happy endings

I decided 20 minutes before the movie time that I needed to see Pride and Prejudice last Sunday. Going to movies alone is my thing recently. Except I had the time wrong, so I ended up at the theater after the usher closed the door--20 minutes late. I went in anyway. My timing was off, but I refused to change my plan. It was okay, though, because I know the story. Even if I didn't I would've been fine. I don't need all the edge pieces to put a puzzle together--I've got a gift for filling in what's missing, sniffing out foreshadowing, and ruining the punchline. Somehow figuring out the ending is the only way to keep myself happy. I would have never survived in Austen's world. I'm nowhere near patient enough. My hunch is, she wasn't either, that's why she created heriones who could calmly needlepoint for years waiting for fickle suitors to come to their senses. I think writers often write what they wished they would have said and done for the someone-reading-along who might be braver than she was. But does it work? As I read along, I admire the herione for her faith and perseverance in struggle, but when it's my turn I fumble for corner pieces and rush for resolution. I know there's a happy ending waiting, so why not run toward it?

Last week I heard someone say that true peacefulness can be found even in the most unclear moments. Ever since he said it, I've wanted it--the ability to sit quietly and let the script unfold, trusting that truth is slow. Maybe that's why it seems so scarce in our instant-messaged world. We move too fast for truth, virtue, and peacefulness to settle into our waiting laps. Afterall, these days, who has time to needlepoint?

afternoon

Both times we broke up I ended up at the airport. It was around 4:00. They make time in the afternoon for these sorts of things, they told me. It was quiet and the gate agents casually gossiped, three of them helping me at once like formal waiters. That part felt right; I felt like I needed all three. Manicured, nails clicked against the outdated keys to make new plans. Somewhere between waking alone and trying to fall asleep again, things get done and a new life tries to assert itself. It’s when we make time for those sorts of things. It was when I gave up the flight I wanted to take to go someplace safer. And when it was done, both times, I cried, with tears that were just waiting for things to be done.

I called you yesterday afternoon as I drove back to work. I wanted to stop and tell you the things I had meant to say the night we talked but couldn’t look each other in the eyes. I wanted to say the things that require eye contact. And it was the afternoon, so the timing felt right. Except when I was done I left without a plan, no new ticket, no safe destination. And this time I didn’t cry.

urban decay

The city made me sad--the struggles and impossible refuse of life unswept and those who toil late to make neat piles. They stopped only briefly to read titles of books in shop windows that describe their direction-less gaze, tossed again by educated minds. Find Your True Purpose. They run in embarrassed suits paired with white tennis shoes because they can't breathe without that breeze. But, we are still alive.

St. Valentine

Yesterday was Valentines Day. My sister, in an attempt to make it better, sent me a history lesson of how the day began—the story of St. Valentine. This is what she wrote:

so...i did some research to find out if valentines days is actually a hallmark holiday like all the gripers like to proclaim-- here's what i found-- the origin of the day began when claudius II (leader of Rome) could not get enough men to join his army and thought it was because they did not want to leave their loved ones so he cancelled all marriages and engagements. St Valentine (a bishop) continued to perform secret weddings for lovers and was caught and sentenced to be clubbed to death. Story goes, he fell in love with Claudius' daughter while in jail and just before he was killed, left her a note "love your valentine"-- he died on Feb 14th! and there you have it...just thought you'd like to know we are celebrating the violent death by clubbing of a roman bishop! bring on the chocolates!

I guess we celebrate the note, not the clubbing. Well, some might go for the clubbing (with a pre-established safety word, of course). Brutal love. This year it feels that way.

I met him last year at a Valentines Day party. I always thought that part was kind of cheesy. But it was love, right from then—swan dive, roll around, gorging without forethought. I remember his red shirt with the metal snaps on the front pockets and his wild curls. He had the feel of worn-in passion like dusty jeans and the slightly crooked teeth of a man who would always do things his way. We talked closely, afraid to touch, which we did just once. The back of his hand brushed my forearm and a thrill like opening a love letter or walking through foreign city streets leap through me. It was undertow. My kind of love definitely has no safety word.

This year we are not. There are words to describe it, I guess—broke, breaking, broken. None of them describe the twisted tendons I can still feel between us and the tremendous, powerful love that still lives there. He had paths to travel and those damn crooked teeth didn’t lie. In my tenderness, I couldn’t feel anything except "in the way." I couldn’t stop saying things to him that I desperately wanted to hear back. Why couldn’t I just wait? I’ve given up warm arms and a mind that could calm and nourish mine to my impatience.

Last week I came to work in rubber work boots and no bra after a frantic night of “breaking” with him. Despite how good it felt to make love, it was the night it our break felt real—like it just might stick this time. The comfortable people I know--the ones who manage relationships and fashionable shoes while I spin around myself like revolving door--tilt their heads in empathy. They can reserve and temper themselves; they follow rules and suggest books so I might do the same; they see my unwashed hair, sagging breasts, and red face and graciously pretend not to notice it much. Afterall, I may one day evolve and get the secure love I "deserve." But time after time, I’ve taken the club for love. My kind of love. I can’t help but wonder how many times I could hurl myself at a brick wall, especially when it’s painted with an alluring, red heart with a scrolling, “love your valentine.”

unpublished material

Proust once wrote that all writing was crap and all anyone needed was 3 or 4 books for a lifetime. (Well, he said it with flourish and multi-lined, unpunctuated sentences, but that's the gist.) Maybe he's right. I always had certain "wise" friends in my youth who kept a pulpy copy of a carefully-chosen novel in their backpocket, as if it contained everything they ever wanted to know or read. But, maybe it was just intellectual accessorizing.

I don't know why I wanted this blog. Maybe I felt it was my turn to pollute some public space with my own unnecessary words. Something about blogging reminds me of those concert posters in urban spaces--poles and temporary walls along constructions sidewalks plastered with the same redundant words and images. The weird thing is, each one is designed to catch your attention. The message is written to grab the reader, but wallpapered to the city, they have the impact of background noise. To me, at least. I honestly don't care if anyone reads this. I hope that posting to this blog will feel different to me than those redundant advertisements. I just want a space that makes me accountable to get something written. Everyday. Ok, maybe I want something else.

It's been a long time since I read it, but around sixth grade To Kill A Mockingbird was one of my favorite books. I loved the part where Scout and her brother found the treasures Boo Radley had been hiding in the tree. But far more exciting than that discovery was the notion that he had been putting things there all along. The act of putting something simple out into the world for someone to find (or never find) was thrilling. To me, the finding wasn't nearly as important as the possibility or meaning that is added when something is left behind. It's opening a path for fate to step in. It's faith. My hunch is, it could inspire something even bigger. I don't expect my writing to become one of those backpocket books. I titled my blog "unpublished material" to keep myself honest about it. It's not about anyone reading what I write. I just love the energy that comes from knowing it's out there.