You don’t know me like I was. The me when I was corporate. It’s why I was always welcome and always rehired through my myriad proclivities. You never understood my value, and it’s why you wrongfully think I have no ambition. I am loyal. I am political to a fault. In that world, I only knew resilience and survival. I ate people I didn’t like or who I thought were unhelpful. I would sabotage your bungee cord and return your smile when you jumped. I’m much, much softer now. There are still teeth in my mouth and bile in my gut.
Letter to someone
It’s weird, all these things I curated to a greatness in my mid-teens have come around to be the defining characteristics in haute couture. You might know the story of how I went to undergraduate Tacoma with nothing but a box of ill-fitting sweaters, two pairs of size-44 Levis 501s (that I squeezed into so I wouldn’t have to buy a bigger pair), and 500 LPs ranging from Kiss to Depeche Mode to Iron Maiden to Nina Simone to Queen to Rocky Horror to Miles Davis to the Escape From New York Soundtrack. I didn’t even pack a turntable and wouldn’t have one for my first three months in school. I carried all of those albums into a future I had no idea what would bring; they were how I defined a pretty big part of myself. And in just 12 months, I would trade all of those albums at the Jelly’s on Pensacola for the promise of about 40 “permanent” compact discs.
The lament I have for that moment is not financial. There are far greater “what—ifs” that would have resulted in far higher values lost or found. At best, those albums might fetch five figures if the collection remained intact, and mostly undamaged (highly unlikely). I lost more selling Apple stock too early (I still made a lot, not life-changing a lot). But that makes for a good story. This one always feels like a blow long lost could-have-been. Those albums were me. And I traded them all in for the illusion of a new permanence. I rebuilt that CD collection even larger, and the mp3 collection larger still. But I’ve never had something in my personal space like those discs.
The salt
This is how you fall when it’s inevitable. Falling when you stumble is so predictable. The shoestring. The inevitable. Falling when you know you’re falling.
Brush off the arms pulling you perpendicular to the ground. “Brush off” has more intent than what happened. Shrug off is a better choice of words. Ignore the whispers. Ignore the screams. Ignore the blood. Blood coagulated. Coagulated. It made the effort to stop. This is not that. This is, I don’t know.
Wake up to a dog licking your knee because it (your knee, not the dog) was still bleeding. He liked the salt. (I type that, and I suddenly find it very funny.) He liked the salt. Not table salt. Not sodium chloride. We iodize it because, by itself, it is not enough. This is all a metaphor.
Spleen
I think my spleen hurts. I’m not quite sure where my spleen is, left side, I’m pretty sure, that’s why I’m not 100% on the diagnosis. I fell when I was drunk a few years back; it’s not like my pee is orange or has blood in it.
I used to tell people that my family dies of things they put in their mouth, mostly cigarettes, but sometimes too much food or alcohol (once it was an ice pick through the mouth into the carotid, but I don’t think that counts in the spirit I intended). I don’t smoke. And for a long time now, I don’t drink. Mine would be the first spleen casualty, though I’m pretty sure you can live without your spleen if it’s removed before its rupture causes peritonitis or, more likely, exsanguination. I’m sure there have been times when my liver could have been happier with me. I cross the street carefully.
People want to die fast. While sleeping if possible. There will never be a DNR order on my charts. I want to live forever by any means necessary. Dulce et decorum es pro dignitas morti. Bullshit. I see no nobility in giving up. My personal black eternity happened for at least 13.6 billion years before me, and I’m not looking forward to going back.
On the other hand, even if you believe in all that rah! rah! Christian stuff, living forever seems like it might get boring. I get tired after an hour of sex or seven hours at Disneyland and I love both of those.
Thatʻs not even close to funny
She keeps secrets. I wish I had a few. I watch her walk with a lilt of flair and admire her confidence. It’s hard to believe how many times I’ve broken her. Looking at her now it’s hard to believe she can be broken. She let me in I guess. It’s easier to break things from the inside.
Now I can’t even get a word inside of her, much less any other part of me. I suppose I deserve her defense.
Today is beyond both of us, like it or not, she has to speak to me. Courts compel things that love has long abandoned.
“Did you sign?”
“Yes. Did you?
“Yes.”
“So, then.”
“So what?”
“I guess. So what?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I still love you?”
“That’s not even close to funny.”
But I’m not joking. And of course, I don’t say it. Every syllable with her must be calculable. I have no calculus for this feeling.
“You know you had everything?”
“I know.”
“You know you fucked it all away?”
“I know.”
“You know I still love you?”
“I know.” (Full disclosure: I didn’t.)
“So what now?”
“This I don’t know.”
“So smart and so stupid.”
Joey Martin
Lately, Iʻve been preoccupied with death. Not in any particularly morbid way, and certainly not about my own except to wish that it wasnʻt inevitable. I think itʻs all of these end-of-the-year lists reminding us who died in 2015, and the depressing death watch of country singer Joey Martin, as she has gone from diagnosis to hospice, by her husband Rory on his blog and my Facebook news feed. Iʻm not sure why, because Iʻm not a fan. I assume since the metadata collection that Facebook uses to push the absolutely relevant ads and news stories I currently see when I log in has also been successful at diagnosing my recent preoccupation.
We all have to die, and pretty much nothing else has to happen. I hate that idea. But, the alternative is probably worse.
Oh, Merry Christmas, everyone.
Could it be magic?
Riding home today and the song, seemingly chosen at random, completed a perfect storm of factors: it is the day before Christmas and I am far removed from the one I might choose to spend it with, yet somehow feel as close to her as I ever have. I’ve had two hours of sleep and fifteen cups of coffee and only a day-old bran muffin to stem the caffeine’s tide. I’ve been spoiled with the unexpected mid-day lilt of her voice, longer than usual because she has locked her keys in the car and needs to remain onsite to wait for the locksmith and Barry Manilow.
I know something in my life has changed when I hit repeat on Spotify because I want to glean some insight into the ways of life and love from a pop song first made popular in the middle years of my childhood.
I literally caught myself texting the lyrics to her when, in a rare moment of restraint, I grabbed me by the imaginary lapels, smacked myself upside the face and head, and with a stern rebuke gave the order to, “Get a hold of yourself, man. Put on the Cro-Mags or 7 Seconds, for god’s sake.” But I would have none of it. I made a compromise. I erased the text message. But I played “Could It Be Magic” on repeat until I removed the headphones from my ears upon entering my apartment.
I’ve always had a weakness for syrup and a melody.
“I didn’t say you’re not smart, I said you’re not an intellectual.”
This is why you don’t talk when you’re even slightly annoyed. It’s never correct to say, “That’s because you are not an intellectual.”
English isn’t her first language, so that kind of nuance is misplaced. This is how it started: she said she looked fat in her new bikini. For the record, the correct reply to that assertion is, “No you don’t. You look like a wet seal if it had to wear a two-piece.” What you don’t say is, “I feel fat, too.”
Later, when she says, “You just called me stupid,” even though what you actually said was, “You’re not an intellectual,” don’t respond with, “What I meant was, you’re more corporeal than cerebral.” And when she says, “What?” you definitely don’t double down and try to explain.
That’s not when you remind her that she’s from Europe. You don’t say, “You grew up behind the Iron Curtain,” or, “Romania is a second-world country.” It’s really not the best idea. It’s not even a good idea.
I thought it was funny in real time. She didn’t think so.
A complicated mess
There’s a certain beauty to being alone. A comfort. I wake up with me. I went to bed with me. Whatever I was missing is the same at 4:30 am as it was at 1. It’s quieter now. The kids went to school a little earlier and were yelling. Kids are weird. They’re perfect or atrocious. I like the way life feels right now. I like the way kids sound. I like the motion of the moon across the sky. I like the birds that aren’t endemic. I like you.
Things change though. Love becomes hate. People don’t change, really. So what changed? Perception, most likely. If I could give anything, I would go back in time to the place that was gentle. The place where you found easiness. This fucking complicated mess is a complicated mess. I still love you. I still love everything, And it’s a complicated mess.
Steep, calamitous, and quick
I’m not sure if the correct term is meta, or post-modern, or post-whatever. But this is definitely aware of itself. I’m not sure why I torture myself. Thinking about you, about us, is like playing with a sore in your mouth or a loose tooth that hasn’t yet given way. I like to be aware that it’s there.
I know you think about our things. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. I’m also pretty sure you have come to some very different conclusions than I have.
Yours and my fall was steep, calamitous, and quick.
I was your best friend on August 1. We slept together for the last time on September 5. But by October, we were arms-length robots. My knowing exact dates shouldn’t surprise you. I’m not obsessed anymore than I normally would be. I just have one of those memories that you loved me for, and then hated me just as strongly for.