Wonder How I Get Along

I was sitting on a rock at the beach yesterday, trying to quiet my mind so I could ruminate on all the things that have been happening lately…

(goodbye to you my trusted friend)

…there's been a disturbance in the force somewhat, and I need to make some decisions about where my heart and my head…

(we've known each other since we're nine or ten)

…are at, where my finances are going…

(together we've climbed hills and trees, learned of love and ABCs)

…wtf??…

(skinned our hearts and skinned our knees)

…and what I'm going to do when winter comes and business slows…

(WE HAD JOY!)

…and I need to pay…

(WE HAD FUN!)

…shut up!! I'm trying to think!

(we had seasons in the sun)

…really? Who invited Terry Jacks to this meditation? I need to concentrate…

(butthehillsthatweclimbedwerejustseasonsoutoftime)

*****

This went on for at least 15 minutes, a battle waged between my need for the sound of the waves to lull me into peace, and the ear-worm's need to loop an AM classic through my brain at top volume, complete with the smell of baking vinyl from my mom's Ford Gran Torino wagon. I tried all the suggested remedies: singing the song through to completion, trying to sing something else, thinking of baseball (oh, wait, that's for something else…), nothing worked. Eventually I just gave in to it and hummed along. I guess obsessive moments, or behaviors, even unintended ones like broadcasting bad songs, are ways of isolating ourselves and turning away from pain. Distractions from uncomfortable realities. I need a distraction right now.

I believed, with the end of my marriage, that I had reached and conquered the final frontier of heartache. That I had turned over my fear of rejection. No more false bravado, but true comfort in my position; no more Saturday nights intoning fake profundities about how I've grown and changed, but acceptance of the single salvation of loving and appreciating myself despite my flaws. I felt that I was ready to be alone, or to be smooth and noncommittal about any sort of future relationships.

(go ahead. laugh. point and jeer. noncommittal? Is she HIGH?)

Evidently.

I can't seem to get it right. Why is it that solitary men have such a heroic patina, while women, despite their best intentions to remain ambivalent, just radiate neediness? I try to be aloof, and I feel lonely. I try to be spontaneous, and I miss the boat. I try to be organized and prepared, and I get dismissed for planning too far ahead. I'm starting to have the (mutinous) thought that it can all just go to hell. I Yam What I Yam, right?

Still hurts.

Ouch.

Chatter

All sorts of thoughts in my head, but due to NO HEAT IN MY HOUSE all efforts to post are stymied by frozen fingers. Must buy fingerless gloves.

Then again…

they do say a picture is worth a thousand words.

October 2008

In Denis Johnson’s story Beverly Home there's a description of a man in a wheelchair; his body is wracked with spasms and he spends his days drooling and staring into space. The narrator tells us “No more pretending for him! He was completely and openly a mess. Meanwhile the rest of us go on trying to fool each other."

I've been hesitant to write much of anything in this blog for a number of reasons. Initially it was simply because there was not much to tell; I preferred the occasional photographic or musical allegory to get my point across. Then I wasn't writing because I was just too busy; school, work, etc. Lately it's been a bit more complicated. Writing has always been an outlet for my frustrations, a way to look my neuroses and my befuddlement in the face and somehow try to make sense of them. Last fall, when everything was falling apart, writing in this blog was one of the only things I could actually manage on a fairly regular basis. Eating, sleeping, returning phone calls – they became the stuff of other people's lives. I only wanted to see the evidence of my misery here on the blank screen. Narcissism at its most base level. In the end, though, my musings here became evidence cited against me. Evidence that I was unstable, scheming, manipulative, unable to care for myself or my child, unable to face reality. Matt often cited "that thing you wrote in your blog" as rationale for why I was a complete misfit. Another friend with strong feelings about being "revealed" in my writing or somehow linked with me kept a constant subconscious watch over the detail with which I was allowed to describe what my life was like. My family worried if I mentioned that I was sad or lonely, and I would get phone calls from everyone wondering if I was on the bathroom floor again, contemplating my options. Writing for myself started to take on the sad aspect of writing for an audience, and it was no longer helpful.

I tried to journal offline, but pen and paper and I have never really been good friends; I'm far more comfortable in front of the computer where the sound of the keyboard and the glow of the screen give me a sense of accomplishment.

So.

Friends, family, people who might be looking for hidden meanings: I want to write here again. I want to try to work out some of the things about being me that make it difficult to get through the day sometimes. I want to comment on the things that make me smile. I want to examine some of the things that are wrong with me. Not to mention, you know, everything *wrong* with me. I don't want blogging to be the latest entry in the ever-expanding nomenclature of victimhood.

Completely and openly.

Is that possible?

Wishful Thinking

I just took an unexpected nap on the couch; it's been a puzzling day and clearly my brain needed a break. While I slept, I dreamed that I wrote this song. And then sang it to the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge.

	Maria Taylor - Clean Getaway
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

I made my place by the door.
I didn't know what I was waiting for.
Felt just like home.
Except no grass, no yard, no pictures.

I could see across to the park.
And there were friends, they were laughing hard.
They looked just like my home.
With no face, no name, no voice I'd know.

I finally made it.
I made a clean getaway.
I finally made it.
I made a clean getaway.

I met someone at the bar.
He had a great smile and a great heart.
He felt just like love.
Except no fear of losing, and it wasn't tough.

I finally made it.
I made a clean getaway.
I finally made it.
I made a clean getaway.
And I miss you,
I miss you every single day.

Come Pick Me Up

Lisa's rules for October:

Never get involved with people who are not on speaking terms with their own desires.

When feelings have become second nature, they cannot, by any force of logic, be cured.

No matter how I focus on the ne plus ultra of precious minutes when someone comes close to me and tells me that I'm beautiful, it has terrible impermanence.

It is never very persuasive to argue that you are not the sort of person who does precisely what you are actually doing.

You can stand at the window all you want, FedEx only comes when you're in the bathroom.

I am an expert splinter-remover.

I can only feel the sad pleasure of falling because I am at the right altitude.