escaped the moment, when you're alone in a bathroom stall or on your way home, that's when the real pain descends. It's a death, really, of some part of your deepest self. And it's not a quick or merciful death like a shot to the head. It's slow and agonizing, like dying from AIDS or cancer or some other disease that erodes everything strong and brave about you, and stretches on and on. And on. Eventually you do emerge, because life demands your presence. So you participate, you pull it off, albeit a little more ghostlike than before the moment you got the bad news. And this, I'm coming to believe, is just life on this side.
(Oh, and one more thing. The next time you find yourself in such a moment, you'll be a little more prepared, a little less taken aback. Your smile will be wider and your words will be wiser. But the bowling ball still slams into your belly, and the jagged pieces of glass still do their dance, and the death is still just as miserable, and your existence just a little more ghostlike. And this, this... is life on this side.)
December 29, 2007
Henry has never spent the holidays here before, and he doesn't particularly care to this year. But when Edna died unexpectedly in March she left him without a caretaker, and therefore condemned him to this hell hole. That's how he thinks of it, anyway, though some of his fellow inmates don't seem to mind as much. The woman in the room next to his, Lois, lived with her daughter and son-in-law for three years before coming to High Acres. She says she prefers the nursing home, because at least here no one treats you like a nuisance. Henry thinks maybe she just has an asshole for a son-in-law, but he's never said as much to her.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and Henry remembers a time when December 23rd would mean something special: it would mean family was coming into town; that he had to finish his shopping and convince one of his granddaughters to wrap Edna's gifts for him. He would claim the problem was his arthritis, but the truth was he'd never been any good at wrapping gifts. Edna always did it for him, but he had to elicit some help when it came to her gift. He has to admit that he spoiled her: jewelry, trips, fancy kitchen appliances, cashmere sweaters, furniture and – in their fifty-six years – even a couple of cars. But he spent their entire marriage feeling grateful that she said yes and I do, and saw Christmas as his chance to show her how he felt. He also has to admit, at least to himself, that he should have been better at expressing himself on the other 364 days of the year. So many days, he realized now, which he wasted. Is it only when it's too late, he wonders, that we realize what we should be doing with our days?
December 27, 2007
I'm surrounded by the faces of those I no longer know; those whose impression has already been made on my life. They have moved on into different worlds, and I have moved on as well, but in this room we are all frozen in the time when our paths converged. The faces adorning these walls don't belong to the people who live and move today, scattered all over the world. Instead, they belong to former versions of themselves, the versions I knew and loved and ate breakfast with in the mornings. These faces are of ghosts, people who don't exist, but whose reality has been captured and will be preserved in the images displayed here.
They're so different – these faces in this room – from the people I catch glimpses of today. The faces are of people who shared mundane details as well as soul shaking secrets with me; of people who loved me; of people who would undoubtedly be apart of my future. The people I glimpse from a distance today are disconnected strangers who have, in a past era, jarred me. And I am still recovering today from the waves of repercussion. The faces belong to people I'm trying to forgive for loving me, and to people I haven't forgiven myself for loving.
December 26, 2007
Part II
On her way to meet him she thought about all the times they'd met there, at this particular Starbucks. She'd forgotten when the first time was, but it had long been an established habit. When he called her this morning to see if she was free he didn't even have to say where to meet him. He just said "7:30" and she knew. She rolled down the window – it was cool, but not compared to the winter she'd just left behind in London. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel along to the song playing on the radio. Her mother complained that she couldn't stay still in the presence of music: a musician's curse, she called it.
She saw him sitting outside as she pulled into the parking lot at just past 7:30. His familiar shape slammed into the table when he rose, and she giggled at his characteristic clumsiness as she turned the car off. She got out, slammed the door shut, and immediately found her old place in his arms. She felt his awkward pats on her back, but it didn't make her pull away any sooner. When she finally did, she tilted her chin up to take a good look at him. He looked pretty much the same; more facial hair, and she could tell he'd broadened out in the chest and shoulders. But there was nothing unfamiliar about the smiling face looking down on her.
He resumed his seat and she plopped down across from him. She began to answer his question as he lit a cigarette and then passed her the pack and lighter so she could do the same. And so they smoked and she caught him up on her year abroad, and she watched him as she talked. This was another of her habits, observing people more closely than most were comfortable with. But he was used to this about her, and didn't react at all to her scrutinizing gaze. She sensed something new, something stirring below his surface, and was about to turn the questions on him when he rose to get their coffees.
Reaching into her purse for some cash, she was surprised when he indicated that he didn't want it, muttering something under his breath as he walked past her. Very odd, she thought as he disappeared inside, for they'd always gone dutch before. She resolved to ask him why, after so many years of friendship, he'd decided tonight to treat her to a coffee.
December 22, 2007
Part I
He waited for her outside a Starbucks – their Starbucks, essentially, because it was here they always met. It was located perfectly between his parents' house and hers, since they moved closer into town her senior year of high school. It was chilly for the South, though it was the week before Christmas, and he fancied a cup of coffee to warm his insides. But he didn't want to risk being inside ordering when she arrived. So he remained seated, his left foot tapping to the rhythm of the music constantly playing in his head. A musician's curse, he supposed, but he'd never thought of it that way.
She didn't keep him waiting long, and when her blue Honda pulled into the space right in front of where he was sitting, he couldn't contain the grin that spread across his face. He jumped out of his seat quickly – too quickly, in fact – and banged his thighs against the underside of the table. He attempted to hide the pain and pull off a smooth recovery, but she didn't even seem to notice, and bounded up to him, throwing her arms around his middle in a sisterly embrace. He returned the hug, albeit a bit awkwardly… she'd always been better at this than he. And when they drew apart he was relieved to see the familiar face of his old friend looking up at him. Familiar, and yet.
They sat, lit a cigarette each, and began to catch up. And as he listened to her, he noticed her slimly cut wool coat… it was red, and quite unlike anything she would have worn before her year in London. Her hair, too, was cut short and styled differently – more fashionably, he felt sure, though he didn't know much about that sort of thing. Come to think of it, everything about her carried an air of sophistication he'd never noticed before. He'd been at school in Boston for three years now, but in her presence his acquired East Coast chic suddenly seemed inadequate and immature.
When he rose to get their coffees, she reached in her bag to hand him some cash, but he refused her, and mumbled something about getting it himself. She looked at him strangely – and rightfully so – for they'd always gone dutch before. But tonight he just wanted to take care of it, and he didn't want to discuss why with her.
December 10, 2007
She was brushing her teeth when the phone rang. It was the car company, her car was waiting outside. She spat and rinsed, pulled on her coat, and headed down with her suitcase. It was the big black one, she abhorred dragging it around, but whenever she went home to visit she ended up with more stuff than she arrived with. Random items her mother saw and bought for her during the months she wasn't there filled up the nooks and crannies of the suitcase for the return trip. It was a therapy for her mom, she knew, a way to feel close to the daughter who'd left home at eighteen and rarely returned. So she continued to accept graciously the knick knacks, sweaters, and kitchen gadgets she knew she'd never use, to pack them in the black suitcase and bring them home, where they occupied shelf space in her already cluttered apartment.
It wasn't until she'd locked the door behind her, thrown her suitcase in the trunk of the car, and told the driver she was going to the airport that the thought occurred to her. Her rings. She hadn't worn them for weeks, since Ian started sleeping on the sofa. She knew she was being silly, but it seemed like such a lie. Those rings signified promises which were being shattered into smaller pieces every day, every damn hour they carried on this way. He thought it was silly too, she knew. He hadn't said it, but she saw his face when he first noticed she wasn't wearing them. It was the last night he'd stayed there, before moving in with Carter. He saw the pale impression of the bands on her ring finger and closed his eyes for a moment too long. They'd sat in the living room for hours that night, he in his favorite leather chair and she on the sofa across from him. The sofa where he'd been sleeping, which was somehow still too close. But all the words they poured into the space between them weren't enough, and so at the end of the night he packed a duffel and told her he'd call in a few days.
But damn it if she hadn't forgotten to put the rings back on before heading home. She had to, if only to avoid the questions, and the necessary explanation. She didn't know how to talk about it; she hadn't yet, not to anyone but Ian. The disappointment of her parents was a weight she didn't think she could handle, not now, not after sleeping in a bed alone for seven weeks. An eight year marriage and no grandchildren to show for it was, as far as her family was concerned, reason enough for concern. She couldn't bear to think of their reaction to this newest development. No, she must wear the rings and push the reality aside, if only for this week. They must believe Ian was spending the holidays with his dying grandmother in Kansas – which he was – and they must believe there was nothing more to it.
So she asked the driver to turn back. They were blocks away by now but she knew she couldn't face them with a naked ring finger on her left hand. She needed the security of that ring of gold. The driver wasn't pleased to have to backtrack... one way streets are a bitch to maneuver. When they arrived, she bounded up the stairs two at a time, and rummaged through her top drawer where she kept them in the velvet box he'd pulled out that night on the roof. Finding them at last, she held them and started at them for a moment in her palm before committing the sin of slipping them back on. Then she hurried back out to the car, apologized, and headed to face the giant, with King Saul's armor wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand.
November 27, 2007
it’s a song:
You were the dark haired shining boy, strumming your guitar
And I was one of many tossing roses at your feet
But you found me amidst the crowd, chose me for a while
Then kept on being not quite what I wanted you to be
All along you whispered what I would not hear
I can't be your savior – free me from those chains
See me as I am – don't kill me in this way
Let me fight my demons, I need saving too
You offer me too much, my colors will show through
Henry has never spent the holidays here before, and he doesn't particularly care to this year. But when Edna died unexpectedly in March she left him without a caretaker, and therefore condemned him to this hell hole. That's how he thinks of it, anyway, though some of his fellow inmates don't seem to mind as much. The woman in the room next to his, Lois, lived with her daughter and son-in-law for three years before coming to High Acres. She says she prefers the nursing home, because at least here no one treats you like a nuisance. Henry thinks maybe she just has an asshole for a son-in-law, but he's never said as much to her.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and Henry remembers a time when December 23rd would mean something special: it would mean family was coming into town; that he had to finish his shopping and convince one of his granddaughters to wrap Edna's gifts for him. He would claim the problem was his arthritis, but the truth was he'd never been any good at wrapping gifts. Edna always did it for him, but he had to elicit some help when it came to her gift. He has to admit that he spoiled her: jewelry, trips, fancy kitchen appliances, cashmere sweaters, furniture and – in their fifty-six years – even a couple of cars. But he spent their entire marriage feeling grateful that she said yes and I do, and saw Christmas as his chance to show her how he felt. He also has to admit, at least to himself, that he should have been better at expressing himself on the other 364 days of the year. So many days, he realized now, which he wasted. Is it only when it's too late, he wonders, that we realize what we should be doing with our days?
December 27, 2007
I'm surrounded by the faces of those I no longer know; those whose impression has already been made on my life. They have moved on into different worlds, and I have moved on as well, but in this room we are all frozen in the time when our paths converged. The faces adorning these walls don't belong to the people who live and move today, scattered all over the world. Instead, they belong to former versions of themselves, the versions I knew and loved and ate breakfast with in the mornings. These faces are of ghosts, people who don't exist, but whose reality has been captured and will be preserved in the images displayed here.
They're so different – these faces in this room – from the people I catch glimpses of today. The faces are of people who shared mundane details as well as soul shaking secrets with me; of people who loved me; of people who would undoubtedly be apart of my future. The people I glimpse from a distance today are disconnected strangers who have, in a past era, jarred me. And I am still recovering today from the waves of repercussion. The faces belong to people I'm trying to forgive for loving me, and to people I haven't forgiven myself for loving.
December 26, 2007
Part II
On her way to meet him she thought about all the times they'd met there, at this particular Starbucks. She'd forgotten when the first time was, but it had long been an established habit. When he called her this morning to see if she was free he didn't even have to say where to meet him. He just said "7:30" and she knew. She rolled down the window – it was cool, but not compared to the winter she'd just left behind in London. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel along to the song playing on the radio. Her mother complained that she couldn't stay still in the presence of music: a musician's curse, she called it.
She saw him sitting outside as she pulled into the parking lot at just past 7:30. His familiar shape slammed into the table when he rose, and she giggled at his characteristic clumsiness as she turned the car off. She got out, slammed the door shut, and immediately found her old place in his arms. She felt his awkward pats on her back, but it didn't make her pull away any sooner. When she finally did, she tilted her chin up to take a good look at him. He looked pretty much the same; more facial hair, and she could tell he'd broadened out in the chest and shoulders. But there was nothing unfamiliar about the smiling face looking down on her.
He resumed his seat and she plopped down across from him. She began to answer his question as he lit a cigarette and then passed her the pack and lighter so she could do the same. And so they smoked and she caught him up on her year abroad, and she watched him as she talked. This was another of her habits, observing people more closely than most were comfortable with. But he was used to this about her, and didn't react at all to her scrutinizing gaze. She sensed something new, something stirring below his surface, and was about to turn the questions on him when he rose to get their coffees.
Reaching into her purse for some cash, she was surprised when he indicated that he didn't want it, muttering something under his breath as he walked past her. Very odd, she thought as he disappeared inside, for they'd always gone dutch before. She resolved to ask him why, after so many years of friendship, he'd decided tonight to treat her to a coffee.
December 22, 2007
Part I
He waited for her outside a Starbucks – their Starbucks, essentially, because it was here they always met. It was located perfectly between his parents' house and hers, since they moved closer into town her senior year of high school. It was chilly for the South, though it was the week before Christmas, and he fancied a cup of coffee to warm his insides. But he didn't want to risk being inside ordering when she arrived. So he remained seated, his left foot tapping to the rhythm of the music constantly playing in his head. A musician's curse, he supposed, but he'd never thought of it that way.
She didn't keep him waiting long, and when her blue Honda pulled into the space right in front of where he was sitting, he couldn't contain the grin that spread across his face. He jumped out of his seat quickly – too quickly, in fact – and banged his thighs against the underside of the table. He attempted to hide the pain and pull off a smooth recovery, but she didn't even seem to notice, and bounded up to him, throwing her arms around his middle in a sisterly embrace. He returned the hug, albeit a bit awkwardly… she'd always been better at this than he. And when they drew apart he was relieved to see the familiar face of his old friend looking up at him. Familiar, and yet.
They sat, lit a cigarette each, and began to catch up. And as he listened to her, he noticed her slimly cut wool coat… it was red, and quite unlike anything she would have worn before her year in London. Her hair, too, was cut short and styled differently – more fashionably, he felt sure, though he didn't know much about that sort of thing. Come to think of it, everything about her carried an air of sophistication he'd never noticed before. He'd been at school in Boston for three years now, but in her presence his acquired East Coast chic suddenly seemed inadequate and immature.
When he rose to get their coffees, she reached in her bag to hand him some cash, but he refused her, and mumbled something about getting it himself. She looked at him strangely – and rightfully so – for they'd always gone dutch before. But tonight he just wanted to take care of it, and he didn't want to discuss why with her.
December 10, 2007
She was brushing her teeth when the phone rang. It was the car company, her car was waiting outside. She spat and rinsed, pulled on her coat, and headed down with her suitcase. It was the big black one, she abhorred dragging it around, but whenever she went home to visit she ended up with more stuff than she arrived with. Random items her mother saw and bought for her during the months she wasn't there filled up the nooks and crannies of the suitcase for the return trip. It was a therapy for her mom, she knew, a way to feel close to the daughter who'd left home at eighteen and rarely returned. So she continued to accept graciously the knick knacks, sweaters, and kitchen gadgets she knew she'd never use, to pack them in the black suitcase and bring them home, where they occupied shelf space in her already cluttered apartment.
It wasn't until she'd locked the door behind her, thrown her suitcase in the trunk of the car, and told the driver she was going to the airport that the thought occurred to her. Her rings. She hadn't worn them for weeks, since Ian started sleeping on the sofa. She knew she was being silly, but it seemed like such a lie. Those rings signified promises which were being shattered into smaller pieces every day, every damn hour they carried on this way. He thought it was silly too, she knew. He hadn't said it, but she saw his face when he first noticed she wasn't wearing them. It was the last night he'd stayed there, before moving in with Carter. He saw the pale impression of the bands on her ring finger and closed his eyes for a moment too long. They'd sat in the living room for hours that night, he in his favorite leather chair and she on the sofa across from him. The sofa where he'd been sleeping, which was somehow still too close. But all the words they poured into the space between them weren't enough, and so at the end of the night he packed a duffel and told her he'd call in a few days.
But damn it if she hadn't forgotten to put the rings back on before heading home. She had to, if only to avoid the questions, and the necessary explanation. She didn't know how to talk about it; she hadn't yet, not to anyone but Ian. The disappointment of her parents was a weight she didn't think she could handle, not now, not after sleeping in a bed alone for seven weeks. An eight year marriage and no grandchildren to show for it was, as far as her family was concerned, reason enough for concern. She couldn't bear to think of their reaction to this newest development. No, she must wear the rings and push the reality aside, if only for this week. They must believe Ian was spending the holidays with his dying grandmother in Kansas – which he was – and they must believe there was nothing more to it.
So she asked the driver to turn back. They were blocks away by now but she knew she couldn't face them with a naked ring finger on her left hand. She needed the security of that ring of gold. The driver wasn't pleased to have to backtrack... one way streets are a bitch to maneuver. When they arrived, she bounded up the stairs two at a time, and rummaged through her top drawer where she kept them in the velvet box he'd pulled out that night on the roof. Finding them at last, she held them and started at them for a moment in her palm before committing the sin of slipping them back on. Then she hurried back out to the car, apologized, and headed to face the giant, with King Saul's armor wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand.
November 27, 2007
it’s a song:
You were the dark haired shining boy, strumming your guitar
And I was one of many tossing roses at your feet
But you found me amidst the crowd, chose me for a while
Then kept on being not quite what I wanted you to be
All along you whispered what I would not hear
I can't be your savior – free me from those chains
See me as I am – don't kill me in this way
Let me fight my demons, I need saving too
You offer me too much, my colors will show through
The poisoned words you offered me, lapped up by my desperate self
Your not quite promises excused – your could be winning out
I didn't want to see the truth, to have my dance fucked up
Eventually things show themselves, so I saw soon enough
What you'd been screaming silently
I can't be your savior – free me from those chains
See me as I am – don't kill me in this way
Let me fight my demons, I need saving too
You offer me too much, my colors will show through
You never could quite say it - perhaps you didn't know
We were an almost, nothing more
I guess it goes to show
I can't be your savior – free me from those chains
See me as I am – don't kill me in this way
Let me fight my demons, I need saving too
You offer me too much, my colors will show through
Your not quite promises excused – your could be winning out
I didn't want to see the truth, to have my dance fucked up
Eventually things show themselves, so I saw soon enough
What you'd been screaming silently
I can't be your savior – free me from those chains
See me as I am – don't kill me in this way
Let me fight my demons, I need saving too
You offer me too much, my colors will show through
You never could quite say it - perhaps you didn't know
We were an almost, nothing more
I guess it goes to show
I can't be your savior – free me from those chains
See me as I am – don't kill me in this way
Let me fight my demons, I need saving too
You offer me too much, my colors will show through
November 18, 2007
He takes it off when he showers. Leaves it on the counter between his sink and hers. It could easily be pushed down one of the two drains, never to be seen again. He knows some guys who never take theirs off: his dad can't even get his off, his fingers have grown too fat. But after forty years it doesn't matter much anyway.
It matters to him, though. For some reason he needs to know he can slip it off easily. That's partly why he does it every time he showers - to make sure it slides off without a struggle. The other part - the bigger part - is that he feels there ought to be a few minutes in his day where he's really naked. Stripped of everything artificial, everything which feels foreign. At least that way there are ten minutes of every day where he feels like himself. Unhindered. Honest. Naked. Really naked.
A little bitty ring of gold. That's all it is. How can a tiny ring of gold have so much meaning? So much power? How can it matter so much if it falls down the drain? Or if he takes it off when he showers? It matters to her. She wears her rings twenty-four hours a day. Damn, she never takes the things off. When she gets pregnant her fingers might swell, and she might never be able to take them off. And before they know it, forty years will have passed, and they'll both still be wearing those gold rings. Why does it matter so much? No, it should matter! But why does it bother him so much?
Does the ring of gold on the counter between the two sinks matter?
He takes it off when he showers. Leaves it on the counter between his sink and hers. It could easily be pushed down one of the two drains, never to be seen again. He knows some guys who never take theirs off: his dad can't even get his off, his fingers have grown too fat. But after forty years it doesn't matter much anyway.
It matters to him, though. For some reason he needs to know he can slip it off easily. That's partly why he does it every time he showers - to make sure it slides off without a struggle. The other part - the bigger part - is that he feels there ought to be a few minutes in his day where he's really naked. Stripped of everything artificial, everything which feels foreign. At least that way there are ten minutes of every day where he feels like himself. Unhindered. Honest. Naked. Really naked.
A little bitty ring of gold. That's all it is. How can a tiny ring of gold have so much meaning? So much power? How can it matter so much if it falls down the drain? Or if he takes it off when he showers? It matters to her. She wears her rings twenty-four hours a day. Damn, she never takes the things off. When she gets pregnant her fingers might swell, and she might never be able to take them off. And before they know it, forty years will have passed, and they'll both still be wearing those gold rings. Why does it matter so much? No, it should matter! But why does it bother him so much?
Does the ring of gold on the counter between the two sinks matter?
November 10, 2007
I'm looking at his profile, my back against the wall, right leg hanging off the edge of the bed. I try to help myself, but I keep staring at his lips – his perfect lips. He's wearing a beard right now; his tribute to "no shave November". I think it fits him, not that he asked. We're stuffed full of Greek food – (I'm convinced the best pita in the world is made by the restaurant down the street. He liked it, but says his grandmother makes it better. I can't disagree, at least not until I've tasted Granny's.) – but both opted for a cup of apple cider on this cold night. He holds his mug like a lifelong smoker holds a cigarette, as an extension of himself: two fingers wrapped around the handle, thumb folded over the lip. It's hot… the cider I mean. This whole scene suits him – the blue mug, khaki colored sweater, mussed hair, socked feet. He's telling me about an article he read in a magazine on some democratic candidate, but I don't read periodicals, and besides, I'm much more interested in the way his Adam's apple moves when he talks. I like having his deep voice bounce off of my butter-colored walls. I like that it's almost midnight and he's still here, talking with me, full of questions and clever jokes and thoughtful pauses. He's stopped talking about Senator Whoever, he's looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. I don't blush often, but I do now. He clears his throat and looks away, sticks his right hand in his hip pocket and pulls out the mini bottle of brandy we picked up earlier. He reaches over to hand it to me, and his arm brushes my left knee. I pretend I don't notice, take the bottle from him, unscrew the top and pour. He takes it back, does the same, and asks me what I'm reading right now.
October 27, 2007
It had been a bad idea, she realized, to prolong the moment they were both dreading. When they made the decision to come out to the airport a couple of hours before her flight, it had seemed to make sense. She'd wanted the time alone with him, away from everyone, to say whatever they needed to. And he'd agreed, because he didn't know when he'd see her again, and so he would have agreed to anything she asked.
But now, as they sat across from one another at the café in the international departures terminal, she realized her mistake. There were no words left unsaid between them. In fact, hadn't that been the problem all along? Their words ran dry long before their desire to know one another did. And as they sought a way to remedy this problem, things spun viciously out of control.
She watched as he ran his left hand through his hair repeatedly, the way he always did when he was nervous. She wanted to say something to lighten the mood, to perhaps achieve a few "normal" moments before everything changed. But it would just be pretending, and he'd know it, because everything had already changed. As much as they tried to behave normally, by ordering their favorite beers and making small talk, the tension of the impending goodbye loomed like a cloud above them. Although, she reflected, even conversations about the most mundane things were always more than mere small talk with him. They shared stories and discussion the way only lovers can: each word was laced with deeper meaning, each look shouted volumes above the hum of everyday conversation. She raised her eyes to meet his and was instantly caught in just such a look.
"I can't stand leaving you." The words escaped from her mouth in a rush, the moment she thought them. This was something else he'd done to her; never before could she speak her thoughts without putting them through a rigorous screening process. But not with him; with him she spoke her deepest musings with no inhibition.
He held her gaze for a moment, and a slight sad smile filled his face for a brief moment before he let out a long, tired sigh, "So this was a good idea, eh?" She laughed, grateful for his sarcasm in this moment, and then immediately felt his gaze on her shift. And she remembered – he loved her laugh, he'd told her once it mesmerized him, that he couldn't take his eyes off her lips when she laughed. A wave of sadness swept over her as she realized even this, her spontaneous laughter, was no longer safe to lose herself in. Had things ever been safe between them?
That was a question for another time. She knew eventually she'd need that closure, those answers. But this afternoon was about survival, about managing a goodbye they both hated, yet knew was necessary. Were the deepest things in life always this way: part wonderful and part destructive? More questions which couldn't be answered, at least not before her plane took off. She stared at him, thinking this could be the last time she saw him like this. As her partner, her soul mate, the person who knew and read her so well. Her hunch was that some time away from him, back in her other world, would reveal something different about this man she revered. Oh how she dreaded that revelation.
A few more minutes of this tension was all they could manage, she knew this. She slid her hand across the table and took his. He clutched her fingers, the fervency of it catching her off guard. She looked up but saw only the top of his head. Why wouldn't he look at her? Was he angry? Disappointed? Empty, like she felt? They'd tried so fucking hard, but it's harder still to make something right that never was to begin with. She'd actually begun to think it might be impossible. He finally looked up at her, and her heart leapt when she saw what was behind his eyes. What was it, she wondered, that sense that so strongly mirrored her own feeling? And then it came to her… defeat. They were utterly defeated. This stupid idea of their final time together, their attempts to love each other, the whole thing was a ruse. And now the gig was up. As she held his gaze she knew he knew it too.
It lasted four more seconds before he released her hand and called for the check. And just like that they were walking towards the gate, her mind surprisingly blank. What more was there, after all? After nine months of being overwhelmed by him and everything he brought to her life, today it was ending, and it had to, and she was finished processing and questioning and wondering. It is what it is, she thought, and immediately cringed at the cliché.
They were there, he couldn't come any further. She had an hour before she had to go through security, but what was the point of prolonging this? She slid her bag off of her shoulder, let it fall onto the chair behind her. She fiddled with the zipper for a moment before throwing her hands up in frustration. He caught them in his own, and she heard him exhale, an uneven, trembling escape of breath. Why did this have to be so awful?! He pulled her to himself, and she clung to him, fully aware that this would be the last time. He muttered into her hair – the words had lost their meaning now, but she said them back anyway. What else was there?
Too soon he pulled away. He cupped her face in his hands, hung his head, turned, and she watched the back of him until he was swallowed by the crowds of people. This is how it ends, she thought, sinking into the chair, now I move on, now I recover. It took some time, maybe twenty minutes, before she could stand up, take her boarding pass out of her bag, and walk to the security guard. As she passed through the metal detector it occurred to her that she was moving towards something she never thought she'd find in this moment… freedom.
October 23, 2007
A pinstriped suit. That's what he's wearing. He never thought he'd be the guy who wore a pinstriped suit. But here he is, on a bench by the marina, wearing just such a suit. Lately he's been thinking a lot about who he's turned into. This guy in the suit, with the desk job, and the retirement plan. He always thought he'd have a more unconventional life, an exotic and spontaneous life filled with adventure. But instead he's this guy. The guy who left work at 5:30 and got stuck in traffic on the way home and stopped to pick up tomatoes because his wife left three voicemails reminding him to do so. He mows the lawn on the weekends and gets woken up by kids' footsteps on the wood floor outside his bedroom door. He has the same problems as the guy next door, the guy down the street: his milk goes bad and the bathroom door hinges squeak and the guy who just won the election is an ass. And just now, a huge glob of bird poop landed on the sleeve of his pinstriped suit. He sighs, swears at the culprit, and rises to head back to his car. At home his wife laughs about the poop, his baby won't stop crying, and he realizes he's out of beer. But little miracles are happening too: her hand on his back as he stands over the stove stirring pasta; the weather forecast which promises the entrance of autumn; sneaking kisses in the kitchen, despite his seven-year-old's groan of disgust. Maybe he's not so bad, the guy he's turned into. The guy in the pinstriped suit.
October 4, 2007
This is what we do: we wake up to the wicked alarm, and press the snooze button a couple of times too many. Eventually we roll out of bed swearing because we can't be late today. We drag ourselves into the shower and in our rush we cut ourselves shaving. As we watch the blood run down the drain we think about this source of life which exists just beneath the surface, but doesn't show itself until something wounds us. We get out and dry off and go through the motions of getting ready. And we think about taking time to pray and read the Bible or just stop for a few minutes and listen. But we don't have time. So we run around looking for clean clothes and our metro card and when we finally think we're ready to leave we realize we've forgotten to pour our morning coffee. So we pour the entire pot into a thermos, put on our All Stars and turn on our iPods and walk out the door. This is what we do, we as Christians.
We move briskly down the sidewalk and we blow by people and let out loud, dramatic sighs when they make it difficult for us to pass. We stuff ourselves into the train car and fight to keep our balance as it lurches from the station. The ride is spent going through our mental "to do" list for the day, and when we show up at work we're already overwhelmed by the day ahead. So we spend the morning in front of our laptops, shooting off e-mails and struggling with numbers in spreadsheets. Then we warm up leftovers for lunch and eat at our desk with our tie thrown over our shoulder, and in twenty minutes we're back in the middle of the stack of papers. Someone walks into the office and breaks the monotony of the afternoon. They bring us out of ourselves and force us to face our weaknesses. We stumble through the conversation, wishing we'd just shut up but continuing to push through. And when they leave we have trouble getting back to work because things have shifted, but we eventually do because this is what we do… we as New Yorkers.
I'm looking at his profile, my back against the wall, right leg hanging off the edge of the bed. I try to help myself, but I keep staring at his lips – his perfect lips. He's wearing a beard right now; his tribute to "no shave November". I think it fits him, not that he asked. We're stuffed full of Greek food – (I'm convinced the best pita in the world is made by the restaurant down the street. He liked it, but says his grandmother makes it better. I can't disagree, at least not until I've tasted Granny's.) – but both opted for a cup of apple cider on this cold night. He holds his mug like a lifelong smoker holds a cigarette, as an extension of himself: two fingers wrapped around the handle, thumb folded over the lip. It's hot… the cider I mean. This whole scene suits him – the blue mug, khaki colored sweater, mussed hair, socked feet. He's telling me about an article he read in a magazine on some democratic candidate, but I don't read periodicals, and besides, I'm much more interested in the way his Adam's apple moves when he talks. I like having his deep voice bounce off of my butter-colored walls. I like that it's almost midnight and he's still here, talking with me, full of questions and clever jokes and thoughtful pauses. He's stopped talking about Senator Whoever, he's looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. I don't blush often, but I do now. He clears his throat and looks away, sticks his right hand in his hip pocket and pulls out the mini bottle of brandy we picked up earlier. He reaches over to hand it to me, and his arm brushes my left knee. I pretend I don't notice, take the bottle from him, unscrew the top and pour. He takes it back, does the same, and asks me what I'm reading right now.
October 27, 2007
It had been a bad idea, she realized, to prolong the moment they were both dreading. When they made the decision to come out to the airport a couple of hours before her flight, it had seemed to make sense. She'd wanted the time alone with him, away from everyone, to say whatever they needed to. And he'd agreed, because he didn't know when he'd see her again, and so he would have agreed to anything she asked.
But now, as they sat across from one another at the café in the international departures terminal, she realized her mistake. There were no words left unsaid between them. In fact, hadn't that been the problem all along? Their words ran dry long before their desire to know one another did. And as they sought a way to remedy this problem, things spun viciously out of control.
She watched as he ran his left hand through his hair repeatedly, the way he always did when he was nervous. She wanted to say something to lighten the mood, to perhaps achieve a few "normal" moments before everything changed. But it would just be pretending, and he'd know it, because everything had already changed. As much as they tried to behave normally, by ordering their favorite beers and making small talk, the tension of the impending goodbye loomed like a cloud above them. Although, she reflected, even conversations about the most mundane things were always more than mere small talk with him. They shared stories and discussion the way only lovers can: each word was laced with deeper meaning, each look shouted volumes above the hum of everyday conversation. She raised her eyes to meet his and was instantly caught in just such a look.
"I can't stand leaving you." The words escaped from her mouth in a rush, the moment she thought them. This was something else he'd done to her; never before could she speak her thoughts without putting them through a rigorous screening process. But not with him; with him she spoke her deepest musings with no inhibition.
He held her gaze for a moment, and a slight sad smile filled his face for a brief moment before he let out a long, tired sigh, "So this was a good idea, eh?" She laughed, grateful for his sarcasm in this moment, and then immediately felt his gaze on her shift. And she remembered – he loved her laugh, he'd told her once it mesmerized him, that he couldn't take his eyes off her lips when she laughed. A wave of sadness swept over her as she realized even this, her spontaneous laughter, was no longer safe to lose herself in. Had things ever been safe between them?
That was a question for another time. She knew eventually she'd need that closure, those answers. But this afternoon was about survival, about managing a goodbye they both hated, yet knew was necessary. Were the deepest things in life always this way: part wonderful and part destructive? More questions which couldn't be answered, at least not before her plane took off. She stared at him, thinking this could be the last time she saw him like this. As her partner, her soul mate, the person who knew and read her so well. Her hunch was that some time away from him, back in her other world, would reveal something different about this man she revered. Oh how she dreaded that revelation.
A few more minutes of this tension was all they could manage, she knew this. She slid her hand across the table and took his. He clutched her fingers, the fervency of it catching her off guard. She looked up but saw only the top of his head. Why wouldn't he look at her? Was he angry? Disappointed? Empty, like she felt? They'd tried so fucking hard, but it's harder still to make something right that never was to begin with. She'd actually begun to think it might be impossible. He finally looked up at her, and her heart leapt when she saw what was behind his eyes. What was it, she wondered, that sense that so strongly mirrored her own feeling? And then it came to her… defeat. They were utterly defeated. This stupid idea of their final time together, their attempts to love each other, the whole thing was a ruse. And now the gig was up. As she held his gaze she knew he knew it too.
It lasted four more seconds before he released her hand and called for the check. And just like that they were walking towards the gate, her mind surprisingly blank. What more was there, after all? After nine months of being overwhelmed by him and everything he brought to her life, today it was ending, and it had to, and she was finished processing and questioning and wondering. It is what it is, she thought, and immediately cringed at the cliché.
They were there, he couldn't come any further. She had an hour before she had to go through security, but what was the point of prolonging this? She slid her bag off of her shoulder, let it fall onto the chair behind her. She fiddled with the zipper for a moment before throwing her hands up in frustration. He caught them in his own, and she heard him exhale, an uneven, trembling escape of breath. Why did this have to be so awful?! He pulled her to himself, and she clung to him, fully aware that this would be the last time. He muttered into her hair – the words had lost their meaning now, but she said them back anyway. What else was there?
Too soon he pulled away. He cupped her face in his hands, hung his head, turned, and she watched the back of him until he was swallowed by the crowds of people. This is how it ends, she thought, sinking into the chair, now I move on, now I recover. It took some time, maybe twenty minutes, before she could stand up, take her boarding pass out of her bag, and walk to the security guard. As she passed through the metal detector it occurred to her that she was moving towards something she never thought she'd find in this moment… freedom.
October 23, 2007
A pinstriped suit. That's what he's wearing. He never thought he'd be the guy who wore a pinstriped suit. But here he is, on a bench by the marina, wearing just such a suit. Lately he's been thinking a lot about who he's turned into. This guy in the suit, with the desk job, and the retirement plan. He always thought he'd have a more unconventional life, an exotic and spontaneous life filled with adventure. But instead he's this guy. The guy who left work at 5:30 and got stuck in traffic on the way home and stopped to pick up tomatoes because his wife left three voicemails reminding him to do so. He mows the lawn on the weekends and gets woken up by kids' footsteps on the wood floor outside his bedroom door. He has the same problems as the guy next door, the guy down the street: his milk goes bad and the bathroom door hinges squeak and the guy who just won the election is an ass. And just now, a huge glob of bird poop landed on the sleeve of his pinstriped suit. He sighs, swears at the culprit, and rises to head back to his car. At home his wife laughs about the poop, his baby won't stop crying, and he realizes he's out of beer. But little miracles are happening too: her hand on his back as he stands over the stove stirring pasta; the weather forecast which promises the entrance of autumn; sneaking kisses in the kitchen, despite his seven-year-old's groan of disgust. Maybe he's not so bad, the guy he's turned into. The guy in the pinstriped suit.
October 4, 2007
This is what we do: we wake up to the wicked alarm, and press the snooze button a couple of times too many. Eventually we roll out of bed swearing because we can't be late today. We drag ourselves into the shower and in our rush we cut ourselves shaving. As we watch the blood run down the drain we think about this source of life which exists just beneath the surface, but doesn't show itself until something wounds us. We get out and dry off and go through the motions of getting ready. And we think about taking time to pray and read the Bible or just stop for a few minutes and listen. But we don't have time. So we run around looking for clean clothes and our metro card and when we finally think we're ready to leave we realize we've forgotten to pour our morning coffee. So we pour the entire pot into a thermos, put on our All Stars and turn on our iPods and walk out the door. This is what we do, we as Christians.
We move briskly down the sidewalk and we blow by people and let out loud, dramatic sighs when they make it difficult for us to pass. We stuff ourselves into the train car and fight to keep our balance as it lurches from the station. The ride is spent going through our mental "to do" list for the day, and when we show up at work we're already overwhelmed by the day ahead. So we spend the morning in front of our laptops, shooting off e-mails and struggling with numbers in spreadsheets. Then we warm up leftovers for lunch and eat at our desk with our tie thrown over our shoulder, and in twenty minutes we're back in the middle of the stack of papers. Someone walks into the office and breaks the monotony of the afternoon. They bring us out of ourselves and force us to face our weaknesses. We stumble through the conversation, wishing we'd just shut up but continuing to push through. And when they leave we have trouble getting back to work because things have shifted, but we eventually do because this is what we do… we as New Yorkers.
Five o'clock comes and we're not ready to go home just yet so we have a drink with a friend at the pub down the street. We sit over our beers and yell above the music and the rowdy bunch at the table next to us. And we talk about what won't stop swirling around in our heads while seeking assurance from the face across the table. We decline another round and say goodbye and almost miss the train, but slip in just as the doors are closing. Muttering apologies to those we've bumped into during our less-than-graceful entrance we shuffle to an empty spot and wish there was an open seat. This time the ride is lulling, and we close our eyes and think about crawling into bed, but know it won't happen for hours. We get off the train, craving a cigarette. We remind ourselves that we want to quit, but then we think what the hell and light one up anyway. We walk home slowly, despite our tendency to rush, rush, always rush. This is, after all, what we do.
At home the key sticks in the deadbolt and there's nothing in the fridge so we order take-out. And we sit on the sofa, watching sex and struggle on television, until we think we can fall asleep. We take our pills and brush our teeth and climb into our unmade bed, but sleep fails to find us. So we spend the next hour replaying the day, rewinding and pausing where we're compelled. And we wish we'd not joined in on the gossip in the break room and not eaten so many cookies at four o'clock. We regret saying as much as we did and wonder if we'll do better tomorrow. We know we won't, because this is what we do.
At home the key sticks in the deadbolt and there's nothing in the fridge so we order take-out. And we sit on the sofa, watching sex and struggle on television, until we think we can fall asleep. We take our pills and brush our teeth and climb into our unmade bed, but sleep fails to find us. So we spend the next hour replaying the day, rewinding and pausing where we're compelled. And we wish we'd not joined in on the gossip in the break room and not eaten so many cookies at four o'clock. We regret saying as much as we did and wonder if we'll do better tomorrow. We know we won't, because this is what we do.
So we toss and turn and stress over tomorrow, which is destined to be as disastrous as today. But the next thing we know is the fucking alarm announcing harshly that tomorrow has turned into today. We don't stay in bed, but force ourselves to our feet and vow on our way to the shower to take time to stop and pray and read the Bible this morning. This is what we do, we as humans.
September 24, 2007
Your breathing finally grows steady, and I wipe the perspiration from your forehead before I disentangle myself from you. My feet hit the cold floor and I grab a blanket from the foot of the bed. It's the one my grandmother made for you – her official "welcome to the family" gesture. Wrapping it around my goose bump covered flesh, I step into your slippers and shuffle to the sliding glass door. I press my palm against it, and the warmth of my flesh leaves fog on the glass. I can feel the cold pressing against the door, but I pull it back and step outside anyway. My chair is there, its cushions shaped to my butt, my legs, my shoulders, the back of my head as I lean it back to gaze at the stars. Seven years in New York City ensured that I'll always notice the stars. The bottom half of the world has a different sky, one I used to think would be mine. But instead I miss that sky, because I'm here, on the balcony of our flat, with your sleeping shape behind me.
These stolen hours are the only ones I have to play my forbidden game. I'm aware of the danger this affair carries, of the damage it will do to my life as it is. But it seduces me anyway, sometimes when I've finished making love to you, my other love calls to me. And I've answered him tonight. Will you ever forgive me?
It isn't that I don't love you. I do, more than I ever knew I could love anyone. And I won't leave you, not ever, but I wonder if you'll one day leave me. If one day you'll grow tired of my constant discontentment, my forever striving. I pray you don't. Even as I sit here, ready to embark on my adulterous act, I pray you'll find a way to stay with me. I want years more of us: of reading side by side on the grass on Sunday afternoons; your feet running up and down my calves when we're stretched out on the sofa; of you talking me down when I get worked up, and the way you whisper "I love you" in the darkness just before sleep captures you. I want to watch our boy grow into a man like you, with my eyes and your dad's flat feet. If you leave me, my world will crumble, just as it did when you entered it.
And that's what I mourn on these wakeful nights while you're lost to sleep – the world that crumbled when you came on the scene. At the time I jumped willingly into new life with you without a second thought. Only recently has it occurred to me that I gave up something precious on the day I said "I do". And so I jump into bed night after night with the "what ifs" of my life. We roll around together and I laugh and I cry and I close my eyes and will myself to forget that you're in the room behind me.
When it's over I sigh and shiver, cold reality has crept back into my bones. It's late and getting colder and I'm not what I was or could have been. I'm wife and mother, faithful and mostly happy. So I rise from my chair, scoot inside, drop your blanket on the floor by the bed and crawl in. I inch myself back until I feel your flesh against mine, the rise and fall of your chest against my back, your warm breath on my neck. "I love you", I whisper, as sleep captures me.
September 12, 2007
Yesterday was wrong in so many ways. Like the humidity in the air which clings to us, leaving our skin damp and sticky, the memory of a day everyone would rather forget gripped all of us who walked the streets of the city. Plus it was raining: that harsh, slashing rain which soaks the legs of your trousers and maneuvers around the shield of your umbrella with unbelievable accuracy. I tried to avoid the weather's cruel intentions by taking the train instead of walking to work, but the packed trains filled with people in sour moods were just as awful a beast to contend with. After a fifteen minute ride in a car lacking air conditioning, beads of sweat were running down my back, my hair was plastered to my forehead and neck, and the fresh feeling my morning shower endowed upon me was long gone. After denying Katie her only wish of playing on the puddled playground, our morning together was increasingly unpleasant. When I finally left after winning the daily nap struggle, the torrent I met left my shoes soaked, and each step I took developed the emerging blisters on my feet. Hobbling home that evening, I glimpsed a touch of beauty and hope in the gold and bronze leaves plastered to the sidewalk, and their scent lingering in the thick, steamy air.
Today was glorious. Autumn arrived on a Red Eye, and the city gleams as though God reached down and touched it with his finger. The sky was clear, the sun brilliant, and the breeze crisp and cool. Gone was the weighted air that blanketed yesterday; today the long walk was an enjoyable, light experience. Across the street from where I pick Katie up from school, a farmer's market frames Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. Its colors, sounds, and smells draw me in, and I'm suddenly addicted to the scene, wishing to lose myself in it. The hour at the playground made up for yesterday's disappointment, and the man with white hair who sits on a bench in the corner of the fenced in area doesn't annoy me as he usually does. My natural cynicism and pessimism always rendered him creepy and suspicious, but today it occurs to me that he's lonely. He covets the energy of the children, marinates in their laughter, and his mouth curves up at the end when a small blonde boy puts a fistful of sand down his big sister's dress. The rest of the day was clothed in the same glory, and as exhaustion overtakes me now, on the threshold of bedtime, I realize I'm grateful: Grateful for the concept of new mercies every morning, for redemption through sunshine and cold air, for the miracle of September 12th.
September 4, 2007
String together moments and you have a life – my life. Moments are sometimes dull, sometimes laden with meaning, but they cannot help but shape life. They are the molecules that pile upon each other to form my life. Lately my moments have been rich – even the seemingly insignificant moments have been anything but. Long days I drag myself into, wishing I could be anywhere else, turn out to be hiding many jewels. The heat and work and mundane movement enriched by the hope that is birthed when you see around you the kind of people you want to be. Moments of laughter are underrated – the type of laughter that leads to doubling over and falling off of furniture due to the intense ache in the depth of your stomach... the kind that makes you stumble if you're walking down the street or makes tears leak from the corners of your eyes if you're stretched out on the loveseat, legs hanging off the side. Warm days and cool nights set the stage for hours on the stoop with friends and drinks and cigarettes. On strips of carpet in the backyard, I sat and watched the faces I love telling stories over candles...
one
laborious
word
at
a
time…
Which is the way all of life should be lived and told. And this is how we said goodbye: by gathering these kinds of moments into ourselves and drinking from them, hoping that their taste lingers in our mouths after they've escaped us.
June 26, 2007
Walked through the doors, she said her name;
paid, sat down to wait - not quite long enough.
So through more doors, and now it starts;
the awkward glance and questions,
the attempts to box her in:
"just fill this out, I'll be right back
and then we'll get you back on track..."
Thus sixteen questions sealed her fate
More of the same, this time it counts
she breathes and clasps her shaking hands:
"yes, I used to, years ago",
and "no, that's not quite how it is".
And round and round the dance goes on
until at last it's named, and yet
not as what it is, but something else.
So as to - what? - she wonders to herself
But now it's settled, now dizzy, relieved
she mounts the table for a final check
which doesn't go so smoothly
because of this - they didn't expect!
Three of them listen, again and again
they place the cold metal onto her breast
and decide it'll take another test,
"You're broken", they say, though she already knew
"Come back next week, we'll tell you for sure"
she gathers her papers and pills.
And three viles later as she heads for the door
she wonders if freedom is really attained
through a drug or an expert opinion.
Instead, she suspects it just is this way:
that you do what you can to get through
without plans or anything more than the choice of today
May 16, 2007
It's Wednesday afternoon, and I'm lying on my bed, reading a book I've been engrossed in for the past couple of days. Suddenly I'm startled by the slam of my bedroom door. The wind is whipping through the open window, my curtains have been transformed into sails. I sit up and look out at the tree branches thrashing, and I know I'm going out there.
I pull on a jacket, grab my keys, my almost full pack of Turkish Silvers, and both lighters, because they've both been temperamental lately and I know the furious wind will make lighting up more difficult than usual. On my way out of the building I pass my neighbors, who are retreating from the elements. This weather is unusual for Brooklyn, but not for Muizenberg: winter in Cape Town means extravagant winds and spontaneous rain storms. I wait until I turn the corner before attempting to light a cigarette. It seems impossible, it takes forever, but I finally achieve it. Then I walk, and I don't know where I'm going but that hardly matters. I love this.
Twigs are snapping off branches and flying through the air, a set of wind chimes is going nuts, producing an appropriately chaotic soundtrack. My incredibly short eyelashes are utterly inadequate to guard my eyes from the cloud of dust hurling towards my face. I lower my head and guard my cigarette – after all that work it mustn't be allowed to blow out. As I walk it occurs to me that I will write about this, and I wonder about this oddity in myself: I often live things as though the purpose of experiencing them is to write about it. I will be in the midst of a moment when suddenly I begin to write about it, in my head, as it happens. I'm certain this isn't normal.
I turn corners and end up walking back towards home. Trash cans are being tipped over, and are rolling merrily down sidewalks. The people chasing after them look at me as though I'm insane, at the girl strolling along, smoking, not rushing, not in any sort of hurry at all. I veer to the left, so I can shuffle through a pile of green leaves which have been torn loose from their trees. I pull out a new cigarette and light it using the amber of my old one. The wind is invigorating, it reminds me of the moments before those sudden rainfalls in South Africa, the ones which strike without warning. But today there is no rainfall, only a sporadic drop here and there, and then they come fatter and faster.
Still I amble, cross the street and sit on the stoop in front of my building. In the building across the street, heads are poking out of windows – they're intrigued by this weather, by the girl sitting contently outside instead of running for cover. Three teenage boys saunter by me, casting me sidelong glances as they pass, a friend of theirs screams from one such open window across the street: "fuck you!" They answer the greeting in like fashion, their oversized t-shirts whipping in the wind. Ash dislodges from my cigarette and sweeps across my dark pants – I've just washed them. I'm waiting for the skies to break open, for the clouds to birth their harbored rain, but the drops are still falling with vast spaces between them. Who is the girl, who rushes outside to take a walk within the fierce wind, whose lives life to write about it, who sits and waits for a downpour which never comes?
I flick my cigarette butt from my fingers, and the wind carries it, skipping in great leaps across the street. I go inside, climb the stairs, unlock the door, turn on my laptop, and begin to write…
May 6, 2007
Why is our pain such a taboo subject? We shy away from others' and go to great lengths to hide our own. We deem those who seem most aware of and open with their pain weak. But aren't they actually the strong? Doesn't it take more strength to wear our pain on the outside than to keep it under wraps deep inside ourselves? It definitely takes more energy to conceal it, but it's also more cowardly, I think. And on the flip side of things, shouldn't we be more comfortable being exposed to the pain of those around us? Something about our hesitation to engage with those who are obviously hurting seems very un-Jesus to me. He didn't shy away from people's pain, in fact, he sought out those who were most burdened, those who wore their pain on the outside. But I sometimes have to fight repulsion towards those kinds of people; I find myself avoiding conversations with anyone who seem to be looking for a dumping ground for their pain. But isn't that what we can offer to the world? A dumping ground filled with grace and compassion?
September 24, 2007
Your breathing finally grows steady, and I wipe the perspiration from your forehead before I disentangle myself from you. My feet hit the cold floor and I grab a blanket from the foot of the bed. It's the one my grandmother made for you – her official "welcome to the family" gesture. Wrapping it around my goose bump covered flesh, I step into your slippers and shuffle to the sliding glass door. I press my palm against it, and the warmth of my flesh leaves fog on the glass. I can feel the cold pressing against the door, but I pull it back and step outside anyway. My chair is there, its cushions shaped to my butt, my legs, my shoulders, the back of my head as I lean it back to gaze at the stars. Seven years in New York City ensured that I'll always notice the stars. The bottom half of the world has a different sky, one I used to think would be mine. But instead I miss that sky, because I'm here, on the balcony of our flat, with your sleeping shape behind me.
These stolen hours are the only ones I have to play my forbidden game. I'm aware of the danger this affair carries, of the damage it will do to my life as it is. But it seduces me anyway, sometimes when I've finished making love to you, my other love calls to me. And I've answered him tonight. Will you ever forgive me?
It isn't that I don't love you. I do, more than I ever knew I could love anyone. And I won't leave you, not ever, but I wonder if you'll one day leave me. If one day you'll grow tired of my constant discontentment, my forever striving. I pray you don't. Even as I sit here, ready to embark on my adulterous act, I pray you'll find a way to stay with me. I want years more of us: of reading side by side on the grass on Sunday afternoons; your feet running up and down my calves when we're stretched out on the sofa; of you talking me down when I get worked up, and the way you whisper "I love you" in the darkness just before sleep captures you. I want to watch our boy grow into a man like you, with my eyes and your dad's flat feet. If you leave me, my world will crumble, just as it did when you entered it.
And that's what I mourn on these wakeful nights while you're lost to sleep – the world that crumbled when you came on the scene. At the time I jumped willingly into new life with you without a second thought. Only recently has it occurred to me that I gave up something precious on the day I said "I do". And so I jump into bed night after night with the "what ifs" of my life. We roll around together and I laugh and I cry and I close my eyes and will myself to forget that you're in the room behind me.
When it's over I sigh and shiver, cold reality has crept back into my bones. It's late and getting colder and I'm not what I was or could have been. I'm wife and mother, faithful and mostly happy. So I rise from my chair, scoot inside, drop your blanket on the floor by the bed and crawl in. I inch myself back until I feel your flesh against mine, the rise and fall of your chest against my back, your warm breath on my neck. "I love you", I whisper, as sleep captures me.
September 12, 2007
Yesterday was wrong in so many ways. Like the humidity in the air which clings to us, leaving our skin damp and sticky, the memory of a day everyone would rather forget gripped all of us who walked the streets of the city. Plus it was raining: that harsh, slashing rain which soaks the legs of your trousers and maneuvers around the shield of your umbrella with unbelievable accuracy. I tried to avoid the weather's cruel intentions by taking the train instead of walking to work, but the packed trains filled with people in sour moods were just as awful a beast to contend with. After a fifteen minute ride in a car lacking air conditioning, beads of sweat were running down my back, my hair was plastered to my forehead and neck, and the fresh feeling my morning shower endowed upon me was long gone. After denying Katie her only wish of playing on the puddled playground, our morning together was increasingly unpleasant. When I finally left after winning the daily nap struggle, the torrent I met left my shoes soaked, and each step I took developed the emerging blisters on my feet. Hobbling home that evening, I glimpsed a touch of beauty and hope in the gold and bronze leaves plastered to the sidewalk, and their scent lingering in the thick, steamy air.
Today was glorious. Autumn arrived on a Red Eye, and the city gleams as though God reached down and touched it with his finger. The sky was clear, the sun brilliant, and the breeze crisp and cool. Gone was the weighted air that blanketed yesterday; today the long walk was an enjoyable, light experience. Across the street from where I pick Katie up from school, a farmer's market frames Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. Its colors, sounds, and smells draw me in, and I'm suddenly addicted to the scene, wishing to lose myself in it. The hour at the playground made up for yesterday's disappointment, and the man with white hair who sits on a bench in the corner of the fenced in area doesn't annoy me as he usually does. My natural cynicism and pessimism always rendered him creepy and suspicious, but today it occurs to me that he's lonely. He covets the energy of the children, marinates in their laughter, and his mouth curves up at the end when a small blonde boy puts a fistful of sand down his big sister's dress. The rest of the day was clothed in the same glory, and as exhaustion overtakes me now, on the threshold of bedtime, I realize I'm grateful: Grateful for the concept of new mercies every morning, for redemption through sunshine and cold air, for the miracle of September 12th.
September 4, 2007
String together moments and you have a life – my life. Moments are sometimes dull, sometimes laden with meaning, but they cannot help but shape life. They are the molecules that pile upon each other to form my life. Lately my moments have been rich – even the seemingly insignificant moments have been anything but. Long days I drag myself into, wishing I could be anywhere else, turn out to be hiding many jewels. The heat and work and mundane movement enriched by the hope that is birthed when you see around you the kind of people you want to be. Moments of laughter are underrated – the type of laughter that leads to doubling over and falling off of furniture due to the intense ache in the depth of your stomach... the kind that makes you stumble if you're walking down the street or makes tears leak from the corners of your eyes if you're stretched out on the loveseat, legs hanging off the side. Warm days and cool nights set the stage for hours on the stoop with friends and drinks and cigarettes. On strips of carpet in the backyard, I sat and watched the faces I love telling stories over candles...
one
laborious
word
at
a
time…
Which is the way all of life should be lived and told. And this is how we said goodbye: by gathering these kinds of moments into ourselves and drinking from them, hoping that their taste lingers in our mouths after they've escaped us.
June 26, 2007
Walked through the doors, she said her name;
paid, sat down to wait - not quite long enough.
So through more doors, and now it starts;
the awkward glance and questions,
the attempts to box her in:
"just fill this out, I'll be right back
and then we'll get you back on track..."
Thus sixteen questions sealed her fate
More of the same, this time it counts
she breathes and clasps her shaking hands:
"yes, I used to, years ago",
and "no, that's not quite how it is".
And round and round the dance goes on
until at last it's named, and yet
not as what it is, but something else.
So as to - what? - she wonders to herself
But now it's settled, now dizzy, relieved
she mounts the table for a final check
which doesn't go so smoothly
because of this - they didn't expect!
Three of them listen, again and again
they place the cold metal onto her breast
and decide it'll take another test,
"You're broken", they say, though she already knew
"Come back next week, we'll tell you for sure"
she gathers her papers and pills.
And three viles later as she heads for the door
she wonders if freedom is really attained
through a drug or an expert opinion.
Instead, she suspects it just is this way:
that you do what you can to get through
without plans or anything more than the choice of today
May 16, 2007
It's Wednesday afternoon, and I'm lying on my bed, reading a book I've been engrossed in for the past couple of days. Suddenly I'm startled by the slam of my bedroom door. The wind is whipping through the open window, my curtains have been transformed into sails. I sit up and look out at the tree branches thrashing, and I know I'm going out there.
I pull on a jacket, grab my keys, my almost full pack of Turkish Silvers, and both lighters, because they've both been temperamental lately and I know the furious wind will make lighting up more difficult than usual. On my way out of the building I pass my neighbors, who are retreating from the elements. This weather is unusual for Brooklyn, but not for Muizenberg: winter in Cape Town means extravagant winds and spontaneous rain storms. I wait until I turn the corner before attempting to light a cigarette. It seems impossible, it takes forever, but I finally achieve it. Then I walk, and I don't know where I'm going but that hardly matters. I love this.
Twigs are snapping off branches and flying through the air, a set of wind chimes is going nuts, producing an appropriately chaotic soundtrack. My incredibly short eyelashes are utterly inadequate to guard my eyes from the cloud of dust hurling towards my face. I lower my head and guard my cigarette – after all that work it mustn't be allowed to blow out. As I walk it occurs to me that I will write about this, and I wonder about this oddity in myself: I often live things as though the purpose of experiencing them is to write about it. I will be in the midst of a moment when suddenly I begin to write about it, in my head, as it happens. I'm certain this isn't normal.
I turn corners and end up walking back towards home. Trash cans are being tipped over, and are rolling merrily down sidewalks. The people chasing after them look at me as though I'm insane, at the girl strolling along, smoking, not rushing, not in any sort of hurry at all. I veer to the left, so I can shuffle through a pile of green leaves which have been torn loose from their trees. I pull out a new cigarette and light it using the amber of my old one. The wind is invigorating, it reminds me of the moments before those sudden rainfalls in South Africa, the ones which strike without warning. But today there is no rainfall, only a sporadic drop here and there, and then they come fatter and faster.
Still I amble, cross the street and sit on the stoop in front of my building. In the building across the street, heads are poking out of windows – they're intrigued by this weather, by the girl sitting contently outside instead of running for cover. Three teenage boys saunter by me, casting me sidelong glances as they pass, a friend of theirs screams from one such open window across the street: "fuck you!" They answer the greeting in like fashion, their oversized t-shirts whipping in the wind. Ash dislodges from my cigarette and sweeps across my dark pants – I've just washed them. I'm waiting for the skies to break open, for the clouds to birth their harbored rain, but the drops are still falling with vast spaces between them. Who is the girl, who rushes outside to take a walk within the fierce wind, whose lives life to write about it, who sits and waits for a downpour which never comes?
I flick my cigarette butt from my fingers, and the wind carries it, skipping in great leaps across the street. I go inside, climb the stairs, unlock the door, turn on my laptop, and begin to write…
May 6, 2007
Why is our pain such a taboo subject? We shy away from others' and go to great lengths to hide our own. We deem those who seem most aware of and open with their pain weak. But aren't they actually the strong? Doesn't it take more strength to wear our pain on the outside than to keep it under wraps deep inside ourselves? It definitely takes more energy to conceal it, but it's also more cowardly, I think. And on the flip side of things, shouldn't we be more comfortable being exposed to the pain of those around us? Something about our hesitation to engage with those who are obviously hurting seems very un-Jesus to me. He didn't shy away from people's pain, in fact, he sought out those who were most burdened, those who wore their pain on the outside. But I sometimes have to fight repulsion towards those kinds of people; I find myself avoiding conversations with anyone who seem to be looking for a dumping ground for their pain. But isn't that what we can offer to the world? A dumping ground filled with grace and compassion?
Some of the most poignant moments in my life have risen from honest confessions of pain. There is power in those words which are so hard to speak, and sometimes equally hard to hear. For what greater purpose could community exist but to allow us to share the burden of our pain? If we communicated about our pain more regularly, I think our understanding of and grace for one another would be far more abundant. Perhaps part of the problem is that we don't admit our own pain to ourselves. Once someone who loved me very much asked me what most hurt me in relationships - and I couldn't even answer, because I didn't know. What if more conversations began with questions about the pain hidden in our hearts? Would we be more burdened, or more free? Would we resent or understand one another more?
I want to spend my life helping to carry the burden of people's pain in South Africa. And I can't very well expect to be prepared to do that unless I can make a habit of it here and now - I want to become the kind of person God uses to absorb others' pain. Not to fix their brokenness or heal their wounds - because of course I can't - but for the sake of living the way Jesus did: honestly and in community; facing the pain within those around us, and being willing to share our own with those who love us.
April 29, 2007
Many times I open up my journal, or a word document, and don't end up writing anything in it. I struggle, mutter, and try out a few staggering sentences, but I erase them. I hold down the backspace button until everything I created vanishes. I never highlight the text and press delete, that's too sudden a death even for my pathetic attempt. I instead prefer to watch as each letter disappears. This happens to me often, but it's an entirely different thing to never even open up the journal, or the word document - to choose not to even give my thoughts the chance to become something. It means I'm scared to see them transformed into words - scared to face their possible meaning, for thoughts often take on unexpected meaning once they're written down. I don't know why I've failed to open up the word document so many nights lately, or why tonight the need was stronger than the fear.
Salinger says that "the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid. I appreciate this distinction, but I think he's got it backwards. Christ offers us joy, not happiness - that is the solid, the constant. happiness is fleeting, it's based on circumstances which fail us constantly. It is okay to not be happy, but to lose joy - this is the tragedy. Joy is the rest I find in knowing that the details of each moment of my life are held in the hands of my God. It is the ability to worship with abandon despite my struggle. It is the reason I force myself to get out of bed in the mornings when I can't find any other reason. This is joy despite unhappiness.
Our world today is so concerned with keeping us happy. We market everything to people who are striving for happiness. But when happiness is beyond their grasp, as it inevitable becomes, they have no reason to go on. I'll tell my kids it's okay to be sad, to hurt and doubt and want to stay in bed some mornings. What I'll pray for them instead is true joy. This is what God promises us, not circumstantial happiness.
So what is it, to medicate our unhappiness? In so many ways we do it: from addictions to escapes to superficial pleasure-seeking... we are constantly attempting to avoid the painful reality of unhappiness. Is it sin? Is it survival? These are questions I ask and answer for myself over and over again, in different ways, because I need to understand why I need what I need to thrive in a world where unhappiness is inevitable.
April 10, 2007
you
awaken the force within
which sleeps save your prodding
then stirs with discontent.
your words, your gaze disturb
its dormant state and
shake from it the haze
which settles 'round like dust
and then I hate and crave you.
You
seduce my weary heart again
and again draw from the dust
the voice which grows more dim.
your breath alone calls forth
the hidden cry commanding it to live
until it drives me to my face
where I stay and hate and crave You.
April 4, 2007
In his book "The Sacred Romance", John Eldredge says: "We grow so used to living in a world soiled by the Fall that our soul's desire for beauty lies dormant deep within, waiting for something to awaken it."
When I think about our world as it truly is – a tainted, cheap imitation of what it was created to be – I marvel at how willingly we've bought into it as the real thing. For most of us, most of the time, this world is our entire reality. We go weeks, months, maybe years at a time without thinking about the fact that it's actually a pathetic, dull reflection of the glorious one we were made for. And I think that's a mistake.
The problem with thinking that this is all there is, that it's the ultimate reality, is that it will surely drive us to settle. We'll forget to desire more, to pray for more, to expect more from our God who longs to show off. We often complain about how we don't see God in our lives, but what if that's because we've failed to truly look for him? I think we've sedated our hearts with drugs like busyness and obligation.
I can't even imagine how God intended our world to operate before that infamous bite of fruit was taken. But what about before the Fall? What about after God's Kingdom finally comes to earth? When we're perfect… what will our world look like? And why don't I spend more time imagining it?
I think because it breeds discontentment. The idea of what should be makes what is seem terribly unsatisfying. However, despite my best attempts at sedation, I find myself admitting that any semblance of contentment I had is currently being threatened. My soul, instead of being left in its usual half-ass state of existence, is being shoved around a little. Something has reached in, poking and prodding, slowly prompting it to rise from its state of dormancy. It's not quite the awakening Eldredge speaks of... or is it?
It's really uncomfortable, and leaves me really vulnerable – I find myself doing and saying things I never would otherwise. But it strikes me that this awkward, hopeful place I find myself in is something like the space within a minor chord. Minor chords sound a little off, they throw a song into suspension and you hold your breath briefly, waiting… to see where the whole thing is headed. Finally comes the next chord, the one which brings completion, which solidifies the direction of the song and causes you to let out your breath in a rush. Relief.
The trick is, though, that the last chord wouldn't be as satisfying without the awkward, not-quite-right minor chord preceding it.
And that's how it is with this soul-prodding. I'm holding my breath and I feel suspended, floating around not knowing where I'm going, completely vulnerable to every fleeting wind. Just waiting… waiting and hoping for the completion to come. And I'm trusting that just like in music, it will be sweeter for the minor chord before it.
March 30, 2007
I got home early tonight, before the sun sank below the building across the street, and my apartment was filled with the glorious evening sunlight streaming in from my bedroom window. I flopped down on my unmade bed and marveled at the crisp cool sheets despite the warmth of the sunlight. This is quite possibly the most perfect weather. It was like this most days in Muizenberg: some perfect combination of blazing sunlight and chilling wind. I finally peeled myself off the bed, and considered what to do with the several hours of solitude ahead of me. It's such a rare treasure these days: time to breathe without immediate pressure to whittle away at the collection of "to do" lists on different colored notepads which I've dispersed around the apartment. Must I live this way?
I tackled the enormous pile of dishes, less out of obligation than out of the desire to take on a task which would allow me to see the immediate results of my effort. Lately I've been sowing seeds of sweat and time and effort into projects which offer me no visible harvest. So I put my iPod on shuffle mode and spent an hour in bubbles up to my elbows.
And then I grabbed the Oreos, poured a huge glass of milk and sat down to write. Because I think I'm a writer, apparently. Well maybe I am! Maybe Oreos and milk is my method, maybe I can drop out of school like Anne Lamott and live the life of a starving, striving artist. Somehow that sounds more appealing than my current starving and striving existence as a student. No, seriously, who am I kidding? I'm just a girl who ought to be writing the 1500 word paper that's due Monday, but instead began a short story she's been playing with in her mind for months.
I've been thinking about the big picture of life, because I tend to get caught up in the less important small story that is my world. (I think writers tend to be more narcissistic than most people, so at least I fit the profile.) But the big picture is a love story, between God and us. The best illustration of this for me is what's recorded in the Old Testament of Yahweh's love affair with the adulterous nation of Israel. They choose other gods over him time and time and time again and he becomes angry and distraught but his love is stronger than it all and so he figures out how to move heaven and earth to win them back to him. To win us back to him. This is the story, a lover so overcome by his passion for his beloved that he pursues her even though she constantly runs from him into the arms of his enemy.
Simon Tugwell says, "He has followed us into our own darkness; there where we thought finally to escape him, we run straight into his arms." When I think about the darkness I've dragged God into, and the faithfulness he's showed me in the midst of it, I crumble. And the best part of it is that he responds to the whispers of my soul which dwell beneath the level I exist at every day. Like a true lover, he refuses to be satisfied with any version of me which is not the deepest, fullest, most entire version. When all my attempts to feed the longings of my soul fail, and I'm sinking towards resignation, he alone can breathe new life into those depths.
When I can no more stir my soul to move,
And life is but the ashes of a fire;
When I can but remember that my heart
Once used to live and love, long and aspire –
Oh, be thou then the first, the one thou art;
Be thou the calling, before all answering love,
And in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire
- George MacDonald "Diary of an Old Soul"
And life is but the ashes of a fire;
When I can but remember that my heart
Once used to live and love, long and aspire –
Oh, be thou then the first, the one thou art;
Be thou the calling, before all answering love,
And in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire
- George MacDonald "Diary of an Old Soul"
March 19, 2006
I feel the need to vanish excuse me while I disappear
I need to shut out all the noise so I can hear
you speak to me
for all it's virtues, the vice of Manhattan's lights and constant chaos drives me to this place of desperation
here I am
longing for your voice to make its way through all the clang and clatter of this life I've chosen
here I am
with squinted eyes and straining ears
waiting just to hear those words which change me every time you whisper them
I don't want to make you shout and yet this world is screaming at me
how the truth so easily alludes my grasp when I am in the midst of everything my eyes take in
this crazy cycle that I'm stuck in makes me wish for days long gone
when all I had was time and space and sky and waves to search for you in
now it's searching for a moment here or there to glimpse your face
here I am
trying to catch up in this crowded race
find me still, I beg of you, pluck me from this surging crowd
steal me away and hide me from the glitter and the sound
whisper in my ear the words I want to hear again
search my heart and show me what it is I'm hurting myself with
change me, Father, with your words, with a pause in your embrace
I know there's nothing for me but the love found on your face
here I am
stopping still amidst the traffic all around
here I am
surrendered to you, find me here, take me up, let me dwell in you for now
I feel the need to vanish excuse me while I disappear
I need to shut out all the noise so I can hear
you speak to me
for all it's virtues, the vice of Manhattan's lights and constant chaos drives me to this place of desperation
here I am
longing for your voice to make its way through all the clang and clatter of this life I've chosen
here I am
with squinted eyes and straining ears
waiting just to hear those words which change me every time you whisper them
I don't want to make you shout and yet this world is screaming at me
how the truth so easily alludes my grasp when I am in the midst of everything my eyes take in
this crazy cycle that I'm stuck in makes me wish for days long gone
when all I had was time and space and sky and waves to search for you in
now it's searching for a moment here or there to glimpse your face
here I am
trying to catch up in this crowded race
find me still, I beg of you, pluck me from this surging crowd
steal me away and hide me from the glitter and the sound
whisper in my ear the words I want to hear again
search my heart and show me what it is I'm hurting myself with
change me, Father, with your words, with a pause in your embrace
I know there's nothing for me but the love found on your face
here I am
stopping still amidst the traffic all around
here I am
surrendered to you, find me here, take me up, let me dwell in you for now
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