Has it really been 20 days since I last wrote here? Here. Implying that I've been scribbling myself away in bits and pieces, in scraps of paper, in email drafts I save & send myself, or slyly shoot off to friends as letters. In unfinished poems, half-sentences and stories with yet unapparent endings, mainly as I write about my own life which as most of you who read this may well know, is really quite inconclusive.
It's tempting to document, I'd worried about this before. To rattle off events and names and numbers so somehow it all sits in a package neatly tied up and bowed, but instead very much like the city I live in, my life is more an unruly sprawl. Spilling into unexpected paths, branching here and there insensibly, random now, reasonable later. Or vice versa. That I paused isn't surprising, writing my last two posts was heart wrenching - to myself and apparently, to most everyone else who read it. If I had an editor, what would this sainted entity say - a little less honesty? A little less pain?
It's funny what one can find in silence, especially when it's undertaken so instinctively without desire for punishment and also while so authentically in a serious dearth of words. What could I say? How could I break the entire thing down to B without
sounding like I was selling him the idea of how truly lucky he was to even have me? We've all done it. We seek to bridge the gap with the best of intentions and end up coming off like we're power pointing an In Defense of Our Union presentation. Our need is apparent, driven by our beliefs about deserving.
Like who deserves us, whom we deserve, what deserves yet another chance and what doesn't. I confess, I've found the argument of being "deserved" as the sole basis for judging our relationships somewhat ineffective. I suppose to me, it's stating the obvious.
It's not far from someone howling, "No Fair" on the playground, it doesn't exactly tell us what to do next, how to work with what we feel and worse, it could render us myopic. Tunnel visioned into immediately righting things that we're blinded to what actually is. The why's and wherefores, and more significantly, the who's.
Life becomes about the red pencil and we're displaced from our own individuality, too preoccupied with the act of policing. Who can own our part of the relationship but us? Who can answer the question, what is this really about and what does it mean to me? You can't if you've become nothing more than judge and jury.
Today is a day of tears and water. So fair warning, as befits the season of the eclipse, it's about to get real REAL up in here. I've no stunning news, not anything I'd immediately qualify as life altering. Yet that's the interesting thing, isn't it. The most critically transitional moments in life aren't usually the ones you think they are. They are not, as most dramatic formats would have us believe, the times when we finally win the prize, or reach a goal, or get the girl/boy.
No. In fact, most actual points of transition are strangely humble moments, often private or even if shared, only obvious to the person it's most relevant to. Likely not even conscious. More a shadow we can't ignore, a prescience we feel but can't prove, a yet untold story already living in us, pulsing to unfold. We just "know" without reason and justification, that we are at a point of change - comfort and knowledge be damned, and direction? That comes later, and even then, the steps aren't always forward. Or so immediately comforting.
The lovely thing about a holiday week is that most people schedule their trips around it. With less staff around, the office is quiet as a convent. There's joy to be had in simply working, this is usually the case when you're not answering countless emails people send off to make it look like they are when they're not, or going to one pointless meeting after the other. Or even, over-hearing the put-on cheeriness of the usual brown nosers smearing themselves up and down the hallways.
When your gag reflex isn't getting engaged, it generally becomes easier to concentrate. I'd finally conquered a piece of technical writing I'd grappled with, so much so the Saggable Boss begrudgingly admitted it "sounds about right", unable to find fault with either my data or the fact that regular human beings can make sense of it. I'm solo-gloating at my desk when Mr. X calls again, who after greeting me perfunctorily by asking for the Saggable Boss makes it known that wasn't at all the real reason he'd rung. "So..,"he twangs, "are you really NOT going to Face Crack friend me? I got in trouble for it, you know."
I feel immediately guilty, "What do you mean, got in trouble?? This is just your second time calling here, how can you possibly have got reamed for it already?"
I try to sound nonchalant, since not even minutes ago Kentucky had used the same ploy by telling me how woefully he missed someone (i.e. me) when I'd asked him how he was. He came across so forlorn, I immediately pictured his bright golden head bent low with pining while he used a foot to wistfully trace my name in the dirt.
I'm sure he was freshly intact in his dust-free air-conditioned office, but Men it seems, are very highly skilled at Beguilting and have no issues extrapolating the same techniques they used to obtain toys in childhood to well, obtaining You. I'm silently shaking my head with the requisite eye roll when Mr. X explains how a co-worker had ratted him out.
I never thought I'd be writing a post like this. But today, sitting here very independently and quite alone, the sound of fireworks crackling in the sky somewhere, I'm celebrating the 4th in a way I never have before; that is, by writing. And writing about this country. Is this Patriotism? Perhaps a bit, but really more appreciation and a sense of unity with all things Cancerian. NOT George Bush, I'll pass on that so please no quips.
It's usually a Rule of Thumb that one shouldn't ever discuss religion, sex or politics on the first date. And there's a reason why. It is the Trifecta of Inflammatory. When I was younger and literally living under a dictatorship (not my parents, like in a country with an actual autocrat), discussing politics was something distant, dangerous and could get you killed. It was in a sense, a luxury.
To be able to contemplate saying anything about politics without jeopardizing your health, or your safety was to imply real freedom. Though unshackled, we didn't know what that was. There was enough to allow us to go about our business and have jobs, and for that we were grateful enough. Often times, we'd watch Western pundits on satellite TV duking it out with bluster and conviction about their ideologies, the state of the union or the common man's dilemmas. They were so confident. We were not.
I'm sweating slightly from having let Kentucky down, it's a Cancerian thing. We empathize so well, we almost feel your pain - even if we're the one giving it to you. One wonders if war would even exist if we ran the world, maybe it would but it'd be a cold war between bouts of hot soup and succor. I'm trying to center myself once more when my phone rings and I answer without looking, what sounds like Kentucky's voice wafts over the lines.
And perhaps too shocked that he's NOW called me to discuss this further, I stammer just a little bit - my brain too busy compiling the list I'm now meant to enumerate as sensitively as I can without turning the poor man into a shut-in. He asks to speak to the Saggable Boss as if on the pretext of a sales call, I'm exasperated, "Kentucky, why the hell are you asking for my boss, you KNOW you're never going to talk to him."
There's a very brief silence after which he doggedly repeats the request, still polite. I'm baffled at this new gambit, was this his version of a Do Over? "Kentucky, STOP pretending, it's ME, I know it's YOU. Are you off your head??"
The voice coughs, "I'm sorry, this ISN'T Kentucky." while still very much sounding like him. I groan, "Grrrr, Kentucky what's wrong with you, are you daft? Seriously you want to talk about this NOW, like THIS??"
After the fiasco of the derby where sex seemed turned into some kind of speed test, I'd greeted the following week's silence from Kentucky as to be expected. What else could be said? Even while I seethed, I realized that it would be kinder not to treat him to a shock of laser like truth certain to fry up his innards. Surely, he realized that at Strike Three, it simply really was NOT fair.
Alas, Kentucky is either oblivious, hopeful or just determined to go on a wing and a prayer. Perhaps all three. He sends me a short, pleading yet strikingly petulant message noting how it's been a "while" since we've "spoken". It's thankfully by email, I begin to fear that if instead he'd called me, I'd unleash a sound so sub-human, a banshee would hire me. Or definitely take my number for a sub contract.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.