Broken.
Going to leave this brokedown palace,
On my hands and knees, I will roll, roll, roll.
I went to see a friend tonight that I had not seen in years. We were thinking that it had probably been Pre-Y2K the last time we actually shared space. We sort of knew what to expect in that strange “I’ve seen you the Facebook” way, but still it had been ages. I had a few reservations about going – mostly I was feeling tired and not totally into going to a show, but it felt like I had been cancelling and cancelling and it would be nice to catch up. Still, there was something just sitting there right outside my conscience niggling me, causing me to feel uncomfortable enough to be conscious. I was a little late, but so was he, and then there was the standard cock-up at the door, as is often the case at local shows. Once inside, my anxiety completely dissipated as I was immediately swept up into the familiarity of the Auditorium. My response to live music and the accompanying scene is visceral and inescapable; it is in my DNA. And it is so easy to overlook so many things when you are suddenly the one who can sit anywhere, go anywhere, do anything, because you are with the right people.
But this night I wanted to talk to my friend. I wanted to ask him so many questions. What he had been doing. How he was. Who he had seen. Share our collective conscience. But he was in show mode. After a lifetime of always being that right person who got so many perks for so many of his ‘friends’ it is painfully evident that this has become his entire social currency. It made me sad. It made me want to just be one of those regular people talking in the crowd, milling, wondering what is behind the black curtain and up the private stairs. But it was not to be.
My friend is still my friend. He will always be. But he is broken. And that is heartbreaking. No matter how hard I tried, the disconnect, bordering on dissociation was just so hard to be around. I watched how people regarded him and saw how they sized him up weighing opportunity and cost – a simple economic equation for them, discounting the person underneath. Whenever things got too touchy everyone would fall back on the old times, old names, old faces, old places. There would be a moment of comfort and then everyone would move on. I watched my friend not really move on. Such a life he has had – so amazing in so many ways but still so lonely and sad in others.
After everyone gets what they want, who will take care of him? Looking around at the beautiful venue I could hear Jerry and his words took on a whole new tone.
It’s a far gone lullaby, sung many years ago…
Mama, mama, many worlds I’ve come since I first left home…
I looked at my friend and realized that he did not really want to talk and catch up. He wanted to fall into the familiar old roles, he the connection, me the groupie, and let’s get it on. We had come into the evening from such entirely different experiential universes and with such different objectives, I realized that we would never – at least tonight – be on the same page. And so I had to go.
All the birds that were singing are flown, except you alone….
Fare you well, my friend.
xo
Coffee: DENIED!!
Last week I went back to my hometown for a Halloween party. I even wore a costume and everything. I don’t go up there very often, and every time that I do go… I am glad. Thought I was going to say I regret it, huh? Nope. Anyhow, R and I got to the party fashionably late and in high style. Who knew that this evening would lead to my latest WTF moment…
One of the things that I enjoy about going to the hometown is that all of the pressure of socializing with an agenda is out the window. I have long abandoned the idea that this particular little slice of heaven would bring forth a guy I would want to date… or would want to date me for that matter – let’s not forget I did more than a decade of hard time there, so I have some context for this attitude. Plus, when I am there I am generally flanked by R so I have a nice comfortable landing spot, and exit strategy. This shindig was no exception to my previously established assumptions. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise to make contact with someone (new) who seemed pretty interesting, and who has an incredible back story as well. Suffice it to say I was intrigued enough that it made the next morning’s brunch conversation agenda.
Over the course of several hours of brunch Dr. T and R and I talked about the changing social dynamic we are facing these days re: meeting people, and of course the inherent distinction between his, and ours. Facts being what they are, it is a lot easier to be a dude of our – shall we say, station – or just be honest and say age? It reminded me of this sentiment from an article about all the Single Ladies:
I realized that I too have always just assumed that the whole “love” thing would just work itself out. It turns out that is a bit naive, and by the way, don’t read that article if you are still in that frame of mind: total spoiler. So, we contemplated, what was the best course of action to take in navigating these waters, (which seem like they should get smoother with maturity – not more fucking rocky)? We could all speak to different strategies coupled with equally diverse (and though often humorous, still disappointing) outcomes.
Should one “get out there” and try to make things happen even if it’s not what you were naturally inclined to do? Should you use places in your comfort zone as a “hunting ground”? Internet dating? The fact of it is, all of it made me want to barf in my cappuccino. I have always said that if I wasn’t going to meet someone doing what I normally do, and in the course of my normal life, then I wasn’t going to meet the right person. I still believe that, but the reality of that scenario is that I work pretty much around the clock during the school year, using my free time for yoga and the gym… and then I want to travel when I am not working. This is not conducive to being a successful dater (which we have long-established I have no idea how to do anyhow.) Not to mention, I don’t even know what i am looking for. This particular line of rhetoric was precipitated by my admission that I do not go out on Friday night. “I am just too tired,” I told Dr. T. “But it seems like you are always doing stuff… totally energetic,” she replied. “You can’t trust Facebook,” I reminded her.
And here it is, Friday night and I am home. Exhausted. Not at all unhappy, but completely aware that my staying in perpetuates the reality that I will continue to reduce the odds of meeting someone new and interesting or at least the bearer of interesting potential.
So, maybe it was not too crazy to consider someone I met in my hometown. Shit, I have certainly considered far more suspect possibilities in places far afield.
Information was acquired (from both sides of the equation, I might add) and contact was made. “Let’s get together for coffee or something…” “That would be great, we should have some free time coming up with the holidays…” “By the way, I thought you were gorgeous.”
Aaawwwwww.
And then the Facebook connection was established. I looked at his profile. I saw some things that made me go “Hmmmmmm….” [You went to Pahrump? On purpose? FOR.FIREARMS TRAINING????] But, in my typical optimistic fashion (don’t laugh I am an optimist, but of course only in the most ridiculous circumstances) I overlooked these few things. After all, had I not just spent hours talking with my best friends about how (c’est la vie said the old folks, it goes to show… ) you never can tell? Plus, you can’t trust Facebook.
Plans were made. Life went on. Two days later I got this message:
Listen, why don’t we hold off getting together for that drink. After checking out your fb stuff I realized that you and I are polar opposite on our politics. Friendship sounds a hell of a lot better at this point.
Of course, being the headcase that I can sometimes be, my first reaction was to go back and look at my Facebook page. Umm… What? I couldn’t even figure out how it was “political.” Save for the poster from my union that one of my amazing coworkers made for us to carry at the General Strike standing behind Occupy Oakland… oh, hm. Perhaps that is political. But, as a historian, I would certainly NOT miss an event like that! And as a teacher (he is one too) who in the world could be anti-union? I looked further. I had a Howard Zinn quote. Okay, maybe I am a little political. I considered all of this in a new light. But cancelling a coffee date? I shook my head. Does the guy know anything about me? Well, he is related to people I have known since I was six. He knows where I grew up, not a traditionally conservative bastion – though these days, sheesh. Everything else he gleaned from… from… Facebook?
I looked at all the stuff on my Facebook. Things I have selected to share with a very wide variety of people and re-reconsidered. It may be political. It may ideological. Hell, it may be psychological. But mostly, in my opinion, it is there to be intellectual – and I don’t mean all smarty pants, but I mean to engender thought, or perspective. Yeah, even argument. Some of the people I respect most in my life are the ones who really come at me from a different angle and are not afraid. [That would be you, Mr. Fox Island.] But in the end I went back to the same old place:
“Seriously. Am I not cute enough to override the red flags??? Do you know how many guys I have gone out with in spite of the plethora of screaming scarlet banners??????”
Ooohhhh…
Wait a minute…
…perhaps Mr. Freinship-sounds-a-hell-of-a-lot-better-at-this-point is on to something here…
A letter, #4
You will never believe the strange coincidence that brought you to my mind the other day. I am actually glad I can tell you in writing so I don’t have to hear you tell me how there are no coincidences and everything happens for some greater more significant purpose.
Anyhow, what happened was this: I was leaving my night class and one of the people in the class asked me if I lived in the City. I told her that I did and then she asked if I was taking the train home. Again, I answered in the affirmative, and before I knew it, it appeared that surly me had made a new friend. We walked to the train together and chatted the whole way home, she lives just one stop beyond me. In talking she told me that she had heard me talking about Hong Kong to someone and that her husband had lived in Hong Kong. Really? I asked, When? She said he had been there for about five years in the 90s, pre-handover it sounds like. He was a teacher. Wow, what a coincidence, I said. She asked me about living there and I told her that my Hong Kong experience was unique in many ways, mostly because I lived in a really unusual place. She asked where and I told her Lamma. She laughed and said that was where her husband had lived too. I am sure that we must know so many of the same people… you probably know him! She asked if all the expat teachers live on Lamma and I had to tell her only a certain type of expat lived on Lamma… I did not go into a lot of detail.
And it got me thinking of you in your Lamma heyday.
It has been some time since I heard from you. This makes me wonder – are you still alive? Have you actually turned the corner you are always just about to round? It is so hard to tell with you. And frankly, our last conversation was really tediously redundant, which I imagine you know, hence the more recent silence. Still, there are so many things that make me think of you, would it make you feel bad to know that I especially think of you when I consider my finances? In contrast, I also thought of you a lot last week when I had a really sick kitty on my hands. Remember when Matilda got sick that time and we couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, but she was so sad and lethargic and just seemed so defeated? God, that was awful and I was so glad that you were able to take her to the vet, even if I ended up having to pay you for it (how odd in hindsight!) And then when Normie had that weird episode and you called me at work… I was so freaked out. Looking back on it and knowing what was up in my house and who was there with you, I am quite sure you all just got him stoned, which, while totally stupid, is not that harmful. In spite of all that I am still glad you finally got to see what it was like to have pets while we were together.
I am going to Thailand in the spring too and so of course that brings you to mind, we certainly had some raucous times. It is amazing to think how much time we spent there, and I always laugh when I remember sitting in Vientiane having dinner on the Mekong and you were just so desperate to get back to the other side, you kept going, “That is Thailand right there! Why am I not there?” You do love the land of smiles.
I try really hard not to focus on the things I feel like you took from me, because I know in reality you can only take what someone allows you to… And I really, really try not to think about the promises – all of them in their most abstract or concrete manifestations. I try to remember the man I knew you were inside and the way that, regardless of anything else that was going on, you would stand up for me. It was your most manly attribute, like, you really knew how to be a boyfriend, even if you were not doing it all the time. I try to remember the way your mind worked when you stepped out of the rabbit hole and let go of the fractured, slivers of philosophy you wanted to craft into some sort of wild justification for the life you were living. I try to remember how lovely you were.
These days you are still in London, I imagine, pining for Southeast Asia as you always will, never quite able to shake the idealized glamour of the expat life. It was a good life for a while, though, wasn’t it?
Be well, you.
a x
Through the eyes of another…
Lately I have been immersed in discussions about how the views of others help to inform us of our own perspectives and understandings of people, places and things. My freshman are reading Catcher in the Rye and my seniors, Heart of Darkness, and in both the images and understandings we glean or create about the characters come from the reflections of said characters in the eyes of others.
What an interesting vantage point: through the eyes of others.
Frenchie spent last week with me in San Francisco and it is certainly no secret that while we have far less in common than we share, we still manage to get along quite well. I think this is because we appreciate seeing things through the others eyes. [Admitedly sometimes when I do this I feel like I am wearing the drunk goggles from Driver's Ed simply because her view seems so distorted - but it is not. It is just different and has always been interesting.] I am not sure she is always aware of my appreciation, but it is there none the less.
Looking through Frenchie’s photos and seeing how she saw the City I call home was fascinating. It looked so same-same-but-different. It was fabulous. Illuminating. And a terrific reminder of how it is through these myriad perspectives that true vision can be achieved.
the best text ever that should have come from… well, another time and place.
Damn. You remind me so much of why I miss(ed) you, and Grad school, ie: Western literacy/cosmopolitanism. _My Dinner with Andre_: actually actual, not actually impossible. You remind me why I love books and bookishness above fucking all. Gracias doctora, muchisima. O to the X.
It is rather amazing how someone so literally and figuratively distant knows exactly what to say to me. [Though the where and when and prefatory remarks leave room for greater intuitive prowess...] Still, he knows me. That is for sure.
Ahhh… the sweetness of the crush.
Vaya con dios, Dr. Man.
Happy New Year!
It seems impossible to believe that 2010 has come to an end. I remember Gust Proutsos, back in my first year at Procter Hug High School in Reno, told me that I was going to be absolutely blown away at how fast the years would speed by. I was unsure if this was a comment on age, perception, or working in a profession that is so totally locked into a temporal relativity. Regardless, Mr. Proutsos knew what was up. I cannot believe that I started this year in Bali, still a Hong Kong resident, then meandered through Burma and India, then found myself Stateside again in the exact circumstances I had abstractly described as a goal in September of 2009.
It is nothing short of fascinating.
Everywhere I look I am hearing people talk about how they cannot wait for this year to end. They are so over 2010. 2010 was so bad/hard/unfair/miserable… I guess, again, I am an anomaly. Sitting at the Latin American Club last week enjoying a cold beer on a rainy night with a very cute and inappropriate compadre, I was considering things, my life and the like. He looked at me and said, “You are such a positive person. I mean, you love your job, your house, your family. You really love your life.” He kind of chuckled and I smiled.
Yes. Yes, I do.
The Retribution Hook Up.
I have been wanting to write about this but then thinking, hmmm…. perhaps it is too much for certain members of my audience. But I am struggling with the notion of censure these days as well as the more basic censor. I am torn. The question of how personal to be – or not to be – begs a degree of serious consideration. But then, at this point, it seems like, what the hell. Scandal sells, and my circus of a dating life could be a NY Times syndication.
So, as Mr. Vonnegut so aptly said, it goes.
When one gets asked out it is hard to not be flattered and I would say this even includes the requests that come from people you would never even consider offering an affirmative. It is nice. It is validating. It makes you feel special, like, selected or something, even if you were already feeling pretty fly about yourself. When I was recently asked out by OMYSFYSFYBMM I was all of the above, though I was certainly not averse to acquiesecing. I was pretty psyched, frankly. And, as the details of the date are not really so salient here, plus I think people have imaginations that might lend more color to the story than my words might, I will just say it was a pleasant set of circumstances all the way around. It was what I would describe as a successful date.
For all of these reasons, you can imagine my surprise to learn, on the second date, that OMYSFYSFYBMM has – not had, but has – a girlfriend.
-Uh…
-Yeah, well, I know. It is kind of weird.
-Umm, weird is not precisely how I would describe this.
-Well, we have been having some problems for the last few months and…
-”Few months”?
-Well, we’ve been together for five years…
-Five years?
-It’s just that, well, I don’t know. She was cheating on me and so we have been sleeping in separate bedrooms…
-You live together?
-Yeah, we bought a house last year. And the thing is, it is kind of complicated…
-You think?
-I just.. well, I don’t know how things are going to go and well, there is a kid…
-You have a kid?
-No. I mean, well she has a kid. And, well, he is 12 and I have been you know, with him since he was like seven and…
-I think the word you are looking for is not the linking verb ‘with’ but rather the active verb ‘raising’.
-Yeah, yeah. That is the thing. And so… Well, really I had sort of made up my mind to try to work it out with her the day that I asked you out and…
-Why did you ask me out?
-The first time I saw you I knew I wanted to get to know you, you were just totally intriguing and -
-’Get to know me’?
-Well, yeah, and -
-But, you are in a relationship.
-Yeah, well, like I said I am not sure-
-You live together with a child.
-I know, it is confusing. But she was seeing some other guy and I, well, I didn’t think you would be so cool and-
-You ‘didn’t think I’d be so cool’?
-I don’t know, I had no idea I would be so interested and -
At this point a million things were going through my mind. On the one hand I felt lucky that he had not confessed that he had AIDS or scabies (under our current circumstances, the latter would be more problematic than the former). On the other hand I was super irritated at the notion that he even thought I might not be ‘so cool.’ Then again, I was glad to know he was not fathering children around the City with reckless abandon and that he seemed to accept responsibility for the one he was “with.” And it was nice to know that someone thought you were hot enough to ask out on the day you had decided to attempt to work it out with your LTR. What the hell?
And then it hit me: “The Retribution Hook Up.”
It made perfect sense. He had been pissed off enough to try to ‘do unto others’ as it were. She cheated. He would cheat. This was new for me. “The Other Woman.” I thought about this label. I did not like it. Making completely fucked relationship choices for my own life has been a full-time occupation, I hardly have the time to be fucking up other people’s shit.
I considered the karma I have undoubtedly piled up with my past relationships and the attendant fall-out. It is substantial to be sure. Could this be a part of it? Maybe. It could also just be my own proclivity towards selecting, from an admittedly wide array, the most likely person to cause me problems in an intimate, interpersonal way. The whole situation stinks. And of course, OMYSFYSFYBMM and I are incredibly compatible in a million ways. I suppose the cheating may be one of those. When he texts or calls, which is always just when I have gotten him off my mind, it takes an iron will to simply ignore. I called in all the girls as my support network. C in HK reminded me in her perfectly succinct way:
Stop feeding that stray cat of a man.
This is a dead-end street with a car coming.
No.
That woman will go apeshit. Do not continue. She will be angry and blame woman not man.
So, now I have the opportunity to do the right thing. Maybe it will reduce a bit of my karmic debt and maybe it won’t. But one thing is for sure right about now:
Ho’s before Bro’s – and if you hooked up with me and *then* you were surprised at how cool I am, you are clearly not paying attention.
Vegas on the fly. In spite of myself.
I have not been to Las Vegas since 2005. That is a fairly hefty chunk of time considering the fact that I used to go there at least two or three times a year while I was doing hard time in the Northern Nevada Dream Killing Zone. I also spent a good deal of time in Vegas while I was doing research for my graduate thesis on Area 51. My BFF had an epiphany on one of our forays to Sin City, that it was Artificial Land. Everything was fake, and that somehow made it real. It was like our own Land of Oz. I don’t know, at the time it made perfect sense. My relationship with Vegas is kind of funny. I love it. But I really can’t stand it. I can’t not call it back even when I know doing so is going to yield a really questionable outcome. I can’t ever really cut the cord, but every time I leave I wonder why I went. And a few hours later I wonder when I will be back. Vegas is just one more of my unsuitable boyfriends.
But it is sparklier and has better shoes.
I went to Vegas after work on Friday to see D and J because J is heading to London in a matter of days for an indefinite sojourn and I was also going to be able to see M. And I had a free ticket, so hey! Vegas for 36 hours? Why not. I thought I had it all together when I left for work on Friday morning as I was going to try to get on an earlyish flight because most of the Friday flights to Vegas tend to be pretty full. Everything was going totally swimmingly. To SFO on time, through security (no pat down – no naked scan!) and a pretty good shot at the 5:10 flight. Cocktail in hand, I settled down to wait for my name to be called, which it was in no time. I walked up to the pick up my boarding pass and as the ticket agent asked me for my flight coupon I felt that horrible sinking feeling when you face the realization that your pleased-as-punch-self has done something totally avoidable and stupid: the flight coupon was sitting on my kitchen table. There was nothing I could say. I know the drill and I know exactly what I did (or did not do.) So, the moment of truth. Do I go home and call it a night? Do I go back and get the coupon and try to get on another flight? I made three quick and dirty phone calls: Should I do it? If I was not going to arrive until nearly midnight? It was unanimous:
Midnight? Vegas? The party is just getting started!
As M said, “Wait, what were you going to do? Not come? See you when you get here.”
I love my friends.
So, back out of SFO – Airtrain – Bart – 24th and Mission – walk home – pick up ticket – do not talk to the cat she is laying on the guilt *heavy* style – grab any other things one might have wanted to bring long – out the door – down the street – Bart – Airtrain – Security – ticket counter.
-Oh, you came back… I am so sorry you missed the flight.
-Yeah, well, can I get on another one?
-They are all delayed and over booked, but you will be on the 9:15, which departs at 10:40 for sure.
-Well, okay then. 10:40 it is.
Two and a half hours to kill at the airport… I have certainly spent more substantial periods of time entertaining myself in airports before. Got my book out and headed back to the bar. Tanqueray and Tonic number… ah, well, who is really counting? The bar was full and jovial as weather had caused delays in just about every airport and people seem to have a better attitude about delays when it is Friday night, they are not missing a deadline and they’ve got a cocktail in hand. I met two guys heading back to Denver, a ton of people trying to get to San Diego and did not have to buy a single drink.
Could have been worse.
10:30 we board. 10:40 we take off. 11:50 we are at McCarran Field. 12:30 I am having cocktails with my girls at Planet Hollywood.
Ha – ha – ha, Ho – ho – ho – And a couple of tra – la – las…
That’s how we laugh the day away, In the Merry Old Land of Oz!
I love that as you arrive in Vegas you remember, you haven’t missed a thing because the entire city is like a perpetual time loop; where else in the world does it never get dark in Paris and the sun rises and sets more than 24 times a day in Rome. And so there we were. And by the way, I cannot recommend the Cucumber Essence at Caramel in the Bellagio enough. Yum. Also, the lighting there is apparently very favorable as a 24-year-old was convinced I was the most beautiful person he had every seen. No complaints on the compliment and he smelled nice so it was all good. [Except no Shakira for D. That was not so good.]
Back to the room by 4ish and it was time to call it a night room service. Then off to dreamland.
We get up at twelve and start to work at one.
Take an hour for lunch and then at two we’re done.
Jolly good fun!
Ha – ha – ha, Ho – ho – ho – And a couple of tra – la – las…
That’s how we laugh the day away, In the Merry Old Land of Oz!
Meeting the day that lay aggressively behind the black out curtains we headed out to do some shopping and recovering. It all went well. I got a dress for New Year’s Eve (two even) and we were fed and ready to nap by 3pm.
Showers, and etcetera prepped us for the upcoming evening. The best thing about Nevada, except for M, is how good my hair is there; love that aridity. And with my good hair, I would soon be seeing M perform with the LV Philharmonic and D and J would be seeing Dave Matthews. We’d meet up after. We had good drinks, met cute people, had some cute drinks and met some good people, dropped some coin, picked up some, err… never mind. Spent a good part of the evening dodging cowboys because the Rodeo was in town and there ain’t nothing like a Vegas Rodeo. Man, those Wranglers must chafe.
Another fun high desert evening culminated with my only truly unwise choice (pho at 4 am – still regretting that decision) and as I packed up my stuff at 5:30 am to head to the airport I considered: I must really have solidified my return now, I got my ass back to Vegas.
M drove me to the airport and remarked that he had watched the sun set on his way to get me the night before and was seeing it rise as he dropped me off. He is a good man. The airport, as everyone had predicted was freaking insane, even at this point in the morning. Hockey teams, cowboys, hefty tourists, shredded party girls… they were all there. I wondered which category I might fit into. [Did you know that cowboys have special plastic boxes for their hats? They do.] A lovely gentleman from San Diego let me go in front of him to ensure I would get listed for my flight and then waited for me at the security checkpoint to make sure everything had gone alright and offered me a Bloody Mary. Tempting. But sometimes you really have to get out of Vegas and this was one of them. 7:20 we board. 7:30 we take off. 7:35 I meet the nice couple next to me who have to fly to SFO to then fly to St. Louis; brutal. 7:40 I am asleep. 8:45 we land. Airtrain. Bart. Walk home. In bed by 10:00 am.
And my hair still looked great.
Pat, pat here, Pat, pat there, and a couple of brand new straws.
That’s how we keep you young and fair In the Merry Old Land of Oz!
Rub, rub here, Rub, rub there, Whether you’re tin or brass
That’s how we keep you in repair In the Merry Old Land of Oz!
We can make a dimple smile out of a frown.
Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown? Uh-huh!
Jolly Old town!
Now serving a conlfict of interest: Would you like a glass of #wine with that?
How romantic....
A boy meets a girl on the interwebs. This is not a dating site and so the conversation is not bent towards engendering any sort of intentional relationship, but the boy and the girl enjoy witty banter and savvy political commentary and so they continue to “talk.” Of course they have no idea what their individual voices sound like because they don’t really talk. They Tweet. Or Chat. Or Whatever. The contact becomes regular enough that they each believe they know the other. They are Friends. I wonder what each one imagines the other’s voice sounds like. Do they contemplate the way the other would use their hands to punctuate a particularly salient point, or what they smell like? Out there suspended on the interwebs all of that IRL detail is completely malleable, manifested entirely on the screen of the beholder.
One day the boy is no longer there. In truth the girl doesn’t notice right away because she has been drawn away from this particular interface of the [tangled] Web We Weave. In real life would you notice if one of your daily conversants was suddenly absent? Gone? Dissipated without a trace? I am not sure anymore, but I think, in spite of our increasingly complex cocoons of self-involvement, perhaps.
The girl sends out an electronic search party for her Friend. Email. Tweets. Wall posts. The search party is effective and within an hour the missing person has been found. Where were you? What happened? It was bad. I freaked out. I had to… to… delete my account. Oh. Wow. Why? It got too intense. Oh.
The boy had met another girl. In similar fashion he had begun to connect with his new Friend. Or was it a Follower? It is so hard to tell sometimes. Maybe he was the one who Followed.
Followed where?
Into the rabbit hole. [Lewis Carroll, you had no idea.] One interface makes you bigger. One makes you smaller. That is still true. They were bigger. So big in each other’s eyes. After one month they were in Love. Love is good. I understand how certain conditions lend themselves to the formation of incredibly intense relationships; I have always found that the bonds that are formed among travelers are like this. Intense. Quick. Flashpoints. The union of shared experience.
Shared experience?
As the boy tells his Friend of his Love she is curious but unafraid. This boy has a need she could never fill and she cares for him as a Friend. A Follower. She listens to his lament. It is a tawdry tale to be sure. Full of duplicitous, passive aggressive behavior so easily perpetrated from behind the one-way mirror of the computer screen. He looks for meaning in everything. Everything is a code to be broken. Nothing is as it seems. This is confusing. I am as I seem. Yes, but you are different. Aren’t you as you seem? Yes, but I am different. Why are we different? I don’t know.
It is as if the progress of the relationship has been on hyper-speed. How can you get to the icky parts without the honeymoon parts?
What do you like about her? What does she like about you? Do you know what each other smell like? How you sort your mail? Which way you like the toilet paper on the roll? You have not met.
But you are in love.
Yes.
Oh.
Well, she says to the boy, do we get to be friends again? I have missed you. Yes, yes of course.
Then the whole strange cycle starts again. They are friends. They communicate. There is some expectation of coded meaning, that nothing is as it seems. That people are not being honest. What can we deduce? What can we find out? What do you want to know? Will you feel better to know things you do not want to know? Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course, YES.
Now the boy’s Love is not okay. She cannot allow him to be friends with any other girls out there among the fiber-optic milieu. Why? She says it is because all the other girls are whores who are using him to suit their own agendas. That he is naïve and cannot see that they all want something from him. That they are taking advantage of him.
What she means to say is this:
You cannot be friends with any other girls because if you fell in love with me by communicating this way you can just as easily fall in love with them the same way. It was so easy. So immediate. And it is real. So real. And so all others are a threat because who’s to say that the same thing won’t happen again and be just as real. I must hold on. Or else I will lose. You.
That is what she means to say. But she cannot say that.
The boy, too, has issues. After all this is serious business; he updated his Facebook status to reflect that he was “In A Relationship.” Because he is so desperate for the words his Love Tweets and Chats and Posts to be real, he is compelled to place equal weight on all her typed sentiments – whether they are backed by gravitas or levity. It is a conundrum.
And so they “fight” through Tweets and Chats and Posts. As if relationship communication were not already complicated enough.
The boy is conflicted. The Love is mad. The girl is watching. The boy is now no longer allowed to be friends with the girl by mandate of the Love. The girl finds this frustrating, though not world ending. She wonders why they cannot be friends and continue their witty repartee. But the Love said no and the boy had to prove his love to his Love. The girl goes on, she has friends in town from overseas, friends to meet for dinner and an internet friend to meet in the flesh. She is sad about the boy. Or maybe for the boy. But in the end she just logs off.
I mean really, they never even met.
[image from here.]
Float like a Butterfly – Sting like a Bee
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours first
Let’s compare scars, I’ll tell you whose is worse
The question stings as much, more, than the first time he asked. The rebuttal is trite, petty, the best she has to offer in the circumstances. He bristles at the return: You see, why are you doing that? She acknowledges the niggling nature of her remark. He walks away a victor.
Stings like a bee.
Earlier it does not sting. Earlier things dance around. Ticklish, Teasing. Temporary, though this last bit seems easy to ignore in the moment. Just looking at you. What makes you cry?
Floats like a butterfly.
Muhammed Ali , they say, he said, was The Greatest. The. Greatest. He innately understood the effectiveness of the duality of the butterfly and the bee. So much more of a killer, that sting, after the dazzling grace of the butterfly. Ali is part of the cultural tapestry of her childhood. He was there – embracing his fabulousness in the face of a world that dared to question it. Ali was righteous and audacious and conflicted and imperfect. But he was the greatest. She could never be Muhammed Ali, everything about him took – takes – a kind of bravery that goes unacknowledged, and she does not have because she has never needed it. But there he was. Here he is. Conscientious objector. Sportsman of the Century. Cassius. Mohammed. Fighter. Lover. And a face so pretty – you hear that Sonny Liston? “I’m the prettiest thing that ever lived!”
Floating like a butterfly. Stinging like a bee.
When she sees him she is aware of a certain grace in his composure that surprises her. At first glance you might miss it. On a closer inspection he has an audacity that is a subtle subterfuge. And then he underestimates her. Consistently. Constantly. Between them, there is an ease and a comfort that belies what has emerged. It is contradictory and illogical, but a safe haven in the moment. Talk is easy. Smiles, genuine. You don’t want anything? I don’t want anything. I don’t need anything. You don’t need anything? Not presents. Only presence. She considers him. An adversary? A challenger? A co-conspirator? He suggested this encounter. She was surprised but amenable. The penultimate destination is clear. The subsequent step?
Stings. Like. A. Bee.
She wakes up and realizes. Yes, he sure showed her. She feels… not sad. Hollow. It is not fair. She, too, can float like a butterfly. But when she turns to sting she is rebuked. She is the one who should have Ali’s composure and confidence. Yet he wears it so much more effectively in spite of it so obviously not being quite the right fit. It is clear. It is a test. He is testing her. You don’t want anything? I don’t want anything. “We’ll see,” says his next move. He leaves.
Not usually pugnacious, the lure of the ring is suddenly strong. She wants a Rumble in the Jungle. She wants a Thrilla in Manila. On this exact day in 1978, Ali fought a rematch in the New Orleans Louisiana Superdome against Leon Spinks for the WBA version of the Heavyweight title, winning it for a record third time. She feels today that this too could be [another] victory for her.
She gets up and that fucking question doesn’t hurt her feelings. It pisses her off. The question presupposes something about her nature that is total bullshit. This is what she wants to scream out to someone. To anyone. Who the fuck are you? I’m too pretty! I am the greatest! You are Sonny Liston! “Sonny Liston is nothing. The man can’t talk. The man can’t fight. The man needs talking lessons. The man needs boxing lessons. And since he’s gonna fight me, he needs falling lessons.”
The urge to fight will pass. The walk to work brings a certain levity that is an unmistakable salve. The only way the sting shall pass is to pretend it never happened.
Until the next time the butterfly floats by.
In knowing anticipation of the sting of the bee.
“I said I was the greatest, not the smartest”
Really? You took one of each dish?
Today I moved a whole bunch of boxes into my new apartment. This was a very satisfying activity (though of course it underscores a whole bunch more work that I need to do…) and I was reminded of all my favorite parts of a move. Things like knowing exactly what is in your house and where for that one shining moment; or being clean down to the baseboards. And that supremely satisfying feeling of plopping down on the couch, or in my studio-dwelling reality the bed and surveying all that is yours to behold.
That all sounds great.
Some things I know I’m going to miss about Hong Kong
Cheap utilities including phone service – remember that year we all got our electricity subsidized? That was cool. [Seems fair anyhow since our little island provides HK with ALL its power.]
Everywhere you might want to travel seems to be 2.5 hours away by air.
Anna introducing me as “Amanda, my friend from Hong Kong”.
In-town Check-in/Airport Express/Cathay Pacific.
Tirumala Septentrionis Butterflies.
Getting your drink on in the street.
The Inland Revenue Department.
Public transportation.
The Rugby Sevens.
My yoga teacher.
My amigas.
My view.
Norman.
Amanda
