you say i’m falling behind
The flattery keeps coming, the litany of misdeeds, it’s an avalanche of bows and arrows, she’s a lonely greying monolith with no skin left to sting. There’s ways to pass the time, sentinel standing. This isn’t the only way. Here, the country isn’t so far as one might imagine, and there are mulberry stained fingers and honey icecream. Mulberrys taunt and plump like the feel of the pad of his thumb, both tart and sweet on her tongue, like after. As she reaches up to pick from the higher branches, bare feet and legs, the overripe plop with the shake of the branches and some split open against her skin. Rich purple juices stain her fingers, run little rivulets down her hands, her forearms, her legs blotchy, a smear on her collarbone, across her right cheek where she wiped the hair out of her eyes. The overripe. There are ways of being and alone she is never really without him, never really single, never really untouched, never really unmarked, never, really. She’d have you believe otherwise. She would. She really would.
not taking part
What I miss most is having someone to lean on. That bulk, that solid, at my back. Sometimes, I look at you, and I know, that even now, so undone, I could stand before you and yell the words and you would listen understand. I know that, even now, so much gone wrong, I would still land soft. Because you wouldn’t let it hurt. There’s so much bruising and it doesn’t fade. The purples and the greens and the thumb prints around the battered intrinsic, the centre. I do not speak to you because I could forgive you anything and while you protect me from everythingone else it is my job to protect me from you. When you see someone clearly, and the insides are visible and meaningful and beautiful and too near, everything is understood. I would forgive you anything. And in another time, before, or maybe in days to come, I wouldwillcould have wrecked myself on you. Because that is what I believed. That love takes in all and withstands all and stands and stands and stands. But I don’t have the will for that, for you, for how you would batter me broken. I used to think, I used to believe, that that is what love does, what it offers, what it leaves. And maybe I still do. It makes me sad that I do not have the strength, the solid, the stomach for it anymore. It makes me sad. It makes me sad. It makes me sad that maybe it will never be as full, as complete, as close again. It makes me sad that I am unwanting. It makes me sad to see you nearby. It makes me sad to see you sad. It makes me sad to see your stupid questions and hear my mute response. The hardest part is knowing how I feel and pretending I don’t. The hardest part is closing myself to you. The hardest part is not speaking to the only person I want to tell.
not at all usual and frankly uncomfortable
So, I just ate breakfast (considering I haven’t actually slept yet, it could also be considered a late night snack, depends on how you look at it really) which was toast (one piece of bread toasted) with jam and cheese and a cup of tea (gone cold, I always forget the tea) and while I was doing that I thumbed through the brand new 2010 rain soaked Ikea catalogue that was delivered either some time this morning or at some point over the weekend. I really don’t know which, and, the when in this case (as is so often the case) is quite irrelevant. I like Ikea. Or, rather, I am not pretentious enough to not like Ikea. I know the arguments, mass produced, poorly made, no originality, Fight Club, Ed Norton, Brad Pitt, Helena Bonham Carter- Burton (or whatever it is she goes by) but here’s the thing – so what? I like that it is affordable. I like the fact that you could peak inside a bedroom anywhere in the world and find the exact same furniture. I like that when I lived overseas (long time readers know just the disaster of which I speak) I could walk around Ikea and pretend that I wasn’t on the otherside of the globe. I liked that when everything else seemed foreign and unfriendly, the blue, yellow and oooh textiles(!) gave me that oh so comforting feeling of familiarity. And I like that I could have the same bed as 50,000,000 other people on the planet. Because even if I do, we will all sleep differently the same in that bed, with different the same people, we will dream the same different dreams and we will fuck in the same different positions and we will cry ourselves to sleep for the same different number of times and we will change the sheets the same different number of times, and for me, you know just my own subjective self, there is something very common and very shared and very human in that. I guess I could have just said that even if 50,000,000 people have the same bed they would all style it differently, but that wouldn’t be very like me. Not wordy and emotive and all. Now I’m not saying that my house is all Ikea-ed out or anything, I like to think that my living space is as eclectic as my personality, as me. There’s vintage bits and pieces (second-hand stink stuff, as my flat-mate calls it) and there’s furniture from Ikea, like my bed, and there is stuff I picked up from the different places I visited. I quite like looking at my blue and white Turkish ceramic tiles and remembering how I carried them in my lap for 17 hours on the bus from Istanbul to Athens. I like looking at my generic Ikea bed and the piece of fabric that doubles as a throw that I “borrowed” from a friend’s country house in a village in the Peloponesse. I like these contrasts, these conflicts, these dichotomies. I also quite like the horse shaped cake tins (page 132) and the Alvine Gava cushion cover on page 177 and !bargain! motherfuckers it’s only $9.95!
So, I went on that date on Thursday and the floor didn’t slip away from under me and I didn’t fall in love, bells didn’t ring, the earth didn’t move (remember Martika?) my heart didn’t beat out of my chest, I didn’t cry, vomit, make unnecessary comparisons or even think about certain other people. (Well that’s a lie but it makes me feel better about myself so why not self-delude, that’s what I say.) It was pleasant. He was pleasant. It wasn’t good, and it wasn’t bad and the conversation came relatively easily. I’ve learnt, that if you let people talk about themselves they will. It was all very pleasantly non-descript, as he himself was, except for the point in the evening where I tuned back in and realised that he was telling me about the forth-coming ice-age, the sustainability of living underground for around 1,000 years because that’s how long ice-ages last for, and the repercussions of all this ice business on music (apparently it will begin again – whatever the fuck that means). I nodded my way through for that twenty minutes of the conversation, slowly sipping my drink and hoping that my eyes weren’t wide open in that blow up doll come fuck me kind of way and more in the are you fucking serious dude? kind of way. On the upside he did jump up at one point and do a rather entertaining Fergie my lady lumps impersonation, though his knowledge of the lyrics was rather disconcerting. We don’t really have a dating culture here in Australia and I think I quite like that we don’t. I think I prefer the (it feels to me more) organic, getting to know you process of meeting someone at work or through friends and wondering oooh does he like me, are we just friends, what does this all mean, until he kisses you or you kiss him and bang you’re a couple and here’s the wedding invites, no actual decision to be together, how the fuck did I end up with this person, let’s never move past highschool, way we roll here. I am exceedingly uncomfortable with having to assess whether I want to “date” this person again and how to communicate my complete, entire, not a shred of chemistry, feelings. And that’s the thing. It was pleasant and non-descript because there was not one tiny itty bitty stinking bit of chemistry as far as I was concerned. Cal me shallow but I can overlook the upcoming ice age (maybe) if the thought of kissing you doesn’t make me want to hurl myself out of the car action movie stunt double style.
In other news, Saturday was fucked up y’all. That thing, that nothing thing, with that there’s so much chemistry I’m wet when he looks at me man, le sigh. I told him. But not in a looking up at him with my big brown eyes, faint blush on my delicate cheeks kinda way. Oh no, in a middle of an argument, yelling, I can’t believe you just lied to me, I’m in love with you, do not ever speak to me again, kind of way. Is there any other? If I was blogging in my usual style I would tell you all about it, all raw and sad like, but you know, I’m trying something new here. Less raw, less, sad, not so much emo as asshole.
That’s the thing really. Someone said to me recently, that they quite like the dichotomy of how I write here, and how I speak, outside of here, in the world, in life. And, I started thinking about that and the why’s and how’s of my raw. sad. This is not an online journal. I don’t talk about what I ate and what I did and how many motherfucker customers I served. I don’t try to be funny and I do not care about having a huge number of readers. I’m not all literary and I don’t post pictures. I’m not that kind of blogger. What I do here is sometimes write stories, stories that always come from somewhere I’ve been. But mostly, I write away my sad. My raw sad. I come here to sink down into it, (over)indulge it if I need to, understand it and ultimately write it away. And it’s not just my sad, it’s my emotional life. This here is the graph, the transcript, the insides. And I am uncomfortable sometimes because I think, as I’ve said before, that I seem sadder than what I am, but like my first-crush blogger once said (and she, unlike me, is really funny so you should check her out) happiness writes white. And I am deeply grateful to the people, the lovely, kind people that write me kind, and supportive comments and make me feel more human and less alone. So, thank you, and thank you, and Heather, this one’s for you.
don’t deny me i’m so [alone]
I do not think that I have ‘love’ in me anymore. I think, some damage is permanent and irrevocable and unfixable and unloveable. I think that the last person I loved is the last person that I will love. At least in any known to them context. What I didn’t mention in my last post, what I overlook, and forget and disregard and push away and hide from is that I, I told him, from the very start, from the moment his lips brushed mine, immediately after, this is just sex. This is not a relationship. It won’t be. I don’t want to be with you. I said that, and I’ve said it again and I’ve made my want smaller than it is. And now, now at work, I watch, and he is a beautiful man, and I watch women, girls, women, touch him and smile up at him and tease smiles back from him and I watch while they walk away from whatever they have said together and they are radiant as they giggle with their friends, while they watch him and smile hoping to be noticed. I see them tilt their heads while he speaks to them. I admire the ones that are smart enough to never reach up on tiptoe to be heard. The ones that make him bend down and lean in to them. And I watch and I watch and I watch. And, sometimes, like tonight, when we are once again going through the cycle of I ignore you, you ignore me, we are less than strangers, before we meet again in electricity, when we are stuck between smiles that do not make it to our eyes and walking in opposite directions, these nights, I walk away and I am hurting. And I come home, and I lie in bed and I don’t sleep and I wonder what I am doing and I replay those moments over and over in my head and I cry. I cry because I do not, cannot articulate, what it is about this man that has me so invested. I do not know, cannot articulate what it is about him that I am so attracted to. Except to say everything about him. His story, his face, his smile, the way he looked at me in between kissing me, his understanding of me. There’s this thing, this undefinable, can’t put into words, closeness, or understanding, or belonging, or tight that we share. And as much as I loved the man I was with, the one who broke my heart, I can freely and honestly say that I never wanted him like I want this man. I felt nothing for him in comparison to what I feel for this man. And that in itself makes me grateful to be here and alone.
It would be simple to tell him. I have so many words. Sometimes I want to tell him, with no expectation, just so that I do not have to carry the burden of these feelings by myself, anymore. But I worry that he already knows. That it is written all over my face every time I see him infront of me, behind me, to the side of me. He comes into the bar, and my heart, my heart leaps in it’s small space, and he walks over to me, his eyes on me and I do not even have to look to see. Sometimes he is angry and I can feel his scowl on my skin. Sometimes, rarely, he doesnt hold me cold in his eyes. And I feel his smile on my skin. But always, no matter what stage we are at in our cycle of ignore / need, he steps up close to me, presses himself against my back, and smells my hair. Always. And I tremble for the strength at my back and I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to have that always, at my back. When he does this, I do not look at him. I can’t. I’m too afraid of what my face says, will say. I’m too afraid. I’m too afraid to tell him. I’m afraid of his yes and, equally afraid, of his no.
I have this date tomorrow. And it is making me anxious. I do not want to go. I am afraid that this man cannot compare, will not compare, and that is so very unfair. I’m afraid that I am lonely, and I am sore inside and I will be with this man because he is not this other man. And that is so very unfair. I am afraid that I will like him but not enough. I am afraid that I will not like him at all. There is too much fear and I’ve been like this for too long now.
the rain fights the sun but that outcome, at least, is already known
It is easy to want for longtimes. Short wants and quick wants and hard wants. It is harder, in these days when the rain fights the sun to see you want me too.
..
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,
This is how it goes. I present to you these facts. Without favour, without prejudice. Without expectation.
I met him when I first came home. Only a couple of days. You will remember that I was not whole, present or accounted for at that time. When he took my hand and pressed it into his, somehow, just like in the movies, birds sang, the sun shone, the earth moved, bells rang, time stopped. I exaggerate, but a thought did slow down, in my head, buzzing, ‘this is why you are home, this is why it happened, him‘. I had no feeling left but the thought stayed. There was a moment across the kitchen table, our parents, moving away slowly, when I smiled. It had been precisely 26 days since the last time. We were sharing our stories, of hurt and endings and lies, and as he moved papers along the table I saw his hands shake. I thought ‘you are like me‘. He was the first stranger I told. I didn’t feel attracted to him at the time. My body had died. But I remember him tugging his t-shirt away from his body and his eyes sneaking at me, and I thought, without thinking, in another time his body will whisper to mine. That night he gave me a job and a tiny anchor back.
We slept together. Twice. And I don’t need to tell you about it, about how we drowned in it, or about holding his hand after he tried to hurt himself, I don’t need to tell you about how we protect one another, in our own ways, me with my sweated over paper and him with his eyes and his big as love hands. All this has been told and documented in other places. What I have to tell you, what I have hinted at, is that he is not single, he is not free, he has a girlfriend. I could tell you about their relationship, his complicated circumstances, about the age difference, about her, what he has said, what she has said, but to what end? It is simple. He is not one. And I, I am. I refuse to do to her, to him, to me, what was done to me. Again. So I don’t, we don’t. But the pull, the push, the floating invisible binding strings between us. We do not talk. Occasionally we brush up against one another, in the course of the never-ending nights and it burns. When he is in trouble, when I am, each other is the net, the safety, the question and the answer. There are no pleasantries. There is only ‘help me’ and there is only help given. He asks no questions, and he denies me nothing. He is always, unequivocally, there for me. Even when it is my fault. And this, this means that there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him, nothing he could ask that I would deny. I haven’t been writing here, because I write to him. Pages and pages of words of me, letters he will never read. I want to tell him things. My things, about my day. I am meeting a man on Thursday, a date, he is tall and blonde and blue eyed, and he sings to me, and I do not want to go because I feel like I am cheating, myself, him, everyone. I already know who I want to take me home. Somewhere in the last past time, he is all that there is left for me to want. And so I wait, and I hope, and sometimes I ignore him, and sometimes I don’t and always I know when he is in the room and always I see his composure, his stillness, falter just a little when his eyes catch mine. I tell myself that my dirty little heart can’t help but want what it wants and it wants to kiss him and hold him and soothe and laugh and cry and touch and listen and remember and fuck away his hurts (and mine). I want to make him happy. In him I feel like I could make my home, share my lasts, my truths, and finally, stop. I tell myself at the end of each nothing day that I believe in this tight that we share, it’s been too long and too constant and too deep, but the truth is that I am tired of wanting, even of the wanting itself and I do not know if we will ever be more than this longing. It is hard to want in these days when the rain fights the sun when I see him wanting me too.
I think, perhaps, it’s time to somehow, stop.
