That is one shit-covered fan, my friend.

20 05 2010

Where to begin? I haven’t posted here since the 12th of March – little more than 2 months ago – but how, exactly, to cover the in-between?

My life is at once precisely the same and somehow unrecognizable. But now is the time to sink back into writing and let it envelope me. The more distance accrued between myself and winter, the closer I edge to Miami, to reversal, to isolation, to utter, glorious, bone-chillingly terrifying newness. To reading and writing and living and TRYING.

A concept to which I have recently been re-introduced.

It’s funny, this blog-thing. It’s like a diary, but of course, being words plastered on this intensely public tube-space called the internets, I am obligated to count everyone I know among my audience, even though I can count my hits and I have no damn audience.

Nonetheless, this means no matter how much self-obsessed rambling I seem to do here there are some things – “feelings,” some might call them (strange things) – I would never post about.

Romantic feelings, if you must label them. In fact, in light of past experience, I very seldom share those sorts of feelings in ANY forum as mine have so often seemed to me misguided, misplaced, misunderstood, and generally whiny and lame.

I hate being whiny and lame. So much so that those sorts of feelings, those very particular feelings often associated (inaccurately) with the primary cardiovascular function, often send me into a whirl of depression, since they make me whiny and lame, incurring my refusal to share them with anyone and necessitating that I share them only with myself. Over. And over. Inducing a perpetual analysis of my own whiny lameness, and the internalized self-loathing which I felt only infrequently but which I always assumed must be channeling those “cardiovascular” feelings toward such blatantly unobtainable objects.

And that was what I wanted, or what I had convinced myself I wanted. Someone unobtainable.

* * *

Dear Diary,

I thought I was being so careful.

She slips in, somehow. Not under the radar. My initial cold assessment is an established defense, eroding grain by grain under every trickle of laughter between us. So fucking funny.

My sides are splitting. I must be emerging from my skin; didn’t know I was trapped.

She’s…what?

Refreshing. Kinetic. Straight.

Straight.

Straight.

By definition not worth my attention.

…but she’s loud, opinionated, brilliant. (Like a light bulb as much as an inventor.) So she’s the center of attention with or without my approval.

So lonely, so pretty, such a lack of diplomacy.

What I’m saying is, she has everyone’s attention the minute she walks in the room in those dark skinny jeans and the suede fuck-me boots…no – what I’m saying is, I get lulled by the press of the crowd of everyone who meets her and then is in love. You know the feeling of not being afraid because you’re not alone. Even if you should be.

Keep it to myself – sort of. Joke with her and she jokes back. Tease her – she can take it. Stay up late talking till we’re practically asleep on our couches across the room and she doesn’t seem to mind.

I come down from bed in the mornings, she’s still there and no matter how softly I step when I come to collect my belongings, abandoned in the half-sleep of parting the night before, she always wakes, always, and seeing me, never once rolls over and goes back to sleep.

In this way our midnights blur into mornings. It has become suddenly strange that I’ve told no one about this person whose movements seem to dictate my day.

But what should I do? Straight, straight, straight, she keeps insisting, in a way that is not insisting, in fact, in a way that is never articulated but for those moments in which I prompt her to deny it and she evades me.

Somehow after weeks of this I am less of a wreck than I have ever been. I can, after all, like someone a “normal” amount. (That’s what I say when I start to speak it.)

Some days she’s lonely and laughs just a little too loud and I can’t stand the stories about the boys she can’t stand and the admonitions of her best friend that they’ve never deserved her and I’m feeling indignant and there it is again.

So I write her a note, a nothing, a digital-age slip of parchment under her door, telling her things that seem so apparent from my couch that I cannot for the life of me comprehend she is not used to hearing. Adorable. Hilarious. Brilliant.

In the end, I man up.

* * *

So where am I now? Soon to be alone again, but that was always the plan. And in the meantime I am absolutely drunk on the smell and the pacing of her breath. The places our skins touch. The distribution of her freckles. The sincerity of her professions. That the width of her smile seems now a measure of her proximity to me.

Sobriety was never my strong point.

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