Tuesday
May102016

The Idea of a Thing

I never even went to the chocolate shop. Not once. So I'm not sure why I was so disappointed when I spotted the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs decorating the sidewalk out front.

The shop is situated back from the main road in my tiny town. Massive trees older than your great, great, grandma guard it from the elements and emerald-colored ivy has insinuated itself into all the cracks and crevices, as all respectable ivy should. A smallish brick water fountain sits outside the front door - more of a glorified bird bath, really - and next to that some white metal chairs cuddle around a sweet table for passersby in need of a chocolate respite. The kind of joint that begs for a hand-lettered wooden sign featuring words like "shoppe" and "olde" in English font; bait for the white socks, sandals-wearing tourists who regularly happen through my historic village in Central Pennsylvania. Tourists around these parts straight-up lose their minds over that kind of thing. Olde Shoppes selling goat milk soap, hand-churned butter and artisanal bread they spend a fortune on and convince themselves is the greatest thing since, well, since sliced bread. That, and the Amish. They go fucking bonkers for the Amish.

You're probably impressed with the Amish. Would probably lose your shit if a horse and buggy boasting an Amish family clip-clopped its way past. They are pretty cute; saucer-eyed Amish boys in suspenders peering at you from beneath black-brimmed hats, sweet girls in bonnets, you would dig it and I get it. They don't even seem like actual people, sometimes, more like extras from some historic period drama or maybe Colonial Williamsburg employees gone AWOL. There's just something about the Amish and their adorably, eccentric ways that fills people with quaint thoughts and respect, even, yet Scientologists continue to weird us out.

Makes no sense to me.

I'm not fooled by the Amish. I was raised Mormon and the whole Amish scene reminds me of that backwards, narrow outlook. A dangerous viewpoint. Brainwashing. Minds closed tight. Men know best, gay people don't exist, sex outside of marriage is worthy of a good shunning. The Amish do not mess around when someone decides to leave the community. They will shun a motherfucker and not think twice. Mormons prefer the term excommunication and while they don't usually kick you from the family dinner table like the Amish, they will exclude you from their fancy church weddings like the Amish. Quaint, my ass. Tourists get a kick out of Amish folks, though. And they DO make a mean pie, but I think we can all agree a killer shoofly pie doesn't erase homophobia and sexism that'd make your grandpa blush.

But, I digress. The chocolate shop is no more. I keep thinking about it and it's not that I'm going to miss being able to avail myself of artisanal chocolate at six o'clock at night on a whim because, like I said, I never did that, don't think I'd even really want to do that. It's just that the idea of living near a chocolate shop really appealed to me. It was a part of the narrative I have struggled to create for myself in the wake of divorce. I've lived in this beautiful neighborhood for almost two years and for almost two years I've been telling my kids weekly that we should meander (you don't walk to your local chocolate shop, you meander) down to the chocolate shop and get ourselves some fresh-made, hand-whipped something or other. With peanuts, maybe! Marshmallows? Nougat! The idea of the thing was so much nicer than the actual thing, I think. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure they mixed up some bangin' chocolate but I didn't need to actually taste the chocolate to fall in love with the shop, is what I'm saying. I just really liked that it was there.

The ideas of a thing is often better than the actual thing, I am realizing. It can be hard to know if it's the idea of a thing that appeals to you or the actual thing. You welcome an idea into your head and like the way it makes you feel and so you maybe even make it a part of your identity in some way and then you become attached to it based on what you think you want and not actual experiences and then the idea starts to mean more to you than it should and maybe I'm not even talking about chocolate shops anymore.

I never even went to the chocolate shop. Not once. But I miss it.
Sunday
May082016

The Incredibly Loud Silence

I alternate between blowing kisses and a toothy smile punctuated by enthusiastic two-handed waves like some kind of coked out summer parade float queen. Their dad tells them to Wave to mommy! Blow mommy kisses! because he's all too familiar with the emotions that accompany this moment and then they’re gone.

Here/Gone.

New Order rides the air in their wake for a split-second, a few notes escaping open windows even after I can no longer see them, before disintegrating like fog in the sunshine.

And all is quiet.

The silence that immediately descends upon this tiny post-divorce kingdom I’ve worked so hard to carve out for myself and my three children is far louder than any fighting and tears over toys or what to watch on TV that went down over the past couple days.

I stand barefoot on my driveway as May dusk slowly suffuses the neighborhood with violet shadows, staring at the point in the distance where I last saw Charlie’s blonde head peeping out the back window. I briefly allow myself to wonder what he's thinking as he's whisked to his dad's house. Two-year-old thoughts; a kaleidoscope of innocent images and feelings, not yet shaped or tainted by anything other than his own perfectly pure brain. Mama happily waving goodbye and mama inspires feelings of comfort and safety and love and now he's with daddy who inspires the same and this is all he's ever known. I stop short of wondering what the older two are thinking. Mostly, I already know how they feel about this two-house existence, we talk about it as often as they need to.

Back in the house every previously disregarded routine sign of child life now takes on deep, sentimental significance. The spiky drawing of Godzilla my daughter left on the kitchen table is not just a few crayon scribbles but a masterpiece clearly indicative of a special mind; the SpiderMan costume my son stepped out of and left in a heap on the floor – as if he simply evaporated from within its cloth confines - is now worthy of emotional contemplation, like staring at a sculpture in a museum, and not the annoyance it would be if he were still here creating another damn mess to clean.

Violet was here.
Henry was here.
Charlie was here.

A plastic toy fire engine spins on my record player. A scene that a mere hour ago would’ve prompted scary mom face, angry voice and stern finger points; now the sight of the little red truck on an endless journey around my turntable seems to take on all the meaning in the world and I become hypnotized by its fireless trek. A fire truck with no fire to put out. A mom without kids.

That first hour after they’re gone is a jangly, awkward adjustment that hasn't improved with time. I wander, my mind wanders, unsure what to do with myself. Guarding the lives of three small human beings is an intense, consuming, emotionally exhausting and extremely physical existence and when it's gone your mind and body continue in that elevated state of being. Your mind circles and circles, a stuck record player that wants to play, searching for something that can absorb all that energy but there is nothing. Like finishing a marathon, you have to walk it off, let the adrenaline dissipate and try to channel the intensity of parenthood into something different. This unnatural childless state of being is a strange, clumsy existence to navigate in an otherwise chaotic, child-filled life.

I could take a long shower now. A shower without anyone opening the bathroom door and letting in all the cold air before whipping open the curtain to point at and vocally label my naked body parts. But it’s not the same. A luxurious shower stolen in the triumphant moments after I’ve put them all to bed at night is far lovelier than a shower that can last forever because nobody needs you.
Tuesday
May032016

Chasing Vulnerability

On the contrary, his abrupt departure has only emboldened my heart. Right there, when I said on the contrary just now at the beginning of that first sentence, I was responding to the voices in my head. On the contrary is when you're fixin' to respond to someone telling you some shit you ain't buying and I opened with that to hush the voices in my head telling me I shouldn't have been so welcoming to his knock on my door. Ignoring the peephole I went right for the deadbolt, cranked it like I was escaping a home intruder, flung the door wide and invited him in. "YOU. Come in! Come in! Sit down! Stay awhile. It's like I've been waiting for you and I didn't even know it until just this second. Here you are! Finally."

I'm so glad I answered his knock. Even now.

Because as hurt as I am by the ending - depriving me of his personality feels like the worst punishment - I am better for knowing him. This is a truth I keep returning to when my mind spins out. I had it bad. The rate at which I melted is almost amusing. It will be amusing, eventually. Dude rolled up out of nowhere, lit my fire faster than a boy scout earning a camping merit badge and fanned the flames until they threatened to burn down my house while I stood, starry-eyed, reveling in the delicious heat licking my skin.

I was On. Fire.

I still feel fiery just knowing he's out there existing and thinking those excellent thoughts he thinks and being all him and shit. Told you I had it bad.

"Guard your heart," someone warned in response to my disorienting heartbreak. A mental Rubik's Cube, I keep turning the phrase round and round in my head, studying it from all angles: guard your heart. It sounds sensible, doesn't it? Seems like sage advice to offer one suffering heart sickness. Thing is, I've spent years guarding my heart. My body is an overstuffed dresser of emotions I've hidden away in my effort to remain vigilant against pain and heartbreak; you can't close the top drawer for all the fucking underwear and socks crammed in there. Old sweatpants peep stealthily from the bottom drawer as if trying to make a break for it but I just keep jamming shit in like an overzealous prison warden.

The voices, they are loud and they speak often. But they aren't jagged, masochistic shouters anymore. They are softening as they age with me. Conversational, curious, friendly, they hash over the things that happen to me Algonquin round table-style. They crack jokes, pour another drink, talk shit, comfort each other, light a cigarette and wax poetic. They have their own personalities. This voice is reasonable, that one is confused, this one is scared as hell and, yeah, that other one can be kind of a dick - calls me stupid sometimes - but another voice almost always chimes in to comfort me and tell the agitator to get lost.

My mind borrows trouble. It incites anxiety riots. It sparks unnecessary worry. It informs me that I'm stupid. It tells me to feel embarrassed that I opened the door and let him in. But my response isn't going to be to chain up my heart because it might happen again.

We all have a belief system about the future; about whether good things are going to happen or bad things are going to happen. There is no proof one belief is more accurate than the other belief. But if I believe I need to guard my heart because I'm afraid of heartbreak I'm going to see a lot of evidence that I am correct and my personality will meander down that path until I'm an old, bitter woman who collects heartbreak as proof positive of my belief.

But what if I believe that maintaining an open heart will set me free? That all the painful heartbreak waiting for me in this lifetime will only enhance who I am and who I'm becoming? Joyfully collecting heartbreak as proof positive that I lived the fuck out of this life and let myself fall... Hard. Over and over and over again. As many times as I possibly can. Because that? That's where it's at.
Monday
May022016

Gazing at You Like Calculus

His shocking vanishment from my life was not unlike his unexpected entrance. One minute I did not know him, the next moment I couldn't imagine not knowing him. And then I didn't know him again.

I want to shut this whole thing down, he wrote. Unplunge: The title of the email I've read over and over again until the words haunt me when I close my eyes; floating shapes behind puffy eyelids like lazy cigarette smoke rings in a dark bar. An email, his medium of choice for the ending, denying me the pleasure of hearing his voice one last time even if what he was saying was painful. Not allowing me the satisfaction of his response in my ear when I asked the one word that permeated my system: Why?

Perhaps he did me a favor with the unwanted electronic missive, saving me from myself. Maybe the email, although certainly less personal, allowed me to retain some small bit of dignity instead of pissing it away as I unraveled during a final phone call. It doesn't matter. The manner of ending isn't as important as the ending itself. Welcoming anger at trivialities like when or how it ended would be all too easy right now but that would just be digression from the fact that what I'm really upset about is the why.

To dig someone so much, be so intrigued by another human being, so fascinated by the thought process behind the intoxicating words that come out of their mouth that you want to crawl inside their flesh and live life as them for a spell just to better understand what it's like to be them or, fuck, just being inside of their themness, a sensual collision that even the best sex doesn't stimulate. This is YOU. I'm inside YOU. Experience me seeing through your eyes, feel my tongue in your mouth, your thoughts are my thoughts are your thoughts. Your bones are my bedframe, your flesh is my pillow. I'm you and you're me.

All of these feelings happening to you just as you had accepted life without them, convincing yourself that you could finish your days without love, that it wasn't necessary for happiness. And it all felt like magic.

In the beginning, when I expressed my usual flurry of doubt and fear, he deftly brushed it away like tucking an errant hair behind my ear. He eloquently explained that worrying about what might happen would take away from what was actually happening and look how rare and beautiful this all is so enjoy it while it's happening! Love makes your chest hurt, he said, and it's scary and you think about all the shit that could go wrong but you can't avoid disasters and the only way to find some semblance of relief is to just kind of leap right into the disaster.

So I leaped.

Something clicked inside of me and for fucking once I was starting to allow myself to fully enjoy the ride without my brain going crazy with what ifs. And then he went and fell victim to his own admonishment. That's what he told me, anyway. Stuff about an inevitable bad ending due to geography and minimizing devastation now is way better than forging ahead. It could be that. It could be a million other things he's choosing not to say for reasons I'll never know. In the end, and it IS the end, it doesn't matter. All that matters is he chose to unplunge, to break our magnificent fall.

We should suffer it out now instead of later when it will be a way bigger mess than it already is, he wrote. But you asked me to fall forever and never hit the ground, I thought.
Saturday
Apr302016

Romantic Egotism


Sometimes, usually as a result of the inbred nature of Facebook, I stumble onto my ex-husband's words about me, our marriage or divorce, and it sucks me into disorientation. It's hard to move forward when you're constantly yanked back into another existence.

First song lyrics, and now these articles, his written words have always been my weakness. Better than the reality, usually. Oh, sure. I absolutely believe he loved me so much he'd die for me, open a vein and bleed out right in front of me if I needed, as he vividly phrased it once. Threatened it a time or two way back in the day, even. Theatric more than threat, it was still scary as hell for a twenty-something fresh from Mormonville trying to make a go of it with a stranger in the Big Apple. That first year of marriage was wild. Coupla crazy kids who didn't know each other abandoning reason and following pounding hearts all the way to Brooklyn, New York. I still believe it's one of the best things I ever did.

"Young hearts need the pressure to pound..."

The intense love for me that painfully bangs around inside his heart and mind has never been in question, and that's the love he writes so eloquently about. Who wouldn't want to be the object of such passion? It's how that love manifested in everyday living that led, in part, to the wreckage of a nine year marriage.

"How can you leave someone who is so clearly in love with you?"

Something got lost in the translation from heart and mind to action and speech. Intense love can translate into opposite actions if someone feels frustration and then spite. Sometimes, beneath all that authored sentiment, I smelled the opposite. The rancid breath of resentment whispered sourly in my ear.

Resentment is the foundation of hatred.

***

F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of my favorite authors. The love story between him and Zelda has fascinated me for many years and I've looked at all of their exchanged letters. While reading their frequently penned missives you're routinely taken aback by their frenzied intensity and inevitably find yourself longing to be a participant in such a passion-filled relationship. But then I began to wonder how much of it was based in reality and how much was two dauntless writers masturbating with words. Their relationship took on a darker filter.

***

The realist living behind the prose begins to wonder how much of the fervent sentiment is woman specific and how much of it is something the romantic needs in his life, regardless of object of affection. Was our love extraordinary or did the power of his words make it so? Is there a difference? Does it even matter?

When married he clothed himself in the intensity of our love and upon divorce he dressed himself in the heartbreak. But maybe that's what the romantic requires to feel truly alive. Maybe he was always writing for himself and not me. Maybe it was never really even about me.

And then the pendulum swings and I wonder if I've given up on the one man who will love me in the way that true, passionate love demands, regardless of the day to day manifestation. But those moments always occur after reading his words about "me" and perhaps that's my own mental masturbation happening regardless of writer. It's worth noting Zelda ended up in a mental institution...