August 7, 2012 § 2 Comments
I have told no one but you that I’m publishing this thing. How’s my conscience? I fear the judgement of someone who thinks Herself should be old history, and I suspect everyone to be that person, because I’m in denial of having already made that judgement of myself. It’s a fair one–if you believe I’m not over her. You’re smarter than I am. I saw her and got a face of denial pie: Nothing Ive been telling myself since she left rings true. But why do I deny this truth? Do I have to be ashamed of forgiving myself and trying to apologize to her? There’s an irony at work that I’m ill-equipped to untangle. There’s the hope that she at least no longer thinks badly of me, but that becomes the hope of getting another chance; there’s the thought of her forgiving me, but then there’s the dread of being forgotten; there’s knowing what I want and knowing the impossibility of getting it: The proportions are volatile; I couldn’t possibly equate them better. All I really know is that the product, confusion, is fuel to the writing machine.
August 3, 2012 § 3 Comments
As long as I can’t live with myself, I will be lonely. My own company is more than tolerable, but impatience craves others, to either fill that gap between me or mask it like a tiger trap. The craving demands more effort than I am willing to put out for it. Or I’d rather just hang out with myself. I wouldn’t mind you coming over, but it will take an invitation to get me out. I have more fun in my own habitat. Lonely is not something I have to be anymore than unhappy. Easily said. Who doesn’t know that? Knowing is worth very little to the heart. The dumbest thing I did was to think when I was in love. Nothing could have confused me more thoroughly. I didn’t trust thought, but I had no instinct in love, so I couldn’t trust that, either. I don’t doubt that I was in love, though I’d never known love, but it was motivated by loneliness. I wanted to be not-alone before I wanted love. As long as I don’t love myself I’ll be looking for soemone to do it for me. It might as well be me.
March 20, 2012 § Leave a comment
The flowers were to apologize for the email. It was a desperate impulse to which I gave no pause or distraction. The words on the tri-folded, stapled sheet of copier paper with my name handwritten on it revealed how little we understood each other, but Herself got this right: I’d written a “bitter, mean-spirited” email. More words were not going to fix this. I needed a gesture. Flowers would not undo anything, but I had hopes that they would begin a calm dialogue toward reconciliation. She told me otherwise with a face nearly as mean as any words I’d written about her–a haughty chill laughing down at me. The yellow bouquet stood above and behind her shoulder on a raised counter, looking more a prisoner than an ambassador of hope. She appeared to be mocking me. I was confused. I remained confused, then I became angry. She had not read the card or taken the flowers to her desk. Beyond that mocking glare, she did not acknowledge the flowers to me. From confused to angry took less than two hours, when I snatched up the bouquet and stuffed it in the nearest waste basket. I wish now I had made a bigger gesture of it. The screensaver was not the compensation I had hoped for.