The Initiation

They smiled and welcomed me into the fellowship, the formerly disdainful looks softening as they congratulated me for no longer allowing myself to "walk around like that." I made my way through something that resembled a chiaroscuro painting--blurred light, everything made disproportionate because I was viewing it all through ironically sad tears. Their applauding hands occasionally reached out to rub my shoulders, and give little pats of affirmation. "Now you are just like us," those touches seemed to say. I understood that they generously wished me well with a sincerity of heart not even the nicest of them had felt toward me before.

Here are the things of which I was now worthy:

Love
Respect
Deference
Someone else's yearning
Sophistication
Admiration
Any social role other than "funny girl"

"Now you are thin, Kate, come up to where you belong."

August and Everything After...

For a couple of weeks now I have been feeling like the rubber would be meeting the road in August.

I anticipated that things would get sticky at work, since the school year will be upon us soon (my company traffics in education), and that a few nights of overtime would be expected of everyone. At a company meeting today we were told that starting a week from next Monday (or perhaps next Monday, I'm not certain) everyone is being asked to work a 10-hour day (for 5 weeks), and work at least 2 of the next 5 Saturdays. Obviously there is a company deadline that is in effect outside of the normal workload of most of the employees, so there will be pinch-hitting type tasks with which to help, I'm assuming.

Obviously, I wasn't expecting that, but be that as it may, the gauntlet has been thrown.

But more than something so practical in implication as my job, I have been thinking of August as a kind of predetermined germination period. I believe some things will be taking root, though on the surface, it will seem that nothing much is happening to advance the plot of life.

Maybe I am romanticizing August because I am looking forward to September, which this year, in addition to my birthday, boasts an important trip to Boston.

This Sunday I will see Devika for the first time in about 7 years at her engagement lunch. Sarah has agreed to go with me; I am glad the two of them will meet since I've told them each so much about the other. A couple of months ago I had hoped that Gordon might accompany me to this fete--that we might be in the kind of "place" that would make him accompanying me a reasonable expectation.

Similarly, I had hoped that he might travel with me to South Dakota for Devika's wedding. But I guess if we are not more than friends at this point, and he couldn't be expected to go with me to the luncheon, then it doesn't stand to reason that he would get on a plane with me to the Midwest for a wedding.

My conversation with him on last Sunday night revealed to me that his head is nowhere near where mine is. There was nothing specific, just the way he talked to me so casually, with a kind of friendly detachment, that I realized I am still miles ahead of him--that it would behoove me to check myself.

River God by Nichole Nordeman

Rolling river God—little stones are smooth—only once the water passes through
So, I am a stone—rough and grainy still—Trying to reconcile this river’s chill
But when I close my eyes—and feel you rushing by—I know that time brings change—
And change takes time—and when the sunset comes—My prayer would be this one—
That you might pick me up—and notice that I am—just a little smoother in Your hand
Sometimes raging wild—sometimes swollen high—never have I known this river dry
The deepest part of you is where I want to stay—And feel the sharpest edges wash away

Eating Oatmeal With A Fork...

I am listening to the plaintive worship of David Crowder, eating oatmeal with a fork (out of my coffee mug), and drinking thick coffee from a styrofoam cup.

I've been very agitated about my lack of a church lately, but I've decided to back up off of that for right now and just practice the presence of God wherever I am. I'm recreating Sunday for myself, setting it apart in a way that makes sense to me, in a way that will inspire me toward holiness and devotion.

Also

I'm reading Atonement now. I'm really enjoying the writing style, and find McEwan's descriptions both imaginative and adept.

The last time I felt that I belonged anywhere or to anything was in 1998. I belonged to a church and felt unconflicted about my involvement; I served on several ministries out of a sense of belonging to that group of people, not out of duty.

I lived in a house with three other women on a tree-lined street, and was able to shape my heart against the rhythm of that house, and had the company of like-minded people, but the autonomy of one who lives alone.

In 1998 I participated in a Bible Study with a group of spiritually sophisticated women who pored over the scriptures and who asked challenging questions, not feeling that we needed to fit into the stereotypical mold of a “women’s group,” sitting around discussing recipes and beauty tips. I experienced God more deeply because of their collective presence in my life.

I had a vision for all of these areas of my life, and a sense of purpose for my place in each of these spheres. I was a contributing member with a specific function. And for the most part, in 1998, I was untroubled by romantic angst. I only had a very pitiful crush on someone I am still convinced I drummed up out of boredom.

My life since that time has been characterized by a pervasive feeling of being out of synch, going against the grain of my desires, and never being able to freely pursue what’s in my heart. I feel held up.

Part of what coming back to Baltimore was supposed to be about was coming back home free of that confusion, free of obligations to anything not what I should be doing. It was to be my fresh start.

I wanted to find a church where I could give my heart and my time to the other members; I wanted to start cooking again; I wanted to bake bread; I wanted to be awakened by the warmth of the sun on my face on Saturday mornings; I didn’t want to hemmed in or cramped. I wanted to live my life like a Dixie Chicks song; I wanted to cultivate charm, read more, write again, write at all.

At the end of the year, I will be starting my life again, hopefully in a new apartment, with only myself for company. I never want to shape myself against another person’s concept of me, or against another person’s life. I feel panicked and smothered and terrified that if I can’t get this solitude that I need, that I am going to implode.

I feel confused because I don’t have the room to make a move without being asked what I’m doing or what I’m thinking, or without being asked a question. My throat is constricting from having to share my airflow. My back is aching. My stomach is growling. My head is pounding. If I can’t get what I need, I’m going to run, and no one will ever hear from me again. That’s how this feels.

To Do

1. Make a hair appointment
2. Find a church to attend regularly
3. Find a new apartment
4. Excel at work
5. Really work on my poetry manuscript

They Call Me Mr. Kitsch

I see now that this should have been his moniker in my blog for all those months, for that is his chief function in my life, or so it would seem based on the very pleasant, dime store variety telephone conversation I had with him last night.

Maybe I am still too influenced by Kundera, and have now superimposed his literary, communist paradigm over my emotionally capitalist landscape but there seemed to be something not fated and detached in that conversation, even on my end.

So here I am at the start of another potentially banal week. Where is Peter Farrow when you need him?

"You love my son; you are going to marry my son."

In another of a series of dreams in which I am on the telephone with someone, I dreamed I was on the phone with gordon's mother. I believe I called her, looking for him, because he'd not shown up for an appointment I thought he had with me.

I have heard his mother's voice a few times; once about 2 and a half years ago when I called him at his parents' house, and then more recently, when she contacted him via the walkie-talkie function on his cell phone, so I retained enough of a memory on which to build an auditory dream of her.

In the dream conversation, the tone of her voice was warm, and she kept referring to me as his buddy, or using other generic terms meant to underscore that I was her son's friend. I understood that she was doing this to indicate that this was the only official status I held with him. I didn't take offense, because I also understood that she wanted me to feel that it was okay, as his friend, to be concerned about him.

I felt the slight tug of my conscious mind pulling its weight in the dream world; I wanted her to know who I really was (or who I really wanted to be). I willed her to recognize me, on some level (I hoped she could hear the weight of who I was to be to her son in my voice), and acknowledge that she recognized me.

In a very sudden, but smooth transition, she said You love my son; You are going to marry my son. Her voice held such an absolute acceptance of what she had just said to me as the unalterable truth, my waking heart bolstered, and I felt the satisfaction one might feel upon finally finding the key that turns the lock of a door of a room that one must get inside. In the dream, I said with tears in my voice, Yes I am.

I saw "Fellowship of the Ring" for the first time last night. I am not a fan of the fantasy genre, and I don't really go in for wizards, elves, or other woodland creatures. Human beings are all that I need to capture my imagination, for the most part. Usually my interests only lie in subject matter relatively close to my own time period, too. I am somewhat pedantic in this sense.

But, I enjoyed the film. Not having ever read the books, I am sure I can't really be taken in the way a true Tolkein fan would be. I do have a very clear memory of seeing The Hobbit on my mother's bookshelf when I was a child. I debated reading it, but gathered that it was about some kind of fantasy forest and quickly lost interest. I guess it's a pretty set preference.

I thought my dreams last night would be filled with battle scenes between elves and ogres. You know what I dreamed about instead? Women battling with angry men, ultimately me battling with my stepfather.

In one part of the dream, I was going out with friends. The group was comprised of one couple, one other woman, and myself. The man half of the couple didn't have enough money for his movie ticket,and began loudly posturing to cover up his embarrassment. His girlfriend, seeming to recognize this routine, refused to validate him by placating him or paying him any attention. We all came to a point of needing to cross a street to continue on to the movie theatre.

I hung back for what seemed a very long time (all the others had long since gone over without a hitch), because the drivers on this street were reckless. I saw several accidents, many of them quite bad, and this just confirmed my feeling that I needed to remain where I was until I was sure that I wasn't going to be made part of the asphalt road.

When my friends and I eventually went inside the cinema, it was actually my parents' house, and there was a party. The girlfriend half of the couple spent the bulk of the fete sleeping on the floor, still wearing her coat.

I don't remember a lot of the details, but eventually I detected that my stepfather's mood was souring, and I knew it would not be long before he instigated a fight. So, I called him on it, and he threw a steak knife at me, which I blocked with my hand. And then something else, which may have hit me, but did no damage. I told him he sounded angry, but he insisted (as did my mother and my step dad's good friend) that he sounded "comfortable."

I looked him in the eye and said "I know by the quickness with which you pounced on me that anger was rising in you. See, I spent my childhood learning to listen for the way your voice changes when you are spoiling for a fight. I heard that sound, that's how I knew."

40 Days Til 30

I am looking forward to this milestone, kissing my 20s good-bye, and stepping into a more adult paradigm. To that end, I want to purge myself of some lingering [vestiges, you might say] emotional artifacts from the last decade. I want to rid myself of my present lexicon of images and associations for love. I want to stop defaulting to irrational fear when I don't have another explanation handy.

This is the year I will stop being afraid to succeed at work, in my relationship with the man I adore, in my finances, in ministry/church, and in establishing healthy boundaries with my family.

I used to think of my 20s as a categorical failure. In truth they are the closest thing I'll ever have to a dry run. It's for real now.

Showtime!

Moving On Up, But Not...

A couple of weeks ago my boss promised me a larger cubicle with a view once the big move happened (we acquired the suite directly adjacent to the one we're in now--in addition to the one we presently occupy, mind you). But not everyone communicated with everyone else, so somebody else is getting that cubicle. Not me. We're supposed to revisit the issue in a couple of weeks. I think that comment was meant to placate me. Whatever. I don't need to be placated. I just want someone to shoot straight with me.

This kind of thing always happens to me. The thing is, I never would have thought anything of it, except I was told that I'd be given that space. When someone says something to me it becomes a certainty. I forgot about beauracracy. I forgot about synapses that never fully fire. I forgot about office politics.

You're Jackie. You're a spoiled brat who can be
totally obnoxious. But once you get past all of
the lipgloss and hairspray, you're actually a
sweet girl who wants more than anything to love
and be loved.


What Character From That 70's Show Are You?
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Heelp, I mean Help...

Just trying out some new html code i'm learning. Now that I know how to do the "strikethrough" effect, will there be any way to stop my blogging genius? Tune in tomorrow.

Whether you walk to the right → or the left ← there will be a voice behind you saying "This is the way; walk in it."

After weighing the matter for several days, and taking into consideration the opinions of other people at work, I made the decision to talk to the human resources wonk about her. I told him she wasn't working out, that we were losing money by keeping her on staff. I wanted to let enough time pass before taking this step. I wanted to make sure it wasn't premature, that I wasn't forgetting to factor in the arc of the learning curve, that I wasn't exacting punishment because she simply rubbed me the wrong way.

Her mistakes were bafoonish, in some cases. Her personality is a bit grating. But I have never been responsible for whether or not somebody is told they no longer need to report to work.

So I thought about the project, the level and output of work needed to keep it on target, and the ruthlessness it sometimes takes to ensure that there is a deliverable when all is said and done.

I also prayed, and as I did so felt that it was about more than letting someone go with her dignity intact. It was about releasing her to go where God really wanted her to be, and setting her free to work in an environment that is tailor-made for her, where she could excel and be comfortable.

So this morning she was let go. The HR wonk and I met with her (He did all of the talking--and I was grateful in this case that he did not make it personal, that he talked, instead, about the changing needs of the company, not her performance.) and gave her the option to leave then, or to finish out the day. She opted to stay around,and was supremely gracious.

After he left our company, I asked her if I could talk to her for a few moments, personally, business aside.

I believed that she was a Christian, so I took a chance and asked her if that was indeed true. She told me that it was. I took another chance and asked her if she would mind if I prayed for her--that God would lead her to a great opportunity, and for her to be encouraged at His providence--even in the midst of the unfortunate news she had just received. We had an understanding. She happily allowed me to do so.

So right in the conference room I did just that, very much feeling God's presence and pleasure.

Less than 30 minutes later, she sent me an instant message telling me that "God is Good!" and that she had just been offered a job, and would need to leave before the close of business afterall. She needed to go and fill out paperwork at the new place.

I was able to see that in making the right choice for my project and the company that I support, I was able to see the bigger picture for someone else as well. I don't know how much her faith was strengthened, but mine was. It was a gift to be able to make a good, but difficult choice, and see an immediate pay-off for everyone involved.

I said I was just going to read, not take a nap. It is impossible for me to read in bed without heeding the call of the Sandman and other mythological figures associated with the world of dreams. I could feel the weight of the book on my heart where it must have fallen after it fell softly from my slackening hold. Maybe while Sarah works some more on curriculum tonight, I will finish the book I should have this evening, and start on the guilty pleasure I'm eyeing. It's in my back pack. Just a few more pages of literature til I can get there.

I need to unwind from my stressful work day. I need to call a few meetings tomorrow. I need to bring some people in power around to my way of thinking.

Everyone lost three hours of work this morning because our system was handicapped. The new girl we hired to help with document formatting is not really worth the money we've paid her so far, since she's had to double back on her efforts due to some pretty substantive errors, and I feel overcome with job inertia. We have a pretty big deadline coming up so I need to shake it off fast.

Sarah and I have watched the two Harry Potter movies on dvd (the first one, last night, and the sequel, this evening after work). I've never read the books, so I'm sure the cinematic depictions don't do them justice, but I found the films charming enough. I can't figure out if the storyline is setting up an emerging love triangle between Harry, Ron, and Hermione... or if it's going to be a cut and dry Harry and Hermione thing. Frankly, I think J.K. Rowling, if she does have such a thing in the works, should do the unexpected and pair up her smart heroine with the easily frightened, but loyal Ron. It would be less obvious.

I am still reading "Unbearable Lightness." I'm in the home stretch ("The Grand March"), and I find myself disinterested in the whole Communist vs. Non Communist Kitsch discussion. Of course I will finish it. I'm anxious to get onto the schlock page-turner I checked out last week, Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend.

Speaking of books, I think including Alberta in the book club as I envisioned won't really be feasible. She will be going to Zambia (for work) for one month beginning in August. I don't think I'm being premature; I think I'm just calling a spade a spade. Additionally, I think big changes with work and my personal life will be coming round the bend too. This may not be the best time to try and organize something like that. I may do better to eventually join up with a more established group.

For now I think I'll put the kettle on for chamomile.

Compassion (to Suffer With)

I got into his car this morning and did not notice Greg in the backseat until Gordon mentioned that both Greg and I were wearing green. I turned then, and saw him sitting there. Great, I thought. Great. I had wanted to see this as some intimate thing with Gordon, and clearly, that wasn't to be. Once inside the cathedral I made the decision not to make this too big a deal. I felt the old temptation to close myself inward, but when the priest's sonorous voice began to intone the gospel message of compassion, meaning to suffer with, and presented the idea of suffering with another as the greatest expression of love, and the greatest means we have for entering into fellowship with Christ, I felt my spirit responding. He took it further. He talked about the temptation to be closed off in order to protect one's self as the ultimate path to constant falsifying. He was clear; this was no call to foolishness, but it was a call to be brokenhearted.

Afterward, we stopped off at Gordon's place so he could get the watercolor I purchased from him. Greg and I waited in the car, and while we waited, he let me know that he felt himself in need of a romance, and asked me, at least somewhat seriously, if I would point any viable options in his direction. I told him I would. When Gordon returned to the car, Greg said "of course if you know of any Catholic girls, you can give Gordon dibs..."

Some of my old scars throbbed, but dully. I said to my heart Be teflon. Be courageous. Still, I felt myself feeling like I didn't belong in that moment, that I should just go home and let them have a boy's day together (when we sat outside the grocery store drinking coffee after church, I saw them both looking at the women that walked by, though Gordon much more subtly than his friend). I don't know what Gordon has told Greg about me in the past, but I know in Greg's mind I'm not even an option where Gordon is concerned. If I were, he never would have made such a comment.

But I did not ask to go home; that didn't seem brave to me. Why should I hide and be ashamed? Why should I let all of my moments with Gordon be undermined?

We went to Greg's house for lunch which he cooked for us to the backdrop of the velvety Chet Baker's My Funny Valentine, and later love dirges by a young, clear-voiced Willie Nelson. At some point, before the Chet Baker, Gordon played piano while I sat on the couch in the family room and listened to him clown around a bit on the ivories. The mood was mostly lunchtime lethargy, and I felt that my time with him was ill-fated...destined to leave me wanting something I wasn't going to get.

But things turned when I remembered that I did not have to be a victim of passivity. When Gordon and I left Greg at his house, I suggested that we go buy Gordon some clothes, which he had mentioned that he might do that afternoon. I told him he should, and that he should let me help him pick stuff out. He bought several items at the mall that I encouraged him to purchase, and then I convinced him to go to Columbia to Old Navy, which he was hesitant to do after our stint at the Towson Town Center, but reason won out, and off we went. He bought more things, which he really did need, including the boxer briefs I urged him to consider last month. They were "buy 1 get 1 free."

Before we parted ways, I took some bills he wanted me to drop in the mailbox for him. But there was also a mailaway in the stack to a "Win a free trip to Paris Sweepstakes." I told him I really wanted to go there someday. He said "Well, it is a trip for two."

Dirge

We set out on Friday morning for the mountains of Pennsylvania to bury Sarah's grandmother. As though that would not be painful enough, we had to keep in mind her sister, to whom she has not spoken for more than a year, for reasons so painful and profound, not even the death of the most important person they share in common would be able to bridge the gap.

As though grief does not require all of our energy and intentional effort, try doing so in front of someone who has decided that you are beneath contempt.

The tension of those two days in the mountains is indelibly and inextricably part of the muscle groupings in my back, and it wasn't even my grandmother. it wasn't even my sister. But it was my Sarah--the best friend I have in this life--and so I felt the pain with her as much as I could, and felt that I suffered with her, as much as another heart can ever enter the bitterness of another.

It was a gift to be there, flanking her, along with Michael. It was one of the most important things I have ever done, and if I had not been there, I would have looked back on it as something I could never retract. I could never have taken back not being there. It was never an option to be anyplace else.

The last time I stood atop that hill with Sarah, we were staring at her grandfather's headstone (in the fall of 2001) which also bore the etching of her grandmother's name. On Saturday morning she joined him in the ground, and her spirit has found him again, and they have resumed the love story of a lifetime.

I ordered a chocolate martini; he ordered his straightup; Greg just had water.

The three of us went to dinner at the City Cafe, which is walking distance from my apartment. It was probably some of the easiest, most complete banter I've had in awhile. I was very animated, inspite of my plans to try and be subdued. Don't ask me why I thought I should try for that, but I failed miserably. So much the better.

The conversation ran the gamut of fairly serious stuff to the absolutely anecdotal, including talks about the letter I'd just recently mailed to my stepdad. Gordon acknowledged the difficulty involved in coming to the place of being able to do that. At different points throughout the night, he implied, with his comments how much he knows me. He would refer to specific stories about my family or friends that I've told him, and he would ask me to share them with Greg.

He knows enough about me to have a reference for my stories. We are better friends now than we've ever been.

We both got the jambalaya (I originally ordered the stuffed portabello mushrooms, but they were all out), and then finished off by sharing a slice of oreo cheesecake. I felt really comfortable eating around him last night, which used to be difficult for me, because I worried about how he was seeing me in light of my weight...

Maybe it was some sick quest of mine to be discovered, but I let them know that I keep an online journal, though I told them that I write under a pseudonym. I don't think it's a trail he'll follow, but obviously I didn't really care in that moment.

I do care that he mentioned getting his film from Victoria's wedding developed, and that he said there was a particularly nice one of me. This would be the one he took across the crowded room... I do care that when I came into the lobby of my apartment building to meet them last night he was the first to turn around and see me, and that he seemed to glow when he flashed me that megawatt smile.

More Tomorrow, But You Knew That Already...


You are The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.

You're an individual, though you may not think of
yourself that way. You make your own decisions,
usually after much thought, and maybe you
regret a few. But in the end, you know it's
those decisions that define you.


Which poem are you?
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Something strange is happening. Such dichotomy. I don't really understand...anything...but I am so...something...

Tomorrow night, he will come collect me at about 7 and we will go to dinner. I wasn't up for the horror flick we had planned, but I wanted to see him. I guess he wanted to see me more than he wanted to see it... I guess seeing me is important to him. I guess that means everything to me.

Even without a picture, this is nice...

You're a rose! You're mysterious, yet beautiful.
You're open to love, but it's hard for you to
be close to someone. But once you do, you are
perfect and amazing.


What kind of flower are you?
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More Before 9 A.M...

I just enjoyed a light lunch of a salmon sandwich and chilled peach soup. I have had a busy but not stressful morning that included a meeting with my supervisor and colleagues that was underlied by a true sense of camaraderie between us all.

I bought tickets to bean town a few hours ago, and feel good about my trip. Now my boss just needs to okay the days off. I'm sure he will...

This week is about to get intense. I may have an outing tomorrow night, Thursday evening I have counseling, and Friday I leave for bereavement services for Sarah's grandmother. I need to remember to cancel the hair appointment that I scheduled for Saturday.

Oh. and I mailed the letter.

I am writing my stepfather, with whom I have been on the outs, a letter. My relationship with him is the source of a lot of my struggles with anger, and I want to be as proactive as I can possibly be in assuming responsibility for addressing my concerns with him head on. Everytime I'm angry, what or whomever the immediate culprit, my battle is really against him and the way that he raised me.

I am still working on it. I don't want to come off as being arrogant or sanctimonious. My intention is to write it from the perspective of offering him compassion, though not a relationship (at least not now). I will do this by being frank about my own anger, and its destructive properties.

I don't want these things to be unsaid by me when it is in my power to say them.

No Reason to be Nervous

My morning was pleasant and filled with the sensual elements that make all of my outings with Gordon wonderful, even if they are mundane. It was something of a prosaic day going to church (but sitting close to him, I felt quickened, like mercury), then going to the Bookthing, eating pastries and coffee, and ending with a trip to his art studio.

Sadly, it was during our time at the free bookstore that I received a call via his cell phone from Sarah, telling me that her grandmother had passed early that morning.

The services will be held on Friday and Saturday, so I will be in PA with my dear friend, hopefully offering some comfort to her during her time of inconsolable grief.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel very nervous. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I will tell you if it was merited when I return.

The Quest For Legitimacy

In my reading of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which is one of the most intelligent, deftly written books I have ever had the pleasure to experience, I have arrived solidly back at a recurring conclusion of mine. I am motivated by the desire to be seen by others as legitimate. Not just authentic, but also valid.

If ever this fact was in question, one need only look as far as this blog, which tries to be a smart chronicle of the affairs and events in my life, but is mostly comprised of banal records of my days with interspersals of quiz results, which are a sophomoric cry to be known by someone as something. As anything. I guess it might be hard to know if one is inside the mind of a woman who is almost thirty, or a fifteen-year-old who charts her exchanges with her crush with an obsessive precision that undermines the very craving for legitimacy.

My blog entries about him may be a source of regret for me someday because they are an indication of my unhealthy drive to take things that are fairly light-hearted and give them this weight... to make them ponderous, a matter of life and death, to attribute to them symbolic meaning from the lexicon of my own internal vocabulary, and in so doing, wear out everyone with my predictable analysis of that which does not really bear such examination.

Kundera illuminates the idea in his masterpiece that whatever ostensible longing you might have, it is, in actuality, a frontman for some other unnamable thing that you have no idea about.

On the one hand, I say I want to be mutually in love with a specific person, but what I really want is to be legitimized in the eyes of my coupled-off friends, I want to gain entry into something, I want what I perceive to be the concerns of someone entering their 4th decade of life. I want someone to look at me and find me credible, viable.

I am like the character Tereza who could not separate joint from marrow, even though her own peace of mind was entirely contingent on her ability to do so.

In my bed at night with me, there might be any number of odds and ends. Right now there are bits of leather that fell from my worn Bible cover, a fortune cookie message that reads "you will become more passionate and determined about your convictions," and a shirt that somehow worked its way down to the foot. There have been times when a day's worth of clothes, photographs, my house keys, books, and even church programs have been strewn randomly about my sleeping space. Not on top of the bed, mind you, but somehow under the covers, often unbeknownst to me.

I don't think of myself as a messy person, and many times my bed is also perfectly rid of any such nonsense and clutter, but I don't mind it terribly, for example, when I roll over onto the book I'm currently reading, or find a print out of an e-mail under my pillow, or when I find my favourite shirt draped across my calves.

It gives me a benign sense of my own foibles, my own harmless idiosynchrasies. Some people never wash out their coffee cup at work, some people only eat half of a cookie from a communal plate (something I find to be incredibly rude, by the way), or tear up bits of paper because they need to keep their hands occupied.

It comforts me to have things that are occupying my time, or that occupy a place in my heart, in bed with me. No pun intended. I also talk to myself. I do not mind thoughtful silences in a conversation with a friend, but I do not like silence, as a rule. I have to have music or the ambient sound of other people talking around me at all times because it superimposes a feeling of normalcy into my routine. I think of silence as the forerunner of danger.

Hope: 1. To entertain a wish for something with some expectation. 2. To look forward to with confidence of fulfillment; to expect with desire.

To persist in hope for something against the odds.

1. A wish or desire supported by some confidence of its fulfillment.

2. A ground for expectation or trust.

How Charming Is This?!


denim kitty
you're unique in your own way. You serve as an
outline for others in your trendsetting ways of
fashion, though you hardly pay attention to
such things. What bothers you most is the
constant imitation on your original ideas.


Which Hello Kitty are you?
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I had a dream last night that I went to South Dakota, for Devika's wedding, I presume. She presented me with 2 rings, one a sapphire (my actual birthstone) and another, clearer stone, not obviously a diamond. She also had a watch with a pearly white band for me, but expressed trepidation at giving it to me because I was already wearing a watch (the watch I actually wear everyday in reality). I remember that I wanted very much to receive her gifts graciously and quickly threw off the old watch to indicate my receptiveness to wearing the new one. Then, I put the rings on two of the fingers on my left hand, and held them out in front of me to admire.

I just ate a rather messy lunch of buffalo wings and french fries, but luckily managed to escape messing up the white shirt I am wearing. The office is fairly quiet since a few people are out on vacation.

I'm looking forward to my trip to the library tomorrow. I have to renew The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and return the others, including Wonder When You'll Miss Me, with which I didn't connect enough to finish.

Oddly, my evening bus was late, for the first time in the 2 months I've been taking it. Gordon called me to confirm our plans while I stood there in the gathering storm with Alberta. He was to come for me between 7 and 7:15; it was 5:50, or thereabout. I knew I needed to eat dinner, shower, and revitalize my hair. I began to be concerned about the time.

Alberta got us a taxi home, and by the time all was said and done, I was home at 6 on the dot just like always. Time is so relative depending on your means of travel. By the time the meter was running it had begun to rain. But I decided to go through the effort of washing, conditioning, moussing, and styling my hair anyway. I thought "I'll look great for 5 minutes so he knows how good it can be..." When he looked at me it was all the pay-off I needed, and his comment was so affirming. He noted twice how much he liked it. Very sincere. I complimented him on his shirt, which was kind of a madras number in the style of 70s clothing that he scored at some kind of flea market for 2 dollars. Apparently, he receives a lot of favourable remarks when he dons it. I had never seen it before.

I had to ride in the backseat. It's a long story, but he had an air conditioning unit in his front seat, so I enjoyed sitting behind him and having him tell me anecdotes about the guy in whose house he is staying. The conversation on the way to the movie was largely about whether or not God would ever tell someone who their specific spouse is (ahead of time). His roommate, as it turns out, is very taken with a woman friend of his whom he believed God revealed to him he would marry. This woman seemed to get an opposite revelation. Nevertheless she keeps wanting to hang out and spend time with G's roommate. It's hard for him. The topic was a bit ironic, and I was somewhat anxious to leave it. I am always fearing that when we talk about things like this, Gordon is going to end up inadvertently telling me something that will hurt my feelings.

We also talked about the watercolour subset of his paintings; I expressed interest in seeing them, so we made a plan to go to his studio on Sunday afternoon. This was before we even got to the theatre. Once at the moviehouse, he purchased our tickets and asked me if I wanted any candy. I did, but they didn't have my poison, so we shared his peanut M&Ms.

On the way back home our plans for Sunday morphed into church, lunch, and going to his painting studio. I let him know that I had abandoned all efforts to attend the Methodist church I'd been going to, so in a conversation about his parish, he mentioned that I should come there with him sometime, so I enthusiastically replied that I would love to. He took it from there.

I needed to make a pit stop at Rite-Aid, so we swung by there before he dropped me off at my apartment. I needed to make a small purchase using the debit feature so I could get cash back for bus fare. Because he knew I was short on cash, he asked me when I'd be paid again. I told him, and followed up with "So I can pay you back for the movie pretty soon." He told me not to worry about it; I said "Yeah, I can just take you out for a drink sometime or something..." He said "Or, you can take me to another movie..." I indicated my agreement, and we drove off with 1 more official plan under our belts and a hint of a second one.

Oh. Sidebar. Earlier in the evening I mentioned going to Boston in the late summer, and to South Dakota for the wedding. He remarked how much he'd like to see South Dakota someday. I left it there for the time being.

Alex......Seductive,Smart And Sexy.... You Are A
Vital Force Of This Team


Charlies Angels 2003...Which Are You? Has Pics
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My hands smell like cinnamon cookies. I pilfered a pump’s worth of a coworker’s hand lotion (I really need to get some of my own).

So tonight I have another non-date with Gordon (I have a very western preoccupation with wanting to label my outings with him…Why is that?). I wanted to wait until next week when my money is going to be more fluid, but since he is set on seeing it this week, he proposed “spott[ing]” me. I want to see him more than I want to insist on paying for myself, so there you have it. He is the “value added” component.

I’m not opposed to letting him pay, if he wants to (or intends to) do that, but I do not like being a charity case. I have a hang up about this issue, in case you can’t tell. Because I really want to be in an actual dating relationship with him, him fronting me cash for joint activities just throws into sharper relief what the nature of our agreement is.

As I’m writing this I feel so stupid for focusing on this element of it. What is my problem? Isn’t it my objective to spend time with him?

See, this is how I get into trouble… I lug a preconceived notion of how something should look into a scenario with me, and then I miss it. I miss the delightful irony of my own story. How many of these non-dates have we had now?

Please Come To Boston

It's virtually set! I will visit Catherine (aka Catchka) the week after my 30th birthday in her new hometown, in her new digs (she'll have moved from East Boston to Somerville by then). I found some relatively cheap fares online (courtesy of her research). If that price is still available next Tuesday (payday) I am going to just buy the tickets.

A little under two months later, I hope to be setting out for South Dakota to be present for Devika's marriage celebration.

What a beautiful joy to have trips to plan!

Loose Threads

In the maelstrom of ailing relatives, literature waiting to be read, carryout, phone calls, and tepid coffee, I have been dubbed as the new superhero of the Editing World. Kate: Ridding the world of bad grammar and bad spelling one sentence at a time! One of my charges sent me this little gem in an e-mail today. It was a nice little pick me up.

I have a meeting in a few minutes in which I will discuss with my boss and the HR consultant some executive decisions I've made regarding the workflow of our summertime project. Is this me I'm talking about?

I think the bookclub I mentioned wanting to start is going to happen. I was able to enlist Alberta and Sarah. I think we are going to start with Atonement.

Gordon read me poems featured in this week's city paper while searching for the movie section so we could plan our outing to see Terminator III. I called him up to see how he was after reading a fairly long, meandering e-mail he sent me this morning. He was making generic hamburger helper, and feeling that he'd got the measurements wrong since he was using the eyeball method. In the course of this 10-minute convo he said he was planning to see T-3, and did I want to come with him?

He also sang me KISS songs (I didn't even know that I knew of any) when he read that they and Aerosmith are playing at the Nissan Pavillion, but after a few bars of three different numbers, and a brief discussion about KISS's disco album (which he thinks is great), he got bored with his mini musical presentation, and we moved on to other things. I told him I was just reading and doing laundry, but wanted to check in on him...

We agreed he would call me sometime this week, and would try for a Wednesday show (he never found the movie section).

Yesterday, Sarah and I visited her grandmother--unfortunately at the hospital--in Pennsylvania. On the way up, we got caught in a horrible storm, and had to pull off the road, but it passed soon enough.

The Unbearable Weight of Love

I started Unbearable Lightness yesterday, and feel very drawn in by the writing; I'm looking forward to working through it (all literature is a labor of love, both for the writer and the reader).

But before I can give myself over to it fully, I am going on a roadtrip. Just a quick one. A necessary one. I will be back home tonight with any luck, and I will take up my place in the story.

On The Street Where You Live

Driving through beautiful, charming Fells Point and Canton after a quick trip to Blockbuster to procure these treasures, I asked Sarah to try to find Gordon's new street. I knew it was near my job and hemmed in by a couple of other avenues I know of. We happened upon it easily enough, though our orientation was too far south of where his new digs are. I wasn't too concerned with finding the exact house and doing a stalker's driveby. I know I'll see it for myself upon an invitation to do so. I just wanted to place it in some kind of geographic context in the meantime.

My conversations with him of late (on the phone or over e-mail) have an increasing sense of wholeness to them. In addition to openness, I have also been practicing honesty. I told him that my anger is the primary reason I'm in counseling. I do not want to be an enraged, damaging person to the people in my life. He shared with me that I don't seem like an angry person to him, serious, but not angry. I never want that to be part of his image of me. I don't want to take my pathological struggle with rage into a relationship with him, or the children I hope to have someday. I know the pain that comes from having an angry parent.

I can relate to my stepfather because of my struggle with the very beast in whose clutch he still lives. I can have compassion for him. Sometimes when I think about him I can't bear the thought of how lonely he must be. He is not yet 53, and he has nothing to show for his life but a room he rents, a debilitating sickness, and 3 wounded women whose lives he bent up, whose souls he terrorized. He is not the reason for everything that is wrong with us, but a significant amount of the damage is his to claim. I hurt for him that he has no one around him, flanking him, because the only thing he ever inspired was fear. or disdain.

I think of him as a little boy, with the world ahead of him, everything possible. I know he did not imagine this for himself. But this is what he has sown, so whatever he thought might come is of little consequence. You can only bleed the ground so many times before it stops yielding even weeds.

I need to forgive him, and I will use my ability to sympathize with his feelings of powerlessness as the basis for that. I don't need to have a relationship with him, but I have got to stop living my life trying to get payment for the terror I felt as a child. That punitive streak has made me the same as what I fear.

I want to get on with my life unhaunted. Free.

Free to love Gordon, whose friend I am becoming. Gordon, who is starting to trust me. Gordon, whom I've not yet hurt with a cutting remark or icy, soulless stare.

And not a moment too soon...

I will go to counseling tomorrow morning for the first time in 2 months, and if anything has ever proved to me that I need to learn how to negotiate my emotions, it was the events of this evening. Recounting them would not only be embarrassing for me, but ultimately not helpful. Let's just say I was mean to someone, and my capacity for meanness is very great.

Then, later tonight I tried to have a serious conversation with my mother about her life. I found talking to her especially burdensome lately, and thought I would do something proactive by calling her on all her "stuff." She simply felt attacked. I told myself this is good, this is me being confrontational for the sake of progress, for the sake of my relationship with the woman who gave birth to me. She couldn't wait to get off the phone.

And in between these two catastrophes, I received another phone call from Gordon, again just to say hi, just to chat...

But the toxicity of my meanness from before tainted the experience a bit. I tried to be honest with him about it, to talk about it in a general way, but my own behavior prevented me from entering fully into the simple pleasure of hearing his voice, because I didn't feel that I deserved that gesture, that token that is the byproduct of our deepening friendship.

I am unfit for company, for love, for any activity that requires kindness. I feel so fatally flawed. And frightened of the bouts I have with my own rage.

Did you ever watch the dramatic series "The Incredible Hulk?" As a child I didn't grasp why David Banner had to leave every town he came to at the end of the episode. I thought simply that the "Hulk" only emerged when provoked, and even then he only harmed evil people who, left to their own devices, would harm others.

But I see now how anger destroys everything in its wake, is indiscriminant, tears a person apart from the inside out... makes you have to keep moving so things can stay whole.

In Answer to Carlos's Question:

No, I have not started The Unbearable Lightness of Being yet.

In Answer to Everything Else:

I have few creature comforts in my life. I have coffee. I have this blog. I have the thought of something different someday. I have dreams of a red couch. I wish the people I knew didn't need me because I'm handy to have around in an existential crisis. I wish someone else's woes didn't equal immediate problems for me. Know what I think of when a friend's life hits the skids? I think of how I am going to have to babysit them through their breakdown, while my own internal crises go ignored.

NOTE TO SELF (FOR THE RECORD):

I ONLY WANT MY OWN CONCERNS TAKING UP MY TIME.

I always put the pieces back together again, because I can't stand to be thought of as the person who let something or someone slip through the cracks. Well, now, some things are about to fall.

You represent... hope.
You're quite a daydreamer and can be a hopeless
romantic. You enjoy being creative and don't
mind being alone at times. You have goals, and
know what you want in life... even if they are
a little far fetched.


What feeling do you represent?
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Sarah's Birthday

And she is out with Michael at the moment eating a high-end dinner at the Brass Elephant where he waits tables. They spent the earlier part of the day at a vineyard north of the city, tasting various vintages, getting all rosy-cheeked. Before heading off to Vaccarro's for Italian desserts (with me in tow), they will swing back by the apartment for the gift opening ceremony.

That's always my favourite part...seeing someone else's face all lit up...

My Comments Are Back... Jacked Up, But Back...

Okay, so I am now able to receive your insights via commenting screen again, but the placement is a bit off... I will fix it later, just keep in mind that the commenting link for each post comes after the post, not before.