"somewhere other than inside the out there." -- part twenty three.
i keep taking these pauses, and i understand they are interrupting the flow or the ebb or something. i never promised a story without commercial breaks.
"well, i haven't made up my mind about you. i'm still on the fence."
and i looked across the patio furniture at this guy that i just met, wondering, well, why would you have? then i selfishly realized that i made up my mind a long time ago about damn near everyone, and who the hell was i to jump on his assumption that he should have an assumption? but, again, i didn't fucking care.
i made an important leap in the strenuous (only for me) conversation with my new person. i made it all private. i protected my story with armed guards and that rusted gate i talked about so long ago. it wasn't his, and i didn't want to give it to him. i shut down, closed off, and pretended. i'm good at "first dates."
i didn't tell him about things, and we talked for a few hours about music and comics. he's nice enough and funny enough (for what?), and i've got enough watered-down pity to spread the germs through manhattan. so, i guess i'll cloak my baggage for a few more weeks, store it in the crawl space and make my house pretty.
and you know what? i'm ok with that. i'm ok with the fact that he wouldn't let me whore out my deep conversation. instead, we talked about how nickelback sucks and why superman is better as a communist.
the other night, i went to this show. four years ago, i saw them in boston, and i had gone to that show alone too, since boy had to work. i stood up front, promptly fell in love with a guitarist, and then gorged myself on watching all the boys sing along and raise their fists in the air, circa punk rock.
before the band played, i was leaning against the sound booth, chain smoking and drinking beer. an older gentleman came up to me and asked my name. i told him. he said, "i'm frank." i said, "i know. i saw you guys four years ago in boston." he smiled a shy smile that always looks out of place on rockers. he asked why i was alone. i lied and said that my boyfriend had to work. i bit my lip to sink the lie in and make it real. i told him that i liked coming to shows alone and watching the people jolt back and forth, all alive and willing. he smiled shyly again and thanked me for coming out. i told him it was my pleasure because "even hitler had a girlfriend" was a tried and true classic. he asked me what i was drinking. i told him lone star, and he smiled again.
but in my head, i wanted to ask him if he knew that this was painful, if he knew that i had to literally argue with myself over whether or not it was healthy to go to this show, if he knew that i learned the words to his songs waiting for trains in boston, if he knew that since he was called dr. frank i somehow attached an innate intelligence to him, if he knew that "sackcloth and ashes" was the poppiest song that ever ate my insides?
but he just smiled and put his arm around my shoulder and said, "you're allright."
and the other night, i went to a show where rockstar marred the stage.
i sat on the stoop of the fire escape and watched, not wanting to be near to anyone. i just sat there, alone and trying not to cry. acquaintances buzzed around me, cheered after songs, and nodded their heads to the beat. i just hugged the pole and hoped no one would try to talk to me, hoped that my hoodie was enchanted with invisible goodness, hoped that it could end on this bright night with a show like this.
and the other night, i sat with some friends, all over there and playing pool, and drew pictures of monkeys. and i made explorer draw a "circle with a meaning." and i made someone else draw the "impass in your life." and then i drew a hippo named aria and a dastardly creed fan. i drank some beer and asked him why he couldn't change. he just shrugged, and i thought that was the most honest answer i'd gotten in a few months to any question.
and the other night, i drank myself to sleep. again.
and the other night, i had a dream that i was in ireland with spring snow and a good friend making silly faces at me. and i dreamed about a hospital bleeding. and i dreamed that i couldn't get out. and i dreamed that picket fences represented something true. and i dreamed that it was all dark.
and tonight, i held in a story. when i wanted to tell it, i just played with the safety pin on the cuff of my hoodie and changed the subject. i didn't want to talk about it, and i wanted him to already know without having to lay out the details. i wanted to hand him a book, and say, "read this while i nap over here. give me a call if you still want to talk."
but, see, here's the thing. i don't feel like i can do it justice anymore. i don't have the words, but i'll continue anyway. i'll keep on keepin on. is anyone really listening anyway? or are you still waiting for your turn to talk?
yeah, well, shut up.
i don't have the talent, and i don't have any of that fucking grace we keep on about.
you want to know about grace? a long time ago, someone asked me to define grace, a word that i throw around a lot. i prefer it to "strength" or something that people call confidence.
grace is knowing when to shut up. it's knowing who to listen to and when. it's acting on that urge to kiss and kill. grace is triumph and solitude worn like a crown of petals. grace is putting out your cigarette completely. it's failing with a smile. it's punk rock eyes and using drugs instead of abusing them. grace is falling from it. grace is timing out and walking on. grace is being with the one you love and loving the one you're with. grace is acting in good faith and knowing when they're right. grace is sacrificing love in favor of friendship. it's eating good food and opening an altar to hickory burgers. grace is about knowing when someone can't be yours and loving them still, without anger, with impunity. it's about letting your emotions run through you instead of being them.
we lack grace. you and i. but i'm still going to tell you my stories, if only because it's saturday night and i told a guy "no" so that i could sit here and be with you over smoke and words.
ok, so let's get this out in the open, and i expect immunity on this one. for the past two months, suicide has been that shadow of my day. seeking events to reconcile not taking my own life. it's weak, and it's cowardly, and it's too easy. but i didn't feel good enough, for anyone, including myself.
alright, that sucked, so let's get on with it.
where the fuck were we anyway?
writing class. boston. drugs. trips. decisions.
he made me promise that it would be wonderful.
and i did. i promised him three times.
"that's three times you promised."
and i smiled. it was about this time that he started calling me "sweet bean" which promptly got shortened to bean.
when he would come home from work, and i was in an exhausted-i-just-worked-ten-hours sort of way, he would climb on top of my fetal body and engulf me, cooing softly, beeeeean ... beeeean ... bean, are you awake?
i would bury my face in his neck and tell him to bring sleep with him.
he would tell me what movies he brought home, and then he would gather my jammie pants and t-shirt and slippers and put them on the bed so that i would get up and watch movies with him.
and, now, i read these notes he wrote to me during that summer, when i was tired and wanted to become some dotted line. they stink of something better, and part of me wants it to have never happened so that i didn't have any expectations.
"i promise."
the creases in the paper are worn from so much unfolding and refolding. the edges are yellow with lacey smoke stains. but they're mine, this handwriting he gave me, left on my messenger bag to find in the morning, snuck into my wallet when i was in the shower, doodled on postits while bored at work.
it was a summer of waiting. we were so eager, saving and working, trying.
a friend of mine died, some brutal and tragic death. i had dropped the phone when i got the call at work. i sat there until they sent me home. i had dropped the phone, and i remember wondering if it would work after that. we went to see her, all done up, porcelain dead doll. boy rubbed my tears between his fingers, and he went out to buy me cigarettes.
i said goodbye to my best friend, and he hurried off to california. i cried that night because i haven't learned goodbye. i'm not very good at it.
but boy laid next to me and spun my hair in his fingers.
the summer pieced through june and july, laying stones as it walked. he wore shorts and asked me to shave his head. i put on tank tops and sunscreen, my hair growing out from its purple and blonde.
we did drugs and went to the beach in his friend's car. a friend of his that i never got in touch with. a friend of his that i couldn't find after. we all watched the sun creep and sway over the far away curve, jaws clenched and locked, ocean in our ears.
i began to miss things that i hadn't left yet through years of practice.
the city was dying around us, and the carnival was closing. enchantment spent its last ticket. and hyperbole kind of dozed in the corner. we watched as kenmore square became a merciless corporate banshee. we ate breakfast at steve's kitchen, and he gave me my first comic book to read. i asked him for more. he rode the train for forty five minutes to meet me for my half an hour lunch break and to harrass my boss about giving me a raise. i leaned against the counter of the video store and watched south park with him until we both had it memorized. we made love while our friends sat in the living room, and we would receive applause when they heard our footsteps in the hall. and he kept writing, latched onto this american dream idea and this love story of how we were and fucking ran with it. and i kept painting, taking pictures of people i loved and taping them to this wall. he asked me to lead him through meditations to make his stomach feel better, and he would put my hands on his stomach, telling me that i made it stop. i hit the snooze button a lot and inked my neck with tribal curves.
we had a summer, piecing its way around us in in-betweens and counting.
