Sunday, March 22, 2009
Once more, with feeling
PER·SEV·ER·ATE (pər sev'ə rât'), V.I., –at·ed, –at·ing. 1. to repeat a word, gesture, or act insistently or redundantly 2. to obsess over a particular word or phrase, often in an attempt to come to terms with it; see "cervix" and "heart" 3. again, obsessing, this time in an attempt to convince yourself that things will be okay 4. and, finally, obsessing because you realize they probably won't and talking about it doesn't seem to help —per·sev'er·tion, N.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Noted. And recorded.
I mentioned it here.
Now, for the actual quote:
He made me think of home—perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.
Pretty close.
Ten points for me.
Now, for the actual quote:
He made me think of home—perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.
Pretty close.
Ten points for me.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Long Story Short
And then it happens, despite your best intentions to the contrary.
Or, at least that's true for me.
It was mid-September, already feeling like fall, and my plans had changed suddenly—I was going home for a funeral. Nevermind that I hadn't spoken to the deceased in more than ten years; she had been important to me at one point in my life, and I needed to be there.
There was a man, N., in the picture at the time. He had stolen into my apartment in the middle of the night. I knew he was coming, but it stirred me from my sleep all the same. Then the next day, he was leaving the city in much the same way that he had arrived in my apartment the night before—meaning that he had been making murmurings, it was nothing unexpected. Yet suddenly they sounded serious, suddenly there was a time frame.
I didn't realize that I cared until it seemed to be too late.
I tend to disassociate from my emotions, or so I've been told. But, not on the day of the funeral. Instead, I was near tears. It was a number of things, really: the lack of sleep, the difficulty of going to any funeral, the trip after to see my own grandfather's grave—how we had gotten completely lost and how shocking it seemed to be to see my own surname on the headstone when we finally arrived. I grew up in a family where children didn't go to funerals and so had never been to his grave before.
In my mind, the day exists mostly in the details: the misting rain that made the ground so damp that my heels dug into it; the smoothness of the stone I placed on my grandfather's grave to signal that I had been there; the steady sound of N.'s breathing over the phone as I talked about the difficulty of it all and his suggestion that, maybe, just maybe, sleep was what I needed; the suprise to discover that I, who doesn't cry easily, was actually crying.
And, there I was, a few months later, crying again—sobbing, actually. Things were over at that point. In fact, we were supposed to be meeting persumably to talk about that. Instead, I was talking about a family health issue. Or, trying, rather. I couldn't get any words out. Couldn't do much of anything.
And, again, most of the night is in the details: the hasty departure from the bar since, clearly, I couldn't be there or anywhere in public for that matter; the scratch of his sweater against my face as he held me; how my back started to ache from the strength of my sobs; my knowing that I would forgive all else, that I had to, because I had no energy left to be angry, left to be anything.
It's easy, in retrospect, to say that these things don't matter, that hindsight is 20/20 and all the rest of it.
But, I was there.
And, months later, I find myself trying to make sense of it all. Of why things happen in the way that they do. Or, more specifically, why this played out as it did. I don't cry; I make a sarcastic comment, brush it off, and move on. Yes, this was different—and, yes, much, much worse—than anything I've ever had to (or possibly will have to) live through. But him?
Maybe it's as simple as this: he was there.
I don't know.
I'm inclined to think that's not the case, that what's important stays so.
There's this, too: I wanted to be right about him.
Or, at least that's true for me.
It was mid-September, already feeling like fall, and my plans had changed suddenly—I was going home for a funeral. Nevermind that I hadn't spoken to the deceased in more than ten years; she had been important to me at one point in my life, and I needed to be there.
There was a man, N., in the picture at the time. He had stolen into my apartment in the middle of the night. I knew he was coming, but it stirred me from my sleep all the same. Then the next day, he was leaving the city in much the same way that he had arrived in my apartment the night before—meaning that he had been making murmurings, it was nothing unexpected. Yet suddenly they sounded serious, suddenly there was a time frame.
I didn't realize that I cared until it seemed to be too late.
I tend to disassociate from my emotions, or so I've been told. But, not on the day of the funeral. Instead, I was near tears. It was a number of things, really: the lack of sleep, the difficulty of going to any funeral, the trip after to see my own grandfather's grave—how we had gotten completely lost and how shocking it seemed to be to see my own surname on the headstone when we finally arrived. I grew up in a family where children didn't go to funerals and so had never been to his grave before.
In my mind, the day exists mostly in the details: the misting rain that made the ground so damp that my heels dug into it; the smoothness of the stone I placed on my grandfather's grave to signal that I had been there; the steady sound of N.'s breathing over the phone as I talked about the difficulty of it all and his suggestion that, maybe, just maybe, sleep was what I needed; the suprise to discover that I, who doesn't cry easily, was actually crying.
And, there I was, a few months later, crying again—sobbing, actually. Things were over at that point. In fact, we were supposed to be meeting persumably to talk about that. Instead, I was talking about a family health issue. Or, trying, rather. I couldn't get any words out. Couldn't do much of anything.
And, again, most of the night is in the details: the hasty departure from the bar since, clearly, I couldn't be there or anywhere in public for that matter; the scratch of his sweater against my face as he held me; how my back started to ache from the strength of my sobs; my knowing that I would forgive all else, that I had to, because I had no energy left to be angry, left to be anything.
It's easy, in retrospect, to say that these things don't matter, that hindsight is 20/20 and all the rest of it.
But, I was there.
And, months later, I find myself trying to make sense of it all. Of why things happen in the way that they do. Or, more specifically, why this played out as it did. I don't cry; I make a sarcastic comment, brush it off, and move on. Yes, this was different—and, yes, much, much worse—than anything I've ever had to (or possibly will have to) live through. But him?
Maybe it's as simple as this: he was there.
I don't know.
I'm inclined to think that's not the case, that what's important stays so.
There's this, too: I wanted to be right about him.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Something to consider
Earlier this weekend, ILS told me that murphy's law seemed to apply to my life more than most. I think that she might be right. I also think that I might be encouraging this.
I'm working on a few things, which I'll post soon. For now, I'm in recovery mode. I'll get to that later.
I'm working on a few things, which I'll post soon. For now, I'm in recovery mode. I'll get to that later.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Going Home Again
For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about a quote from Giovanni's Room. Paraphrased here: perhaps home isn't a place, but an irrevocable condition.
Fine.
The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.
Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.
At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.
Home.
What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.
A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.
I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.
And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.
Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.
I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.
After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.
The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.
My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.
Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.
There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.
Mostly, I think, that I believe him.
Mostly.
Fine.
The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.
Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.
At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.
Home.
What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.
A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.
I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.
And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.
Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.
I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.
After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.
The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.
My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.
Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.
There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.
Mostly, I think, that I believe him.
Mostly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
