Thursday, March 25, 2004
I can’t believe how much dancing with Damien Friday night has made me think. He’s way too young for me, but he represents something important: some things I’m missing with Scott.
1. He is social
2. He likes to dance
3. He lives in the country
4. He loves the outdoors
These are important things to me – dancing, nature, social interaction. Things Scott hates/will never do. How much I enjoyed doing these things/thinking about these things with D is directly related to how much I haven’t been doing these things at all. I don’t even know how to spell his name or get in touch with him. I couldn’t believe how much fun it was to be dancing and flirting with a nice boy out in a social place and he wasn’t stressed. When I needed water he was concerned, hurried to get some. He was raised by hippies. When I told him I grew up wild in northern Vermont he said he used to live in a tent in the summers. He used to walk through the woods and eat edible wild plants.
He seemed so earnest, young but trying to impress me a little. He asked, "Am I allowed to tell you you're hot?" Wanting to show his appreciation. He asked if I slept in camouflage, he touched my dress and said it wasn't very soft. He wasn't innocent, but tender. He needed to shave, but that only added to his raw, young, intense masculinity. It rose around him like the scent of strong aftershave. In his wifebeater the sweat stood out on the muscles of his arms.
Mostly it was just movement. Arching my back against his hot hand, leaning back, knowing he was looking at me.
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1. He is social
2. He likes to dance
3. He lives in the country
4. He loves the outdoors
These are important things to me – dancing, nature, social interaction. Things Scott hates/will never do. How much I enjoyed doing these things/thinking about these things with D is directly related to how much I haven’t been doing these things at all. I don’t even know how to spell his name or get in touch with him. I couldn’t believe how much fun it was to be dancing and flirting with a nice boy out in a social place and he wasn’t stressed. When I needed water he was concerned, hurried to get some. He was raised by hippies. When I told him I grew up wild in northern Vermont he said he used to live in a tent in the summers. He used to walk through the woods and eat edible wild plants.
He seemed so earnest, young but trying to impress me a little. He asked, "Am I allowed to tell you you're hot?" Wanting to show his appreciation. He asked if I slept in camouflage, he touched my dress and said it wasn't very soft. He wasn't innocent, but tender. He needed to shave, but that only added to his raw, young, intense masculinity. It rose around him like the scent of strong aftershave. In his wifebeater the sweat stood out on the muscles of his arms.
Mostly it was just movement. Arching my back against his hot hand, leaning back, knowing he was looking at me.
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Wednesday, March 24, 2004
It's my grandfather's 90th birthday, and this weekend there is a family party in Maine to celebrate. I love my grandfather, he's one of the wittiest people I know. He had eye surgery some years ago for cataracts, and after the operation he was bruised. My cousin Nathan said "Gramp, you don't look too good" to which he replied "Well, you should see the other guy!"
It makes me sad, though, when I go visit him, to see him sleeping alone in his bed. My mother said he's not even sleeping upstairs in his old bedroom anymore. He has a bed in the downstairs living room because his knees aren't so good on the stairs.
He's my last remaining grandparent. I now think that moving the bed downstairs to the living room is a serious step in aging. Both my father's parents did that when stairs became difficult to navigate.
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It makes me sad, though, when I go visit him, to see him sleeping alone in his bed. My mother said he's not even sleeping upstairs in his old bedroom anymore. He has a bed in the downstairs living room because his knees aren't so good on the stairs.
He's my last remaining grandparent. I now think that moving the bed downstairs to the living room is a serious step in aging. Both my father's parents did that when stairs became difficult to navigate.
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Thursday, March 18, 2004
I saw Michael for the first time in Modern World class. He was tall, his blonde hair brushed back from his forehead. He wore glasses. He looked kind of mod to me, kind of stylish and interesting.
Michael was in a creative writing workshop I took a year or so later. He always looked so clean. He had a big laugh, a big easy smile, a deep voice. He had strong opinions about writing. He interested me because he was so different from me - I was an earthy, airy hippie looking girl at the time. He was more modern.
A bunch of us would stand around and talk after workshop. Michael called me blondie. He made jokes about my 9-foot long blue scarf. He would wind it around and around my neck. After a while we started sitting next to each other in class.
I don't remember exactly how it happened. I went to his apartment to hang out. He apologized for the "homonculus" he lived with. We read the NY Times Book Review on his bed. I was having trouble breathing and I realized it was because we were sitting so close.
In class sitting next to each other, we would hold a copy of whatever poem we were supposed to be talking about in our hands. We mirrored each other. We didn't touch, even though our hands were a bare five inches apart. We were oblivious to the class. My heart would be pounding, my mind had no images in it. I just sat there feeling the buzz of electricity between my hand and his boys hand.
I started hanging out with him more. He had been going out with a girl named Willow for four years. I had been going out with Chris for two or three. He lived near the health food store I worked at, and he would visit me.
I went to Emily's one night, she was helping me sew something. She said Michael might be there. I wore my red dress. He put a few braids in my hair. I wondered if he liked me.
It gets blurry after that. I don't remember the first time we kissed, but I remember the night. We were walking down by the river - it was a private place for us to go. I just remember being so fucking hungry for him, wanting my clothes to go up in flames, wanting the space between us to disappear. We ended up lying on the grass in the darkness, drinking each other's light and darkness like starving people.
It was like that every time. He lit up my world. He was a constant hum in my mind, in my body.
He would pick me up after work and we would drive through the mountains in the hot summer evening, listening to Sade or October Project. Sweetest Taboo. The mountains called us, we drove in the mountains for a reason.
One night we pulled off the road and talked and kissed. He smoked, and he was showing me how to hold the cigarette. He said, You totally look like a sexy cigarette commercial. We got into the back of his parent's van and made out. We had an unspoken agreement that if we stayed away from actual sex, it was okay. We both knew we were cheating, we couldn't call it anything else, but we drew a line there.
Another night we drove to the lookout and a bagpiper was playing - for us, it seemed. We held hands. We found a path into the woods, which led to a clearing. He was wearing the most beautiful shirt, cream-colored, and a beautiful belt. We sat in the clearing and talked. As it got dark, the moon came out. Michael lay on his back on the grass and leaves. I lay on top of him, facing up. We were watching the clouds, the leaves blowing in the wind. His hands were everywhere. I said - Are you trying to seduce me? He said - I was just about to ask you the same thing.
I wrote about him in my diary, all in code. When I wrote "today I have princess hair" it meant that I could still feel Michael's hands on my hair, touching me. When I wrote "the sun is like honey on my skin" or "last night I ate the most beautiful fruit" - it was all the same.
I don't remember how or why things slowed down, but eventually we weren't seeing each other anymore. Michael moved to New York for a while, then Colorado. He stayed with Emily, who told me she would come home after work and find him lying on the floor in the dark, listening to October Project.
Eventually I met Mark, moved in with him. He said it wouldn't bother him if I slept with someone else. Suddenly Michael emailed me, he was going to be in New Paltz camping. He wanted to see me. I said I would meet him at the Bistro.
I met him that night, and hung out with him and his friends for a little while. He said he would drive me home - or something like that. I think we just wanted to be alone. Back at my apartment, I remembered him and didn't remember him at the same time. We were tentative. We hugged and I said - Mark doesn't care if we hook up. That did it. Michael knelt down in front of me and kissed my belly. He kissed me and turned me slowly until he had made a full circle. I lit a candle. We got in the bed and touched each other. This is what we had wanted for so long and now it felt a little rushed. But what else were we going to do?
I loved every minute of it, ever millisecond. But it was also strange - I had a real boyfriend now - one who said he didn't mind if I slept with someone else, and Michael had been away for so long. He laughed when he came, he said he couldn't help it. We held each other for a while, then he went back to his camp.
A year later he emailed me from San Francisco. He missed me. I missed him. I drove Mark's car to his parent's house and we caught up. We didn't kiss. We read each other's poetry, went swimming, talked. We reminisced. We lost touch again. The next time I heard from him, he had gotten a girl pregnant and was marrying her.
I haven't seen him since, but we stay in touch over email. I ask him questions about married life, about being a father. We support each other's writing. We reminisce some more. We remember the electricity, the drives in the mountains, the mosquitoes in the summer darkness. I can't imagine we'll ever completely lose touch with each other. In fact, I feel I need Michael in my life, to remind me of those times, to remind me what is possible for me to feel, to do, to be.
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Michael was in a creative writing workshop I took a year or so later. He always looked so clean. He had a big laugh, a big easy smile, a deep voice. He had strong opinions about writing. He interested me because he was so different from me - I was an earthy, airy hippie looking girl at the time. He was more modern.
A bunch of us would stand around and talk after workshop. Michael called me blondie. He made jokes about my 9-foot long blue scarf. He would wind it around and around my neck. After a while we started sitting next to each other in class.
I don't remember exactly how it happened. I went to his apartment to hang out. He apologized for the "homonculus" he lived with. We read the NY Times Book Review on his bed. I was having trouble breathing and I realized it was because we were sitting so close.
In class sitting next to each other, we would hold a copy of whatever poem we were supposed to be talking about in our hands. We mirrored each other. We didn't touch, even though our hands were a bare five inches apart. We were oblivious to the class. My heart would be pounding, my mind had no images in it. I just sat there feeling the buzz of electricity between my hand and his boys hand.
I started hanging out with him more. He had been going out with a girl named Willow for four years. I had been going out with Chris for two or three. He lived near the health food store I worked at, and he would visit me.
I went to Emily's one night, she was helping me sew something. She said Michael might be there. I wore my red dress. He put a few braids in my hair. I wondered if he liked me.
It gets blurry after that. I don't remember the first time we kissed, but I remember the night. We were walking down by the river - it was a private place for us to go. I just remember being so fucking hungry for him, wanting my clothes to go up in flames, wanting the space between us to disappear. We ended up lying on the grass in the darkness, drinking each other's light and darkness like starving people.
It was like that every time. He lit up my world. He was a constant hum in my mind, in my body.
He would pick me up after work and we would drive through the mountains in the hot summer evening, listening to Sade or October Project. Sweetest Taboo. The mountains called us, we drove in the mountains for a reason.
One night we pulled off the road and talked and kissed. He smoked, and he was showing me how to hold the cigarette. He said, You totally look like a sexy cigarette commercial. We got into the back of his parent's van and made out. We had an unspoken agreement that if we stayed away from actual sex, it was okay. We both knew we were cheating, we couldn't call it anything else, but we drew a line there.
Another night we drove to the lookout and a bagpiper was playing - for us, it seemed. We held hands. We found a path into the woods, which led to a clearing. He was wearing the most beautiful shirt, cream-colored, and a beautiful belt. We sat in the clearing and talked. As it got dark, the moon came out. Michael lay on his back on the grass and leaves. I lay on top of him, facing up. We were watching the clouds, the leaves blowing in the wind. His hands were everywhere. I said - Are you trying to seduce me? He said - I was just about to ask you the same thing.
I wrote about him in my diary, all in code. When I wrote "today I have princess hair" it meant that I could still feel Michael's hands on my hair, touching me. When I wrote "the sun is like honey on my skin" or "last night I ate the most beautiful fruit" - it was all the same.
I don't remember how or why things slowed down, but eventually we weren't seeing each other anymore. Michael moved to New York for a while, then Colorado. He stayed with Emily, who told me she would come home after work and find him lying on the floor in the dark, listening to October Project.
Eventually I met Mark, moved in with him. He said it wouldn't bother him if I slept with someone else. Suddenly Michael emailed me, he was going to be in New Paltz camping. He wanted to see me. I said I would meet him at the Bistro.
I met him that night, and hung out with him and his friends for a little while. He said he would drive me home - or something like that. I think we just wanted to be alone. Back at my apartment, I remembered him and didn't remember him at the same time. We were tentative. We hugged and I said - Mark doesn't care if we hook up. That did it. Michael knelt down in front of me and kissed my belly. He kissed me and turned me slowly until he had made a full circle. I lit a candle. We got in the bed and touched each other. This is what we had wanted for so long and now it felt a little rushed. But what else were we going to do?
I loved every minute of it, ever millisecond. But it was also strange - I had a real boyfriend now - one who said he didn't mind if I slept with someone else, and Michael had been away for so long. He laughed when he came, he said he couldn't help it. We held each other for a while, then he went back to his camp.
A year later he emailed me from San Francisco. He missed me. I missed him. I drove Mark's car to his parent's house and we caught up. We didn't kiss. We read each other's poetry, went swimming, talked. We reminisced. We lost touch again. The next time I heard from him, he had gotten a girl pregnant and was marrying her.
I haven't seen him since, but we stay in touch over email. I ask him questions about married life, about being a father. We support each other's writing. We reminisce some more. We remember the electricity, the drives in the mountains, the mosquitoes in the summer darkness. I can't imagine we'll ever completely lose touch with each other. In fact, I feel I need Michael in my life, to remind me of those times, to remind me what is possible for me to feel, to do, to be.
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Monday, March 08, 2004
Making friends with someone is the strangest process. I don't remember how it worked when I was a kid -- it just kind of happened. The girl who works at the neighborhood health food store seems cool, so I always chat with her for a minute while she rings up my stuff. This morning I decided to introduce myself - we had never exchanged names.
"I'm J---" I say, pressing a hand to my chest like a monkey.
"I'm D---" she responds, smiling.
"Great..." I begin. I'm about to say "well, see you later" when she says it, with passion:
"Don't worry - we'll see each other again soon!"
I'm stumped for a moment. What does she mean? I smile and go out the door, not wanting to make the situation weirder. Why should I be worried about anything? Maybe she felt a little awkward too.
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"I'm J---" I say, pressing a hand to my chest like a monkey.
"I'm D---" she responds, smiling.
"Great..." I begin. I'm about to say "well, see you later" when she says it, with passion:
"Don't worry - we'll see each other again soon!"
I'm stumped for a moment. What does she mean? I smile and go out the door, not wanting to make the situation weirder. Why should I be worried about anything? Maybe she felt a little awkward too.
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Thursday, March 04, 2004
In my own defense: ( from louisaland.com)
"Rapunzel
I purchased the one that looked most elegant. The name in raised script lettering has the side profile of a woman with her hair flying back as she appears to lean into the wind. This emblem is directly above the name and is apparently apart of the insignia. Semisweet, pure, Swiss chocolate. Certified 100% organic with 55% cocoa. ...
Well, let's get to the punchline. As I bit into a small block the image of rose petals came to mind with the afterthought of a fine wine. When good chocolate was equated to sex, this is the chocolate they are talking about. For this experiment, both Jordan and I have tried to be conservative and taken little bites and nibbles as we compared and contrasted the taste against other contestants. Nothing compared to this chocolate. Oh. My. God. This is damn good."
(emphasis mine!)
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"Rapunzel
I purchased the one that looked most elegant. The name in raised script lettering has the side profile of a woman with her hair flying back as she appears to lean into the wind. This emblem is directly above the name and is apparently apart of the insignia. Semisweet, pure, Swiss chocolate. Certified 100% organic with 55% cocoa. ...
Well, let's get to the punchline. As I bit into a small block the image of rose petals came to mind with the afterthought of a fine wine. When good chocolate was equated to sex, this is the chocolate they are talking about. For this experiment, both Jordan and I have tried to be conservative and taken little bites and nibbles as we compared and contrasted the taste against other contestants. Nothing compared to this chocolate. Oh. My. God. This is damn good."
(emphasis mine!)
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Tuesday, March 02, 2004
My relationship with New York City is pretty recent.
So many people have dreams of "making it to New York one day." It means something to them, symbolizes something. Unfortunately, I'm not one of those people. If I were, I might have moved in with Scott much earlier. New York is big and noisy, unpredictable. I don't really understand it yet. I know enough not to make eye contact with *anyone* - not cute boys on the subway, not girls I would normally want to become friends with. You can't take for granted that someone will be normal. It's much more likely they're nuts.
I have respect for nyc - its brute strength, its hidden sweet spots. How huge and unknowable it really is. How it changes so quickly -- new fads breed like cockroaches. I don't think that nyc is capable of respecting any person. It just grinds along, burning people's dreams as fuel.
It's a dirty place. Anyone with any money tries their damndest to keep clean. Kids with new white sneakers keep them perfectly white. Where I grew up, we were embarrassed until the whiteness of our new sneakers got scuffed off. In NYC, a scuff is out of place. A scuff means you can't keep the city's dirty fingers off your own body.
A lot of people wash their hands neurotically. I've already become one of those people. When I get to Scott's place, washing my hands is the first thing I do. Even if I don't touch anything, brownish suds come off in the sink. I don't even want to know what it is.
I try to find the exciting parts, concentrate on all the opportunities, dance classes, and interesting people there. Sometimes those good things seem like stars peeking through the light pollution in the orange sky - few and far between, hard to get to, too expensive, elusive.
It is a hard place. It can make you hard, and if you're tough enough to take it, great things can happen. It will polish hard people like diamonds, bring out the best in them, make them sparkle - but I'm not hard, and I'm not interested in becoming harder. I'm more like moss, gentle, soft and green. I'm worried I'll get a little trampled...
My hope, though, is that I will discover the beauty inside the city - that once I'm there it will crack open its asphalt and glass facade.
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So many people have dreams of "making it to New York one day." It means something to them, symbolizes something. Unfortunately, I'm not one of those people. If I were, I might have moved in with Scott much earlier. New York is big and noisy, unpredictable. I don't really understand it yet. I know enough not to make eye contact with *anyone* - not cute boys on the subway, not girls I would normally want to become friends with. You can't take for granted that someone will be normal. It's much more likely they're nuts.
I have respect for nyc - its brute strength, its hidden sweet spots. How huge and unknowable it really is. How it changes so quickly -- new fads breed like cockroaches. I don't think that nyc is capable of respecting any person. It just grinds along, burning people's dreams as fuel.
It's a dirty place. Anyone with any money tries their damndest to keep clean. Kids with new white sneakers keep them perfectly white. Where I grew up, we were embarrassed until the whiteness of our new sneakers got scuffed off. In NYC, a scuff is out of place. A scuff means you can't keep the city's dirty fingers off your own body.
A lot of people wash their hands neurotically. I've already become one of those people. When I get to Scott's place, washing my hands is the first thing I do. Even if I don't touch anything, brownish suds come off in the sink. I don't even want to know what it is.
I try to find the exciting parts, concentrate on all the opportunities, dance classes, and interesting people there. Sometimes those good things seem like stars peeking through the light pollution in the orange sky - few and far between, hard to get to, too expensive, elusive.
It is a hard place. It can make you hard, and if you're tough enough to take it, great things can happen. It will polish hard people like diamonds, bring out the best in them, make them sparkle - but I'm not hard, and I'm not interested in becoming harder. I'm more like moss, gentle, soft and green. I'm worried I'll get a little trampled...
My hope, though, is that I will discover the beauty inside the city - that once I'm there it will crack open its asphalt and glass facade.
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