Derecho

A derecho fast approaches.  It promises high-speed winds and a deluge of rain the likes we haven’t seen in years.  And I know you barely know me, and I know we’re just getting reacquainted after a long spell, but I am struck by the notion of you electing to come over and sit out the storm with me.  We will light an extravagant number of tealights when the power goes out, and as my apartment building sways back and forth just enough to induce you to hold tight to your second glass of wine, we shall catch up on everything that’s happened since we last spoke.  Delightful, well-worn yarns will give way to poignant narratives of lessons learned, which in turn will give way to an exchange of dazzling epiphanies and hard truths, which in turn will give way to empathy – and unspoken gratitude that we finally have someone to talk to for the first time in a long time.

Later you will break out the fabled ukulele and indulge me with a splendid live set – just three or four songs, really – that will make me want to kick myself for missing out on your shows all these years.  But what luxury to hear them now!  You will serenade your enrapt audience of one – two, actually, if you account for the likelihood of my roommate, too polite to intrude yet too spellbound to disregard the exquisite melodies drifting down the hall, listening from his perch at the kitchen table – with such elegance and warmth.  As the final chord rings out (and is all too quickly dispelled by the sound of thick raindrops spattering against the windows), my first instinct will be to insist on an encore.  But I imagine words will fail me at that very moment, so instead I’ll simply reach out to hold your hands in mine, as if your long, slender fingers might somehow contain faint traces of previously played notes.

Just in case the power won’t come on by morning (even though we both know it will) we’ll eat the remaining ice cream in the freezer.  You will sample freely from the cartons set out on the coffee table while I select a few of my favorite short stories to read aloud to you.  I am confident that you will be amused by just how much I relish introducing people to the likes of Clarence John “Pinky” Softitch, a big-hearted, big-boned custodian who finally takes a chance on love; and Rory, a photographer’s assistant who struggles so mightily to find his significance in the elusive world of high fashion; and certainly Seymour and Salmon Boy, the most unlikely romantic duo on the strangest “nonviolent killing spree” ever recorded in the annals of fiction, and will soon find yourself utterly charmed by each and every one of these protagonists as their stories unfold – and maybe even more so by the boy who gleefully narrates their hopes and dreams and noble efforts.

By the time I finish reading the wind and the rain will have let up. The aftermath won’t be anywhere near as bad as the weather reports anticipated – at worst a few railway underpasses are flooded – but it will be late by then, and seeing as you’re stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, surely right on the cusp of sleep, it will be fair to say that you’re not going anywhere.

And that’s when you’ll reply: “Of course I’m not.”

A tad startled to discover that I said that last bit aloud, I’ll look over to find you still awake after all.  You will sit up, stretch your arms over your head and let loose a yawn as further evidence that you have no intention whatsoever of going home tonight.

“Are you sure?” I’ll ask anyway.

That’s when you’ll get to your feet, shuffle over to where I’m sitting in the tattered green lounge chair and crouch down to address me directly. “It’s time for bed, silly – and yours is much closer than mine.”

“Would you like me to join you?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Such a gentleman, even at this late hour,” you’ll tease lightly as you run your fingers through my hair. “Still, are you sure you weren’t hoping that the storm might live up to expectation and stick around just a teensy bit longer so that I’ll have no choice but to stay?”

I will decline to respond to your query.  (Mostly ‘cause you’ve got me dead to rights.)

“I’ll make you a deal, Justin:  I will stay if you come to bed with me.  And if you’re a gentleman about it, I will even stick around long enough to let you make me breakfast.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I’ll whisper far too seriously for the offer on the table.

“C’mon then.”

A derecho fast departs. It promised high-speed winds and a deluge of rain the likes we hadn’t seen in years. And I know you still barely know me, and I know we’re still just getting reacquainted after a long spell, but I was struck by the notion that when the last of the tealights extinguish on their own as we clamber into bed; when we’re left to sort out and playfully fuss over blankets and pillows in the dark; when we’re properly twisted and tangled and nestled together in a way that only new lovers would be so greedy to demand of each other all at once, there will be a clear blue sky awaiting us come morning – and quite possibly for many days to follow.

(c) JVH

06/2013

32

"Your Grace should take my advice and live for many years. Because the greatest madness a man can commit in this life is to let himself die just like that, without anybody killing him, or any other hands ending his life except those of melancholy."
-- The Building Stage, "Dawn, Quixote"

'Til the Rain Lets Up

She sat me down at the kitchen table and fetched me a fresh towel. As I dried myself off, she retrieved a roll of duct tape with a bright cerulean sheen -- likely the unused remainder of an art installation -- from a nearby drawer and then returned to the chair closest to mine, the old black one salvaged from an alleyway not far from the apartment we used to share together on the other side of town -- the place where I still lived until last month when I finally moved out, too.  She ripped off a long strip and then motioned for me to hand over my blown sneaker.  I dutifully complied and, with great care, she thoroughly wrapped the tape around and around again over where the sole had separated from the rest of the shoe, sacrificing most of the dirty laces and scuffed synthetic leather in the process.

When she finished, she offered it back to me and said, "It's not perfect, but it will get you home."

I nodded and slipped the sneaker back over my wet and wrinkled right foot.

"C'mon," she said and then ushered me back out onto the front porch.

It was still pouring outside.

"Do you need money for the bus?"

I shook my head, "Nah, I've got a few bucks.  And I feel like walking anyway."

"It's a long walk home."

Actually, that wasn't true.  I lived just three blocks away these days, although she didn't know that.  Not yet.

I didn't mean for it to happen.  Well, I don't know if that's the whole truth, but it was one of the few places I could afford on my current budget -- and it certainly didn't hurt that the only person I really wanted (still wished was) in my life lived nearby.  As it stood, there wasn't much of a "home" to go to these days.  I mean, I had furniture, plates and utensils, an entertainment center, two bookshelves crammed with books and a high-strung cat that belonged to a friend who asked me to look after it while he went on a three-month backpacking trip abroad (and then conscripted me into adopting it when he found true love on a WWOOF somewhere in Australia).

Essentially, I had all the trappings of a home as proof that life was being lived in an apartment.  I could invite anyone over to show that I had replaced most everything that she had taken with her when she left.  I could reveal to my friends that I was finally "making progress".

But it didn't mean that I belonged there.

"I'll be fine," I replied.  "Once the rain lets up."

From the comfort of the covered front porch we watched the torrent come down.  It had long since washed the cars clean, but the grimy, misshapen mounds of hardened winter sleet that stubbornly clung to curbsides and street signs still remained.

I thought about how cold my right foot would be by the time I got home.

"I don't want this to become a thing."

"What?"

"You dropping by unannounced."

"Oh.  It won't."

"I know this has been hard for you, Eric.  It's hard for me, too.  You've been really good about respecting my wishes."

"This won't be a 'thing', Rae.  I promise."

I could tell that she wanted to say something more, probably wanted to repeat herself "just to make things clear".  But she held back, which made me both grateful and annoyed.

I took a seat on the front step.  She remained standing.  The rain went on unabated.  Spring was here.

"Where were you coming from?"

I shrugged.  "An errand."  Then I looked up at her.  "I really was just passing by -- and I don't plan on hanging around either."

"Just 'til the rain lets up."

"You got it."

I returned to watching the rain.  It was already letting up.

"Okay then.  Have a good weekend."

"You, too.  Thanks for the tape."

That's when she surprised me by leaning down and whispering right in my ear -- the way she always used to -- the way she knew just drove me wild -- "You're welcome.  Handsome."

Then she turned around and went back inside.

Not sure what just happened, but knowing that it was more than I could've hoped for, I promised myself that I would be gone before she came back out to check if I was still there.

(c) JVH

04/2013

White Flag

Bandit,

You are the most selfish and self-centered person I have ever met.  And no act of charity or volunteerism will ever make up for the way you treat others, especially those closest to you.

Your mother once told me that I should strive to create a big family in order to "drill the selfishness out of me". But if that's the case, what explanation does she have for you? How does someone that kind and welcoming and big-hearted like her not sway her own child to not just act the same but actually be the same?

Every single time you've hurt me -- and that's been a lot -- you have done so at your convenience.  Rather than play nice, or give me the benefit of the doubt, or show any initiative to work things out in a mature way, you have continually done your worst to secure absolute control of our relationship and, thus, have ensured that no progress will ever be made in it.  Of course, your immediate defense will be to question why I even bothered with you then. The simplest answer: I was fooled into believing (and then fooled myself into believing) that you were worthy of my loyalty and love.  I confused your brief displays of warmth and small doses of affection for sincerity, so I chose to believe in the best of you as you continued to wreak as much havoc as you could.  (What can I say? I thought that I might overcome your ugly and relentless skepticism, which would compel you to finally lay down your arms and embrace me as a lover and a friend. But the fact that you never did speaks volumes of you as a person -- and of me as a damned fool.)  And then I kept coming back because I was weak and hurting -- hurting more than I've ever hurt in my life (a hurt that you're partially responsible for) -- and still in love -- even as I write this, I'm still very much in love with you -- and needed some kind of affection/intimacy from someone -- anyone -- whom I loved so deeply and thought might care about me still.

But you don't care.  You're abusive, and I'm pathetic. That's us in a nutshell.  How proud we should both be, right?

I would tell you that you should be ashamed, but I know that would have zero impact on you.  You are shameless when it comes to getting what you want at the expense of my feelings.  Still, I would move mountains for you.  And it's that kind of senseless devotion to someone so fucking neglectful and inconsiderate that makes my heart hurt more than anything. 

That said, you are certainly right: I deserve better.  But that wasn't a destined outcome, Bandit.  That was your choice.  It was always your choice to treat me the way you did -- and still do.

I hope that one day you'll come to realize that life is more than giving your time and focus to strangers and foster pets who will never truly require (or demand) any serious commitment from you.  You actually have to be willing to give of yourself, particularly to those who choose to take a risk on loving you.  Until you do that, you will never be capable of loving anyone, including yourself, and will only continue to carelessly break more hearts, including your own.

Maybe one day you'll come to understand this.  Maybe then you'll tear down those defenses, connect with others in a meaningful and lasting way and finally evolve into the very person you pretend so hard to be.

Maybe then you'll be worthy of the love and devotion I feel for you (and shall continue to feel for you long after you've forgotten about me altogether).

Maybe then we can create something meaningful and lasting together.  I'm certainly not opposed to that idea.  Not at all.

How nice it would be to have something to look forward to with the someone I thought you were, and maybe one day might be.

Love always,

Always,

Justin
2013/03/03

Man On Fire

"I'm not mad at you. Please don't think that I am mad at you. I am angry at the situation, not you. And forgive me for being so ugly with my rant. I'm just so terribly frustrated by the lack of interest within our communities to make a tangible effort to make things right; by the willful ignorance of the overwhelming majority who know -- WHO VERY WELL KNOW! -- that this is wrong but refuse to stand up and finally say it aloud; by the fact that so many of these people I've come to know, love and respect choose to be led further astray rather than TRY to once -- JUST THIS FUCKING ONCE! -- come together, support one another (yes, goddamnit, support me!) and possibly effect change for the better -- and not just for themselves, or for us, but for ***EVERYONE!***

Forgive me for being disappointed that loyalty is considered to be such a sentimental and, therefore, useless commodity these days.

Forgive me for being disappointed that the vast majority don't truly believe that we deserve better and, therefore, should demand better.

Forgive me for being disappointed that people don't live up to my expectations.

I'm not mad at you. Please don't think that I am mad at you.

But know this:

If our roles were reversed,
If you were the one suffering,
If this had happened to you,
I WOULD HAVE THEIR EYES."

The Insomniac's Dream: Resolution

Nearly five years ago I wrote a photo letter to a special someone named Justine.

I titled it The Insomniac's Dream.

It was an incredibly ambitious project that ultimately received a lukewarm response.  Since then, she and I have remained good acquaintances who infrequently catch up by way of sporadic IMs, impromptu dinner parties and midnight screenings.

Then a few days ago I received this e-mail:

Hey,

so I just reread your picture letter, 'cause I needed a refresher.  and I have to say I got much more out of it this time than the first.  I was so overwhelmed by all the time and attention you were giving me, and the thought and work you put into making that happen, that I shut down and ran and hid.  so, now that I know you better and am at a better place in my life I see how totally awesome that letter is.  you are such a romantic, you get to drag the rest of us along in your beautiful world.

-- J.

What does this mean?  I really don't know.

Will she be mine?  Probably not.  No.

But all these years later, it seems that my words, my efforts, still left an impression -- a positive one.

So it wasn't for naught, or solely an exercise to reconcile myself with the Grand Romantic Gesture, and I guess that's something.



No, it really is something.

It's everything.

Plea

"Please be nice," he told her.

"I don't plan on being here

                                 much longer,

                                                 and I could use

                                                               a bit more kindness

                                                                                         before I go."