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."

Time & Perspective: A Letter

Rojita,

I have this fantasy where I greet you on your doorstep for your birthday, and much to my surprise you hurry me inside to join you and your family and friends to celebrate the occasion.  Years have passed since I’ve seen your face, years since I allowed things to end so poorly between us, yet you somehow dash away all those lost days and unspoken miseries by eagerly – gleefully! – taking my hand and leading me down the hall to where the rest of the party awaits your return.

To be honest, I don’t know exactly what happens next in this scenario, but there are enough snippets of imagination in my mind to form a vivid moving reel:  Your eyes and smile alit by the glow of birthday candles; your cry of “Duuuder!” in mock protest over some quip I make; that sweet and gentle smirk of yours that always makes my heart swell with pure, unadulterated joy; feeling your hand slip into mine underneath the table; standing outside with you as I’m about to leave, your arms wrapped around me through the inside of my coat, your face pressed against my chest like you used to; you wordlessly climbing into the passenger seat of my car so I can steal you away for the weekend, take you home.

And so I do.

It’s been nearly four years since I’ve seen you.  That’s such a long time – a high school diploma, a presidential term, a leap year come and gone – yet not.  ‘Cause while there have been many struggles, more than a fair share of defeats and far too few victories since then, the love I feel for you still remains as strong and vital as the last time I saw you.  And while the hurts inflicted by you and, worse, by myself, to us, have healed as best they could, there’s an ache that lingers just under the figurative scars that bear your likeness on the bruised and battered heart that stubbornly, defiantly beats away in my chest.  So while a lot has changed, it seems that I have kept true to my word that my feelings would not.  It’s both funny and fitting how what hurts the most – and goddamn if love lost is not the most relentless of all heartaches – also holds you most accountable.  Years later, I have plenty of new wounds to lick and injustices to howl about (or outright wallow over) – not to mention a few more worry and laugh lines in my face – yet I still find myself turning back to thoughts of you and how I could have done better.  And for that, Meli, I am sorry.  I am so, so sorry.  I know now that a lot of my anger was a protracted response to my frustrations with my previous relationship, which unduly ended in a lot of manipulative behavior from my ex and the loss of several close friends who chose her over me.  More importantly, I’ve come to understand that I was also suffering from post-traumatic stress brought on by my terrible experiences in West Africa.  I had just barely gotten a handle on myself and my emotions when I first met you, and then I went and made things even more complicated by trying to pursue an open relationship – a radically different lifestyle than any I had previously experienced – without having the understanding or patience required to make it fully work.  And never mind the fact that, monogamous or not, you simply were not ready for a serious commitment in the first place!  Still, I treated these things as little more than minor obstacles and pursued you with all the zeal, passion and persistence I can possibly generate for that someone who captures my heart.  In time I wore you down, and then finally won you over – but by then we had put each other as well as ourselves through the wringer.  And I’m sorry for that, too.

Not surprisingly, you continue to weigh heavy in my heart and mind, and I feel that I have still yet to find the words that might convince you to forgive me.  And that’s likely because I’ve yet to figure out how to wholly forgive myself – for my lack of patience; for not making you feel like you were more important than my impulses and desires; for my unnecessary (and frightening) flashes of anger; for demanding definitive answers when I could have just as easily been more diligent about helping you find them; for not knowing when to hold you closer (or let you go once and for all); for giving you any and every reason to cut off contact with me.  I feel particularly awful about that last one; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you changed your phone number or blocked my e-mails.  Whether or not I felt my anger was “justified” – the fact that I even have to put that word in quotes makes me wince – due to your (perceived) lack of compassion in the aftermath of our break-up, no matter who had the longer tally of grievances to hide behind, no one should have to endure such harassment.  Honestly, even if you have found – or one day will find – a way to forgive me for such despicable actions, I doubt that I ever will.  As it stands, much of my behavior toward the end still haunts me to this day.

However, sorrow and regret are not the reason why you remain a constant in my thoughts, why not a day goes by where I don’t reflect on you – on us – even if it’s little more than a passing reverie or a tiny snowflake of memory melting your name on my tongue.  Simply, I am still in love with you, Melissa.  Maybe not as madly or desperately as I used to be, but it is very much a love that has remained honest and true these last four years and counting.  (And, really, I’m all but certain that the intensity of such love smolders just below the surface, awaiting a grand and miraculous – and, yes, utterly ridiculous – rebirth.)  It is a love that has for better or worse set the bar for all future relationships.  It is because I lost such a love that I know better what I need from a relationship and how to pursue it with more caution, consideration and care.  It is because I lost you that I became determined to be even more vigilant about communication and commitment.  Anything less is a slap in the face to what we shared (and, alas, suffered) during our brief time together, and I simply cannot have it all be for naught.  You mean(t) far too much to me to do such a terrible thing to our legacy.  ‘Cause aside from a treasured collection of photographs and memories, that legacy is currently all that remains of us – and it’s very important for me to remember both the good and the bad.

If you asked me why I’m reaching out to you after so many years, I guess I would tell you that it was simply time.  I have been working up the nerve to do this for quite a while now, but something repeatedly told me to wait, then wait a bit longer . . . and then wait just a little bit more.  I once read that time doesn’t necessarily heal wounds but rather gives us perspective.  What could we have done differently?  What could have I done with the knowledge and experience I possess now?  Would we have had a better chance if we both weren’t so weighed down by our previous heartbreaks?  Can we move beyond our own past – our own heartbreak – and start anew?  That last question touches upon a notion that might be too ambitious (and/or terrifying) to even consider.  Maybe you have no interest whatsoever in even entertaining such a thought.  I can only hope that time and perspective might be on my side – at least enough to warrant some kind of response.

(How I would love the opportunity to tell you in person just how much I’ve missed you, Meli.  Madly.  Desperately.  I realize that now as I commit these words to the page.)

We had something good once.  Hell, judging by our rate of breaking up and getting back together, we had something good several times.  And I would like to think that if we could find such harmony despite the continuous upsets brought forth by the mountains of baggage we both brought to the table (as well as the inherent risks of navigating a relationship dynamic that was always going to be a tall order), I believe that we could still have more good times together.  I believe in reconciliation.  I believe in us.  Maybe not in any predestined way – we’d first have to take a leap of faith getting to know each other all over again – but I do believe that we’re not finished just yet, that something splendid and meaningful can still come from the ashes of what was.  And maybe such an idea belongs in the realm of fantasy, that strange and wonderful place where I’m heartily welcomed back into your life by simply ringing your doorbell . . . but I’m a man of possibility, Meli.  I excel at turning fantasy into reality.  And when it comes to you, I still have the will if you dare to show me the way.

And if not – if you just can’t bring yourself to bother, to try – I truly do understand.  And I begrudge you nothing.  Maybe you need more time.  Or maybe all the time in the world will never be enough.  This thought saddens me deeply, but I understand that, too.  I understand all too well the consequences of my actions; I live with them every day.

(It seems I’m burdened with far more regrets than I ever thought possible to accrue in my thirty-one years.)

Overall, what I want to say most is something that I cannot convey enough:

Melissa,

I am sorry.

Please forgive me.   Someday.

I miss you.  Madly.  Desperately.

I still love you.  Something fierce.  And true.

And it’s about time I told you so.  With all the heart I can muster.

And so I do.

Truly,

Ardently,

Lobo

10/04/2012