These days taste so sweet to me (Psalm 34:8). There is an easiness and a grace to them that has been missing for quite a while. I lay down for a while after work today. I wasn't truly sleepy, but my head hurt a bit and I wasn't in the mood to track down any ibuprofen.

I am currently working on some application packets--editing them--for release next week.

No angst. No drama. I'm just doing my best, and not hiding from what I want. I welcome my heart's desire. I don't feel unworthy of you anymore.

The camaraderie between myself and the contracted staff is developing nicely. There is a WholeFoods Market within walking distance of the office building, and it is the norm for a group to walk over at some point during the day. I asked my first "work friend" to be sure to ask me whenever they are going because I really want to get to know the group. I also see the importance of not getting in better with any one group than another.

I've had some wonderfully genuine conversations with office mates, and find there to be an overarching friendliness that I only experienced the last time I worked in Baltimore. So far the Math Curriculum Specialist and I are totally in synch about what makes for good editing.

For the last couple of days I've been familiarizing myself with the curriculum and developing a global editing strategy. My boss told me this morning that he wants me to function, eventually, as the project manager of the writers. I'll be the one keeping it all on pace.

I'm excited. Genuinely excited.

First Day

My first day at my new company went as smoothly as I could have hoped. I was the most nervous about learning the bus route, since it was unclear to me where to disembark (in the morning), and where to pick up (in the evening). It ended up being very simple.

Once at the office, I met with the Human Resources rep., and signed all the appropriate paperwork, got my company shirt (which I'm not required to wear, it's just a little gift), and got plugged into the network and voicemail systems. I learned that it is a 5-day-a-week casual atmosphere. I can wear jeans every day if I want to, unless an important client is coming through, in which case we'll all be asked to make an effort to dress up a bit.

Funny occurrence. When I went in search of tea bags this afternoon, I found a fully stocked cabinet of Miller Light. The Human Resources rep. happened to be standing righ there, so I commented on it, and she chuckled, then quickly came back with "I think there are some cold ones somewhere..." I think she was serious.

The thing I am most struck by is how well-rested I feel. I woke up at 7:30 this morning and returned home by about 6:30, but it's different from returning home at 6:30 from Rockville. Now that my life is centralized, I don't feel divided. It is exhausting just having to split your life the way I had been, let alone the time it took.

I got a couple of e-mails from former coworkers this morning. I wonder what it was like there today without me...

As for me, well I felt perfectly at home where I was.

I'm listening to Britney Spears's Oops... I Did It Again! Yes, I own that album... That should say it all.

Small Spaces

For the better part of a year Sarahbina and I have shared a one bedroom/one bathroom apartment. Of course no one would have gotten such an apartment with two people in mind. My plan to live alone didn't pan out for a number of reasons. But I want to live alone, still, and at this moment the desire is especially present. I don't want to live my entire adult life feeling squished down into places that are too cramped. The entire last year of my life has been cramped. The entire 29 years I've lived on this planet have been cramped.

On days like this I feel that I would never want to be married, never want to share the air I breathe with another person, never want to care what they feel about the temperature in the room, or be made to feel that the way I do anything is getting on their nerves.

I'm tired of compromising. If I want to eat crackers for dinner I don't want anybody having anything to say about it. And I'm tired of the baggage that comes with having to move around somebody else's soul, and the souls of the people they know.

For She's A Jolly Good Fellow, Which Nobody Can Deny...

My teammates took me out to the Macaroni Grill for my parting lunch and presented me with a generous gift card for Barnes & Noble, which I've already spent on fun things for my new work space. I didn't get teary-eyed or anything, but I did feel that catch we've all gotten in our throats from time to time when leaving something behind forever, even if it wasn't good at the end. I printed out the penultimate e-mail my boss sent me in response to an FYI I sent to one of our government agency reps, to inform her of my departure and the name of the person who would be coordinating the receipt and tracking of camera-ready packages from now on. The e-mail said "Kate, thank you for sending out this notice. I had thought of it earlier, but forgot. Right up to the last minute, you're still thinking business."

A lovely note on which to leave. And now, with the exception of needing to mail in my access badge, my business there is complete. I remember what a relief it was to get that job 3 years ago. It was my salvation from a very bad, angst-filled situation in DC with that crazy woman I only worked for for 6 months. I can honestly say, I met some fine people.

Now off I go to find the rest of my life...

I Showed Him My Notebook... The Underside of My Soul Released In Scribbles on Pages... It's Hidden By Useless Facts That I Compile at the Office Where I Work, Where There Is No Time For Feeling Anything... (The Innocence Mission)

Most of the people with whom I ride the train will not notice I've gone, at least not for several weeks, and then it will only be a vague feeling that something is amiss. Where is that girl who always sat in the third row window seat? Some may wonder. But it will trouble him, her, or them for the briefest of moments before the pull to sleep proves too strong. I know because I never wondered anything on the train for long. I simply gave way to the rocking.

I forgot my building access badge this morning, so I had to wait until someone else arrived in the lobby to let me up to my floor. Not exactly Irony, but it's cousin, odd occurrence . In an hour, I have an exit interview with human resources in the building next door. What will I say? I loved my boss; she's a phenomenal lady. Above reproach when it comes to work ethic and character. But I was dying here. My little bohemian spirit can't shake the feeling it was meant for bigger and better things. And I hated my commute. Thank you. The end.

I've had a hard time lately not writing Mr. Renaissance's real name. I've had to check myself, as I nearly typed it several times last weekend when recounting our time together. I wonder what this shift in instinct means. That he's more real to me now, less an idea of someone unattainable, and more and more the man I actually love?

Train Culture

Before I forget...

The conductor on the 4:48 a.m.'s even Tickets please, Tickets, please or the conductor on the 5:20 p.m.'s sassy Have your little tickets out! All the little tickets, Have 'em out! and the feisty redhead who everyday, without fail, answers him with "I've got my little ticket out!"... the gentleman who sat next to me last week reeking of alcohol, who sipped furtively from a 5th of something then chased it with Slice. Or the construction worker buddies whose stories all involve inclement weather and getting totally trashed. Then there's the highstrung woman who plays a game on her cell phone for the entire duration of the ride back to Baltimore in the evening, the one that goes beep, beep, beep while weary commuters try to sleep. I dreamed once that she was pointing her phone at me while it made that infernal noise, a truly devilish grin on her face...

I will miss the subway couple, who between them, might have a full set of teeth. They are always laughing, and whether or not it is to the same degree, they love each other. I am sure the man is an alcoholic. I have a collection of "Train Lovers" whose kisses have made me yearn, whose hand holding has split the fault line in my heart, making me tear up as the locomotive chugged along the rails under indigo and orange skies.

Will I ever sleep that way again? The kind of slumber that mimicks death in its finality and totality. I always knew I was close to home by the bends in the track, but more and more, in the course of the last weeks, my body has been forgetting that it and the train are not one, and I have struggled not to drift back away into the murky dreams I have when I'm riding, almost forgetting to disembark. I rock in time with the steel boxes,used to the swaying. In some ways, It is the only life I know.

I have thought to myself several times that if I died in some wreck, or the cars were overtaken by a malevolent entity (terrorists, Jesse James type criminals, etc.) that I would meet my end with people whose faces I've committed to memory, but whose names I do not know.

Why You Gotta Be Hatin' On My Weather Pixie?

'Bina says he looks like he's been hit between the eyes with a 2 x 4.

Mean lil fellow, arn't you?


What Monty Python Character are you?
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Hiatus

My insurance terminates the day my employment with company X ends. My new policy with company neXt doesn't begin until June 1. Here's another rub. My counselor is on vacation through the end of June. My next appointment after tonight is July 3rd.

I don't feel terribly panicked or concerned, though I do recognize the loss of momentum that could result. But I am in an optimistic season of life right now, and I believe that somehow this break is going to be what I need in order for the rest of my life to take the shape it wants to take. I believe in going with the organic flow of things... given that most things are beyond my control (past a certain point) it just makes sense, and saves heartache in the end, anyway.

For a long time I wondered if my counseling has even been going in the direction it needed to in order for me to be getting the most out of the process. I was chagrined that for the most part, my beloved Mr. Renaissance, and my relationship with him, surged effortlessly to the forefront of discussion during my sessions almost every week. I thought perhaps I was being myopic, or obsessive, but this is the trail it has made sense to follow. I stopped fighting it, internally, a couple of weeks ago. I have to trust that it was what I needed in order to work through the other issues. I can see that I've made headway in a lot of areas through my pointed exploration of this one relationship.

It has been a gift to be able to talk about him in such a focused way. It has helped me to understand my feelings, to see patterns of behavior, and to facilitate change.

What's next? You'll find out when I do.

You're "The no seatbelt song" by Brand
New! You're in love with someone and you can't
let go of it, and you feel it like every other
person who loves, except you apply a haunting
desire to it. Amazing.


What song by a great underground band are you?
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The Coffee Pot Is Malfunctioning...

I barely managed to eke out a half a pot of subpar (and way too thick) brew. So, I am nursing a cup of that stuff and nibbling at my jumbo banana cake from 7-11. Some kind soul brought in two cans of generic cashews and set them out on the "free for all" counter in the kitchen. I took one of them (not full) and stashed it in my desk. I'm sorry, but they are my favourite kind of nut.

I've never read anything by Jane Austen, but I feel like I'm living out a prototype of her novels. Everything is all church functions, lunches, long naps, primitive travel (for me this is the train, not a horse and carriage), weddings, and a tortured, but delightful "will they or won't they?" love affair at the center making all the other drivel worth mucking through. And well, if e-mails replace letters in this scenario then it becomes even more "Old World."

Mr. Renaissance did not call me yesterday. I don't know if he didn't get my e-mail, or simply preferred to keep his day simple, and so didn't feel compelled to have company. I can honestly say that while I would have loved to have seen him, I was okay with not doing so. I hope he had some good time to think and paint and read, perhaps.

So I need to busy myself with little things like unloading the crap I've collected in my cubicle over the last several months. I wonder if I'm responsible to contact human resources about an exit interview. I can't imagine that I am, but in the spirit of proactivity, I think I will ask about that this morning.

I slept for 3 hours after I got home from a post-church lunch, then I walked to Penn Station and bought a weekly train ticket that will expire on Friday, April 25th. It strikes me as being somewhat sad that no conductor will ever collect this ticket because Sarahbina is picking me up from work on Friday afternoon, and then we are meeting some friends from her old church in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. for dinner and conversation. Maybe I will frame it as a vestige of a difficult time that I will never have to repeat. I will look at it and remember waking up at 4 a.m., walking under the cover of darkness to a lonely train station, the only other people on the streets of my city decidedly belonging to a shady, criminal element.

I am hoping that this last week of my working in Rockville will be something beautiful, and that when I leave that building, I won't have left anything undone. Beauty and completion are inextricably linked.

I couldn't sit with him at the Liturgy because he and Norman had to sit together at the front for the "induction." I was happy to sit with friends of Norman in another pew. The service didn't start until 7:30, but we were at the church by 7. I was chatting amiably with some woman whose name I've already forgotten. Mr. Renaissance came up to me, interrupting my conversation with her, and asked me if i wanted to come outside with him and talk about tonight. I wasn't sure what he meant. I thought maybe he meant what was going to happen after the service, like plans to go out to eat or something. No. We sat down on the front steps of the church and he explained what the order of the service would be, the rationale behind it, etc. We were sitting so close, and I was looking at him so intensely, trying to show him that he had my attention.

There was an energy there, at least on my part, that I didn't know if I could bear. I really wondered if we were going to kiss tonight, and I knew I wasn't ready, that we haven't logged the miles of emotional intimacy that would make a kiss meaningful. Mr. R. asked me if I knew anything about the church's namesake. I didn't, so he told me everything there is to know. I wasn't able to contribute much, knowing nothing of Catholic church history. He said to me "Kate, let's see what else I can bore you with..."

I assured him that I was not bored, but could only listen, since I had nothing to offer in the way of enlightenment. I asked what he was enjoying about The Catcher In The Rye (he mentioned really liking the first chapter so far). He told me that the internal dialogue really hooked him, and that he found the "conversational" nature of it laid back, and so very accessible. He said he likes the name Holden. That was encouraging to me because, much to my chagrin, I admit to having imagined us having a son with that name (I love it too).

In this same moment, I asked him if he realized he has some gray hairs. He was incredulous, and asked where they were. So I reached up, and touched the places where I saw them. A few moments later we went back inside, and I took my seat with the ladies in Norman's entourage.

After the lengthy mass we went to a cake and punch reception. Mr. Renaissance and I sat on a bench by ourselves (he served me cake first, then went and got me a drink) chatting. We opted out of Norman's post-confirmation dinner at the Paper Moon Diner, and left to get drinks. But on the way to get drinks, Mr. R. felt too tired, and asked if I minded if he just dropped me off. I was disappointed because I would have wanted to spend more time with him, but I understood, and I certainly didn't begrudge him the extra sleep he would get by not lengthening our evening. I felt good that he didn't feel obligated to go through with drink plans, that he knew he could just say to me "I'm too tired."

He is planning to spend Easter alone tomorrow because he can't bear the dysfunction of a family meal. I let him know that I'm free, that he can call me if he wants to hang out. We'll see.

Sarahbina made a delectable salmon with a creamy tarragon sauce for dinner last night. On the first bite I thought of how much Mr. Renaissance would like it, so I saved him half of my piece so he could have some when he arrived at 9. When he showed up, he told me how much he liked my hair, which I felt self-conscious about, since it was just haphazard, and still wet from the shower.

Frank Sinatra's Luck Be A Lady was blaring from my stereo, and he commented "Well this is nice, somber Good Friday music." I knew he would, and I found that I love my growing understanding of him. He ate the salmon appreciatively, and complimented 'Bina on another culinary success. I made coffee for him and me, and then we sat down together to talk about his new band, which he is very excited about. I told him later on that I really want to hear them play.

In the course of our coffee-on-the-couch conversation, he asked what else I was up to this weekend. He invited me to come to church with him tonight for the service in which he is sponsoring a good friend of his, Norman, from seminary days in his induction into the Catholic church. He will pick me up at 6:15 tonight for the 7 o'clock service.

After about an hour of chatting while 'Bina prepared homemade hummus and an artichoke dip, I found my copy of The Catcher In The Rye and lent it to him, since I always tell him that he is the less tragic Holden Caulfield, and I think it is a travesty that he has never read this book. Then we headed over to Mikhail's house to wait for him to return from a night of waiting tables at a high-end dining establishment in our neighborhood so we could begin our listening to Bach's Passion.

He and I sat together on a love seat, and shared a translation. My arm was around the back of the couch, and his shoulders rested against it. Occassionally he leaned his head all the way back, and his hair tickled my forearm. Before the music actually began, though, we all told anecdotes, fraternized with Mikhail's roommate and his lady love, who were also in attendance, and nursed our drinks. During one of these little pockets of conversation, 'Bina said something about the freckle on the tip of my nose, how cute it is, and my Mr. R. readily said to me "It is cute." Later, when I was smiling at him he told me that my teeth are very white, and that this is something of a feat for a chronic coffee drinker.

After the first cd of the recording, he left because it was 1 a.m., and he was tired. I walked him to the door (the rest of the group was breaking for dessert), and hugged him good-bye. He asked me to remember his copies of the translation and his cds, but asked me if I would go and get him the book ("Catcher") from my knapsack right then so he could start reading it soon. He told me he would call me before he showed up tonight, or that I could call him, or whatever. I told him to "Be safe." He chuckled, and walked down the stairs.

Good Friday

I woke up today to a phone call from my long-lost Godfather. I saw him last when I was 23, at my birthday party. We chatted only briefly, but I got his phone number. I'm supposed to keep in touch. He asked me if I had a "young man" in my life.

So, I gave the short version of my Mr. Renaissance tale, by turns of woe that we will never be together, then of warm confidence in the rightness of him in my life. My surrogate dad type felt that all I can do is continue in this vein, because it is organic for me to do so. My prayers confirm what I need to know about Mr. R. He is the man with whom I want to spend the rest of my days on earth.

He called me yesterday to nail down some things about tonight. I was actually on the phone with Sassafrass Teawrap talking about him when he beeped through. Though we talked for less than 4 minutes, I was comforted (not even realizing I needed that), and felt that he was confirmed to me somehow.

This afternoon I will be having lunch with my former boss from Hopkins. We are celebrating my new employment with another formidable institution to begin on April 28th.

Today will be good, indeed.

Reduced To A Single Adjective

Walking to counseling on Tuesday night sans headphones (so unfortunately I could hear the asinine things people say to each other in public) I came across a man getting out of his car who took the opportunity to make a disparaging comment about me. Sadly, though he may have meant it as a compliment of sorts (a perverse one), it pierced me, and I had to pray to keep from internalizing his words.

Hey Big Girl.

His tone was nonchalant but there was something in it, some layer of malignance I thought I detected. I did not acknowledge him, and he offered nothing further, but I realized, again, in that moment, that when you are fat, that is all you are as far as other people are concerned.

Thin people are given the benefit of the doubt in matters of intelligence, character, work ethic, relational/emotional intelligence, intellectual curiousity, cleanliness, sexual expression/sensuality, hygeine, culture, and overall health (physical and mental).

When a thin (unhealthily so or not) woman is in the landscape, it seems that the belief is that she must be valid, worthy, whatever. But this man felt that he could just comment on my weight, a visible, but private matter, and reduce me to the rudimentary category of "big girl" without a second thought.

What made him think he had the right? When does anyone have the right to make any comment to anyone else they don't know, about anything?

This man doesn't know the books I've read, the depth of feeling I possess, the kind of work I do, that I haven't always been this size (but what if i had??!!), the music I like, my religious preferences, or my political views. And they don't matter to him either, because he never gets beyond "big tits; fat ass." Fat girl. She should be lucky anyone says anything to her at all.

Honestly, it reminded me of the time a cab driver told me "[I] moved pretty fast for a chubby girl."

I felt embarrassed at the thought that someone might say something like that to me in front of Mr. Renaissance, or some other friend. All the things I am besides his quick and dirty evaluation of my size seemed to be eclipsed in that moment, and I struggled to see myself accurately for quite a while after that.

I Should Have Just Gone To Bed

When will I ever learn to make better decisions regarding my bed time? I am operating on one hour of sleep, walking the halls of Company X like some kind of zombie, and I'm dressed in olive green pants, an army issue green shirt, and red shoes. Obviously, I got dressed in the dark. Good thing there is no one here to impress. I am completely cranky. It's like my therapist told me. Every time you allow a boundary of your own to be violated (even if you are the one violating your own boundary) no good can come of it; it always leads to regret or resentment.

I should have just gone to bed.

The Passion

Mikhail has decided to host a small group of people at his place to listen to Bach's Passion of St. Matthew. Light fare and dessert to follow. I had been wanting to invite Mr. Renaissance to this since M began to kick the idea around a couple of weeks ago. I wanted to even more, yesterday, when I realized that we were nearing "later in the week" and Mr. R. and I still did not have a plan for our own hangtime.

When I was out with Ms. F for drinks last night, in the context of discussing my plans for Friday, she encouraged me to invite him (not even knowing I'd been thinking about doing so) because He does this every year himself! It mirrored my desire so perfectly, I wasted no time asking him. Mr. R. wrote me back and said he would love to be part of it. So, there you have it. I have been wanting to spend Good Friday with him for the last few years because it is such an important day to me, and I know it is to him as well. We both strive to commemorate it in the context of our lives, and that acknowledgment has blessed us both, individually--so I want the experience of being with him--and being blessed together.

Besides, it was the saturday after Good Friday 3 years ago that Ms. F. told me Mr. R. said I was "so pretty," and lamented that he had not gotten to know me better before I moved away from Baltimore. It was on this day that he mentioned how much we had in common, how lovely our conversations were, how he wished he'd kept in better touch with me...

Full circle. Maybe.

He e-mailed me, as is his custom, to say that he cannot make it on Tuesday (today), but that maybe he and I can get together later in the week. Honestly? I wanted to celebrate with just him. I stopped short of praying for that, because I didn't want to be greedy, but now that is the way it will have to be. I replied to him that I don't have any money, so whatever we do it cannot cost a lot. I hope that won't be an issue, or a deterrent, if he is equally broke. I could celebrate with him just sitting in a room, making eyes at each other, and nursing cheap coffee. This is love, afterall.

Last night I enjoyed 3 excellent phone calls. I caught up with an old friend from my earlier Baltimore days, the unassailably cool Devika telephoned with stellar news of her engagement, and my youngest sister and I debriefed about her latest (and most viable) crush. And, as if all of this is not enough, I was in bed before 11:30. Life is just yummy right now.

Happier days are definitely ahead for you; struggle has ended. --Fortune Cookie message I received about a week and a half before my interview

Well, I am officially resigned. My boss and I had a nice chat in which she communicated that while the news was not good for her (and made her morning rough), she was very happy for me, and wished me the best. The news was announced at our weekly team meeting this morning. I feel lighter. I've already begun the "tidying" process.

In other news, I am slated to have drinks with Ms. F., Mr. R., and potentially another woman, whom I'll call Coquette. I think her presence might be a bit much, so I hope she cannot make it (as she is expected to be unable to do so). Obviously, I did not invite her. But, if she does show up, it probably won't hamper my good mood since I am being toasted by friends. More than at any other time, I can afford to be socially charitable.

It did not even occur to me to sleep on the train this morning. The understanding of the weight of the letter I was waiting to deliver was too ponderously freeing to allow me to give into the gravity of slumber. My boss will not enter the building for approximately another hour, but I have left my intentions, typed out, sealed in an envelope on which I wrote her name, on her desk. This is the closest she will ever be to knowing without knowing. For my part, the words have flown from me, and are hanging out in the atmosphere waiting to be detected. They don't belong to me any longer, and I don't belong to this place.

For the last year I have been biding my time, and for the next two weeks, time will be elusive and fleeting while I struggle to tie up loose ends, make sure all of my jobs are ready to be handed over to someone else, as I leave things like "green sheets", the PSR, and camera-ready packages behind, with moments to spare, I hope.

I have never been sad to leave a job, even the job I had right out of college, my best one to date. Because I prefer the end of a matter to the beginning, I feel optimistic and bright-eyed when saying good-bye when there is no unfinished business. I think of the clean break afforded everyone involved. I think Here we all go to find our real lives now.

As usual, I am sipping my first cup of coffee of the day, welcoming the thought of the news settling in, and then us all going about our business as usual.

There is a photograph of my sister that looks like a dream. The light is muted, and her lips and hands are blurred. She is showcasing exaggerated sexiness for the camera. It was taken the night of her senior prom. Her essence of sensuality and fun is very clear in the muddled composition and lack of focus. This is how dreams are, blurred, disproportionate images revealing clear messages.

hip-hop


What type of dance are you?
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Unbelievable You, Impossible Me (or Irresistable force meets immovable object)

'Bina and I are listening to James Taylor's October Road cd (I borrowed today's title from a line in one of the songs). She is painting with water colours; I just finished typing out my letter of resignation (which she edited between masterpieces). It is ready to be placed squarely on my boss's desk.

Earlier this evening we went out for a drive along the beautiful, northern stretches of Falls Road, and experienced the antiquity of Baltimore in the impossible beauty of the Spring that has finally come, we hope to stay.

The day before yesterday I got a letter from the lovely Devika, which I am carrying around in my purse to help me feel the warmth of her friendship wherever I go. I like to let her letters steep in my heart for a while before responding, and when I do, I like to make a moment of it.

I feel very happy right now. God, help me not to mistrust it.

No More Drama

I really am Chicken Little--the original alarmist. The sky is always falling on poor old me. Mr. Renaissance was, as always, fine, and pretty nonchalant about what I considered my "scolding" attitude. Apparently, he's having phone aversion right now. Whatever. I mean, that's cool. The larger issue is the fact that wanting him to call felt like too much to ask. That's my bag. That's my deal. Other people cannot give me what I need, ultimately.

Listening to the same song on the Boys II Men "Legacy" album--track 10--I don't even know what it's called. But it's that melancholy R&B type slow jam w/synthesized percussion where some man with a tear-strained voice is all like "Things sucked for me at first when you left, but it's alright 'cause I know more now than I used to." These are not the words, but that's the vibe. You know what I mean.

I wish I had a scotch and soda to nurse. I wish I had candles lit. I would just listen to this song over and over again, sip the bitter whiskey, and mourn my 6th grade crush or some such nonsense.

Okay, here is where I remind myself that I have been liberated from my hellacious commute (in 2 weeks)!

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

Now that I have this job I'm thinking about how visible my efforts are going to be; I can't do the bare minimum and remain disengaged from my work out of fear or laziness. When I first came to my soon-to-be former position about three years ago, I wanted to be a cog in a wheel. I'd just endured 6 months of hell working for a duplicitous woman who was given to hysteria and was impossible to please. I suffered acute anxiety all of the time. When I left I did not want anything to be required of me. Anything that smacked of going above and beyond the call of duty made me feel violated. I guess when you've been abused, every hand raised, even if it's just to scratch an ear, looks like it's about to punch you squarely in the face.

It occurs to me now that this very unwillingness to rise to the occasion at company "ex" is part of the reason I've felt so "blah" and cynical about my life for the last 3 years. One's work must be meaningful. Something happens to the soul when you feel constantly impotent at your place of business.

In the arena of relationships, I've had to confront some of my issues with confrontation, and it was terrifying. I was honest with Mr. R. about my feelings about his e-mailing me instead of calling me when I specifically asked him to call me (Ironically, this confrontation happened in an e-mail). And I worry that this honesty is going to alienate him. Who am I to ask him to call me, and to tell him that I am disappointed when he doesn't? The thing is that his e-mail was thoughtful, and I wanted it to be enough for me, but it wasn't. I wanted to leave well enough alone, but I couldn't do so. 'Bina sensed my unrest and told me to tell how I feel. I have never called him on anything regarding his disregard of my feelings (rare, but still), or his retreat into passive aggression when I try to "get real" with him.

I know it was the right thing to do. If I am ever going to be his and if he is ever going to be mine, I have to be able to tell him anything. I have to be willing to have him be defensive, tell me I'm wrong... Good Lord, even be mad at me if it comes to that...

I. GOT. THE. JOB!

Initial Assessment

I met with the woman who is my potential future boss this morning at 9 a.m. I also met with her boss, albeit briefly, right after my chat with her. I know that my friends have been praying for me or, as the case may be, thinking good thoughts for me, because I woke up feeling absolutely calm. I was the least internally harried I've ever been going into an interview session.

First Impression? I liked my interviewer a lot. She was warm, frank, appropriately encouraging without being obsequious, and therefore didn't strike a false note. She asked me good questions, left the door open wide for me to talk to her about my feelings about my work, and what I would have to offer, as well as my "marketable" strengths. Talking with her boss was also comfortable. I intuited that I can really be part of what is happening there if they offer me the position.

I will be, if all goes well, in a position to really shape, in an editorial sense, the look and feel of their curriculum. As opposed to being on the bottom rung of a team of editors working with material that does not captivate or move me in the slightest, I would be the editorial element of something already very dear to me. That is both a terrifying and heart-warming notion.

I know that I will be asked to wear several hats, because this is a start up division of a well-established entity; flexibility will be key. But if I can be part of something...crucial to something...then I think I will be surprisingly unselfish about what I'm willing to do for the sake of the job.

I perceived that the favourable response was mutual and that I am a strong contender for the position.

I will definitely let you all know. All I can say now is that they promised I'd be hearing from them (and I was asked when I could be available if it came to an offer).

Of all the things he told me on friday night, my favourite was about a poem he wrote in the fourth grade. It was an ode to french toast, the last line of which is "Long Live French Toast!" It is all he can remember.

I thought I knew pretty much what there was to know, but in that moment, a door to a secret room inside him opened to me.

Still life: pears on placemat with Bible and binderclip (coffee cup in recession)

moving from the farthest point of light on the smudged table
the cream separates in my morning cup
a sharp sugar relief puckering the surface
toast crumbs on the cloth congregate around pages of ecclesiastical wisdom
unripe and mishapen
the pears are humped over and harsh in the fickleness of this Sunday morning
the clip quit of its work holds no sheath of papers

I think I pinched a nerve in my shoulder, or slept incorrectly on it, because suddenly my motility on the left side is limited.

Yesterday I hung out for a few hours with Sassafrass Teawrap before she had to make time to get to a Passover Seder; I came home and slept after our visit, feeling inexplicably tired. I had gotten more sleep the night before than I get on any given night of the week, usually. Maybe, ironically, that is why I was so tired.

Mikhail came over for a late supper of sandwiches and nachos. After he left Sarahbina and I stayed up til 4:30 (Spring forward!) talking about how much she cares for him. The growing tenderness in their relationship is electric with passion, yet very reassuring like a well made blanket, or hot soup on a bitingly cold day.

Right now 'Bina is in the kitchen making a yogurt curry marinade for tonight's chicken with couscous, butternut squash soup, and spinach-walnut salad dinner.

I just finished reading a chapter of Ecclesiastes. Solomon says: Wisdom brightens a man's face and changes its hard appearance.

I Spy Your Tortured Soul

We sat in a deep red room on a 3-cushion, brown leather couch. Pictures of Lenin adorned the walls. And whenever any other people poked their heads in, they quickly withdrew. Some people walked all the way in, pondered whether to sit in the other 5 seats that were available, but ultimately withdrew also. Mr. Renaissance said to me at one point We own this room.

At first I didn't have anything to drink; he ordered a vodka martini and commenced a long night of rolling cigarettes and yawning. The tiredness that was weighing him down 2 weeks ago is still with him. He's obviously depressed... he keeps hinting at it, but then says he doesn't want to get into it. He told me that his first meeting with his priest went well and offered him a good perspective on "things." I asked him if he ever wanted a 'normal' (as opposed to an artist's) life. He came back with "yeah; I want to get married, have kids, and live in a big Victorian house..." I told him I wanted that element of life too (nevermind that I have always dreamed of a Victorian house with a gazebo in back. never mind that), but that it needed to have a macabre edge.

When I brought up the topic that prompted this little gathering, he seemed oddly disinterested in it. His summation was that basically an artist should press on no matter what. Fame or not. I told him that I have always expected to be famous--since I was 10, anyway--I've had no concept of not being known for my writing. In total, we discussed this for maybe 3 minutes.

I practiced being unrushed in that time with him. Not despising the small seeds of his just being there with me, not being in a big hurry, the complete lack of sexual tension or innuendo. I just tried to do my part by going with the quiet patches (which were not uncomfortable), but when something occurred to me, I told him. Deep secrets about what it was like to watch my dad hit my mom for the first time, the consuming embarrassment I feel when I fail at something.

We even discussed the "master vs. mammy" diad that I brought up a few weeks back in this blog space... He introduced the topic, actually. I told him I had written about this in college and he expressed a desire to see the paper if I ever found it. We were talking about my mom and he told me he had the feeling that I was very accepting of her in spite of my problems with her. He then told me that he tends to get along great with older black women. He posited that it's because they are such an "other" that there is room to see the beauty in that difference. Even behavior that might vex him in anyone else, he finds charming when displayed in them. Suffice it to say, he'd like to meet my mother someday.

Finally, I did have a drink. It was at the 11th hour, literally. He was incredulous. "You're having a drink now?" "Well, are you going to nurse it, or just drink it?" The idea being that if I intended to take my time, he would have another (after the vodka martini he ordered a Mai Tai). I told him I wasn't going to chug it, but that I also wouldn't make the consumption a production or anything. He said then, "Oh, I forgot. You drink your drinks pretty fast." I do that. His noticing and calling up that information was a sliver of an indication that he sometimes pays attention to me.

When the rum and coke hit my blood stream I felt the sexless vibe between us diminish, and I leaned in closer, and the tone got pretty confessional when he asked me if I had any regrets. "Oh, so many," I told him. He asked me how I handle it. I told him that I am haunted by my regrets--to the point that I cannot often be alone with my own thoughts. I asked him what he regrets. He was quiet for a long time, then finally gave me some vague answer. Melancholy baby.

Oh.Now he's thinking New York may not be right for him, because he might try his hand at Interior Design. I did nothing to hide my lack of a vision for this venture. I told him he's not supposed to do that, that he could just save himself a lot of time by asking me what he should do, because I've always known what is best for him. That I have never once been wrong when I had a feeling about his life...

Want to talk about it over a drink this Friday (if you're free)?

A question occurred to me yesterday about whether critical and commercial success is crucial to my writing. Would I feel fulfilled just churning out poems and short stories if I died undiscovered and uncelebrated? In the context of an e-mail Mr. Renaissance sent around about recent developments in his painting, I asked him if he expected to be a critically-recognized painter someday. I had a feeling this inquiry would pique his conversational interest---I was pretty sure it would be good for an e-mail or two---but he came back strong with a plan to chat in person, which is better, of course.

He thinks it's too complex to discuss something like this over e-mail and he's right. I'm looking forward to bringing our friendship outside the confines of Yahoo! and into the actual world. I used to feel so blessed to have that contact with him, but the longer we are friends, the more ridiculous "talking" to him primarily in e-mail seems.

Yesterday I tried to go to bed for the night at 7 p.m., but by 8:45 I was awake and feeling well-rested. When I went back to bed at 2 a.m., I still felt solidly awake, but was able to snooze until 4 when the alarm sounded. I woke up feeling like a million bucks. Cats understand... It's always about sleeping deeply for a little while. Alot.

In other news, I am psyching myself up for a drastic haircut. It's the only way to deal with my hair's propensity toward dreading right now.

Desperation

I have a fragment of a Mary Oliver poem in my mind... The Foxes in Winter...or something like that.
just the line "Who can blame them for what they do?"