It’s more than a day and a dollar late and short, but I’m newly fired up about La Clinton’s momentary emoting.
I can’t pinpoint why, but my inability to pinpoint exactly why I so dislike HC’s campaign has brought me a lot of angst lately. Like so many women, I’m torn, and feeling a little like a traitor for not blithely supporting another vadge. Maybe, as some feminists have suggested, it’s because I’m having trouble seeing myself in her campaign. Maybe I want to be able to connect with her, and her pandering and robot veneer are in the way.
I happily hold forth on my pet subjects for hours. Wii, coffee, the merits of fall vs. spring, the disastrous effects of broadcast journalism, this city of supposed brotherly love, and the downfall of modern grammar. These all elicit almost immediate and well-worn monologues. But let someone dare ask for further clarification when I beg out of plans for “not feeling well,” and all I hear are the messy mechanical noises of a factory shutting down. Nope. Just don’t feel well.
Despite believing that people are better off for continual self improvement, and despite the fact that I generally feel more reflective on birthdays, I can’t seem to dodge the sense that this ought to be some new beginning. Trouble is, it’s difficult to begin something without a plan.
I’ve given myself a pass on the whole “life plan” thing for last few years. Rolling around the calendar aimlessly seemed achievement enough. But now, somehow, there is pressure again. To be productive, to have a linear plan, to get with the program. To partner off, to stop bitching about work like I’m in Reality Bites, and to function. To stop overdrawing my bank account, work on a budget, clean up my room, get a real doctor, and grocery shop instead of eating out. To swear less, bitch less, and drink less, and to be sweeter, more open, and more direct. To stop overbooking myself, go to the gym more, and finally take up yoga or some manner of meditation.
These are the things I should do in 2008. I remember living by some theory in the Mezz that I probably read in some horrible book. Something about your life fitting into a triangle. With an angle for platonic relationships, one for romantic relationships, and another for work. Or something. When one angle was acute, the other two compensated. A fine theory until your triangle collapses to a straight line (what, with no beginning or end, to boot). When you’ve got a line, you have to build from scratch, and you’ve got to figure out where to start first. Job searching is good, but lacks the immediate satisfaction I crave. So I send applications into the ether and wait to be picked. Sounds a lot like dating.
I was putting on makeup a few days ago, and noticed my eyes. The fine lines are deeper, the coloring under my bottom lid darker than I’d like.
I swear right now I can feel the heavy skin droop down. Full with something I haven’t yet let escape, maybe.
Seriously. How can someone’s face feel like this? Like the weight of everything is squarely under my eyes. Lovely.
I miss him very much. In a raw way that lays cruelly dormant and surfaces later without warning just to remind me I can’t stray too far from the hurt.
Writing seems again so novel. It used to be my bread and butter and now I remember why. It’s healthy but selfish in all the best ways. Whither all the old journals now?
We were cooking so much that December. Essentially living together, and happily resigned to the otherwise mundane routine. Still happy to grocery shop together. We walked to Superfresh one night. Or I think it was Superfresh. I suppose it doesn’t matter. We were in the grocery store, and he was quiet. Was I naive or was I in denial? Or was I merely stupid? He was quiet, and his explanation was that he was fearful that this would be our only Christmas together.
I think I genuinely believed him to be crazy at that moment. I knew things were grave, but for one moment I never thought that we’d only get one Christmas.
I don’t remember anymore what we were cooking. It might have been the night we had omelets and cereal while playing video games. It might have been the night we made chili. I guess what I ought to cling tightly to is that he was afraid of being without me. Of bastard time, which would eventually prove him right.
I tell myself that the details to these stories don’t matter. The emotions and consequences do. But there’s something separately heartbreaking about letting loose those inconsequentials. I no longer remember my grandmother’s phone number either.
I have, for some time, been keeping another blog. Like an electronic version of my red, leather-bound journal. A place just for G. stuff.
It’s just a slice of my life in the immediate aftermath. But recently, I started recording there again. It’s my own stubbornness that keeps me from talking about him openly, so I am trying to make room by writing again. Trying to at least allow the blank screen to indulge me in that.
I think, then, that I’d like to interwine the two, at least going forward. No need to link back to the darkest beginnings, but a new catharsis starting now.
First, the Walk itself . . .
Our floor (yes, floor), is the lower floor beside this hanging:
Once you step inside the foyer, the main room opens to this (ugly furniture = not ours):
Just to the left:
The hallway, to the right of the main room:
One of the two bathrooms: