hello out there

had forgotten about this one. is any one out there still reading this? lots to be said about the long lapse of time. lots.

On catharsis.

And, once again, it felt like everything was falling apart. Like this, really. And, then, it didn't. Or, rather, it seemed like there was a possibility that it might not much longer.

The phone call came. And, I'm still reeling, but with hope. And, overcome with the amount of goodness around me. I'm adjusting and trying to simply learn to breathe again.

I cry a lot these days. I'm told this is healthy.

Motherly advice

On the phone with my mother today: "Normal is a vacuum that just gets filled with more and more shit."

I'm paraphrasing, of course.

Getting it Wrong

It's been a while. A long while. More on that later (which, let's be honest, could mean never).

But, I have been thinking recently about this quote and my re-naming of this blog. An interesting Freudian slip, if you ask me. As it turns out, I'm an optimist in such matters—looking for the possibility of a fresh start in the old, entertaining the possibility that such a thing exists.

Had a long conversation about all of this with SD this weekend, who had an interesting take on things. Namely, regarding the very nature of love and attachment. In so many words she thought that you can't will yourself not to be attached to someone or not to love them, you can simply wish that wasn't the case or not be willing to address such feelings. Which is both somewhat reassuring to think about and also somewhat upsetting. In the end, I suppose, it may simply be a case for cynicism.

More on this later, when my sickness-addled brain is working.

Well put.

"Sorry—am I boring you with this fairy tale romance?"

I shake my head. "I have a feeling you're about to come to a turning point."

"You're right," Oshima says. "That's how stories happen—with a turning point, an unexpected twist. There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shames and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness is a story."

—Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

The more things change...

The more they stay the same.

Yes, It's a trite expresson. And, yet, I'm finding it to be true all the same.

To wit: I keep telling myself that I'll write more when I have something to say. The truth is that I have plenty to say, but it's just more of the same. Patterns repeating and all the rest of it.

So, what's on my mind these days? Something similar to this essay, which I wrote about six year ago.

I'm nothing if not consistent.

So there's that.

past all accident.

Read this immediately.

You won't regret it.

little things

Mostly still trying to sort out the past few months. Mostly.

I've started a new project in the meantime, just to focus on the good things at hand and as an attempt to stave off whatever depression may be lurking round the corner. Check it out here.

A small effort, to be sure. But, usually, I find, small things add up—in either direction. So, I'm aiming upward.

Radio Silence

Just to say: I'm taking a break for a bit and trying to clear my head. I'll be back soon, perhaps. In the mean, you know how to reach me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On Corporate America

I'm moving offices.

Good-bye, Hudson view.

I've spent about a week or two packing up, parceling out my files, and sitting in meetings where the topic inevitably became how everyone was going to function without me. It's surreal to say the least. But, nothing compared to yesterday when my office manager told me that I'd have to let corporate services know that they should be bringing my chair down to my new office.

Apparently, I've stepped into the pages of Then We Came to the End. Weird.

As Planned

courtesy of Frank O'Hara

because, at this point, it's been well established that his are the poems that I wish I wrote. And, because, well, it's been a awhile since I've posted.

It's been a strange few weeks. I'll write more soon, once I feel like reflecting.

In the mean, herewith:

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don't you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

This Shape of Things We're In

sur·re·al (sə rē'əl, –rēl'), adj.

1. having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream; unreal; fantastic   2. the period spanning from July 2008 through January 2009, with particular focus on mid-October through early December; see also the days surrounding Christmas and the new year   3. being not-quite-sober and telling your not-quite-boyfriend that your best friend and his best friend's husband are having an affair, then watching the subsequent events unfold, not knowing what to do; finding yourself using phrases like "moral compass" in complete earnestness; finding yourself dealing with fall-out many months later and still being unsure what you should do and/or say    4. having repeated circular conversations about subjects including, but not limited to, red suitcases, the status of a relationship that has long since ended but that you are perpetuating in some ways because you are simply too raw about all of the other things going on in your life to enact the decisions you know that you need to and that would be healthier for both of you, and seats assigned at a kitchen table    5. hearing the phrase "8 to 12 months" and trying to picture what your life will be like at that point, hoping that it will be much the same. well, perhaps with more positive things thrown in for good measure    6. watching your job get parceled out before your eyes and being forced to attend meeting after meeting to weigh in    7. realizing that there's a lot more that you could add to this list, but that you don't have time because you need to work since your dead-end job hasn't been parceled out quite yet    8. realizing that you made this list in the first place   sur·re'al·ly, adv. —sur·re·al'i·ty (–al'i tē), n.

Insomnia

Easing myself to sleep, but you won't
let me. You, siren who keeps calling me back, holding my wrist.
And I obey, letting hours pass,
too much wine, thinking

beside me is too far. And, yet, you remain clever,
too close to dream of me.

I ache, you dream, but only of indian summers and nighttime
when it's at its most aggressive, pressing down, the air growing crisp.
You dream, grow wistful, woozy,
as if the alcohol's in you, instead. You wouldn't recognize me,

not in your sleep.

You sleep soundly, and we grow further and further apart.
I watch the shadows, formed moonlight. No courage.
The sound of your breathing bears down.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

It's been a long weekend. Far too long.

Perhaps it's the 30 or so hours of small talk that I've made over the past 3 days, the several panicked phone calls, misprints contended with and the countless boxes that I've unpacked/shuffled/repacked/maimed myself with. Call it over-dramatizing and/or exhaustion, if you like. Whatever it is, I'm not inclined to do much else but sit and decompress at the moment.

For me, this means revisiting old favorites. And, sharing them.

So, another quote below. It's a good one, I promise.

"Official histories, news stories surround us daily, but the events of art reach us too late, travel languorously like messages in a bottle.

Only the best art can order the chaotic tumble of events. Only the best can realign chaos to suggest both the chaos and order it will become.

Within two years of 1066, work began on the Bayeux Tapestry, Constantin the African brought Greek medicine to the western world. The chaos and tumble of events. The first sentence of every novel should be: 'Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human.' Meander if you want to get to town."

-Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion

Absolutely Alice

And the Gryphon added "Come, let's hear some of your adventures."

"I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly; "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then."

-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland