April 28, 2005

• Pathetic, just pathetic, this no-writing thing.

  For the first time in a while i have the house to myself for the
  evening. I like my solitude- I've filled the time with things I've been
  meaning to get to, as well as little things to pamper myself. Tristen
  will come home in the morning and find I've painted my toenails, done
  the dishes, and gotten oil pastel under my nails in my studio. I've
  petted Audrey and the bunny, and made myself some peanut butter toast.
  Dorked around on the computer. Made a cup of tea. Process and nurture.

  A lot has happened over the past couple weeks, I suppose. A lot has
  happened over the past six months. I guess I haven't been able to
  figure out how to write about it without getting caught up in the
  details of my daily dramas, and these significant things have been
  passing me by, unremarked.

  A year ago? I was with Bryon, halfheartedly planning a trip cross
  country which started off as pure wanderlust, and then developed an
  itinerary. I guess my heart just wasn't in it, philosophically or
  emotionally. Everything in my soul revolts against having such definite
  things- plans are boring.  After all, wherever you go, that's
  where you are. Journey, and not destination.

  Six months ago I made my great escape- not to the desert like i'd
  hoped, but to my friend's futon for refuge. My home and everything i
  had was in Jamaica Plain,  that little hipster art mecca
  neighborhood I adored. Suddenly i was transplanted across the city to
  Malden, a drab little blue collar hood which was inhospitable turf for
  a strange-ish girl like me. I found solace in the fact that i had been
  born in that town, in a hospital that no longer existed, and maybe
  being there was a sign of a renaissance. Or just a longer bus ride to
  anywhere. Most of my material life ended up in storage, the stuff that
  furnished my old life condensed into a sad little room and a uhaul key
  on my keychain. I had no job- since I'd  long ago quit my
  fulfilling art-maven occupation in hopes of bailing town with the ex-
  now i had no room of my own, no computer, no boyfriend, no permanence.
  In a way, I thrived on my upturned situation. I suppose I could have
  succumbed to the wilting realization that everything i had was suddenly
  taken from me, but instead I somehow took the blank space that was
  handed to me and filled it with everything i could muster. I went crazy
  reckless for a month or so, flirting, running around the city till the
  wee hours, meeting crazy, happy, mean, frantic party people. I learned
  to salsa dance. I went for a plane ride. I got in trouble. I wore my
  hair in pigtails, and vamped up my old mojo. I walked in the rain at
  night with headphones on, just like old times. It was grand.

  My compadre in all of this was an elfy boy from the backwoods of Maine,
  a discombobulated chef turned ninja turned sorry drug addict who served
  as my dance partner and party-sherpa. We went out nearly every night,
  ran through most of the money I had left, and spent most of the
  daylight hours sound asleep. I think i might have loved him a little
  bit just because he was so goddamned lost, and I was feeling a little
  half-lost myself. Unfortunately, the mooching started to wear thin
  after a few bitter nights and misadventures. I guess there comes a
  point where you have to realize that you can't fix someone, kick their
  ass into gear, or nurture them into an epiphany when they won't do it
  for themseves, and you gotta kick their sorry slacker ass to the curb.
  Poor guy- I sent him packing to home his mother in Maine. After
  everything, he had the gaul to accuse me of failing him. I nearly took it to heart, but instead I decided to save myself, and reconsruct my life.

  But then, one afternoon while standing at the bus stop, the whole of my
  life was changed. Naw, it would be a lie to simplify the moment and
  claim that it alone had earth shattering consequence, but that
  renaissance i mentioned before had definitely come to pass. I remember
  the exact moment i first saw him, walking up the block with his usual
  scowl and black jacket. Every nerve in my body went: "Wuh-oh..!!"
  Somehow we ended up talking on the bus (long-ass bus ride, hallelujah)
  all the way into the city, and mostly I recall his now-familiar dark
  eyes, the rain on the window, and an instant sense of camraderie and
  trust. I think someone might have stopped us that afternoon to ask if
  we were together or married, which would happen more than a few times
  during our friendship. You meet someone at the bus stop, and an hour
  later it's as if you have known them your whole life.

  I'd like to write an ode to Tristen. But then again, I don't think the
  things I might say would do us justice, and i worry about sounding
  stupid or sappy. But then again-again,
  why should i give a damn? I don't write to justify my heart to anyone
  who reads this. I just do it because I'm at home alone, my toenails all
  painted, my art pinned to the wall, and his stray sneakers tossed
  haphazardly under the chair. The moment moves me, now that i'm finally
  home....content in my solitude, missing him a little bit, and knowing
  he'll be home tomorrow. That's a good enough ode for the one I love,
  and for the knowledge that things happen just the way they ought.

  • 1:51 am
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