Only Better Skilled

     I'm sorry to hear that your heart's been roughed up of late. I mentioned earlier that a long trip abroad is a good indicator of compatibility. Unfortunately, people tend to dwell upon what doesn't work rather than build upon what does. (I've lost two girlfriends due to similar circumstances; wherein I wanted to rely on my partner in these strange and foreign settings, their instinct was to shut themselves away and designate me as platonic coordinator/bellhop.)

     From what you've told me in the past, things have never been truly easy with your ex. I won't say you're better off without him -- that's always such an empty platitude -- but I will LOUDLY affirm that you deserve someone who won't make it so hard either. Someone who will communicate their needs, who will complement your personality, who will hold you up when you need it.

     That said, I'm in the same boat as you. I met someone at the end of January. We hit it off hot and heavy to the point where she wanted to move to Chicago to explore things further -- ***HER*** suggestion -- and I was completely on board with it because this was the first person I'd honestly felt crazy about in years. I arranged everything to make her transition to Chicago as smooth as possible . . . and then two weeks into her relocation [early April], she confided that her apprehensions had gotten the best of her. And rather than see if her fears would abate over time -- 'cause, really, we had only spent eight days living together before I was back on the road for work, and we spent most of that time attending theater shows -- she decided that she would just go back home. Another classic case (at least in my experience) of "I love you, and your passion, and your enthusiasm, and your dedication, and your will to get shit done. But I honestly can't fathom why you like me this much, so I don't believe you. I don't believe in you. I'm not sure if I ever will. I'm sorry."

      Of course, I know she didn't do this on purpose -- in these circumstances no one ever intends to break your heart -- but I'm still left feeling ineffectual. And more than a bit used. It isn't appreciated.

      There's an elegant adage that goes: 'Just because the rose died on the vine doesn't mean it lied to you while it was in bloom'. Even through the worst heartache, I try my best not to dismiss that. To think so otherwise would be to welcome the idea that you or I (or practically everyone) might have the worst taste in partners ever. But, no, these aren't sociopaths. They're just human -- fallible, stubborn, careless, short-sighted and seemingly prone to fucking up what could have been something truly great. Really, though, you and I are not much better -- only better skilled.

       Remember: it's not just what YOU bring to the table; they need to do their part, too. And they shouldn't have to be sold on doing so either. Emotional commitments shouldn't require a pitch or a signing bonus. You're awesome, I'm awesome; that should be more than enough. If any prospective partner can't see that, that's on them.

      . . . Still, doesn't really make the heart hurt any less, does it?

Werewolves

Heart beats on the fault line
Of love and doubt and wasted time
I'm not here to show you up,
Break you down or change your mind
There's nothing we haven't burned
But still this fire makes no light and no heat
I have been around the world
Riding on the edge of something
'Til the dawn was weak

Come in, darling, stay a while
Stay away from God and thieves
There is consolation in the human failure of our dreams
Come around on the far side
Of hate and hurt and misery
With my arms empty
They wait for you like soldiers at war
Like the cross waited for Constantine

Come and let her hear
The werewolves if she wants to
Howling at the moon
Waiting for the sweet, embraceable you
Come and let her steer
Against the tide with sad, slow tunes
She might have a way out of here

You've been standing here a while
Down among the city lights
Shuffle through the bright streets of St. Petersburg
Summer white nights
And I just wanna hold you up,
Face pressed to the velvet sky
So you can hear heaven answer
Every question you've ever had,
Save the ones you wanted me to ask

Come and let her hear
The werewolves if she wants to
Howling at the moon
Waiting for the sweet, embraceable you
Come and let her steer
Against the tide with sad, slow tunes
She might have a way out of here
She might have a love to feel

She is running away
With the dust and bones of the last crusade
Reaching across these oceans and fields
With a silent sway
She is coming home on the last train
From this fallen kingdom

Come and let her hear
The werewolves if she wants to
Howling at the moon
Waiting for the sweet, embraceable you
Come and let her steer
Against the tide with sad, slow tunes
She might have a way out of here
She might have a love to feel

-- The Damnwells, "Werewolves"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_e8rC8809u8

"Poor Butcher."

I watched her covertly for a moment, then I said, "I used to think of a story with your daughter, and I think of it even more with you." She smiled, a little uncertainly. "It's probably not true, but it's about Marie Antoinette and a butcher. The butcher led a mob into the palace at Versailles. He had a cleaver in his hand and he was shouting that he was going to cut Marie Antoinette's throat. The mob killed the guards and the butcher forced the door of the royal apartments. At last he rushed into her bedroom. She was alone. Standing by a window. There was no one else there. The butcher with a cleaver in his hand and the queen."

"What happened?"

"He fell on his knees and burst into tears."

She was silent for a moment.

"Poor butcher."

"I believe that's exactly what Marie Antoinette said."

"Doesn't everything depend on who the butcher was crying for?"

I looked away from her eyes.

"No, I don't think so."

-- John Fowles, "The Magus"

Legacy

The longer you're away,
The more they forget your face.
The more they forget you.
The more they forget.

Will they even care to remember when you return?

The Lab Rat Chronicles: Everything You Wanted to Know But Likely Just Assumed the Worst Instead

So you wanna know what it means to be a lab rat?

Consider this your condensed summary:

Various medical research companies worldwide recruit healthy participants to take a low -- often an incredibly low -- dose of a new (and, yes, experimental) medicine in order to ensure that there are no serious side effects. These companies recruit healthy (and drug-free) subjects because they need to know for certain that any particular side effects -- if there are any at all -- were caused solely by the drug and not any additional chemical or environmental factors. More importantly, they want to see how fast the compound metabolizes in the body, or how it interacts with another drug already approved by the FDA. (For instance, people with high cholesterol often take blood thinners, so if one were to test a new cholesterol medicine, it would be beneficial to see how it interacts with Coumadin, the most popular blood thinner on the market.) In order to gather the most accurate research and to best monitor the health of those who have been dosed, it is required that the subjects remain on-site in a controlled environment for the duration of the study. This means not only living in the equivalent of a giant dorm with labs attached but also maintaining a set schedule and diet.

There are further restrictions: no medicine, no herbal supplements or vitamins, no caffeine, no alcohol, no smoking, no drugs, no vigorous exercise leading up to the study. (Grapefruit and Seville oranges are generally a big no-no as well.). Also, no contraband (pornography, weapons, candy, gum) and no hanky panky with your fellow participants once you're on the inside. Subjects are usually allowed outside once a day, but unless the clinic has an enclosed patio and a liberal policy on staying outdoors, you will spend most of the time stuck inside. That's why the compensation is lucrative and meals, wi-fi and full-service laundry are included. Of course, one can choose to leave a study at any time -- subjects are here of their own free will -- but then you'll only be paid for the days completed (and will probably miss out on the bonus that comes with completing the study).

That said, there are several particulars worth pointing out:

The risks really are minimal: Before anyone can enroll in a study, they have to screen for it first to ensure that they meet all physical, mental and schedule requirements. It is then that the coordinators hand over a fat packet of information and carefully walk you through the study procedures: what the drug is for, how large the dose will be, the number of doses throughout the study and how they'll be administered, how many subjects have already been dosed, known and possible side effects from previous trials, total number of blood draws. Essentially, you know everything that they know about the drug in question as well as what will be required of you as a study participant. Some drugs are already on the market (or about to go to market) but have shown promise as a treatment for another ailment. A most illustrious example of this would be sildenafil citrate, which was originally created for hypertension but also turned out to cure erectile dysfunction -- and that's how Pfizer wound up raking in untold billions with Viagra. (Can you imagine what the first clinical trial for that must've been like?!)

Easy money, plenty of perks: Because you're volunteering both your body and your time, medical research facilities generally offer anywhere between $200-$300 per day for these studies. If you're eligible, it is quite possible to make $10,000 in one month's time -- and all for something as simple as taking one pill a day. I was unemployed during a big stretch of the Great Recession before finally landing a worthwhile 9-to-5 job in early 2012. I worked 50 hours a week for 18 months, and although my debts stopped going up, they wouldn't really go down either. Then suddenly HR canceled my contract despite the protests of my supervisors, leaving me to scramble for new work. I stumbled upon clinical trials by sheer accident, and now I'm on a fast track to paying off my debts once and for all and saving up a nest egg so that I can gain a skill and move on to better things. Rest assured, I don't plan on making this a career, but I do travel all the time now -- for both pleasure and in pursuit of work -- and I'm healthier than I've ever been because I basically get a comprehensive check-up and physical every month. And, yes, it certainly is an odd way to make money, but I think it's a far better use of my time and energy than scraping by at a minimum-wage gig. Also, there are plenty of fascinating and worthwhile people to befriend at these places. (Never, ever underestimate the incentive of camaraderie.)

It's certainly NOT for everyone: With the exception of opiates -- never sign up for an opiate study as they absolutely will come with strange and discomfiting side effects -- the drug is actually the smallest hurdle of these trials.* People hate needles more than they hate new medicine, and these studies require A LOT of blood draws. For example, on an average "dose day" a subject usually endures 12-15 blood draws over a 24-hour period. They don't take a lot of blood overall, but that's still a lot of vein sticks. Worse, because subjects must live in a controlled environment, you're choosing to give up most of your personal freedoms. Want to go on a date with that hot crush who's suddenly interested? Nope. Best friend you haven't seen in three years passing through town for the weekend? Sorry, you've got a job to do. Did your kid just take his first steps? Well, I hope someone got that on video and e-mailed it to you. It sucks not having the freedom to go wherever and do whatever you please! And living in a dorm isn't the end of the world, but it's a lot to ask of someone who cherishes their privacy. (Living arrangements vary from facility to facility. I've been lucky enough to get my own room, or room with a good friend. I've also had to live for two weeks in an open-dorm layout that could accommodate up to 80 people at any given time; of course, I just had to be stationed right next to the most annoying and argumentative study participant I've ever encountered as well.) Worst of all, the sheer boredom of it can drive you crazy. Sure, you might plan on reading all these books you've been meaning to get around to, or catch up with all these critically-acclaimed movies and TV shows stored on your laptop hard drive, or write that great American novel about people who -- what else? -- donate their bodies to science, but you still need FOCUS to accomplish these things. That's not always easy when 50+ strangers are milling about in your immediate vicinity, shuffling, scratching, coughing, snorting, wheezing and talking shit far louder than necessary. If you're not diligent about using your time wisely, it's easy to squander all of it in the slowest and least productive manner possible -- and that's maddening.

Nothing is guaranteed (until you dose): Clinical trials are a fantastic way to make money, but it's not much of a career. Securing this kind of work full-time requires that you consistently remain healthy and drug-free. Obviously, if you get sick, you won't be eligible for a study. But look out 'cause even if you're finally over a cold, your antibodies could still be too high during screening, which will disqualify you from a study. Iron too low? Ineligible. Creatine levels too high? Pass. It can be incredibly difficult to match the study parameters, and a lot of times you won't know if you're truly eligible until you arrive for the screening. (For instance, I've seen several participants get rejected in a row after a lightning-fast sight inspection of their arms proved that their veins weren't ideal for IV doses. Imagine driving 2-5 hours to screen for a study and being told to go home before you have a chance to fill out the initial paperwork.) Even more exasperating is the fact that tracking down the most lucrative studies might mean driving or flying thousands of miles with the hope that a.) you meet the study requirements and b.) your lab results are better than the dozens, possibly hundreds, of others who are also screening for it. Finally, in order to secure enough eligible participants, these facilities recruit more subjects than actually needed for every. single. study. What makes this especially frustrating is that one-third(!) of the subjects checking in must be sent home before the end of the first day with little compensation for their time -- and you very well could be one of them. Even if you might be in the best shape of your life, if there are too many eligible participants available to choose from, it's still possible that you could be randomly selected to go home.** (If this happens, just remember: It's not personal, and there's always another study.)

So that's pretty much everything you need to know about what it takes to make a living as a lab rat. As you can see, it's no more glorious or depraved than most jobs where you work on-site for weeks or months at a time. It can be terribly lonely or terminally boring at times, but there's also the possibility of accomplishing any number of goals and making the most of your days if you really set your mind to it -- and then walk away with a big check for all your troubles! Essentially, it's easy money in exchange for some not-too-hard time.

Think you got what it takes?





*An incredibly assuring study coordinator put it into perspective: "The human body is quite resilient and more than capable of filtering or outright rejecting a vast array of chemical influences. Even if we were to give you something toxic -- and we most certainly would not -- the doses we administer are so low that you'd likely overcome it in a matter of hours. And worst case scenario, we have nurses and paramedics here 24/7 to ensure your safety."

**This is why there's a common-sense rule among lab rats that you don't count yourself as officially enrolled into a study until you actually dose. Anything could happen before then -- the sponsor could cancel the study at the literal last minute; the doctor overseeing the study might decide that they want more female participants than they currently have on hand; your blood pressure might be too high the morning of the dose -- anything -- and until you take that drug, you have zero claim to that big payout at the end. In fact, it's recommended that you don't even unpack your bags until you dose. In essence, "Don't chill 'til you take the pill."

The Rest of My Life

About how long do you want your next relationship to last?

If you want to date, let's date.

If you want to date casually, let's date casually.

If you want a serious commitment -- one that requires us to be completely honest with our baggage, our flaws and our most insane prerequisites -- then let's play to win. I've never been one for half-measures; you shouldn't be either.

Just be honest with your intentions. Even if we're not one for the history books, there's no reason why we can't create something worthwhile together -- no matter what the dynamic.

The (Not) Fadeaway

Excerpt from The Fadeaway:

When you practice being a decent person, be honest with someone who you’re interested in no longer, you will learn that it’s actually the right thing to do. And eventually doing the right thing will get easier, in dating and in your life in general. Honesty and being a good person actually catches on, so before you know it, the girls you are actually upfront with, will in turn do the same to their next dudes they’re not interested in, and so on.

My two cents:

If you're reading this, chances are that you've done this to someone at least once in your life (I have), or that it's happened to you (it has). Alas, these days (dates?) it seems like The Fadeaway has become a standard practice.

But we can change that. Right now. Today.

Not sure how? Well, here's a good rule of thumb:
IF you've gone out (or have gotten naked) with someone and are not interested in doing so again, and IF this very same person has ***THE GALL*** to ask you out again (UGH!!!), THEN SIMPLY SEND THEM A RESPONSE AND TELL THEM THAT YOU YOURSELF ARE NOT INTERESTED.

It's okay that things didn't work out. In fact, that happens A LOT in the pursuit of true love (or hot lovin'). But please be courteous enough to let the other party in on this key detail. Trust me, the vast majority of suitors are more than willing to respectfully let the matter drop once they are WHOLLY made aware that you're really NOT playing hard to get.


Addendum:

To clarify: When I say "WHOLLY made aware", it means that you are clearly and concisely rejecting them. For instance, "I'm too busy right now" doesn't cut it. It can reasonably be construed that you are literally too busy right now to date ANYONE. Is it really such a stretch for an interested person to assume that you might be swayed to go out again when life isn't so hectic? Is this person really overstepping their boundaries if they were to wait a month and then ask you out once more to see if you're available now?

In essence, be tactful, be sincere and, most importantly, leave no room for misinterpretation. (Another example: If you really don't want to be friends, don't put that offer on the table!) No, you don't need to give a lengthy justification for your feelings -- but you also don't have the right to be dismissive of theirs either. Simply, LET THEM DOWN EASY so that they, too, can get on with the business of getting over you (if required) and put themselves back out there.

This started an interesting thread on my Facebook timeline. Feel free to check it out.

Wayfarer's PTSD

This article has been making its way around the Internet. It inspired me to write the following mini-essay:

I suffered PTSD when I returned from West Africa in early '08. My experiences were nowhere near as terrible/debilitating as this poor woman's -- I can't even fucking imagine -- but I *can* relate to how vulnerable and trapped she felt upon her return home. I clearly recall how I would be at work and suddenly feel overwhelmed with the urge to smash my computer to pieces or *literally* tear out my hair -- and how I had to grip my desk and convince myself that neither of these actions made ANY sense, that I was back home and had total control of my finances, my schedule, my life (and, thus, everything was A-OK). This went on every single day for MONTHS ON END. I had no patience for ANYTHING; at the slightest provocation I would lash out at the people I loved. (One egregious example involved me screaming at my best friend on a busy street in the middle of the afternoon, then repeatedly kicking a nearby mailbox and coming *this close* to smashing her car window in order to retrieve my belongings so I could walk home.) Out of sheer frustration I would punch walls so often that my hands were swollen and covered in bruises and scabs for most of that year.

I even got into a relationship. She had her own serious baggage and was nervous about getting wrapped up in a commitment; I (obviously) had serious baggage and was absolutely crazy for her, but I was also a ticking time bomb because I still had NO CLUE that I had (or could even be capable of having) PTSD. Needless to say, it didn't end well. It was both our faults, but ultimately my anger eclipsed everything -- and I mean EVERYTHING.

She refuses to speak to me even to this day.

It doesn't take much to have harrowing experiences when abroad, and the lingering effects of such experiences can be far more devastating than what you endured when you're half a world away. There's no shame in seeking help; hell, a lot of time you don't even *understand* that you need help. This is why it's not only important to accept/admit that you have a problem but also to speak up when you see others you know and love not acting like themselves. For instance, my aunt told me after I returned to the U.S.: "Every time you've come back from somewhere far away, you have so many stories, good and bad, to share. This trip must have been difficult because you've barely said anything about it." That was the first warning sign of many. If I had had the capacity to understand this, I could have avoided A LOT of ugly behavior and more than likely have far fewer regrets.

I even got into a relationship. She had her own serious baggage and was nervous about getting wrapped up in a commitment; I (obviously) had serious baggage and was absolutely crazy for her, but I was also a ticking time bomb because I still had NO CLUE that I had (or could even be capable of having) PTSD. Needless to say, it didn't end well. It was both our faults, but ultimately my anger eclipsed everything -- and I mean EVERYTHING.

She refuses to speak to me even to this day.

It doesn't take much to have harrowing experiences when abroad, and the lingering effects of such experiences can be far more devastating than what you endured when you're half a world away. There's no shame in seeking help; hell, a lot of time you don't even *understand* that you need help. This is why it's not only important to accept/admit that you have a problem but also to speak up when you see others you know and love not acting like themselves. For instance, my aunt told me after I returned to the U.S.: "Every time you've come back from somewhere far away, you have so many stories, good and bad, to share. This trip must have been difficult because you've barely said anything about it." That was the first warning sign of many. If I had had the capacity to understand this, I could have avoided A LOT of ugly behavior and more than likely have far fewer regrets.

Letter Never Sent: La Reverie Kikanamaso

This evening Kalamazoo entertains a notion and delivers in torrents. I watch in awe from my perch at these wide windows and experience a deep and satisfying pang of nostalgia for something that hasn't happened yet, that is fated to happen sometime, somewhere -- with you, ideally -- or may never happen but is still lovely to contemplate anyway.  And for the first time in my stint within these clinic walls I don't mind if time slows down, if dawn takes a bit longer to arrive than days previous.

This is now how I think of you:

Stormy weather that offers more than a hint of savagery.

A genuinely warm welcome to a surprise appearance.

Haunting melodies in an empty pool.

Lengthy late-night IMs filled with promise (but never any promises).

A tuxedo cat suddenly petitioning for the very affections you declined.

A spontaneous yet fleeting interest in me in the space between seemingly a million moving farewells and exactly one hundred and four blood draws.

A grand exodus to Gotham, to commotion and close friendships, to bright lights and fifth-floor walk-ups, to exhausting yet fruitful rehearsals and an enviable future where your talents will be much lauded -- and rightfully so.

A meandering drive to all points west, to the loneliest stretch of highway and the smell of sagebrush, through meteor showers in the high desert and ominous fog that sweeps in from the Pacific, to finding a sense of belonging in the frigid depths of the bluest lake as well as in the eager embrace of junkyard scholars who would only think to celebrate -- never chide -- intense feelings and hard pursuits -- and rightfully so.

(Jesus, we can't even seem to head in the same direction, let alone cross paths.)

I don't care for squandered opportunities, or passing fancies, or derechos that never live up to their full potential because we couldn't make the time to fully appreciate their fury. There's already too many excuses to let things fall to the wayside, and as it stands they probably will. No matter what I might offer, you will graciously smile and nod and likely never give it a second thought. Meanwhile, every time there's a downpour, I'll wonder where you might be.  When this fever dream hustle of a summer passes and our routines reestablish themselves, I'll wonder if you'll make an effort to keep in touch.

I'll wonder if we'll ever get to a point where you'll call me in the middle of the night because you're lonely on the road and know I'm the only one still awake, or because for the first time ever you want to hear my voice, and the enthusiasm in it when I see who's ringing me at whatever ungodly hour it might be.

And I know, Turnip. I know how such talk makes you anxious. But, please, don't be. This is only a reverie -- my reverie -- and it's about all I have seeing as you're not here and likely won't be anytime soon. Or maybe ever.

But how I wish you were here.

On a night like this where the rain comes down in buckets and we both have nowhere to really be, I wish you were here. Not to pin you down and keep you forever. Not to twist you up in my desires and steal your heart. Not to sway you to be wholly at peace with my unbridled admiration and then demand that you match my fervor.

I wish you were here.  That's all.

I can give you a million reasons why this isn't such a bad thing, but I'd much prefer that you come to this conclusion on your own. Someday, somewhere farther down the road. Or maybe never.



Damnit, Turnip.  Just get here when you can.

Fervently,
JVH
2013/07/22

Slut-Shaming (It Happens to Guys, Too!)

July 21, 2013 - 1:16 a.m.
Justin: I keep thinking of getting out of here and finding you waiting for me at home. We could lounge on the couch, eat good food and then fall all over each other.

July 21, 2013 - 1:19 a.m.
Justin: I miss you, Amber. I miss my lover and my friend. Those were never mutually exclusive things. I miss you confiding in me. I miss being someone you trusted, and wanted. I wish I knew the right thing to say/do to win your (seemingly fickle) favor again.

July 21, 2013 - 1:23 a.m.
Justin: I can't believe of all people you were so quick to write me off. Such a shame.
. . . Fuck.

July 21, 2013 - 1:26 a.m.
Amber: You know what turned me off on you? It was two things - first that you wanted me too much. Second is that you have such a fucked relationship with every girl you know. You've had sex with every single girl you're friends with. Girls come into town, fuck you, and leave. And you go to visit girls . . . You just sleep with every girl. I don't think you know how to just have girl friends. And I really felt uncomfortable that every time I met a girl you know, they felt like they had ownership of you. I just, I just won't deal with that.

July 21, 2013 - 1:27 a.m.
Amber: Two moments ended it  for me. The first was when you just showed up to my house. The second was when you told me **** had that dream about you.

July 21, 2013 - 1:30 a.m.
Justin: You invited me over for lunch. I came. I didn't know the offer was no longer on the table.

July 21, 2013 - 1:32 a.m.
Justin: Also, no one has ownership of me. I would have given that privilege to you - if you were actually serious about a relationship. We could have discussed all sorts of boundaries. But you ran and then blamed it all on me.

July 21, 2013 - 1:33 a.m.
Justin: I can't believe how judgmental you've turned out to be. Throwing stones at glass houses is never the sensible route. Tourist.

July 21, 2013 - 1:39
Justin: Really, I was hoping to recapture the magic that I truly thought we had. But now I know how little you really think of me, which is a terrible shame because I truly think the world of you. What a dummy I am for thinking that you could possibly mean what you said/did, right? *I'm* the asshole for taking you at your word. Got it.

Good riddance.

Easy Fix

I don't want to have this conversation online or via text. It's tedious and non-productive.

If you're serious about engaging me and really working our shit out -- which is all that I've wanted -- you know how to reach me.

And I think it's time you seriously consider why having me as both a lover and a friend is so detrimental. 

'Cause from what I know in my own personal experiences -- in my experiences WITH YOU -- I do both things incredibly well.

I want to be in your corner, and I want you to be in mine.

So if any part of you is curious about how we can accomplish just that, call me. Or don't. I've done everything I can to let you go. You're welcome to come back, but I'm done campaigning for your attention.


This is something so easy to fix . . .
That's what I find most frustrating.

Reconciliation

July 10, 2013 - 10:57 p.m.
Velander: Of all my romantic interests, you're the only one who has ever had a will to come back and work shit out. That either speaks volumes about them or me.

I fear for both of those scenarios.

July 10, 2013 - 10:58 p.m.
Oshinn: you're a piece of work, jus
not all of us have any strength to even want to deal with it :P

July 10, 2013 - 10:58 p.m.
Velander: Yeah, go me.
Fuck.

July 10, 2013 - 10:58 p.m.
Oshinn: so yeah anyway it's like 10 hours from here to chicago
let's think about that
because you are not shitty and it is not worth wasting even a second of thought on

July 10, 2013 - 10:59 p.m.
Velander: Thanks for saying that.
It's really appreciated, seeing as I was especially contentious with you at points.

July 10, 2013 - 10:59 p.m.
Oshinn: well you're not now, and now is all that exists, so let's not fret

July 10, 2013 - 11:00 p.m.
Velander: I'm sorry.

Endurance

I'm probably the furthest thing from your mind these days, but rest assured you are still very dear to me.  I don't know if that means much of anything to you, but I gotta believe that it just might.

I'm still here, Beth.  Despite all the bad breaks and hard hits, I'm still here.  

And I still hope for the best.  Every single day.

I hope.

Entreaty

Again, she holds back. She offers another disclaimer so as to make things less complicated.

"Fair enough," he says. "But what good is life without risk?"

He takes a step closer and states firmly, "We have chosen to be here of our own accord.  There is a level of attraction here that is unmatched anywhere else.  And so what if the timing is all wrong?  In my experience the timing is always wrong.  Why give it even more precedent to sway us from cultivating something worthwhile?"

Another step closer. "Are you not the least bit curious to discover what great things can come of this?  Are you really so unmoved that you'd rather not try at all to make the most of it while we still can?"

His voices catches in his throat.

Then, finally, once more, he asks, "Am I really that much of a bad bet?"

Pilgrimage

If there were just one place where I was truly wanted, I'd be there right now. I'd drive all day and night, only stopping to fill up gas and empty my bladder. I'd listen to sad songs on repeat and sing along 'til my voice went hoarse. I'd cry my eyes out for all the bad breaks that brought me so close to madness, to violence, to surrender. So many tears to shed for those missed opportunities and misunderstandings, for the willful ignorance and unmerited disbelief that I encountered so often that I wondered why I even bothered trudging on. Across state lines I'd cry and rage and mourn for the years squandered in countless attempts to build partnerships/fellowships/communities/worlds with others who ultimately couldn't be bothered to give their fair share, who refused to come together when things stopped being convenient for even just a second.

I'd cry because it never had to be this way. It never had to get this bad. There was no reason to brand me as the player, the villain, the rebound, the creep. They had no right to be so dismissive, or apathetic, or cruel. Not to me they didn't.  Not ever.

They had no fucking right.

. . . But maybe this time it would be different. And maybe this time I'd get a fighting chance. Maybe this could be a someone who was naturally adept at distracting me from opening old wounds long enough to let them actually heal. And maybe, just maybe, when I got wherever I was supposed to be, this someone wouldn't ask why my hands kept shaking, why my eyes were so damn red or why I insisted on driving without stopping to rest, or eat, or take a moment for myself. This someone would only have to look at me to know that the distance I covered to get to her couldn't solely be measured in miles but also trials and tribulations. And heartaches – so many heartaches. After such a long and punishing journey, this someone would discover a man laid bare on her doorstep – frazzled, tortured, haunted – and still love him without hesitance, without fear.

Maybe this someone would then take me inside, wash my face with a cold, damp cloth and put me to bed – all the while assuring me that I'll feel so much better once I get some rest; that although the possibilities that await us in the years to come are exciting and scary and unknowable, we can look forward to experiencing them together; that one day soon – far sooner than I could ever imagine – I'll wake up next to her and finally accept that this someone wasn't going anywhere – that this someone had made the choice to hitch her wagon to mine the moment I decided to begin that great and terrible pilgrimage to her door – and until that day she would be happy to remind me again and again – as many times as I needed to hear it – that I was home.

Finally, I was home.

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."