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vermruka
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I was back on the train. It was a newer train, one I didn’t like. It was grey and blue and new. Nothing rattled, nothing shook. I made my way to the dining car where they were beginning to seat for breakfast. A short man with a pointy chin and a purple blazer whisked his way up to me in the narrow aisle. “Hello, just you? Right this way.” I followed him and saw my table from a few feet back: redheaded family, mom facing me. two teenagers opposite, I figured them twins though no faces yet. I walked over and sat next to mom, whose name was probably Diane, with her pressed hair and thin smile. I greeted her briefly and turned to the twins.
Oh. One was a boy and one a girl though both their hair was cropped short, military style. “Well, hello!” I blurted, picking up my water glass in defense, taking a sip and feeling sick to my stomach that I’d employed the old tactic.
Well there they were, anyway. they were gorgeous. The boy’s eyes were hazel, a wonderful beautiful hazel and the girls were just plain brown. No, they were more than brown, they were orange. Yes, they were a fantastic orange, I saw it in the long glint of the sun as we passed the trees and fields and animals, past the houses. We rocked back and forth in the speeding car and waited for the waiter to come over. The family didn’t say much of anything, they didn’t really talk. The twins mumbled things to themselves and to each other but didn’t get too wild about it. I worried I was influencing this, that they were holding back for my benefit, or should it have been to my chagrin?
The twins seemed to have some special kind of relationship because I couldn’t understand a single word they were saying and it didn’t seem like their mother could, either, yet they didn’t seem to be missing anything that was coming sideways out of one another’s mouths. They kept their heads at down-tilts, terribly shy at my presence or perhaps they were always that way, and muttered things to each other almost inaudibly, unintelligibly. There was a lot of stifled laughter; this and any smiles were very tight and controlled and most sound was emitted through the nose in quiet rapid bursts. They both seemed painfully aware of and unhappy with their teeth, though in seeing what I could I found I wanted to see more. They were long and somewhat horse-like and frightfully crooked but they did a nice job of making their beautiful faces even more beautiful. I noticed they took great pains to avoid touching each other - for instance, when she asked him to hand her a packet of sugar from nearby the window he handed it to her daintily, the edge of it pinched between thumb and forefinger, and she plucked it away just as daintily but with intense focus behind it, almost cross-eyed in her intent to avoid contact with his hand. She tore open the sugar and began shaking small piles of the crystals into her palm and eating them.
The waiter was heading over, the same man who’d taken me to my seat. Mother seemed relieved to have the distraction. She, too, seemed uncomfortable at my being there and still hadn’t said a word to me. the waiter was in grouchier spirits than when I’d first encountered him and was grumbling under his breath about something. He took out his little pad and pencil hastily and began jotting something as he looked over his shoulder 3, maybe 4 times, in a nervous, erratic way. he looked at me when he finally asked: “are we ready?” his smile was also tight and controlled, though in irritation rather than self-consciousness.
I picked up the menu with a startled jerk, realizing I hadn’t so much as glanced at it. “Uh, yes,” I feigned. “I’ll have the uh … “ I quickly skimmed the half-dozen breakfast choices and decided on something traditional – eggs, pancakes, choice of meat. I chose bacon. When asked what kind of toast I’d be having I wondered if they had English muffins? He rolled his eyes snootily and then immediately seemed to regret it & tried to make up for it with a broader smile and a slight lean forward, looking at the menu with me, explaining what my options were. “You’ve got your choice of wheat, white or rye,” he explained as he cast another look over his shoulder. Something must have caught his eye - he lingered for a moment - and it was suddenly very comical. There he was, still hunched over, hand poised at the writing pad, looking down the aisle in his nervous way. “I’ll have rye,” I said. “Sounds better than an English muffin, actually.” He didn’t care. He absently scribbled my decision onto the paper as he trailed off, craning his neck in order to get a better look at something. It was funny, the way he went off so quickly. I had to laugh.
The twins liked that I was laughing. They both stopped very suddenly in what they were doing, freezing momentarily and looking at me, then looking at each other. Something had tickled them. The girl became almost bouncy, writhing in her seat for a moment and looking rather gleeful. She arranged her arms on the tabletop and stared at me directly, smiling. “Hello,” she said.
I reached across the table as if to grab her, then recoiled. What was I doing?
Mother was none the wiser, staring out the window looking sad.
The girl stared at me a moment longer and then settled back into her seat. She and her brother looked at each other quickly and tilted their heads down in precisely the same way and started to laugh. I was confused. I didn’t know why we couldn’t have a normal breakfast. Mother, quite frankly, was making me angry, selfishly turning herself away from us. It was at the point that I knew not what to do or say. Nothing would have seemed natural. I wanted desperately for the waiter to return with the food so that we could get on with it and have something else to focus on.
A petite woman eventually appeared with glasses of water for us. She was carrying two in each hand with her long jeweled fingers wrapping around them every which way. she tried to get mom’s attention in order to hand it to her personally but it didn’t happen, mom was still staring sadly out the window.
She surprised us all when she said, “Your water, ma’am.” Mom turned abruptly from her awful daydreaming and widened her eyes in horror.
“Thank you,” she said coldly, then took a long disgusting drink & turned back to the window.
The water woman was already tottering off to her next task and as she did, she was met by our waiter friend in the middle of the aisle. He had emerged from the staircase with an enormous tray of food and when he saw her heading in his direction he froze – not physically but mentally, you could see it in his face, his lips became drawn and pursed and his eyes locked. He was terrified, he was angry. I didn’t know what he was but she was obviously the focus of all of his bizarre energy. I heard her giggle as they brushed arms in their passage through the aisle and this positively infuriated him, though he was trying very hard to keep it at bay. He turned instinctively to follow her to the other end of the dining car but he was stuck, there was no following her. He shifted his grip on the tray from one hand to two and carried it sternly over to where we were sitting.
“Thank God,” said mother, and for a moment I empathized with her, which made me terribly unhappy.
He started unloading the plates one at a time. “Here you are,” he said to mom, getting her waffles with whipped cream and blueberries out of the way first.
I noticed he made brilliant eye contact with the daughter as he set her food in front of her. “Your omelette,” he said, and she looked up at him unwaveringly, neither of them dropping this contact until it was time for me to get mine.
The food looked surprisingly good. Portions were large, things looked well-seasoned. I wondered if they had a real kitchen somewhere rather than what I’d assumed would be a series of microwaves. Surprise, surprise, I’d been given an English muffin. “I found one,” the waiter said with a wicked sort of grin, and I couldn’t help but laugh again. “Well thank you,” I said sheepishly. “that was very nice of you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said cryptically, and before I could ask who it was I SHOULD be thanking -- there he went with the neck-craning again! Water woman was approaching, no doubt. He performed his signature trail-off down the aisle, fumbling for something in his pocket and ignoring a raised hand from a youngster against one of the windows who was probably dying for some ketchup or butter or another glass of milk. Just as he managed to get whatever it was he’d been digging for he popped open the door to the adjoining car and disappeared from view.
The four of us at the table began to eat. Mother sawed dutifully into her waffle and didn’t stop until it was arranged in piles of smaller pieces stacked atop one another. She smothered each pile in the whipped cream and berries and then ate them one at a time – huge piles, huge bites! Each time she took a bite her brow furrowed tighter and tighter. What was she thinking about? I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her, it was so awful. She chewed at an enormously fast pace, so fast it didn’t seem real. From the corner of my eye it may as well have been a movie-tape I was watching, one that was running endlessly on fast-forward. Her poor jaw! I thought to myself, mindlessly patting my own jaw in agonizing sympathy.
Thankfully the twins were quite normal in their eating habits and didn’t make any sort of fuss. I wondered how old they were. My first impression had told me they were teen-aged but there was something about the quality of their mannerisms which suggested perhaps mid-twenties. The movement of the boy’s hands, for instance, was too confident for anything as young as I’d supposed. As though to prove me correct he picked up his fork in his left hand and extended his index finger firmly down along the stem of it, flaring his arm and elbow off to the side in order to gain leverage. He bent his head studiously (which I’d seen before and was beginning to adore) and smirked when a gush of egg yolk suddenly bloomed around the fork’s prongs. His sister noticed and they began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. I felt stupid for asking anything at all, whatever they were doing was beautiful and should have been left well alone. They were kind in their response, however. The girl (without looking at me) said that it had reminded her of something, the egg yolk. At this the two of them began to laugh more robustly, setting their utensils down in order to enjoy the moment more fully. Mother was finished completely with her plate and turned away from the window to wanly regard them. Finally she spoke: “Eat your dinner.” She went back to the window.
There was a moment’s pause and then the twins laughed harder than they had at anything prior. Mother gave one barely-perceptible twitch back in their general direction and then resumed watching the cows go by. “This is breakfast,” said the twins in unison, and when the mother didn’t respond they seemed sad, if only for a moment. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to deal with the woman all of the time. I admired their tenacity. Perhaps this is why they seem so mature, I thought. Taking care of a wretched old woman their whole lives. It suddenly occurred to me to wonder where their father was. Father was no doubt a striking man – the only feature they seemed to have inherited from their mother was the red hair and perhaps the shape of the eyes, which is to say – round – no, spherical, like a fish. Yes, they protruded slightly, but not in a way that was unattractive, just enough to make them seem more alive than the rest of us; it afforded us the chance to really see their eyes at work, rotating in their skulls, such marvelous mechanisms.
I pushed my plate into the center of the table. It was mostly empty save for one lone scrap of the English muffin – an edge piece, black and burnt. It sad there looking sad and pathetic. I wasn’t surprised when mother reached for it and ate it without asking. All I could muster in response was a faint half scoff / cough. She didn’t notice. I sat there wondering what in hell had just happened. This had not been a normal breakfast. The way these things usually went is you walk in, they sit you down with a nice family or a nice couple of people riding solo just like you and everyone introduces themselves over a cup of coffee and you talk about where you’re headed and where you’ve been. You talk about how beautiful Montana is if you’re riding through Montana, you talk about how neat Chicago is if you’re going there. Speaking of which, it seemed we had left the state of Washington, perhaps long ago. There weren’t nearly as many evergreens and even the sky looked different, somehow. Less pensive. I mopped up the small mess I’d made on the tablecloth and rose to leave. I let a twenty dollar bill drift to the tabletop and nodded a vague goodbye to none of them in particular.
“Where are you going?” the boy asked. He actually seemed bothered that I was considering leaving so anonymously. I stood there awkwardly for a moment with my thighs pressed into the side of the table while the three of them looked at me. it was funny because each of their expressions were so different; mother was slightly quizzical, which I was starting to think was the foundation for all of her expressions; sister had her arms folded tightly into each other and was leaning forward, chin nearly on her plate, starting up at me with a goofy grin; brother raised his eyebrows questioningly and waited serenely for me to respond.
From the corner of my eye I saw a commotion at the other end of the car. It was our waiter. It was a confusing sight, I couldn’t really make out what was happening - he was struggling with something, that was certain, but I could only see the upper half of his body. It seemed he’d been coming up the stairs and was stopped short about two steps down by the water woman. He was leaning uncomfortably from the doorframe so that we could only see his outstretched arms and his shining head, which was red with frustration. Between them was an enormous white linen bag, which she kicked at lightly a few times, as if to say, “here, take care of this!” The bag was so large that there wasn’t any way for him to come into the aisle and get any sort of good grip on it – unless, of course, she’d back up and give him space – but there didn’t seem to be any chance of that. “I need this out of here NOW,” she said, and his arms immediately sprung into action, grasping at the oversized bundle ferociously. He muttered something angrily and then gave one hard pull to the bag and began dragging it down the steps – thump thump thump. |
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There are so many things I'm capable of doing. I have so much potential. I'm an upright LIVING thing, mobilized in a world of OBJECTS. Material with which to work. I can close my eyes, use my imagination (DREAM) and then -- come out and act upon these dreams. I can do these things again and again. (Again and again and again.)
I'll find a shopping cart and push it up the steepest hill in town -- I can do that.
I'll RUN to the nearest library and study physics for 4 hours -- I can do that.
I can also eat and eat and eat.
With so much potential to BE(come) myself and use myself and my body and my brain as tools, as TOOLS, as opportunities to make this a better, more comfortable, more satisfying life for mySELF, which is the only THING I'VE GOT, this THING called mySELF, I cannot / will not / absolutely reFUSE TO make this one existence that I have (that's happening right now) about FOOD and what I'm going to eat next and what I just ate and oh there's a rock in my stomach 'cause I couldn't manage to pull my hand out of the peanut butter jar. How embarrassing it is to finger it over and over, finger in finger out, then back to work at the keyboard and - oh! - there's a bit of it on your knuckle, there, better suck it off. And the SMELL, the smell of that oily sweet no-good-for-you General Mills crap that i'm smart enough to know is wreaking havoc on my body. I can't go on any longer pretending that there isn't anything happening in my body beyond my MOUTH! Am I stupid, I wonder?
I mean, am I really so stupid? To succumb to the temptation of taste again and again and AGAIN? As though there aren't an endless number of sensitive and magnificent processes going on just beyond my tongue? As if the 'hatch' merely ends after the treat has gone down? Now you see it now you don't?
Many many many things to do. So much to do in this world.
The big problem is the way I tell myself, 'Oh, I'd just like a little _____, there's nothing wrong with that!'
And while it may be true, while it may be true that I just want a little sugar in my tea or a little butter on my little slice of toast, or a little cake or a little candy bar or a little cup of soda or a little spoonful of ice cream or a little bag of chocolate ... do I THINK about what happens when it starts piling in my body? What's my body THINKING when it finds its way in there? What's it DOING? Didn't science class teach us anything? Don't we know the difference between poison and non-poison?
Oh, but I just want a LITTLE poison.
Why the entitlement? Why am I entitled in this way? Why am I so protective of the ways in which I damage myself?
More than anything, I'm disgusted because there are SO MANY OPTIONS. Sometimes I can't believe I was given this experience, this is NOT a static photograph I'm working with, this is a wiiiiiiiide-open field through which I'm free to roam and love and influence and I canNOT let this stupid FOOD, which exists to keep me going and functioning and influencing and DOING ... control me in the way that it does. I'm tired of picking toffee out of my teeth, my precious teeth that I'm willingly destroying. Gee, THANKS, is what I'm saying. THANKS for the abundance, let me get this death process working as quickly as possible and let's ignore everything else I could be doing, everything productive or positive. |
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I’ll describe a day. It’s a day like any other, I wake up and look to the window and see that it’s sunny, it’s beautiful! Boy is it beautiful, and hot. My body wants water, it wants to go to the beach. My body wants food, I’d like to eat breakfast. Mm, waffles. I’ll make a homemade waffle or two with giant blueberries and all the maple syrup I could want. Maybe a really cold, really big glass of milk. Maybe I’ll skip all that and have a pear and a piece of toast. Yeah, that’d be fine, too.
I get dressed alone in my room and think about asking you along to the store with me to pick everything out but I picture you in bed, sleeping. First I picture you tossing and turning the night before, chain-smoking in front of the computer or the television, eating your first meal of the day, a TV dinner all by your lonesome. Taking a sleeping pill or two to correct the caffeine from earlier on. I picture you lying there in your room and no, I don’t feel that I’m JUDGING you. If you could only look beyond that possibility for a moment … because sure, on the surface it probably sounds exactly like judgment. I understand that, I really do. But please put yourself where I’m saying I go, just for a moment. Picture me buttoning up my dress and thinking about you lying there day after day with your legs slamming against the mattress and I know you’re never getting enough water and I know the coffee and the sugar and the cigarettes dehydrate you and it’s not JUDGMENT that you’re reading, it’s worry. I’m sorry if it makes you feel babied, I can’t control how I make you feel just like you can’t control these feelings that I’m having. It’s just the reality. I care about your well-being, nothing more needs to be read into it. Don’t you see?
So I go to the store on my own and something just isn’t RIGHT, I can’t concentrate, something feels unhappy to me. The upbeat music they have playing … well, it grates on me a little bit, makes me feel a little empty. I can never figure out why, immediately, but eventually it always comes back … it’s that I miss you. it’s that it’s day number __ (50? 100?) in a row, now, that there’s just no possibility of you joining me … for anything. I stand there in the produce section and I don’t WANT to pick out an apple, I don’t WANT to pick out an avocado, I want to pick out two of them, I want you to be there with me thinking about what you’d like to get, I want you to WANT to be there with me, I want you to want to get up and do the things that all people must do – go to the grocery store, hang out with their girlfriend.
Something just isn’t right, you know. It always feels cold in the grocery store, I can’t focus, I guess I’m kind of thinking about how it used to be. Something in my memory bank tells me that there was some excitement before, some inspiration. I guess that’s how relationships go. But for some reason, and I think everyone says this, it really didn’t seem like we’d ever reach a point like this. It really seemed like we were so connected, somehow, and so in awe of each other and what we seemed to do to each other … that it might not ever stop.
I still don’t know that I’m saying anything I’d really like to say, here.
And then I come home and make the food and eat the breakfast and sure, it’s fine, sure, it tastes good, yippee the blueberries are really good today. And I put on a record and it sounds good, it’s good and groovy.
Please don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying I CAN’T enjoy these things alone. I’m not saying it never happens. But I love you. You are IT to me. If I had the choice between your company and anyone else’s, I’d choose you. That’s just how it is. I don’t know why it is, but it is.
And for me – someone who I guess has no choice but to get up every morning and take care of these things like breakfast and records and thinking about what to do next and taking walks and going to the store and driving in the car and getting a new pair of shoes and running into people on the street … see, I have no choice just because of who I am right now, what my health is like, what my routine is like. I just DO these things as most people do, I spose. No big deal. So what I’m saying is … every day I’m doing these things and every day or almost every day I’d like to do a few of them with you, ‘cause I THINK that’s what a boyfriend is “for”, I think that’s what girlfriends typically want from their boyfriends. Presence. Existence. So you can see where the sadness would set in.
There are millions of microscopic moments that comprise how I feel about this. The few foolish words that manage to come out are meant to represent all of the singular minutes and seconds that I spend wandering around this city doing the silly things that people do … alone. Every day. Hours and minutes and seconds. Me behind the wheel of my car, I see a beautiful thing, a baby laughing, a weird man running across the street, a nice mural, a nice flock of birds, I’m eating a good orange and you’re not there to share it with. Hours and minutes and seconds, me taking a walk and you’re not there to take a picture of, you’re not there to hear the funny conversation going on in the house I’m walking past. You’re not there to give a flower to that I pick from someone’s front yard. Hours and minutes and seconds, it’s really hot and I have my bikini on and hell I’d take the BUS to beach at this point, it’s that hot and besides it might be fun to take the bus, but … naw, I can’t call victor. He’s sleeping. I know he’s sleeping. He wants to be sleeping. He couldn’t sleep last night. He doesn’t feel good. He took too many sleeping pills. He drank too much coffee. His lungs are killing him. God, his lungs are killing him. I feel so awful. I want to go over there and make it better but I can’t, I’m not a doctor. He’ll get annoyed if I come over ‘cause he’ll feel bad about himself again. All I seem to do is make him feel bad about himself these days. I make him want to smoke more. If I go and wake him up we’ll get in the car and I’ll feel like I have to have something specific in mind for him. But I don’t. I just want him there sometimes for the daily things, for LIFE things.
‘Cause I’m living life without you, victor. This is what I feel like. I see you after work and I’m dead tired and I smell like cheese and I’m wearing a suit and I’m hot and exhausted and you’re tired / wired and you’re watching TV. Every time I manage to come over w/ you already awake you absolutely will not turn off the TV. If you did you’d resent me. You wouldn’t know what to do with me. It’s clear you don’t want me there, you don’t want to try. Or this is how it seems.
Funny thing about this is … it could be and probably is a bunch of misunderstanding. Sometimes it feels like that’s all anything is between two people. But that’s probably the saddest possibility of all.
Maybe if I’d lived here my whole life our relationship would be different. But … whatever. What does that mean? I guess it would mean that I wouldn’t feel so lost or alone here. As it stands I have no friends. I’ve lived here for less than two years and I’ve spent all of my time with you. when we met you wouldn’t have it any other way, if you recall. You wanted me by your side constantly. Maybe that’s what this has to do with, at least partially. And only partially, because my desire to see you IS there. But Christ, I became dependent on you (IN PART) because you wanted me to. You wanted me to, don’t you see that? And so I did, and now it’s overwhelming (to you, to me), and now I love you to the point of wanting to see you happy, because for a time I thought you WERE, I thought you had certain things going in your life and to me that was appealing. It’s not to say I would ever completely abandon you because of what’s up, but … it makes it very difficult. Just think of it this way … our relationship wouldn’t have been so enticing and intense at first if it included coming and waking you up and dragging you out of bed every day only to be greeted by disinterest and misery.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I wish I did. I thought I did. Apparently it’s very complicated. I truly think writing a book is the only way for me to work it all out in my head. When I talk to you (I just got off the phone with you) I get very tense. My voice seems pinched. And no it’s not all the time. You sound tense, too. I don’t want this. I don’t know how it came to be. I hate it. it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with how I actually feel about you. I bet it doesn’t go along with how you feel about me, either.
the difference is ... When you finally are up and around ... you know that I’m always here waiting for you.
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I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have too many thoughts on this right now. See ya.
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the grocery store is really where it’s most apparent. Domesticity? Or I look over into the car next to me and see a mother in the backseat holding a baby, a mother in her 30s with dark hair and sunglasses, confident and mature and ready for life. I think yes if we were calmer and healthier and more comfortable with ourselves we could HAVE that, I’ve dreamt about the peace that could exist between us and it’s not as though I’m dreaming of different people. This has never been about fantasizing of a person who does not exist (mythical “together” victor), the together-victor is real, and I’ve seen him. I’ve seen passionate victor and I know he exists down there somewhere. Member what you said about Olivia. Okay this is a perfect example and I should bring it up to you, it might help you to understand: you said Olivia’s brain is bitchin’ but it’s destroyed by the city life and its responsibilities. Exactly! YOUR brain is bitchin’ and I want you to escape all of this, escape the cigs and all the other trash that gets in the way of your happiness. This isn’t about FIXING anyone. I gotta say something and it might not make you happy, I dunno what it’ll make you feel like. But I think you could be happy at the bottom of the ocean, miles and miles away from me, and that’d feel pretty good. In other words even if I never saw you again that’d be okay as long as I could be certain you were happy. I’m not here trying to FIX you. I’m not. What I’m feeling isn’t for me. Just the thought of you being calm within yourself and making music and doing the things a talent like you is SUPPOSED to be doing would bring me all the pleasure in the world. Sounds like fluff, I don’t give a fuck. The idea isn’t original but it sure is genuine. People have been saying it for millions of years to their millions of loved ones but it doesn’t change the fact that I mean what I’m saying and you can take it or leave it.
oh and you say that by watching TV and sleeping lots, well you say that you’re doing what you wanna be doing when you do those things and I don’t doubt that. And they’re fine, everything is fine. I’m truly truly not trying to judge those things, though everything that comes out of my mouth would convince you otherwise.
But listen, I’ve seen you after playing a show … you play a show at Taix and even though you say it’s no big deal and you hate playing there and you think it’s rinky-dink and gee you wish someone other than your friends would show up … I see how it CHARGES you up, I see how you feel on-top of the world again, and not to mention the fact that you COMMAND a stage like nobody’s business. My own mother thinks you should be spending the rest of your life on stage (and don’t forget, it’s not too late! I dunno if you think it is but just in case you do, it’s NOT). Yes, I see what it does to you to play music and to write your script, these things come so naturally to you, my beauty. And I’m just trying to tell you that it makes me happy inside to see your gears working in your favor, to see you moving your hands for your OWN purposes. You’re so full of passion and ideas and happiness and love, all I’m saying is that I want you to USE THEM because that’s what we’re all HERE FOR! Each and every one of us, to channel our individual loves and passions into the betterment of the universe!
it’s desperation, like I said the other day, I’m desperate for these changes to occur ‘cause like YOU said the other day, we’re only on this planet one time (as far as we know) and time IS actually running out, believe it or not, and ever since I met you … I’ve really begun to FEEL days passing; each sunset hits me BIG-TIME in the chest and in the stomach because I think oh no another day that victor didn’t get out of bed (and mind you this is on top of what I feel to be my own shortcomings in the time management and self-betterment department, but I’ll work on that with my therapist).
And all of these things are flashing before me. images, you know. Images of … I don’t know what. Impressions that I have, that feel like reality. That are BASED on REAL things that have happened and that I’ve seen in you. that seems to be what you’re not understanding. You have an idea in your head about FIXING and girls needing to FIX men and all of these tired stupid phrases rolling around up there that really have nothing to do with what’s going on so if you’d only STOP saying them to me I’d appreciate it. honestly. Stop that. It’s incredibly annoying. Those phrases are meaningless, you know.
Today for instance I went to the stupid thrift store where we bought the infamous rug (sunset & gower) and I was just standing there looking through racks of clothes and of course the place reminded me of you and I went to the back and remembered you sitting there waiting for me to look for stuff for my new los angeles home and I remembered you talking to some kid in a wheelchair and asking him what his mom might think of … something, I don’t know what you were saying, but I remember looking across the room at you and feeling like there was FAMILY over there, it was the strangest sensation, it was something I’d never felt before, it was something I’d never thought I’d feel. You were funny and open and I knew there was no one like you, your big face with the big lips and big mysterious eyes. So I was back there today and the feelings all came right on back and I realized that those feelings aren’t even that far DOWN, in fact they’re still RELEVANT, they’re still EXACTLY THE SAME. It sounds impossible but what I’m saying is that all of the crap that’s been piling on top of those initial feelings could, as far as I’m concerned, be swept away quickly and easily. Or so it seems. Because of how easily they come BACK to me and because of how they don’t seem at all foreign or far away.
What I’m saying is that if there could be some REAL re-connection between us I could “forget” about any unpleasantness or confusion that we’ve experienced. Because my love for you still has the same flavor and that flavor is THEE flavor, I just know it is, but right now I feel far away from you a lot of the time. Some of the time I feel quite close to you, when you seem with it and present and interested in your life. I start to feel like I can relax and maybe let things be. But things change really quickly around here, as you know. By around here I mean between you and me. but … there’s something to be SAID for what I just said, isn’t there? I mean the fact that all of those feelings are apparently just beneath the surface layers of confusion and hurt and misunderstanding? I can hardly believe it, myself, but my passion for you is still just as intense. I could honestly see another blood-drinking scene. Couldn’t you? something like it, I mean. But there’s one thing we’d need to get ahold of first and I think you know what it is, on both ends, mind you –
Yeah, trust.
We don’t trust each other in the slightest right now. I mean I trust that you’ll help me out if I need you to and I trust that you won’t kill me and things like that. I trust that you wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. but I don’t TRUST you. any passionate moment happens right now and I’m searching your eyes for honesty. I’m just not sure it’s there. And I guess I can never be completely sure ‘cause I’m not you and I’m not a mind-reader. But … I do remember looking into your eyes once way back when and you looked back at me and said ‘I’ll never lie to you’ and I really think you meant it then, you sounded SHOCKED to say it. it didn’t sound like a line, you sounded giddy and surprised and full of some strange delight. You wanted to believe what you were saying, you wanted to make it so. You really wanted it to work with me, you saw something really special in me and this is a weird world full of people and relationships and some of them make you feel this way and some that way, but I think what you were feeling for me was something new, something innocent, something like a dream, you really thought I was your dream girl and you were probably scared because I was so young and naïve and starry-eyed and you weren’t sure that I wouldn’t ever lie to you. but you were hoping, you were hoping …
And yeah I think we still want that, even after the mistrust we’ve now brought into this thing we have. I’ve given you reason to mistrust me, you’ve given me the same. Probably because we assume the other wouldn’t understand but I think what’s funniest about us is that we understand more about the other than we like to admit or even realize. For instance, I’m sure that when you talk to certain people, certain female friends or what-have-you … well, you might not even mention that you have a girlfriend. You might talk about me vaguely or cryptically or casually. And it’s not ‘cause you don’t love me madly, though that’s what my insecurity would like me to believe. It’s probably because … you … hmm, it’s hard to put into words but I know exactly what it is because I do the same thing. It’s because you want your relationship with THAT person to be exactly what it would be if there were no Bernadette. In other words, them knowing of your passion for me would put quite a damper on any passion that could arise between the two of you, platonic or not. And I understand that. In my friendships with men, well I have to admit they’re at least minimally based on some physical attraction ‘cause that’s how a lot of friendships start, especially superficial or social ones. I go out and about and I’m physically drawn to someone, doesn’t have to be sexual. Or someone’s drawn to me. even if it’s subconsciously sexual it doesn’t really mean anything and certainly doesn’t mean the relationship will ever head in that direction. So anyway, you just wanna be easy and natural with that person. You hide me-n-you from them ‘cause, guess what? It’s too intense to ever explain to anyone, anyway. It’s for us, it’s our little treasure. How can I explain in minutes to someone else the dynamics of OUR relationship? Just can’t be done.
Unfortunately this behavior is really immature and does speak SOMEWHAT of the level of commitment that exists, here. It somewhat shows that you or maybe even me aren’t fully committed or are afraid that the other isn’t fully committed. It’s immature and it’s hurtful. It is manipulative. Every time I think about it I think about John and Yoko (seems like I think about them a lot, as well as assume a lot about their relationship, but I do assume they’d never do this to each other) and yeah, I can’t imagine them doing it and it’s because they were certain of and proud of their love and more importantly they turned their love into creativity. Sure they had more money and more resources and blah blah blah, maybe weren’t as moody as we are, neither, who knows? Who knows any of it? but I think you see why the whole thing would make me uncomfortable.
Let’s just say … there’s a lot of confusion and sadness. And I do often feel like a WIDOW. I’m sorry. Especially in the grocery store! It’s like I’m planning meals in my head that I know I’m never gonna be able to share with you ‘cause you’re gone. These are my subconscious brain and heart-pulses and I’m absolutely not making it up in order to fulfill some selfish need. I’m wondering how you’ll feel about it, I am. I’m hoping that you won’t misread it. I’m hoping it won’t upset you. I’m hoping that if you feel any doubt about it being a purely loving thing, not a judgmental or cynical thing, you’ll do me a favor and just close your eyes and REALLY pretend what it might be like to be me living those moments because they’re very real for me and they happen every single day and they kill me.
And I’m not crazy, I’m really not. This has arisen after months and months and months of what I call “missing out on victor”; it happened yesterday while I drove to work and heard a fun old song on the radio and it was sunny out and there was a goofy black guy walking across the crosswalk and it was just one of those LIFE MOMENTS that I know is about be gone as quickly as it came and then I think of you and suddenly the song seems SAD and the sunlight feels EMPTY because I love you so very much and I feel I just can’t have you. You’re never ever there. And when you are you DON’T FEEL GOOD. Or you’re just unhappy. Preoccupied.
And no it’s not all the time. I’m not trying to speak in absolutes and I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I doubt I’ll even show these words to you. I haven’t decided yet.
If they’re making you feel bad I’m sorry, I should start over and try again. All I’m really trying to say is this
I LOVE YOU VICTOR BALOGH AND I’VE SEEN YOUR POTENTIAL AND IT’S TRULY AMAZING AND I WISH YOU COULD LOVE YOURSELF AS THE REST OF THE WORLD LOVES YOU BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE ONE CHANCE TO SHINE, AND IT’S RIGHT NOW. |
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he won't let me come today. i've been at it for hours now, i'm crying
and frustrated by the millions of little half-moments, fullness at a
glance and then gone, swept back into the sea of me, my bones down
there starting to hurt and my pants hot and heavy with sweat, it must
be sweat. sweat at the backs of my knees. i keep trying but i know
it'll do me no good. he's punishing me. punishing me for showing up at
his door, bright blue afternoon, ready to explore or be explored,
ready to walk with him in the stupid sunshine; ready to eat fruit with
him & taste his fingers along with it; ready to hear him laugh and see
him push the cart in the grocery store; and with these thoughts i
turned up at his door and he answered it naked and dirty and with film
on his lips and in his eyes and he stumbled and coughed his way back
to bed, no hello no nothing, and he threw the blanket back over his
head and what, wished he was dead? and i stood in his bedroom and
watched him there, the cloth-covered bulk of him, cloth all stained
and torn, and i don't remember what i said but i knew what would
happen, i knew i'd been fantasizing again, and looking at him lying
there i remembered that he had no interest
in any of it, he was stringing the whole thing along as he saw
fit, i was as casual to him as a wave to the mailman (and, in that
moment, as irritating as the bills he delivered - 'oh, this again?
don't remind me') . so i stood there with a lot to say but everything
that came out was shrill and hurt and needy, which are all things that
i felt but certainly hadn't wanted on display, and all he could do was
snap at me with his muffled-pillow-voice so i just turned around and
left, no use dragging it out.
he was punishing me for all of it, he didn't want me thinking i could
go on bothering him for the rest of time - after all, he had a life
to live - and he was punishing me for returning hours later, after i'd
gone over my actions and decided that yes, they were hideous and they
were dreadful and everything else.
i'd gone back to the doorstep with a bit of breakfast for him, things
i knew he'd really like, and i pounded on the door again but he
wouldn't answer; i knew that he heard me so i planned to leave the
food there for him, surely he could grab it and eat it and not really
have anything to do with me if that's the way he wanted it. so i set
it there on the doorstep and gave one last loud rap so he'd know to
come out and look, and - surprise! he was approaching, i could hear
his footsteps! and he threw open the door looking just as bleak and
grizzled as before and i tried to quick-blurt out what i'd knocked
for, what i'd brought for him, but before i could, he cursed me, he
silenced me in an angry rapid burst and then shut the door to my open
palm, my twisted mouth crying WAIT! - pathetic til the end - and that
was it. nowhere to go but away.
he's punishing me for all of it, he knows what he's doing. he sees me
lying here with my knees in the air and my neck hot and red and
furious, determined to get what i know i won't get, not today, not
until he feels i've learned my lesson. |
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had a dream you were in some attic bedroom, blue painted walls and sunlight from the ceiling and a big bed taking up most of the space. i clomped up there in my heavy boots and you woke up instantly when i stepped into the doorframe. you saw me and said 'don't ever leave'. |
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and see, THIS is why communication is difficult:
those words going out embodied so many things, to me
the mood of the music i'm hearing affected the emotion i
put into them, the setting of me here in this room, the mood
of my day, my current 'world view', whatever that means.
everything, everything, it's all so very sensitive.
and then the words reach YOU and they could be as static and stoic
as a grandfather clock, and they probably are. nowhere in them do you
ever discern my benign fondness for you as a creature.
nowhere in them do you smell my respect. nowhere in them do you
gain real understanding for what i'm experiencing.
it's just impossible.
so yes, i see your point, why it's perhaps more sensible to give up.
i see it i see it i do.
but i hate being lonely, and by that i mean ...
if the reality of confusion is, at any point, overwhelmed by
the illusion of understanding, i'm tempted to return, again and again. |
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there's my perfect dolphin!
wrapped in silk
i've heard it heals, i've heard
it kills
i've heard it tastes
like milk |
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it's been almost a year since i moved to los angeles. i was born here, you know. moved away when i was 5 but always carried around my small memories. tiny shadowed portraits, frozen glimpses. senses. scenes.
visited for the first time when i was 21 and couldn't believe it. couldn't believe how it made me FEEL. overwhelming stuff, all of the familiarity. the golden light, the timelessness, the endlessness of the landscape. the surreality. i realized i'd been dreaming about los angeles my whole life. it had shaped me in that way. in my dreams there were always yellow hills, rubber-necked trees, warm brown faces, impending doom. this IS an apocalyptic place, don't forget it.
and there i was, in dreamland. that's why i was so compelled to return, i felt as though every moment was a waking dream. i couldn't imagine anything more satisfying. i was completely convinced this was the place for me. so down i came.
last december. seems like it could have been ten years ago, now. i rode the train down for a week's time in order to meet my new roommate (agreed upon sight-unseen), to check out the house (same), to check out my neighborhood. to BE here. i just wanted to be here as much as possible.
the train ride was beautiful, full of crying and writing. i'd been miserable, in a way, that year in washington. lot of anxiety, little eating. argument and tirade after tirade. running down the street in the middle of the night, it sounds so stupid on paper.
train was 4 hours late but new roommate decided to wait - 2 o clock in the morning and he had to be up at 6 for work!! i was impressed. when we met he was kind in the face, soft-spoken, patient. i was happy.
i had fun that week. i dressed as fancy as i wanted to and took a lot of wandering walks and went to parties. the parties here are always strange. rarely have i met a host / hostess but there's always so much FOOD, so much BOOZE, so many people. so much marijuana, and good marijuana. it's easy to feel happy here, at least at first, at least when it's all-new. all the faces, all the hills. driving at night, computer-chip city. warm air and the right music and always something being offered to you, people seem so generous.
night before i got on the 2nd train, the one to take me back to washington (so i could collect my things and then move for GOOD), this new roommate of mine invited me out to dinner, said some friends of his would be joining us. and since every experience here is a good one, a weird one, a compelling one, i couldn't turn him down.
we picked up his friends. first one was a rotund adult-teenager named dave, you could smell the roleplayer in him from a mile away. nice enough, little overbearing. sneered at the music i'd chosen for the ride. very loud, very bearded. glittery earring. second to join was AL, a snooty and decadent faggot [self-proclaimed] who insisted upon the restaurant of HIS choice, an expensive thai joint on Sunset. we tried to compromise but he was anxious, insistent, hugging my headrest and demanding that he have his way, so we obliged him.
on the way, stopped at a red light, i saw a fabulous MURAL painted along the side of a building. psychedelic desert, almost. very well-done. purple cacti and winding skyline. i asked my roommate about it, pointed it out, told him i liked it. he said he thought he knew the artist, some guy named victor, he'd met him a few times.
we got to the restaurant, in the parking lot. it was a small one and everyone's driving in this town so there was nowhere for us to go. AL was ever-impatient in the back so we asked if he and dave'd like to go inside and grab us a table while we parked across the street. they said they would.
and i recognized the neighborhood, even the restaurant. hadn't been in it before but had eaten next door, during my 21-year-old visit, the one that had meant so much to me. i couldn't recognize too many spots in los angeles but i recognized that one. even the cafe we were pulling up to (open parking spot - finally!) -- i'd been there, too, also when i was 21. big purple-painted cuban place, CAFE TROPICAL. i'd loved it the first time around; came away with an eclair in a pink box that was the size of a football and twice as delicious.
and there i was in the passenger seat as my roommate parked right beside the place, one that had felt special to me even the first time. it was late at night, maybe 9 o clock. dark, because it was winter. and i was talking talking talking, probably telling him how much i loved it, and wasn't it funny that we'd ended up there?
and very suddenly there was, perfectly framed in my window, a MAN. and i knew immediately that i wouldn't be able to take my eyes off of him if i tried. i kept talking to my roommate as though nothing had happened, nothing was going on, but there was this FACE looking at me, a face that was also talking (to a willowy black man dressed in rags) as it stared, as it connected with mine. and there were the eyes, and they were saying something, and there was no turning back.
we got out of the car and - surprise! my roommate KNOWS the fellow, who, upon closer examination, was sitting there pencilling a marvelous sketch. he did it almost mindlessly, flicking perfect lines onto the page as though he'd done it a thousand times before and didn't need to look anymore. i watched the two of them shake hands in acknowledgement and then my roommate moved on to introduce himself to the african man.
i walked up to the table they shared and swung a wayward chair back into its proper spot. the man said to me, 'hello, i'm victor.' and i said, 'hi victor, i'm bernadette.' and then, without warning, i told him, 'you have a very appealing face.'
and he looked startled. we were at close range - him sitting and me towering over him, it seemed. i was no more than a foot from him, looking directly at him, directly into his eyes. i couldn't help it. and he said softly, 'thanks. so do you!' and then he laughed, and i laughed a little too, it sounded so silly. he meant it but it sounded so silly and so simple.
and we shook hands and there was something there, i knew there'd be more to come, but my roommate was calling out to me from the crosswalk so i runned to join him, feeling good and calm and confident, knowing victor-with-the-appealing-face was watching me, wondering about me, wanting to know me.
and that was the beginning. that was how it all started. |
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roseanna making nice / reaching out to strange ethiopian girl (sosena). opening door to her room, time to go to the doctor!, her gaunt and half-naked, silent sheepish grinning. with the doctor and he's impatient, in a hurry, i know this, but he compliments the color of her shirt (that's pretty) - examination commences, is frustrating to him but he maintains politeness. has to call her father mid-interview to get real answers. she's good at repeating words, hearing them once and sounding them back flawlessly ('hospitilization?' she asks) - she is sweet and compliant during physical exam, supremely innocent. everything all-new, thought about how things must look to her, given her lifestyle, here from ethiopia and fairly freshly. tested her reflexes and nothing happened, probed her elegant slender feet, her tender belly or non-belly. roseanna with packs of cards, old, smelling good and hopefully like her home, one deck orange with 'embroidered' strawberries, other blue-green with peacocks. us playing them, playing speed and gin rummy and slap jack. me asking her what her house looks like, she says it's dirty, cluttered, covered in rugs and blankets and THINGS, because of her mother. hint of resentment in her voice on word 'mother'. mom brought the cards in for her, per her request. i did her laundry, everything black or purple or dark green. bra 34B, would have guessed C, she needs a fitting. asking me what i typically do on my break - tell her i throw on my headphones and take a walk; 'if only i could do that with you'. her singing 'love me two times', great sultry voice. singing soft cell. having her listen to ethiopian jazz, she 'likes number 4'. me humming and her thinking i could hear the headphones; it sounded 'a lot like what she was listening to'. helpful with sosena, trying to teach her words and games (go fish). standing doorside while her in the shower, telling me i ought to be taking care of her (s) rather than chatting with her (r). asking me how many journals i have, what am i writing, she already wrote too much in her own today. me peeking at it, humorous opening line (i never like to look back at what i said - i mean wrote). 'let me see your hand' and then we pressed palms together, same size! - my friends tell me my hands look old - destiny following ericka around and laughing at her, delighted by everything she did or said. d commenting that she liked my shoes, patchwork clown leathers. got upset when i changed to sneakers. walked down hallywa in one pink sandal, one black, thought it was funny. roseanna suddenly farts during dinner, finds it hilarious. other girls find it hilarious. she asks joseph, 'are you gay? my friend thinks you are because of the way you dress'. j is silent, smiles tightly, awkward moment, then he leaves. silly teen boys calling one of them crackhead, shortened to CH. ericka listening to e-jazz and taking it immediately away, polite chuckle, 'not my thing,' she says. crying and moaning, fake-style, while on the phone with girlfriend, coming back into room and smiling. |
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i hadn't REALLY had a dream since moving to LA until last night / this morning.
well -- tiny ones here and there, i spose, but they're barely remembered and such a far cry from my
typical epic-epics that i don't even consider them real or worth mentioning.
i was then told that a nicotine patch would restore the capability, possibly / probably manifesting as a dreadful nightmare. 'i don't care,' i said, and demanded the damn patch. i was just desperate to know that the fucking dream portion of my brain was still intact, as, TO ME, it's (one of) the most important thing(s) about being alive.
so, i fell asleep w/ it on (probably bad) and didn't dream. woke up at 8 am and thought, 'what a rip', and then ... ripped it off. fell back asleep.
... and had the WORST nightmare!! the LONGEST! the most detailed! the most disturbing of all-time!
but it was SO BEAUTIFUL AND I'M SO HAPPY. after i awoke from it i grabbed for my new digital tape recorder and recorded a solid 30 minutes of uninterrupted speech about it; i think i remembered and documented every bit, right down to the emotions/ thoughts i was experiencing as the character in my own dream, which i typically forget to capture or just don't bother capturing. (yeah, tape recording the shit is astronomically more efficacious than writing, which takes too long). |
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vermruka's journal