I've been back from my outing with Gordon for about a half hour. I ate something soon after darkening my doorstep--the first thing I'd eaten all day if you don't count half of an O'Henry bar and several altoids--now I feel better able to talk about my soggy adventure.

We drove in torrential rain from Baltimore to Washington. From time to time he would ask me my advice on how to get to the area near the National Gallery. Being a non-driver, and completely disinterested in D.C., I really didn't know. I finally had to tell him that I have no sense of direction, and that asking me to consult with him about best routes is actually pointless. This was good natured...not tense or anything, and I certainly wasn't upset with him, but after a while I started to feel like a nimrod.

We stopped in Columbia on the way down because he needed gas. He didn't have any candy or mints so he bought me the aforementioned candy bar and altoids. I thought it was sweet, so he scored points. I am actually moneyless and I expected our day together to cost nothing. Once again, given our official status as friends, the money thing is pretty much defined by the 'every man for himself' code.

But the rainy, soggy sky did not let up so he paid for us to take a cab from the place we parked to the museum (which was farther away than either of us thought, incidentally). Once inside he rubbed my jeans to see how wet i'd gotten... it wasn't suggestive, though it felt nice. The sleeve of his sweater was equally soaked. There we were, two drowned rats, ready to go and take in an art show.

Our stay at the museum spanned at least two-and-a-half hours. We saw several exhibits, and he ate lunch... I didn't have any money, so I ate nothing. At that moment I wasn't feeling the need in an overwhelming way. I was more concerned with my ambient headache (the rain being the culprit, in all likelihood). He kept asking me if I was sure I wasn't hungry. I assured him I wasn't. We entertained ourselved by listening to the conversation of the people sitting behind us.

He carried both our umbrellas while we checked out the giftshop. We looked through several books together...him pointing out various and sundry things to me. In moments like that I tend to get so reticent, so small, and unsure of myself. I am always concerned that he thinks I'm bored with him or something... I just don't feel that I have anything intelligent to say, that it's better to just listen.

So, on our way back to the car, which I've already mentioned parenthetically was really far away, we decided to stop at Starbucks to get out of the deluge. He bought the two of us coffee, so we sat there staring out at the rainy sky, and I felt his mood lowering. We talked about his band, how it came together. He met the guy with whom he started it through a girl he went out with once or twice back in September or October. I remember how I felt about him then, just a few months ago. I was some degree of in love with him, as I am now.

Before that news would have rendered me incapable of going on with the day, and while I registered it and it pricked me enough, I also didn't spin too far from the moment. Then when we finally decided to brave the elements again, the wind picked up, and my umbrella kept turning inside out, so I had to give up on it. I felt like a walking comedy of errors--my shoes soaked, my hair wet, and I was moneyless on a non-date with the man of my heart.

His umbrella, which was holding up nicely, apparently has sentimental value. He bought it in some village in Germany, the name of which I can't remember. He took the opportunity to tell me that years later he fell in love with some girl from that same village, but she didn't like him, "so, of course it didn't go anywhere."

I wanted to ask "what girl was this?" but decided against it. I thought the information might hurt me, and I want to stay in my decidedly take-it-in-stride phase.

I actually feel more hurt now than I did at that moment.

Our ride back was pleasant but mostly silent, and I felt like the least compelling woman on the planet.

A Tendency Toward Hunkering

Of all the small bits of information Gordon and I learned about each other last night, the piece that pleased me most is that we sleep the same way. Ever since I was a child I have loved to burrow deeply in my covers or in corners or in crevices. I loved creating the illusion of not really being there, or of being shrouded, and thereby blocking out (others, from light, etc.) everything that is not me.

Gordon explained his very detailed method of creating warmth inside the covers by completely covering himself, but leaving a tiny space for air at the top corner or his sheets, or if it's warmer weather, how he only leaves himself a little hole (covers wrapped around him) to breathe through. I think it may be more of a practical thing for him, less pathological, but the end result is the same.

I felt like an idiot, but I kept yelling "I sleep just like that!" "That's what I do exactly!"

I can't wait to hunker down together. I never thought of what it would be like to have another body in that space, hiding from everybody but him.

One Good Thing Leads to Another...

I had a great time with Gordon and Sarah last night. He came over about an hour later than we were expecting him (he did call), and I was trying really hard to be peeved, but when I opened the door and saw his face smiling at me, his arms alreadying opening to hold me, I couldn't sustain even the fake anger I'd been working on for the previous 40 minutes.

The backdrop was Chopin's Nocturnes, which Sarah suggested, remembering on some level that I shared with her how much Gordon loves those. At one point we were talking, and he politely shushed us while his favourite moment in one of the pieces swelled through the dining area. He told us that he used to listen to this particular nocturne when he was staying with his parents--in the morning--while the mist rose off the grass in the field behind their house--and cry. I couldn't help myself. I said to him that is so sweet.

He wouldn't let me take his plate when he was done eating; he wanted to clear it himself. He refreshed Sarah's drink, got her more ice, so obviously at home with me and my friend. I got up and made us coffee without asking. I knew (and it was a safe bet anyway) that he was about due for some. Fortunately for him, he takes his black. We were out of half and half, so I had to make due with 1% milk, which I complained about (because anything less than whole milk turns coffee grey, not that beautiful creamy tan colour I love). He tried to console me by saying it didn't look so grey...

At one point when we were actually eating our pizza I'd gotten an herb on my lip, and Sarah tried to point out to me how to remove it, but I was proving to be quite daft, and needed to actually get up and look in the mirror to see exactly what they were both talking about. And he said something small, but that reached me... He said it was as small as one of my freckles....

The evening continued with us looking out on the midnight blue sky with swirls of white clouds, police cars and idiots whizzing below on Calvert street. We sat together on the couch and 'Bina took photos of us, one in which I playfully toussled his hair. At one point Sarah's mom called and she disappeared for the rest of the night, so we just continued sitting close enough to kiss, but not...

As it turns out I am going with him to a show at the National Gallery in Washington, DC tomorrow, after we check out the yard sale my apartment building is having. He told me he was going to this show yesterday when I first let him know about the flea market (he's very into going to those now), but I assumed he was happy to go alone, and even if he offered me an invitation, I knew I didn't have any money... I also didn't want to fall into the trap of expecting him to invite me to everything he does, or is part of...

He invited both Sarah and me. She declined, but since the show is free, I did not. Another friend of his, a guy, may also be coming... but somehow he doesn't think that will happen. Neither do I. This is our time now to explore each other, and hopefully to fall in love.

Today I saw something truly horrifying:

A photo of a man at the beach in a lime green body thong. His girlfriend smiling happily beside him (in a tasteful bikini). How did this happen?

Pacing

I have debated getting another counselor while I've been on hiatus from seeing my doctor. Our processing has not been aggressive enough for what I need, ultimately, but I think I am going to try to talk to her about stepping it up. I really do like her. I also don't have the energy to find someone else close to where I live who shares my beliefs. I'll give it some more time. I've laid a good amount of groundwork with her, and I don't want to lose the months of effort it took to get this started.

I've been anxious for the last couple of days about my relationship with Gordon. Anxiety and fear undermine love and loving action, so I've been trying trying to banish them to the nether regions. I'm continuing to process internally, as proactively as I can, sans counseling. I'm trying to act on my own behalf.

Here's one thing I've done that is small, but the implications of which are significant, as any friend of mine who reads this blog can attest.

I deleted the three e-mails in the trail from 2 years ago in which I asked Gordon out, he summarily declined my offer with the standard "let's be friends" proviso, and my emotionless reply that I saw absolutely no problem with that.

I felt compelled yesterday to go into my archives and look at those e-mails again. I do this from time to time, usually out of a masochistic need to confirm that I am worthless and stupid, but this time my motivation was devoid of such perversion. Normally, when I read these missives, I feel the soul-crushing, paralyzing shame of having asked the question I did. And in those moments, I cannot distinguish my reaction from the actual day it all happened. I just end up being right back there.

But yesterday, when I read them, I felt that I could take what he said at face value, and it did not make me want to hide or cry to see his refusal staring at me from the monitor. In fact, I felt that those e-mails were so far removed from who we are now, and that our present connection, our evolved relationship so overshadowed those quick messages, that they seemed to not even belong to our experience (though they do. In a way, they are responsible for our present closeness).

I saw that holding on to them had been my way of defining myself as a loser, because that comforted me, and ironically, of keeping Gordon at arm's length, which also, perversely, comforted me. I let them be the sum total and final word on who we were to be to each other for so long, even though the definition they offered has had no bearing on his feelings for me for the longest time. It would have been unthinkable for me to have erased them before.

Yesterday it became unthinkable to keep them.

I went outside to pray by the water, as is my custom these days, at about 3 o'clock. There was a man sitting a few benches down from me who was also praying, I knew in my heart by the reverent, still way he was sitting, so focused.

I tend to like to talk out loud to God, even outside the privacy of my own home. If no one is around, or at a great distance, I do--but the waterfront was crowded today, so our conversation was mostly unspoken-- but a few times I whispered to Him the things that are in my heart. These moments anchor me, as do my morning meditations on scripture.

I have been trying to temper telling God what I desire with practicing the simple joy of being in His presence. Open heart, not just an open hand. I can't make demands. This is part of the openness I'm learning to practice in my relationships, too.

I have always been a big believer in advancing the plot of my life. I want things to happen. I want decisions to be made. But I don't know how to sit still, just hanging out there, eliptical-like, trusting something to come.

I never learned, before now, to just be in a moment.

This is how epiphanies arrive, how kisses are dragged from a soul, how you hear the answer to the question you forgot you asked.

You are a Rubber Band.


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Wedding In The Round

Victoria and Michael were married at the Carmelite Monastery, a convent about 25 minutes north of where I live in the city. The chapel is a round room with an enitre wall of windows, so it gives the feeling of being outside in the lush garden the nuns have tended. It was raining, off and on, at the time of their ceremony, but the room was cozy and quaint. It was intimate, sitting that way, being able to read everyone's facial expressions, and thereby, to some extent, read their thoughts.

During the exchange of vows, when Victoria said michael's whole name, I got a bit weepy. I had a memory of two and a half years earlier... I was visiting her for the weekend, and going to my first evensong service with Gordon (I did not live in Baltimore at the time). She had just met michael, and while definitely not carried away, knew she already liked him very much. In a fit of girlish fantasy indulgence, I encouraged her to write her first name beside his last name in her journal, just to see how it would sound.

That didn't seem risky to me, even then. I believed in my heart he was right for her, and I'd not yet met him.

As I mentioned he would several months ago, Gordon played the prelude music, and sang, with someone else, the "Wedding Song," to which the bridal party proceded.
When he got to the line "Woman draws her life from man and gives it back again," I looked over at him holding his guitar so earnestly, his head bowed a bit.

And then later in the ceremony, during the homily, I turned behind me, and found him already staring in my direction. Our eyes locked at a particularly poignant moment. It is always hard to know how intentional things like that are, or who starts them... I already knew he loved my hair, because he told me so when I talked with him before the wedding started.... maybe he was just looking at that... or looking past me, but it didn't seem to be the case.

Sarah and I left for the reception almost immediately after the recessional, and got to the Long Green Gardens just in time to beat the deluge.

When Gordon came in to the reception hall, he made his way over to where we were sitting, and I told him how much I enjoyed the music he played, and then, I took his hand in mine, and squeezed it for emphasis. I felt him there with me in that gesture. He asked if the singing had been okay, and I told him that it was very pleasant, and involunatrily placed my hand over my heart when I said again, that I really enjoyed it.

He was on videographer duty (along with two others) at the reception, so even though we were not sitting at the same table, It was negligible. I wouldn't have seen or interacted with him anymore, had we been. He made it a point to come "visit" a lot, and we stared at each other very intensely a lot, and at one point when he was taking still shots with his own camera, across the room from me, he found me across a sea of tables, and aimed the lens in my direction, and snapped.

No one noticed that (of course I told 'Bina about it later), so it was like our "across a croweded room" moment. Just me, dead center, in his view finder.

None of the things I worried about happened. So, even though it was early, Sarah and I left to make it home so she could keep her evening plans--and just so we could beat the rain, if it decided to come back. I felt satisfied that I was leaving the situation on good terms. I'm the one who said I was ready to leave first... I didn't want to fall into the trap of lingering just to see how much more might happen between him and me. As I've said before, another person's wedding is not the time for pushing your own agenda.

I went over and told him I was leaving.

"You're leaving?" he repeated
"I'm over it..." I joked
He gave me a quizzical look.
"No, I'm just kidding. I'm very tired."
Hugging me, he said
"Well, It's nice to see you... I guess I'll see you next week..."
"Yes. Thursday."
I'm not sure why, but I stood there for half a beat more... and he said again
"it was nice to see you."

For the first time in years, I finally feel secure that there will be a next time. The day before he asked me if I needed a ride to the wedding. I didn't regret not needing to take him up on that. Because I don't think that every opportunity is my last anymore. I always know I will see him again, because I believe he wants to see me again.

A Young Barbra Streisand with a touch of Halle Berry...

I took in photos of both of these women with the requisite short, romantic hair cuts and asked a stylist I'd never met before, let alone entrusted my hair to, to come up with some acceptable hybrid of the two. The result? Art. Pure and simple. And not because of me. If you'd seen my hair last night, you'd not believe the metamorphoses.

I look...sophisticated. Smart. Like someone a little over half way to 30.

The Long Day Is Over (and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps at this petty pace)...

So I will get on the bus, and ride for 25 minutes to my apartment, then I will go out and buy an outfit for the wedding. Later, I will be at home detangling my hair, prepping for the drastic change it will undergo tomorrow, and in the morning after my hair has become relaxed and significantly shorter, I will psyche msyelf up for the event that probably won't be as bad as I fear it could be.

Weddings: Number One Source of Woe

Every wedding I've been to, participated in, or heard tell of in the last two years has been a colossal pain in everyone's bum.

Why is it that everyone gets so riled up, takes out their anger for everything that ever went wrong in their own lives, and chooses this blessed event as the very time to assert their own agendas?

Weddings are a social landmine. Everyone feels that the role you give them or don't give them in your ceremony is the ultimate statement of how you feel about them forever and ever amen. Then people start to feel that they are the point of the day. The Bride and Groom? Well, they are bit players in this whole thing. Their preferences? Well, why should what they want matter more than say, what random third cousin to the left thinks is a good idea?

It is enough to make me cuss.

And I am part of the problem. I found myself confused and put out when Victoria told me she put me at a table with people I attended church with 5 years ago. Not at the same table with Gordon. It just felt like a lack of forethought. I felt like I'd been boxed up and relegated to the back of her mind, where I know most of those people (from our old church) reside.

I suddenly had the supreme challenge of keeping quiet and remembering that this is not about me. That I can blow that popsicle stand as soon as it becomes unbearable. Whatever. That my wedding will be my opportunity to have things the way I want them. To remember, with compassion, that these choices are not malicious. I am sure she did the best she could with what she had available to her.

I can handle it better if I affect some kind of detachment from my expectations. Aren't they always the culprit for every one's sorrow?

I Call This One 'Eye Contact, 2nd Hand Smoke, and Impromptu Photographs.'

He picked me up at about 7, and then we had to go pick up another girl who was joining us because her car is in the shop. Once at the pub, I couldn't sit near him, so we looked at each across the table while he blew smoke seductively. His lips looked very soft. The pure, unjaded look of youthfulness still characterizes his face in spite of his 29 years, not really matching his cynical outlook on the world--that I know is really the pain of being an optimist who's been let down one time too many.

I told everyone I was planning on getting my hair cut very short on Saturday morning, a la Halle Berry. Gordon mentioned how much he liked that look. So I somewhat jokingly said I'm doing it for you... He gave me kind of a half smile. But, if I might, I will share my interpretation of that expression. He seemed somewhat caught off guard, but pleased...intrigued. Obviously, I'm getting my hair done for me. But I want him to enjoy it.

This all came about because he asked me about my propensity for wearing baseball caps these days. He said I've noticed you're wearing baseball caps lately, why... That's when I said that my hair was too weird right now. Between gigs....

I loved that he made efforts to talk to me, all the way at the other end of the table. I loved that he returned my gazes.

And finally, I loved that because of a switcheroo with seats, I ended up sitting directly across from him. When he asked for water, the waiter brought me one too, as though we were one in the same, our desires one in the same. At some point, before we left, Victoria took a picture of the two of us. It will be the only one in the world to exist when it gets developed.

So I'll see him at the wedding. I think I can handle whatever happens as long as I look good. As Iong as I get to see that look I sometimes get from him when I know he thinks I'm beautiful.

You are a Pear! To save this image, right click and
save picture as! Enjoy!


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My workday is winding down, and I find myself restless and excited at the thought of seeing gordon tonight. I sent him a 'happy birthday' e-mail this morning telling him how psyched I am to hang out, told him to read Psalm 37, etc. He wrote back that it will be "fun as hell to have [me] along!" and he told me to call him tonight [to make arrangements].

I hope that my next post is infused with anecdotes and hope. Here I am on the cusp of my night. My dear friend's birthday. So much to come.

I'm sitting here in a Yankees baseball cap and the business casual outfit I wore to work, trying to figure out how to say He was just here.

See we had a bottle of wine we couldn't open, and it was crucial to Sarah's pot roast recipe, so she said Call him, see if he has one...ask him to bring it over. So I did, and he came. He left the corkscrew behind. Maybe I imagined the look on his face, the small opening door of his smile when he handed it to me, saying he could get another one. I love saving the day, he told us....

At some point, shortly after opening the bottle, Sarah spilled a bit, and said she wasn't sure why, but she was a bit agitated and nervous. He said "Katie can do that to a person."

He stayed for about 15 minutes. In the course of that time I asked him what he'd be doing tomorrow for his birthday, he said that he'd be getting together with Victoria and a couple of other people at the Charles Village Pub. Then, he asked me if I wanted to come, and if I needed a ride. I said yes, and that I did.

'Bina, ever quick on her feet, also invited him over for dinner some night next week (To Be Determined by him and me), for a belated b-day dinner. I could have kissed her.

I spent some more time outside during the tiny lunch break that I took praying for his and my friendship--that God would open the floodgates of our respective hearts to each other, that He would grant us access to each other so we can really begin this thing.

Back In The City That Makes Sense To Me (oh, and I have comments now, so don't hold back!)

I haven't gotten up at 4:45 to catch the 5:35 MARC train in weeks. But today my youngest sister graduated from high school at 9 a.m., so that meant hooking up with my mother at about 7 to give us plenty of lead time to get to the arena where the ceremony was taking place.

I was bummed to only have black & white film in my camera, but with my financial crunch and the lack of time, I resigned myself to cataloguing the day with a vintage feel. I find graduation proceedings to be extremely boring, so I read a little something during the 2-hour span, stopping only to clap when Caryl's name was called.

I had a filling, if barely par lunch with my family at the "Old Country Buffet" afterward, and then got back on the train to my beloved Charm city. I fell easily into my old habit of sleeping as soon as it pulled away from the platform at Union Station and I knew I was leaving the place I was born for the place that gave me birth.

Among other electronic missives, I had waiting for me a note from Gordon telling me he has finished The Catcher In the Rye, and agreeing with me that He is Holden...and he asked me when I came to the conclusion that this was true. So I told him.

My non electronic mail included a letter from Devika, and an invitation to her engagement party. I hope that by the time the date rolls around, I'll have secured his services as my escort.

I need to make my peace with the fact that I am a romantic. It flies in the face of the persona I've spent my life constructing. I wanted to be someone logical, ordered, rational, but with a poetic soul. It's not that I'm not those things. But I am more intuitive than I thought, more given to daydreaming than I would have allowed to be acceptable in terms of the way I conduct myself. I have a cadre of standards, codes of behavior for myself and others. And they have hemmed me in.

They cause me to appear closed off to the person I most want to open myself to.

All of my prayers these days are to be unafraid to inhabit the moments of my life. I want to be rid of that damnable self-consciousness that is so myopia-inducing, I can't even see what's real.

You are Neo, from "The Matrix." You
display a perfect fusion of heroism and
compassion.


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There is something so comforting to me about Catchka. She is affectionate, nurturing, hysteria-inducing funny, and her favourite of all adjectives... feisty!

Sarahbina, she, and I all went out to dinner and ate grilled flank steak salad, walnut encrusted chicken breast over fettucine, and spinach and tomato cream sauce over fettucine, respectively. She introduced us to this dish whose music and voice I have fallen for (as Lady C predicted I would).

I felt so blessed to have seen her, and when she left at close to 1 a.m., I was tired and full of her essence, so I slept nicely, deeply...

I e-mailed g yesterday. I thanked him for inviting me to the movie, told him I had a good time. He wrote me back that he had fun too... It was just a sweet exchange. Kind of basic, but I was glad to be able to intuit that there is something less business-oriented about our interactions these days. Reading his reply made me remember how the smell of his skin mingled with tobacco and laundry detergent, wafted upward and caressed my senses during the movie, and in those moments, sitting in the dark and knowing him only by his scent, I felt such affection for him. I wanted to bury my nose in the crook of his neck, fold myself into him, pour myself into him until we were one spirit.

if you were mine, if you were mine... i wouldn't want to go to heaven...you're ruling the way that i move, and i breathe your air...

I asked him Wednesday, over e-mail, if he wanted to grab some coffee on Friday night. By Friday evening when I left work he still had not responded, so I assumed he wouldn't--whether he was out of town unbeknownst to me (has happened several times) or was simply too depressed to be social--I accepted it, figuring the object lesson for me was to feel free to make the suggestion, because there is an appropriate context there now to ask something like that, however small it is.

If you read my post from yesterday, you will see why asking is sometimes tricky for me. I have the most trouble with it when the stakes are the highest. So, in addition to my professional life, I took a small step in the direction of confidence in my private one.

I was wearing my pajama pants and washing dishes when he called at 7:30 to ask if I wanted to go, instead, to a 10:30 showing of a film at the Senator theatre. Previously, I had been categorically disinterested in seeing this movie, not being a fan of Sci-Fi-- and I felt that it was too popular. Something about the thought of going to see it made me feel like a sheep. But over the course of the last couple of weeks I really found myself opening up to the idea. By the time he called yesterday I had made an internal decision that I would go if the opportunity presented itself.

I didn't know he would be the opportunity. I had never gone to see a film with him before--alone, or in a group--so it was thrilling to find myself in a new context with him, all other things aside. The film was engaging--beautiful to watch--and I loved the dialogue in it, actually. I appreciated the contrast of the intense visuals with the simplicity and tenderness of the exchanges between Keanu Reeves's "Neo" and Carrie Ann Moss's "Trinity."

From time to time Gordon's and my arms would touch (shared armrest) and I felt the usual warmth, the comforting sparks of being attracted to him, but having that attraction largely under quarantine, lest it poison the waters of our friendship. We were not on a date. I know that if only because I assumed I should pay for my own ticket, and he let me. There have been times in the past when I've been on an outing with just him, and it seemed to hold the metaphysical properties of something beyond "hanging out," and while this did not feel like hanging out, or just two people at a movie, I also don't want to endow it, in retrospect, with romantic overtones it didn't have.

Here's what I liked... we were both wearing a sweater over top of our shirts with non denim pants. Neither of us was dressed up, per se, but the end result is that it looked like an effort had been made.

I loved that it was a rainy night with patches of fog.

I loved that we saw the film at an historical (in Baltimore city) theatre.

I loved that he asked me to go.

The Wife of Noble Character: A Case Study in Proactivity

In Proverbs 31, verses 10 through 31 there is a pretty inclusive description of this woman's activities--the kind of wife she is--and the reader is encouraged to understand her activities in light of her character, a word that doesn't always have much meaning in our increasingly corrupt society.

This passage has been a bastion of hope for me for several years, because it depicts a business savvy, generous-spirited, practical, entrepreneurial, discerning, shrewd, multitasker. A woman whose pervasive and influential gifts are a benefit to her, her children, and her community, and that, in effect, crown her husband's life with respect because of who she is. I want to be this woman, who in addition to being on the ball, can be a source of strength, encouragement, pleasure, and sexual fulfillment for a man who is doing his best to be those things for me.

I try to begin every morning by reading a passage of scripture. It's a way of centering my day and welcoming God into it, asserting my dependence on him to help me with whatever is going to happen, and to know Him better. The other morning I came across this passage, and I understood that this woman is free to be who she is, and out of that freedom results appropriately aggressive (meaning that it does not violate others) behavior.

Later that day my boss told me he wants me to be more aggressive about getting his attention, getting on his calendar, if you will...And I saw that hesitance to "bother" him that is so native to my dealings with men, even the ones with whom I have the context to support proactivity and some level of assumption of acceptance.

I saw how much this fear holds me back professionally and personally. It was a gift of an object lesson. I am committed to working on this now.

Stretched

The tension that lives in the space between my shoulder blades is taut with the pain of being stretched. I felt myself snapping, the seams unraveling...at work today. I feel the weight of the world in that space. My ability to be flexible is limited. That has to change, clearly. It isn't unwillingness, It's my discomfort with the unwieldy element, whatever that happens to be. I like it best when things are humming along...established, unquestioned, and humming along.

As a side note PF is leaving our little start up for a job with some organization I have already forgotten the name of. Today was his last day. It's funny. My hypervigilance over information experienced slippage when I first heard about this... Someone said earlier this week that he was leaving, but I thought they meant for the day. He came by my desk this afternoon and asked me for my business card--so he could keep in touch. I will miss him commenting on my cubicle decorations. And he told me that he would miss seeing what new post cards I bring in... It's nice to have struck someone as being cool and fun to talk to.

He and his girlfriend (to whom he will probably be proposing soon) are going to Paris for the Memorial day weekend. Hearing that reminded me of how much I do yearn to see that city. Maybe I will take a vacation this fall.... Maybe New England again...

I would love a beer, to get away, have this knot in my back moved away by strong hands.

Upnote: I will see the illustrious Catchka on Saturday. And I don't go back to work until next Wednesday. Okay, so things are looking up as we speak...

Take me back in time, maybe I can forget, If I'd turned a different corner, we never would have met.

Maybe it is my desire to write a novel of compelling complexity, deft nuance, and the subtlest but profound sensibilities that makes me see our story as an emergent, unfolding piece of literature.

I think of having met you at a wedding as delicious foreshadowing, of having waited for you, two years later on church steps at a fair, as the progression of torture found in love the heroine believes to be unrequited, of having attended masses and evensongs as a common conceit of spirituality in our conspicuously strategic plot, and of the paintings of yours that I own—and the way that I came into them—as proof that it is really yourself you are wanting to give me. The poem you asked me to write, the ones you did not, the parties at which I wanted you to kiss me, but where we instead shared cigarettes, or simply let our shoulders, arms, hands, or shod feet touch until the warmth passing between our bodies became us…

Someday our biographers will write about the dinner parties at my various and sundry residences that you came to, our first motorcycle ride, how we once drank coffee in our pajamas and socked feet, how I sent you postcards from New England, how I once ran smack dab into you on a date at a coffee shop and nearly decided to never see you again…

My beautiful, paradoxically detached man-boy, I love you. So there is more to come…

Every Freckle On My Face Is Where It's Supposed To Be (India.Arie)

One of the distinguishing features of my face is the tiny freckle that lives on the tip of my short, pert nose. I also have several others, scattered liberally, but spaced widely apart, on my cheeks, jaw line, and around my eyes. I didn't realize I had any for several years (except for the obvious one that evokes memories of "Samantha" wriggling her nose on "Bewitched" to make magic and miracles happen) until I really looked in the mirror one day. It was a pleasant surprise to "discover" something so obvious (in retrospect) about me. It gave me a sense of hope that things would somehow be fine.

It helped me understand that just because something is hidden from me, doesn't mean it isn't there. I am preoccupied with what waits to be discovered. I am comforted by what I already know, but am enamored of that which waits to be known.

Laundry Day

20 dollars and several loads later (including all bedding and towels) I am back in my unmentionables. I know you're all relieved.

Sarah and I went out for a meal at our favourite place in Timonium, then headed over to Trader Joe's (she needed groceries) and Pier One (I needed a wedding present for Victoria). Before returning to the apartment we hit Blockbuster and got "Catch me if you can," "Lovely and Amazing," and "The Emporer's Club." We're kind of in the middle of "Catch Me..." right now, but the Sarah-one got sleepy and needed to stop for a nap.

I don't mind actually. I have an ambient headache, and the break from watching is welcome.

Things feel settled... except for the fact that I've got to set some librarians straight. Other than that, it's all copacetic.

It's Really Got To Be About Me & My Blog Right Now...

I took all the accessories away, turned it all way down, so I could get back to pure and simple pleasure of posting to my little page. For a long time it was about making my blog visually "interesting" and in so becoming, I found I had less interest in chronicling my days. So I'm beginning at the beginning. Nothing but this basic template and me starring as Kate Krupnik, whom you know, but don't really know.

Stay tuned.

If I were wearing any underpants, that is...

At the risk of sharing too much, I've being "going commando" (thank you 'Friends') for the last couple of days, and it is surprsingly liberating. I'm thinking of only wearing underwear one day a week (perhaps on Mondays) now. I need to do laundry this weekend very badly. That explains how I stumbled onto this new freedom, of sorts.

Okay, so I think I have a tiny crush on my boss. I'm obviously sublimating.

Raining in Baltimore

I am contemplating going to the WholeFoods market for a breakfast pastry. I also need a book of stamps. And I need to make change for bus fare. So even though it is categorially disgusting outside, I think I have to brave the cold, clammy, not to mention wet, air. I should have gone straight there, but I came into the building first to put some things down and get settled. Now I'm warm and drinking coffee, and the thought of going back outside is about as appealing as deliberately putting sand in my underpants.

Today at work...

We all received a pep talk complete with cold beers and the freedom to knock off a little early. The rubber is about to meet the road, and long hours are expected in the near future. Today was arguably one of the most emotionally stressful for me so that beer hit the spot.

I took a nap when I got home and dreamt of split infinitives.

I am planning to make a hair appointment for the morning of the wedding (in a couple of weeks). I'm going short.

But for now I am going to drink some tea.

What last night taught me

I am incapable of being in a relationship at this juncture. I actually spent some time in prayer yesterday afternoon—specifically, I asked that whatever is preventing me from being ready to relate to Gordon more deeply be removed.

My fairly standard evening with him and Sarah led to an existential crisis.

To rehash what happened would be too exhausting, mostly because if you are not me, you probably wouldn’t understand what the big deal is, and if I did provide these details, I would have to give inordinate amounts of background information to give said details a context.

I’m not saying I don’t have legitimate wounds that were revealed during the course of the evening, but I am saying that the wounds wouldn’t be healed by having him more fully in my life. They are part of the reason he can’t be.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer...

In a New York Minute...

I am thinking I need a web site. a real one. My dear Catchka suggested I do this, and I already have a sketch/stratagem. I know that I want it to evoke a certain antiquated, literary quality. I still don't have a title in mind, and for what I want it to be, I think I need a developer. We'll see.

Once I unload this template and settle my aesthetic issues with this blog, I will be happier. I already have a new one in my sights, so hopefully I can load it sooner rather than later.

I am starting to become more comfortable with my role at work. I seem to be developing a rapport with one of the guys there. PF is well-versed in music and film and we've had a couple of good conversations this week about Jazz and Woody Allen (while he eats candy from my candy dish which he has dubbed the "bowl of happiness").

I know what you're thinking. No way. He's got a girlfriend.

I had an excellent prayer time with Sassafrass Teawrap last night. I went to sleep immediately afterward feeling very calm and centered.

I bought Mr. Renaissance a copy of Ella Fitzgerald's "Like Someone In Love" for his birthday (in a couple of weeks). I recommended that he buy himself this album 2 years ago; I highly doubt that he has done so. I have wanted to get it for him for some time, but I'll be honest, giving him an album with that title seemed too bold, and seemed to give away too much. Now I delight in the double entendre. I love this album, obviously. I would want him to have it even if it were called "I despise your rotten soul." I can't help the connotations of its name, though it does please my writerly and poetic sensibilities.

The card I am giving him is too perfect. I didn't even buy it with him in mind, at least not consciously. On the front of the card there is a black and white photograph of rowhouse fronts, taken of a small neighborhood in Baltimore, circa 1945. On the doorstep of one of the homes there are two bottles of milk that have not yet been taken inside. Mr. Renaissance lived in this neighborhood when I first began to get to know him, just a few streets over from where this photo was taken. It occurred to me after I bought the cd that this is the card I should give him. I think it's kismet.

I am pleased to report that I enjoyed a very pleasant Mother's Day. My mom loved the presents I got her (including a Japanese Brush painting set), and the comforter and sheets set (she was so touched by this gift that she cried) from my sister and the "almost boyfriend" figure. She looked very lovely in a dusty rose coloured blouse and tan capri pants with matching sandals.

Sarahbina and I tried to watch "Secretary" last night, but found that the S&M (among other themes) bits were a bit too much for either of our tastes. I wasn't bothered, per se, but I wasn't invested either, and felt that I could live my life without seeing how this particular story ended, so we shut it off.

I just enjoyed a rather tasty lunch from the WholeFoods market--Thai soup (with shrimp and scallops) and a little container of "chicken nibblers" I bought to supplement the soup. I hope that sees me throught the next 5 hours or so.

I brought in a candy dish this morning to make my cubicle more "visitor-friendly." I can always eat my own chocolate if I need more sustenance. Speaking of the office, I'm relieved to have decorated my space a bit more. I am a big fan of postcards, and little items you can tape up or tack up. Cheap, easy, and visually stimulating. I believe a person's space should say something about who they are--even at work--maybe especially at work, since that is the place we are least likely to be known.

I spent the earlier part of my day at the Inner Harbor with Sassafrass Teawrap. It was okay. Very humid. I hadn't seen her in a couple of weeks.

I was able to get my mom a few presents for Mother's Day while we were there--in that veritable soup of humidity. I'm not looking forward to the
dysfunctional drama that will play out over dinner with her, her quasi boyfriend, and my youngest sister, but this is the price you pay for being in a family.

Tonight I spent a leisurely meal with another old friend--celebrating my good fortune (the new job) and catching up.

At this point, the next thing I'm really looking forward to is seeing Mr. Renaissance on Wednesday.

An interesting item. S. Teawrap told me that I treat a lot of the interaction in my personal relationships like business transactions.

I had my first difficult day at work.Back-to-back meetings, no lunch til 2:30, and unclear action items. I felt very out of control of myself. I started losing my ability to make sound judgments, and felt my margin of error increasing. I realized that the last time I felt that way was when I worked for "that woman" in Washington, D.C. I also realized that that pressure is mostly self-imposed, and that I just needed to eat, regroup, and slow down, internally. Things got better and I got a little perspective.

I just have to get comfortable operating in the realm of another person's theories. My company is still very much like a group of think tankers, which is to be expected in an organization that is so young.

It's hard for me because I'm not a big picture person. I like to know what my piece is, how to work on my piece in a way that will help others to work on theirs, what is expected of me, etc. I guess it will be a growing exercise. Like everything else.

And to top it all off, I feel unsettled about things with Mr. Renaissance (how stupid this moniker seems to me now). I haven't seen him since Easter weekend, and our virtual communication (I am really starting to chafe at the very construct of that way of relating to him) has been paltry. I am supposed to see him next Wednesday, but even this feels hollow since Sarah is the one who set that up with him (his coming over to hang out "with us") totally independent of me.

I feel the walls of my apartment closing in on me.

I don't like the phrase/term "face time" (e.g., I need some face time with him to work this out), but I do very much like the term "get on [your] calendar" (e.g., I need to get on your calendar so we can talk about the Johnson report).

With that being said, I thought I would share that when I come home in the evenings I smell like Baltimore's Disenfranchised.

i.e., Bus exhaust, cheap cologne (or B.O.), stale, cigarette breath, and coin change that has touched many hands.

Oh, and one more thing.

Well, i'm not sure what I was going to say, so let's just skip it.

What is most different about my new job is the amount of actual work I do in a given day. At this point, the pace is not frenetic (not by any means), but I am always busy doing the actual, albeit solitary, work of an editor. Without having to break up my day into arbitrary codes, charging my time in half-hour increments, I find that I can actually think. Ideas occur to me. I am finding ways to be ahead of the game, to really leave my stamp on the documents I touch.

At my old job I knew that somebody else was going to be looking at the papers that crossed my desk, and I am sorry to say that often was my excuse for not being super careful. Other times, even if I tried my hardest, my work would be undermined by another person's superceding editorial effort, which would make me feel like my work didn't matter anyway....

Now I am the last stop, and I find that that makes me care very deeply about every jot and tittle.

Comments From The Carpet

I took my tri-weekly trip to la biblioteca and got this, among other things. I like the tone of it... it's like sipping cool tea on someone's porch, eavesdropping, 1 person removed, on the events of a life.

'Bina is running timestables with my sister, singing her questions in gospel call and response fashion. It's quite entertaining listening to them.

I can't help but comment from time to time, to which 'Bina says, in mock exasperation, "Comments from the carpet..."

Today is breezy and easy (like Sunday morning).

Three Wishes

If I were to stumble upon an old lamp from an Arabian cache of booty, and just happened to rub it, and a benevolent genie just happened to materialize from within (well-rested from having slept a thousand years), and he wanted to grant me three wishes, this is what I would ask for:

1. To have all my debt erased (and as part of that, any dubious credit ratings made perfect).

2. Entrance into the graduate school/program of my choice for the fall of 2004.

3. A better apartment--still in the city--in which to live comfortably.

*************************************

Odds 'N Ends

My sister Caryl has been here this weekend getting tutoring for an important math test that she has coming up. Sarahbina graciously offered her services to this end.

On Friday, I received an e-mail from Johns Hopkins (not a personal one, but a "tailored" one) asking me to come and register for their Masters in Writing program. Kismet.

I had not formally requested any information from them.... How did they know?

"purple haired old lady": You don't
really have to be a lady to be a purple haired
old lady--all that means is you're one of those
wierd eccentric old people. Purple haired old
ladies are those old people who go out on their
lawn at midnight with a pair of scissors to cut
the grass. They do whatever the hell they want
to do because they can. They take advantage of
being old and aren't afraid to let is show.
They're the kind of old people who get stuck in
the crazy section of the nursing home because
they're too rambunxious for their family to
deal with.


What kind of old person will you be?
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The Friday Five

1. Name one song you hate to admit you like.

Candyman ( a la Sammie Davis, Jr.)

2. Name two songs that always make you cry.

Send In The Clowns ( a la Barbra Streisand) and Treasures in Heaven (Burlap to Cashmere)

3. Name three songs that turn you on.

Don't Walk Away (Justin Timberlake), or whatever it's called (Number 6 on his album), Get Mine, Get Yours (Christian Aguilera), and Number 4 on Barry White's Greatest Hits

4. Name four songs that always make you feel good.

Sledge Hammer (Peter Gabriel), Mary Jane (Rick James), Number 8 on Christina Aguilera's new(er) album, Senorita (Justin Timberlake), and Hella Good (No Doubt)

5. Name five songs you couldn't ever do without.

Venus As a Boy (Bjork), #41 (that's actually what it's called) (Dave Matthews Band), If I Should Die Tonight (Marvin Gaye), Black (Pearl Jam), and Billie Jean (Michael Jackson)

In the movie "Music From Another Room" one of the characters says to the woman the protagonist covets "Don't you see, [his] love for you is so huge, it's spilled over onto the rest of us..." The blooming tenderness in 'Bina and Mikhail's relationship is kind of like that. It's just adding to the honeyed flavour of these Spring days. My heart rejoices for them, really.

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?"