Dear Jon -
I have always loved lists. There is a line from a Bukowski poem:
the power and
the glory of
two slippers under
a bed
It's stuck with me since I was in high school doing performance pieces at the cafe and sleeping with drunk journalists and the undercover narc guys. It stuck with me because we live in a holographic universe, where the smallest detail is a reflection of the whole. I didn't know that, then, and I'm not sure I know it now, but isn't that what psychology is about? Taking people's pieces, their fragments, and extrapolating from those parts their wholes?
Lists are a way to do this. Lists are a way of cataloging those beautiful and seemingly insignificant moments which contain within them the power and the glory of the whole.
I want to list you. I want to make a list of all of those insignificances which add you up for me, but I think about that client we discussed in who is engaging in those stalking behaviors and I wonder if I don't get close to that line, sometimes. I know I'm batshit crazy for you, but am I a stalker? Before I got married, I drove past your house a few times. In my defense, I was single and my house was four blocks from yours. It was easy to take the little longer way home to see if your car was in the drive or to just admire the hops growing in your front yard.
Hops growing in your yard
Freckles on your lips
The way you tighten half of your mouth to non-verbally communicate that you are thinking and that you might disagree but are too polite to say that
The lines at the corners of your eyes when you smile or laugh
The way you preface everything until it's meaningless
Your incessant leg tapping
Shrugging your shoulders with your hands in your pockets and shivering in the cold
How aware you are of all of your movements and every word you say
You blink slowly, and look far away, as if everything is painful to look at or think about
The cadence of your voice when reciting song lyrics as if you're reading performance poetry, ending every line with an upturn of the voice as if it's half a question
Oh, your voice when you sing, Jon... when you sing...
Driving and talking with a cigarette in the corner of your mouth
At least once a week you tell me you're going to the bathroom. I'm beginning to think you have irritable bowels or something.
Your brown leather note pad, beat up, like a 50's poet would take to a cafe
Hand gestures in rhythm to speech patterns
You narrow your eyes when you mean what you say
The awkward grace with which you remove a cigarette from a pack
Your little cat walking on your shoulders while you try to recite poetry
Your old man sweaters, especially the golf one. My goodness.
Suspenders at spring banquet
You always have the silliest notes written to yourself on your hand
When I tell you a story, your eyes watch my eyes until I meet them
That stupid, beat up, green hat with the asymmetrical fray on the bill and the buckle that makes you look like such a hipster
Should I go on? I could.
Enough. I have several unfinished businesses dealing with you thus far:
1. Have to touch you. Sometime. Somehow. Maybe Monday. Or if I txt you and convince you to let me come over tomorrow (Sun) night. Though I'm not sure I'll have the balls to do it.
2. Have to post about "that night." Need to get it out.
3. Your CD. See 1 about drunken txts.
And now, it's 3 am, and I'm going to sleep.
- M.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Save Your Scissors
Dear Jon -
I cut my hair today. I hope you like it when you see it. It's probably too short, as I can't see the back of my own head, but luckily curls are forgiving (and it'll grow out).
I got drunk this afternoon and thought I might txt you, but I didn't. Maybe Monday?
-M.
I cut my hair today. I hope you like it when you see it. It's probably too short, as I can't see the back of my own head, but luckily curls are forgiving (and it'll grow out).
I got drunk this afternoon and thought I might txt you, but I didn't. Maybe Monday?
-M.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
"Anna begins to change my mind..." (please)
Dear Jon -
I got the position for next year. Thank God. I opened my phone to txt you about my good fortune and found a txt I must have sent after returning home on our late night. It said simply, "I love you, too." God, how embarrassing. I don't even remember sending it, though I do remember thinking you said that you love me just before I left.
Ah, love. I do love you, Jon. I love you because you are human and beautiful and real. My love for you is also very different than my love for my husband. I won't make the romantic / platonic love distinction, because I think that is not sophisticated enough a distinction. I love you as a person, as a child of God, as something else as well...
Anna Begins / Counting Crows lyrics:
It does not bother me to say this isn't love.
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love.
And I guess I'm gonna have to live with that.
But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,
Or something in between,
And I can always change my name
If that's what you mean...
You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself
To make yourself forget. To make yourself forget. I am not worried.
"If it's love," she said, "then we're gonna have to think about the consequences."
But she can't stop shaking and I can't stop touching her and...
And Anna begins to change her mind.
"These seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says.
And I'm not ready for this sort of thing.
But I'm not gonna break and I'm not gonna worry about it anymore.
I'm not gonna bend, and I'm not gonna break. And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
It seems like I should say, "As long as this is love..."
But it's not all that easy...
I start to think about the consequences,
And I don't get no sleep in a quiet room and...
And Anna begins to change my mind.
And everytime she sneezes I believe it's love and,
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing.
How do I begin to tell our story? I've been thinking seriously about some sort of art project, like a YouTube video mini-series or a novella or something to get the story out. It would be letters and poetry that the two characters write to each other, but never deliver. It would recount the same events from both of their perspectives. And in my head, in the story that I want to tell, they are both longing for each other; he has his reasons for not returning her advances.
And how does the story end? The work side by side, pining after one another, longing, for an entire year of work, and then they leave? They simply lay the mantle down and move on? You see, in the story I want to tell, I think he cares too much to just go away.
What will you do, Jon, when the year is up?
I did txt you about my placement for next year, and you congratulated me. Thank you for being happy for me.
- M.
I got the position for next year. Thank God. I opened my phone to txt you about my good fortune and found a txt I must have sent after returning home on our late night. It said simply, "I love you, too." God, how embarrassing. I don't even remember sending it, though I do remember thinking you said that you love me just before I left.
Ah, love. I do love you, Jon. I love you because you are human and beautiful and real. My love for you is also very different than my love for my husband. I won't make the romantic / platonic love distinction, because I think that is not sophisticated enough a distinction. I love you as a person, as a child of God, as something else as well...
Anna Begins / Counting Crows lyrics:
It does not bother me to say this isn't love.
Because if you don't want to talk about it then it isn't love.
And I guess I'm gonna have to live with that.
But I'm sure there's something in a shade of grey,
Or something in between,
And I can always change my name
If that's what you mean...
You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself
To make yourself forget. To make yourself forget. I am not worried.
"If it's love," she said, "then we're gonna have to think about the consequences."
But she can't stop shaking and I can't stop touching her and...
And Anna begins to change her mind.
"These seconds when I'm shaking leave me shuddering for days," she says.
And I'm not ready for this sort of thing.
But I'm not gonna break and I'm not gonna worry about it anymore.
I'm not gonna bend, and I'm not gonna break. And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
It seems like I should say, "As long as this is love..."
But it's not all that easy...
I start to think about the consequences,
And I don't get no sleep in a quiet room and...
And Anna begins to change my mind.
And everytime she sneezes I believe it's love and,
Oh lord, I'm not ready for this sort of thing.
How do I begin to tell our story? I've been thinking seriously about some sort of art project, like a YouTube video mini-series or a novella or something to get the story out. It would be letters and poetry that the two characters write to each other, but never deliver. It would recount the same events from both of their perspectives. And in my head, in the story that I want to tell, they are both longing for each other; he has his reasons for not returning her advances.
And how does the story end? The work side by side, pining after one another, longing, for an entire year of work, and then they leave? They simply lay the mantle down and move on? You see, in the story I want to tell, I think he cares too much to just go away.
What will you do, Jon, when the year is up?
I did txt you about my placement for next year, and you congratulated me. Thank you for being happy for me.
- M.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Dear... in headlights
Dear Jon -
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror; my eyes are tired and rimmed in red and black. I took the pin from my hair and let the curls fall down to cover my face, and thought of you.
I thought of you because this morning, as I contemplated walking in a mess, I thought of you and twisted my hair up. You are the inspiration and the let down.
I saw you at school, today - you heading out as I was heading in. It was startling close to the fantasy's beginning, where you see me and take my hand, and ask me to come with you, obligations be damned. They weren't damned, today. I hope you saw my lovely hair from the distance across the lot. You raised your hand to me in acknowledgment, and I raised mine back.
I have your CD and need to give it back. I'm contemplating a txt tomorrow night, something like: I have your CD. Let me bring it over. I promise not to hit on you. I have beer and poetry.
Will I have the courage?
Soon, I'll have to post about "that night."
- M.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror; my eyes are tired and rimmed in red and black. I took the pin from my hair and let the curls fall down to cover my face, and thought of you.
I thought of you because this morning, as I contemplated walking in a mess, I thought of you and twisted my hair up. You are the inspiration and the let down.
I saw you at school, today - you heading out as I was heading in. It was startling close to the fantasy's beginning, where you see me and take my hand, and ask me to come with you, obligations be damned. They weren't damned, today. I hope you saw my lovely hair from the distance across the lot. You raised your hand to me in acknowledgment, and I raised mine back.
I have your CD and need to give it back. I'm contemplating a txt tomorrow night, something like: I have your CD. Let me bring it over. I promise not to hit on you. I have beer and poetry.
Will I have the courage?
Soon, I'll have to post about "that night."
- M.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Only Living Boy in New York
Dear Jon -
I imagine that this will be something of a long post. First, we spoke twice today. And second, I realized last night, after stating I was going to bed and instead reading through the entirety of this blog again in a fit of unexpected masochism, that I never actually blogged about what happened on Wednesday of last week. I don't want to call it "that night" because "that night" is the night I wore orange and you got me high against my will and we didn't sleep together. I've already been referring to it as "our late night," and I suppose that will suffice. But for now, today.
I was hardly in the office, with so many errands to run. When I came back in the afternoon, you were sitting at my station, with your things on top of my closed laptop, doing your thing. I was a) startled to see you, b) filled with love and familiarity that you were in my area, and c) ashamed at the inconvenience I had caused, taking that space and then not being present.
I had a client, then came out and saw you again (in your green polo with the collar turned up over brown thermal with the sleeves rolled up); you were carrying your weathered leather notepad, looking like a beat poet on his way to the cafe. I was going to my car to get a 2:30 lunch, and asked if you were coming out. You said, "sure," as if I had interrupted by inviting you, and when I asked if you were put upon, you said that you weren't quite ready, but would come anyway. What to make of that?
Our first cigarette conversation:
You offered me one of yours; I declined. I made you walk with me to my car, questioning my motives because I mostly expect I declined the offer because I didn't want to accept anything from you (not to be beholden? afraid to get tangibly closer? I'm not sure yet).
Our whole conversation felt as if it was one of those fake conversations I have with my clients as I am walking down the hall before we have a real conversation after the door is closed. Do you understand?
I think we talked weather, my interview for next year's position, the spring banquet. And then I got you. I said, "And the other thing is..." I paused long enough to make you uncomfortable. You shifted back on your heels (dreading? ready and expecting? relieved to have it over with?). "And the other thing is, on my annual self eval..." and I told you of the drama I am anticipating with that. But I got you, Jon! I saw it. And it wasn't even intentional.
Our second cigarette conversation:
After I got back to the office (again) at 5, and busied myself catching up on paperwork for half an hour, you came in (again) and startled me. Every time I see you, it seems my heart pounds insatiably. In any case, we sat with our backs to each other, less than three feet away, and worked (in my case, breathlessly). I packed up and said I was going home, and you agreed and asked if I'd like to smoke first. You went to the bathroom, I dropped off my Netflix envelope in the mailbox, we reconvened at your car. This time, you insisted I take a cigarette (to regain some of what you'd lost by my refusal? to feel tangibly closer?).
We talked about work, meaning, responsibility. This seemed like a closer conversation to something real. I told you the story of why I quit reading tarot professionally. I know you love my stories, and I love telling them, because I am so visual and use my hands to paint the picture. You watch, rapt, and you laugh at the right places, and your eyes watch my eyes when they're not looking back at you. Oh, Jon, so lovely, to feel your gaze as I am weaving words for you...
It was awkward, our parting. They always are. "Have a good night." "I'll see you tomorrow." Then, as I drive by, the longing look from you, and the hand up in acknowledgment, never in a wave.
I wanted to blast music and drive too fast, but I didn't. I sat quietly at the light, not daring to let my eyes wander toward the rear-view mirror.
.
And now the story of our late night:
There was the txting, of course, which you'll find here below. Then I showered and shaved my underarms and legs and plucked my eyebrows and straightened my hair and put on makeup and selected a beautiful matching bra and panty set and wore a shirt that would show some cleavage. I was drunk, yes, and about to get more drunk, as I drove and picked up a six pack before showing up at your house (after driving past twice, not sure it was really yours).
You opened the door and invited me in. Your little cat was there - not black, as I imagined, but white and grey. You offered me wine, we settled on beer instead. Your little cat served his distracting purpose, for a while. Then it was side reels of half-real conversations - your high school yearbooks, old poetry of yours.
Jon, your poetry... I wish it was terrible, so I could move on and never look back, but it dripped with meaning and pain and all the reasons I have ever set pen to paper with moisture at the corners of my eyes. It's beautiful, Jon. And you're beautiful.
I got drunker. You smoked some pot. You recited your poetry for me, I recited a few of yours to you. Eventually, eventually, in a haze I said that I had posted the missed connection and you had missed it and that I have feelings for you which won't die no matter how many times I try to poison them and then, at 3 am, so late, you told me that you couldn't be with me, and something about being friends should be enough, but I'm not sure I heard that last bit correctly.
I drove home, my honor and marriage still intact, if not my dignity. I felt incredibly stupid taking off my push-up bra when I got home.
It wasn't like my fantasy. At first, actually, surprisingly, it was. But the fantasy always ended when it got to the real part, and I don't know if we got to the real part on our late night. I never feel like you're being real with me, just painfully reflecting something real at me. Do you hear me, Jon? You're a false leveler. You fake intimacy because you long for intimacy and you're terrified of intimacy.
I could go on accusing you for hours, but this is already too long of a post, and I need to lay down and try not to think about you as I desperately look for sleep so I can appear somewhat rested in our meeting tomorrow morning. I think I'll preemptively take an ibuprofen to avoid the neck pain of avoiding your face.
Goodnight, Jon. I hope you are sleeping well. Some part of me hopes that you are thinking of me as you lie in bed waiting for tomorrow.
- M.
I imagine that this will be something of a long post. First, we spoke twice today. And second, I realized last night, after stating I was going to bed and instead reading through the entirety of this blog again in a fit of unexpected masochism, that I never actually blogged about what happened on Wednesday of last week. I don't want to call it "that night" because "that night" is the night I wore orange and you got me high against my will and we didn't sleep together. I've already been referring to it as "our late night," and I suppose that will suffice. But for now, today.
I was hardly in the office, with so many errands to run. When I came back in the afternoon, you were sitting at my station, with your things on top of my closed laptop, doing your thing. I was a) startled to see you, b) filled with love and familiarity that you were in my area, and c) ashamed at the inconvenience I had caused, taking that space and then not being present.
I had a client, then came out and saw you again (in your green polo with the collar turned up over brown thermal with the sleeves rolled up); you were carrying your weathered leather notepad, looking like a beat poet on his way to the cafe. I was going to my car to get a 2:30 lunch, and asked if you were coming out. You said, "sure," as if I had interrupted by inviting you, and when I asked if you were put upon, you said that you weren't quite ready, but would come anyway. What to make of that?
Our first cigarette conversation:
You offered me one of yours; I declined. I made you walk with me to my car, questioning my motives because I mostly expect I declined the offer because I didn't want to accept anything from you (not to be beholden? afraid to get tangibly closer? I'm not sure yet).
Our whole conversation felt as if it was one of those fake conversations I have with my clients as I am walking down the hall before we have a real conversation after the door is closed. Do you understand?
I think we talked weather, my interview for next year's position, the spring banquet. And then I got you. I said, "And the other thing is..." I paused long enough to make you uncomfortable. You shifted back on your heels (dreading? ready and expecting? relieved to have it over with?). "And the other thing is, on my annual self eval..." and I told you of the drama I am anticipating with that. But I got you, Jon! I saw it. And it wasn't even intentional.
Our second cigarette conversation:
After I got back to the office (again) at 5, and busied myself catching up on paperwork for half an hour, you came in (again) and startled me. Every time I see you, it seems my heart pounds insatiably. In any case, we sat with our backs to each other, less than three feet away, and worked (in my case, breathlessly). I packed up and said I was going home, and you agreed and asked if I'd like to smoke first. You went to the bathroom, I dropped off my Netflix envelope in the mailbox, we reconvened at your car. This time, you insisted I take a cigarette (to regain some of what you'd lost by my refusal? to feel tangibly closer?).
We talked about work, meaning, responsibility. This seemed like a closer conversation to something real. I told you the story of why I quit reading tarot professionally. I know you love my stories, and I love telling them, because I am so visual and use my hands to paint the picture. You watch, rapt, and you laugh at the right places, and your eyes watch my eyes when they're not looking back at you. Oh, Jon, so lovely, to feel your gaze as I am weaving words for you...
It was awkward, our parting. They always are. "Have a good night." "I'll see you tomorrow." Then, as I drive by, the longing look from you, and the hand up in acknowledgment, never in a wave.
I wanted to blast music and drive too fast, but I didn't. I sat quietly at the light, not daring to let my eyes wander toward the rear-view mirror.
.
And now the story of our late night:
There was the txting, of course, which you'll find here below. Then I showered and shaved my underarms and legs and plucked my eyebrows and straightened my hair and put on makeup and selected a beautiful matching bra and panty set and wore a shirt that would show some cleavage. I was drunk, yes, and about to get more drunk, as I drove and picked up a six pack before showing up at your house (after driving past twice, not sure it was really yours).
You opened the door and invited me in. Your little cat was there - not black, as I imagined, but white and grey. You offered me wine, we settled on beer instead. Your little cat served his distracting purpose, for a while. Then it was side reels of half-real conversations - your high school yearbooks, old poetry of yours.
Jon, your poetry... I wish it was terrible, so I could move on and never look back, but it dripped with meaning and pain and all the reasons I have ever set pen to paper with moisture at the corners of my eyes. It's beautiful, Jon. And you're beautiful.
I got drunker. You smoked some pot. You recited your poetry for me, I recited a few of yours to you. Eventually, eventually, in a haze I said that I had posted the missed connection and you had missed it and that I have feelings for you which won't die no matter how many times I try to poison them and then, at 3 am, so late, you told me that you couldn't be with me, and something about being friends should be enough, but I'm not sure I heard that last bit correctly.
I drove home, my honor and marriage still intact, if not my dignity. I felt incredibly stupid taking off my push-up bra when I got home.
It wasn't like my fantasy. At first, actually, surprisingly, it was. But the fantasy always ended when it got to the real part, and I don't know if we got to the real part on our late night. I never feel like you're being real with me, just painfully reflecting something real at me. Do you hear me, Jon? You're a false leveler. You fake intimacy because you long for intimacy and you're terrified of intimacy.
I could go on accusing you for hours, but this is already too long of a post, and I need to lay down and try not to think about you as I desperately look for sleep so I can appear somewhat rested in our meeting tomorrow morning. I think I'll preemptively take an ibuprofen to avoid the neck pain of avoiding your face.
Goodnight, Jon. I hope you are sleeping well. Some part of me hopes that you are thinking of me as you lie in bed waiting for tomorrow.
- M.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Connections Missed
Dear Jon -
There was spring banquet. You and my husband were in the room at the same time. I didn't introduce you. Afterward, my husband and I went to the pub and I asked him what he thought of you. He said he didn't even notice you. He was completely oblivious. I asked him why he didn't care. We fought. It was distressing. I want him to care that I have all of this going on inside of me, and it's all going on inside of me around you.
I won't say that it's about you. I don't even know if it's about you, anymore. You say that you could never be with me. I can't be with you, either. I would never cheat on my husband. Never. I just don't understand why these feelings didn't go away when I got married. Shouldn't these feelings have gone away?
I saw a missed connection that I thought could be for me from you. It happened at noon the day after our late night together. But it was in the wrong county. Why would you do that, Jon? Just to add more questions to something that's already been absurdly unsure for me? It probably wasn't you.
I've been thinking about putting you away. I don't fantasize about you anymore. In fact, I try very hard not to.
In less melodramatic news, I got the interview, and it went well. I expect to have an offer this week. That makes my life seem less unsure to me.
I can't stop reading the missed connections - not because I think any of them will have anything to do with me, but because some of them are heartbreakingly beautiful. It's like looking into people's windows at night, catching glimpses of them moving through their lives. They leave the blinds open hoping someone will look in. I do.
I'm going to go to bed, now, and lie down next to my husband.
There was spring banquet. You and my husband were in the room at the same time. I didn't introduce you. Afterward, my husband and I went to the pub and I asked him what he thought of you. He said he didn't even notice you. He was completely oblivious. I asked him why he didn't care. We fought. It was distressing. I want him to care that I have all of this going on inside of me, and it's all going on inside of me around you.
I won't say that it's about you. I don't even know if it's about you, anymore. You say that you could never be with me. I can't be with you, either. I would never cheat on my husband. Never. I just don't understand why these feelings didn't go away when I got married. Shouldn't these feelings have gone away?
I saw a missed connection that I thought could be for me from you. It happened at noon the day after our late night together. But it was in the wrong county. Why would you do that, Jon? Just to add more questions to something that's already been absurdly unsure for me? It probably wasn't you.
I've been thinking about putting you away. I don't fantasize about you anymore. In fact, I try very hard not to.
In less melodramatic news, I got the interview, and it went well. I expect to have an offer this week. That makes my life seem less unsure to me.
I can't stop reading the missed connections - not because I think any of them will have anything to do with me, but because some of them are heartbreakingly beautiful. It's like looking into people's windows at night, catching glimpses of them moving through their lives. They leave the blinds open hoping someone will look in. I do.
I'm going to go to bed, now, and lie down next to my husband.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Stilll drunk (again)
Dear Jon -
I love you. Your poetry just filled me with such love for you. Thank you. Thank you for being vulnerable with me. You say you can't be with me, and I know why. I know, all too well, why you can't be with me. It's 3 AM and I'm going to go seduce my husband, now, but, as I told you, I sincerely hope there are more late nights in our future.
I love you, Jon. I love you, I love you, I love you, I am head over heels in love with you.
More about tonight posted tomorrow, I promise. (How could I forget?)
I love you,
M.
I love you. Your poetry just filled me with such love for you. Thank you. Thank you for being vulnerable with me. You say you can't be with me, and I know why. I know, all too well, why you can't be with me. It's 3 AM and I'm going to go seduce my husband, now, but, as I told you, I sincerely hope there are more late nights in our future.
I love you, Jon. I love you, I love you, I love you, I am head over heels in love with you.
More about tonight posted tomorrow, I promise. (How could I forget?)
I love you,
M.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Uhm... Fuck?
Dear Jon -
Surprising everyone, including myself, I did txt you. The conversation:
M: The courage to do things poorly.
J: any thoughts?
M: Yes.
J: I'd like to hear them at some point.
M: Would you?
J: I would. I never know how I communicate and would like your feedback. I like your thoughts: like flowers for the brain sometimes.
M: Drinks?
[Pause]
M: The courage to do things poorly?
J: sorry. working on a peer review due tomorrow. I'll be a couple of hours at least. did you want me to text then or just wait for another time?
M: Txt me when you're done? If I'm up, I'll respond. I have an 8 am class.
J: so do I. effing 8! It's rediculous. you have Kurt at 8, huh I have McMinn.
M: I don't want to do it another time.
J: fair enough. I'll try to get finished soon.
The last time stamp I have is 9:35. So should I txt again? I've showered, put my husband to bed, and am ready to see you. I'm shaved and looking sexy and feeling sexy and you know what? I'm going to fucking confront you. Am I? I think so. Yes, I think so.
You just txted me. Fuck. I'll post again after.
- M.
Surprising everyone, including myself, I did txt you. The conversation:
M: The courage to do things poorly.
J: any thoughts?
M: Yes.
J: I'd like to hear them at some point.
M: Would you?
J: I would. I never know how I communicate and would like your feedback. I like your thoughts: like flowers for the brain sometimes.
M: Drinks?
[Pause]
M: The courage to do things poorly?
J: sorry. working on a peer review due tomorrow. I'll be a couple of hours at least. did you want me to text then or just wait for another time?
M: Txt me when you're done? If I'm up, I'll respond. I have an 8 am class.
J: so do I. effing 8! It's rediculous. you have Kurt at 8, huh I have McMinn.
M: I don't want to do it another time.
J: fair enough. I'll try to get finished soon.
The last time stamp I have is 9:35. So should I txt again? I've showered, put my husband to bed, and am ready to see you. I'm shaved and looking sexy and feeling sexy and you know what? I'm going to fucking confront you. Am I? I think so. Yes, I think so.
You just txted me. Fuck. I'll post again after.
- M.
Drunk (again)
Dear Jon -
You know that interview that I small-talked you about? Yeah, they didn't bother to call and interview me. I have no idea why. I emailed the clinical director at our program and she is being unsupportive. Fucking hell.
I'm drunk, trying to console myself about next year's folly. I am seriously considering txting you, but what would that accomplish? You're probably high or with someone else or going to completely ignore me.
I saw you today at chapel. You talked about how you can't be vulnerable, and it's your fault, and that you wish you would have had the courage to do things badly. Fuck you, Jon. How dare you say that? How dare you say that after all of this? Why couldn't you have had the courage to do things badly with me?
I'm so angry and so tired and I'm so scared about my whole fucking future career that I don't know what to do. Maybe I will txt you, I don't know. I'm so angry. I don't know what to do.
The courage to do things badly. Yes.
Am I supposed to have the courage to do things poorly? Am I supposed to confront you? How can I? I'm married, Jon. I'm married and I'm alone and I'm scared and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm so angry with you. I'm so, so angry.
Jon, please, I beg you, come to me. Just say something to me. I'm not going to be so self-centered as to assume what you said in chapel was about me or directed at me or anything of the sort. I can't very well confront you about that. Jon, please. Please say something to me. Please please please.
Fuck.
Batshit.
Batshit crazy.
I'm gonna go smoke and maybe txt you, I don't know.
- M.
I'm such a coward, I'm not going to txt you.
- M. (again)
You know that interview that I small-talked you about? Yeah, they didn't bother to call and interview me. I have no idea why. I emailed the clinical director at our program and she is being unsupportive. Fucking hell.
I'm drunk, trying to console myself about next year's folly. I am seriously considering txting you, but what would that accomplish? You're probably high or with someone else or going to completely ignore me.
I saw you today at chapel. You talked about how you can't be vulnerable, and it's your fault, and that you wish you would have had the courage to do things badly. Fuck you, Jon. How dare you say that? How dare you say that after all of this? Why couldn't you have had the courage to do things badly with me?
I'm so angry and so tired and I'm so scared about my whole fucking future career that I don't know what to do. Maybe I will txt you, I don't know. I'm so angry. I don't know what to do.
The courage to do things badly. Yes.
Am I supposed to have the courage to do things poorly? Am I supposed to confront you? How can I? I'm married, Jon. I'm married and I'm alone and I'm scared and I don't know what to do with myself. I'm so angry with you. I'm so, so angry.
Jon, please, I beg you, come to me. Just say something to me. I'm not going to be so self-centered as to assume what you said in chapel was about me or directed at me or anything of the sort. I can't very well confront you about that. Jon, please. Please say something to me. Please please please.
Fuck.
Batshit.
Batshit crazy.
I'm gonna go smoke and maybe txt you, I don't know.
- M.
I'm such a coward, I'm not going to txt you.
- M. (again)
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
"About a week ago..."
Dear Jon -
Today, after our meeting, we went out for our smoking ritual. You started the conversation with, "So, about a week ago..." and my heart stopped. I posted the missed connection about a week ago (it's down, now). I thought for sure that finally you would have seen it and were ready to talk about it. But then you proceeded to tell me a story about your cat.
Jon, I'm hopeless for you.
I didn't touch you today.
I need to give the CD back. I told you I'd give it back today, then today told you that I had forgotten it, but I very much just wanted to keep some connection to you.
Batshit crazy, yes.
- M.
Today, after our meeting, we went out for our smoking ritual. You started the conversation with, "So, about a week ago..." and my heart stopped. I posted the missed connection about a week ago (it's down, now). I thought for sure that finally you would have seen it and were ready to talk about it. But then you proceeded to tell me a story about your cat.
Jon, I'm hopeless for you.
I didn't touch you today.
I need to give the CD back. I told you I'd give it back today, then today told you that I had forgotten it, but I very much just wanted to keep some connection to you.
Batshit crazy, yes.
- M.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Soundtrack
Dear Jon -
You had a client, then asked me to smoke. I read into your body language and general demeanor that either the client had gone awry or you wanted to talk to me about something important. I think now, though, that you were just being polite or wanted company.
You gave me a disc with a bunch of mp3 albums on it and asked for it back. This was not what I had hoped. I had hoped when you said you were making me a disc that it would be a mix for me. Do people still do that for each other? I certainly could do it for you - there's a soundtrack to this seemingly endless cycle of longing for you.
In any case, tomorrow is Tuesday. I'll have to sit in clinical team getting a stiff neck trying not to look in your direction. And afterward we'll smoke - our ritual, as you say.
Tomorrow I'm going to try to touch you. I don't know where I'll touch you or how. But I'm going to try to touch you.
- M.
You had a client, then asked me to smoke. I read into your body language and general demeanor that either the client had gone awry or you wanted to talk to me about something important. I think now, though, that you were just being polite or wanted company.
You gave me a disc with a bunch of mp3 albums on it and asked for it back. This was not what I had hoped. I had hoped when you said you were making me a disc that it would be a mix for me. Do people still do that for each other? I certainly could do it for you - there's a soundtrack to this seemingly endless cycle of longing for you.
In any case, tomorrow is Tuesday. I'll have to sit in clinical team getting a stiff neck trying not to look in your direction. And afterward we'll smoke - our ritual, as you say.
Tomorrow I'm going to try to touch you. I don't know where I'll touch you or how. But I'm going to try to touch you.
- M.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
As much as I make believe
Dear Jon,
Tomorrow is Monday. That means, if you are at work, I will probably at some point run into you. At least I have small talk fodder - finally got an interview at that site for next year. Maybe we can talk about that and avoid talking about... anything else.
See, the thing is, you've been totally absent from my life, aside from the conversation we had the day after I posted. Maybe you really did see it and have been avoiding me? Or is this my narcissistic reading on a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with me? In any case, I'm scared to see you. I always am, but I'm putting more meaning on it because of something I've done (the post) which has probably not affected you in any way.
I'm not feeling eloquent tonight.
I'm about to go to bed and fantasize about you more, but I realized a few days ago that the fantasy is all wrong. You wouldn't grab me and kiss me like that; that's not how it would happen. What happens is that I'm very good at fantasizing all the way up to that point, but not beyond. Why? Why am I so afraid to imagine you kissing me? Why am I so afraid to imagine... anything more? It's easy to imagine what you'd say to me, the look on your face, the way you would move your mouth, the crinkles around you eyes and the direction of your gaze - I have your movements memorized. I know your speech patterns and preferred adjectives (oh, I disgust myself!), but I have no idea how you would actually, if it came down to it, show affection towards me.
I don't remember any physical touch beyond that night.
That night. Yes, I'll have to write about that soon, won't I? I was drunk and high (your fault), and my memory is so hazy, until it got awkward and I asked you to drive me home. I'm glad that we didn't sleep together, and I've always been glad, because I thought there would be a time when we would get to experience each other, unclouded.
This process of writing here has made me alternate madly from being utterly infatuated with you and incredibly furious with you. Am I ready to give you up? I always think so, and then something happens to give me some sort of crazy, fucked up hope.
Last Song lyrics:
giving up's not easy
it's hard enough to say
as much as i make believe
you're not really here with me...
as much as i make believe
something in side of me
has got me hoping got me thinking
who am i to assume
Who am I to assume anything about you? Whether you ever even think of me or not? I felt so beautiful, sometimes, with you. Do you think of the curve of my lips as I think of the way the corners of your mouth tighten? The freckles on your lips - I didn't think that was possible, but it's so endearing. Do you think longingly after my imperfections? I doubt it. I doubt it.
I'll be in the office before 9. You won't be there in the morning, I know, but perhaps in the afternoon.
This letter should have read:
Dear Jon,
When we see each other tomorrow, know that I crave resolution. Please either give me no hope at all or dash all of my hope cruelly with a brick to the head so that I don't have to wonder anymore.
-M.
Tomorrow is Monday. That means, if you are at work, I will probably at some point run into you. At least I have small talk fodder - finally got an interview at that site for next year. Maybe we can talk about that and avoid talking about... anything else.
See, the thing is, you've been totally absent from my life, aside from the conversation we had the day after I posted. Maybe you really did see it and have been avoiding me? Or is this my narcissistic reading on a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with me? In any case, I'm scared to see you. I always am, but I'm putting more meaning on it because of something I've done (the post) which has probably not affected you in any way.
I'm not feeling eloquent tonight.
I'm about to go to bed and fantasize about you more, but I realized a few days ago that the fantasy is all wrong. You wouldn't grab me and kiss me like that; that's not how it would happen. What happens is that I'm very good at fantasizing all the way up to that point, but not beyond. Why? Why am I so afraid to imagine you kissing me? Why am I so afraid to imagine... anything more? It's easy to imagine what you'd say to me, the look on your face, the way you would move your mouth, the crinkles around you eyes and the direction of your gaze - I have your movements memorized. I know your speech patterns and preferred adjectives (oh, I disgust myself!), but I have no idea how you would actually, if it came down to it, show affection towards me.
I don't remember any physical touch beyond that night.
That night. Yes, I'll have to write about that soon, won't I? I was drunk and high (your fault), and my memory is so hazy, until it got awkward and I asked you to drive me home. I'm glad that we didn't sleep together, and I've always been glad, because I thought there would be a time when we would get to experience each other, unclouded.
This process of writing here has made me alternate madly from being utterly infatuated with you and incredibly furious with you. Am I ready to give you up? I always think so, and then something happens to give me some sort of crazy, fucked up hope.
Last Song lyrics:
giving up's not easy
it's hard enough to say
as much as i make believe
you're not really here with me...
as much as i make believe
something in side of me
has got me hoping got me thinking
who am i to assume
Who am I to assume anything about you? Whether you ever even think of me or not? I felt so beautiful, sometimes, with you. Do you think of the curve of my lips as I think of the way the corners of your mouth tighten? The freckles on your lips - I didn't think that was possible, but it's so endearing. Do you think longingly after my imperfections? I doubt it. I doubt it.
I'll be in the office before 9. You won't be there in the morning, I know, but perhaps in the afternoon.
This letter should have read:
Dear Jon,
When we see each other tomorrow, know that I crave resolution. Please either give me no hope at all or dash all of my hope cruelly with a brick to the head so that I don't have to wonder anymore.
-M.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Drunk
Dear Jon -
I'm drunk. I posted the original missed connection that started all of this, because it was six days ago, and posts only last for a week. I don't want it to be lost, I know that somehow, but I also didn't want to save it to my computer for fear my husband would find it.
I wonder what your plans are for this weekend. I wonder if you'll be alone, in the house you shared with your ex-wife, or if you'll be with friends, or if you'll be with some other lover I have no knowledge of. Some other lover, some other lover, I have no idea what's going on in your life and it could so be true.
I didn't dream of you, when I said I wouldn't, and I never do. I don't know why, because I think of you every night before I fall asleep. I fantasize. The fantasy continues:
We get out of the car and walk up to the door. You unlock it, open it, motion for me to step in. The smell of old pot smoke and incense hits me. It's dark, sparsely furnished, browns and blacks in the furniture with dark woods. Your little cat runs up to me, mewing, and I kneel down to pet him. I'm terrified, and the cat is a welcome distraction.
You enter behind me, close the door softly, and walk across the room. You take off your jacket and lay it across the couch. I try to pick up the little cat, but he runs to you, and you smile and sit down. I gingerly rise and cross to stand before you, silent.
The silence drags on, for minutes. The cat is in your lap, on the couch beside you, on your shoulders, and you are intermittently stroking him and trying to settle him down. It seems he is for you also a welcome distraction. I am patient and measuring my breathing, trying not to let me terror show, trying not to let my heartbeat show in my neck or my flush show in my cheeks.
Finally, the cat dashes away, and we both look after him. When it is clear that distractions are over and we must face each other, you turn in my direction and look to the ground. I am still standing before you.
"I never meant for this," you say, and immediately I know your meaning. I am instantly furious, taking this to be a denial, and feel my flush deepen as I shift my weight on my feet.
And then you look up at me. Your eyes, so clear, so pained, so inviting. You are looking into me, trying to dredge up an answer from me. I don't have one.
And suddenly you stand, startling me, grasping my arms in your hands, clutching me. I am afraid, my mouth falls open, and you kiss me.
I can't go on. Not now. Not in this drunken state. I'll go lie down and imagine what happens next and play the scenario out again.
Oh, Jon. I don't know what to do about you. Next week at chapel, you'll be there and I'll be forced to face you. And that will be after our work week Monday and Tuesday. I avoided the office today, in desperate fear of myself and what I would do should I see you. But Monday and Tuesday I'll have no choice, and will you be there? Will you look at me? Look into me? Will you grab my arm and ask me to come with you? Will you clutch me and kiss me? I doubt all of that, but I do sincerely hope for a touch. Your fingertips against the back of my hand, a gentle reassurance.
I accuse you of being a coward, Jon, and you are. You let your fear paralyze you from approaching me or even admitting that I could have been approached. Yet I am also a coward. I harbor these feelings and do nothing. I can't even bear to look at you when we're in the same room. Maybe I'm not so afraid of what you will read on my face as I am afraid that others will instantly know what has (or hasn't) passed between us.
I don't know what to do. I only know that if anything is to be done, it must be before the end of the year, and that is fast approaching. How long will you be there? August? September? That's wishful thinking, I know, but I must wish. I must hope.
Please, Jon, I beg you, if you saw the missed connection or have an inkling for what is still inside me yearning for you, please, please say something to me. Say something. I don't know if we will act on it, or if we should, or if we will never, but I want some validation that it was real, that what was between us was real. Please, Jon, as a final act of kindness, between now and then, find it in your heart to admit to me that this was not all one-sided. Tell me that I was real to you, if only for a moment.
- M.
I'm drunk. I posted the original missed connection that started all of this, because it was six days ago, and posts only last for a week. I don't want it to be lost, I know that somehow, but I also didn't want to save it to my computer for fear my husband would find it.
I wonder what your plans are for this weekend. I wonder if you'll be alone, in the house you shared with your ex-wife, or if you'll be with friends, or if you'll be with some other lover I have no knowledge of. Some other lover, some other lover, I have no idea what's going on in your life and it could so be true.
I didn't dream of you, when I said I wouldn't, and I never do. I don't know why, because I think of you every night before I fall asleep. I fantasize. The fantasy continues:
We get out of the car and walk up to the door. You unlock it, open it, motion for me to step in. The smell of old pot smoke and incense hits me. It's dark, sparsely furnished, browns and blacks in the furniture with dark woods. Your little cat runs up to me, mewing, and I kneel down to pet him. I'm terrified, and the cat is a welcome distraction.
You enter behind me, close the door softly, and walk across the room. You take off your jacket and lay it across the couch. I try to pick up the little cat, but he runs to you, and you smile and sit down. I gingerly rise and cross to stand before you, silent.
The silence drags on, for minutes. The cat is in your lap, on the couch beside you, on your shoulders, and you are intermittently stroking him and trying to settle him down. It seems he is for you also a welcome distraction. I am patient and measuring my breathing, trying not to let me terror show, trying not to let my heartbeat show in my neck or my flush show in my cheeks.
Finally, the cat dashes away, and we both look after him. When it is clear that distractions are over and we must face each other, you turn in my direction and look to the ground. I am still standing before you.
"I never meant for this," you say, and immediately I know your meaning. I am instantly furious, taking this to be a denial, and feel my flush deepen as I shift my weight on my feet.
And then you look up at me. Your eyes, so clear, so pained, so inviting. You are looking into me, trying to dredge up an answer from me. I don't have one.
And suddenly you stand, startling me, grasping my arms in your hands, clutching me. I am afraid, my mouth falls open, and you kiss me.
I can't go on. Not now. Not in this drunken state. I'll go lie down and imagine what happens next and play the scenario out again.
Oh, Jon. I don't know what to do about you. Next week at chapel, you'll be there and I'll be forced to face you. And that will be after our work week Monday and Tuesday. I avoided the office today, in desperate fear of myself and what I would do should I see you. But Monday and Tuesday I'll have no choice, and will you be there? Will you look at me? Look into me? Will you grab my arm and ask me to come with you? Will you clutch me and kiss me? I doubt all of that, but I do sincerely hope for a touch. Your fingertips against the back of my hand, a gentle reassurance.
I accuse you of being a coward, Jon, and you are. You let your fear paralyze you from approaching me or even admitting that I could have been approached. Yet I am also a coward. I harbor these feelings and do nothing. I can't even bear to look at you when we're in the same room. Maybe I'm not so afraid of what you will read on my face as I am afraid that others will instantly know what has (or hasn't) passed between us.
I don't know what to do. I only know that if anything is to be done, it must be before the end of the year, and that is fast approaching. How long will you be there? August? September? That's wishful thinking, I know, but I must wish. I must hope.
Please, Jon, I beg you, if you saw the missed connection or have an inkling for what is still inside me yearning for you, please, please say something to me. Say something. I don't know if we will act on it, or if we should, or if we will never, but I want some validation that it was real, that what was between us was real. Please, Jon, as a final act of kindness, between now and then, find it in your heart to admit to me that this was not all one-sided. Tell me that I was real to you, if only for a moment.
- M.
There was a carrot w4m 26 (Broadripple)
You show up suddenly at school or work, so casual in your old man sweaters. My heart stops, for just a moment, and then I don’t know what to do but smile and keep walking and pass by. You must think me cold, or you think me happy in my marriage, or you think that those stolen moments discussing dreams and existential angst don’t mean anything to me. I so fear and dread those moments together, and yet I long for them. I long for you. During Tuesday morning meetings I can’t even glance in your direction for fear I’ll blush and you’ll read plainly on my face what has become etched onto my heart. I wouldn’t mind for you to see spelled out the loss, but I couldn’t bear for you to find the hope written there, only to deny it.
How dare you, J? How dare you sit with me in the car listening to that damn song over and over again and tell me that there was nothing between us? There was a carrot. There was the potential for something rare and precious. It would have been bitter and uncontrollable and cut by such depths of sorrow, but also healed with so much joy. Such passion and joy - we could have had that.
I came home from training, the day you gave me a ride, and I told everyone I was in love. It was a silly statement made by a girl who felt giddy with possibility, but even after all this time I do not think I lied to them.
At the end of the year, please go away from here. Please spend your year preparing for internship somewhere else, where I won’t have to feel my heart stop as I pull into the parking lot and see you walking to your car, where I won’t have to watch you shiver over a cigarette as you tell me how different we are. We aren’t so different, you and I, only I saw the danger and the heartache ahead on the path and thought it worth walking with you anyway.
I know Broadripple is for her. I know it isn’t for me and never was. But it was the first song you sang to me, and I’ve spent too many afternoons in tears over my guitar to give it back. If somehow you read this, I want you to know Broadripple is mine, now, and every time you hear it I hope you think of the injustice you did me by letting fear paralyze you.
How dare you, J? How dare you sit with me in the car listening to that damn song over and over again and tell me that there was nothing between us? There was a carrot. There was the potential for something rare and precious. It would have been bitter and uncontrollable and cut by such depths of sorrow, but also healed with so much joy. Such passion and joy - we could have had that.
I came home from training, the day you gave me a ride, and I told everyone I was in love. It was a silly statement made by a girl who felt giddy with possibility, but even after all this time I do not think I lied to them.
At the end of the year, please go away from here. Please spend your year preparing for internship somewhere else, where I won’t have to feel my heart stop as I pull into the parking lot and see you walking to your car, where I won’t have to watch you shiver over a cigarette as you tell me how different we are. We aren’t so different, you and I, only I saw the danger and the heartache ahead on the path and thought it worth walking with you anyway.
I know Broadripple is for her. I know it isn’t for me and never was. But it was the first song you sang to me, and I’ve spent too many afternoons in tears over my guitar to give it back. If somehow you read this, I want you to know Broadripple is mine, now, and every time you hear it I hope you think of the injustice you did me by letting fear paralyze you.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I will haunt you like a ghost
Dear Jon -
Today in our integration class we talked about the importance of letters. I felt perfectly ironic and missed you terribly. I didn't see you at school, today. Tomorrow is Good Friday.
There's so much I want to write to you about. I want to tell you all about my days, the stresses and challenges I'm facing. Perhaps these letters will transform into that, but not yet. For now, I want them to focus on you. I know I never had you, and I never will, and yet I want to cleave to any shred of you I have in my life.
Oh, Jon. You said you'd burn me a CD. Maybe you'll have it for me on Monday. Do you remember when I gave you a copy of Miles Davis's love songs? I wonder if you ever listen to it.
That's all for now. I've got to clean house before my husband gets home. We're having a guest over tonight, which maybe I'll want to tell you about when these letters transition out of you and into me.
- M.
Today in our integration class we talked about the importance of letters. I felt perfectly ironic and missed you terribly. I didn't see you at school, today. Tomorrow is Good Friday.
There's so much I want to write to you about. I want to tell you all about my days, the stresses and challenges I'm facing. Perhaps these letters will transform into that, but not yet. For now, I want them to focus on you. I know I never had you, and I never will, and yet I want to cleave to any shred of you I have in my life.
Oh, Jon. You said you'd burn me a CD. Maybe you'll have it for me on Monday. Do you remember when I gave you a copy of Miles Davis's love songs? I wonder if you ever listen to it.
That's all for now. I've got to clean house before my husband gets home. We're having a guest over tonight, which maybe I'll want to tell you about when these letters transition out of you and into me.
- M.
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