Archive for June, 2014

I’ve been chasing the words I need to approach something I’ve been thinking about — the feeling that comes when you really look into the eyes of someone you care about and who reciprocates. That kind of thing’s a vague memory now, so what follows is something I wrote in December 2009, back when more positive memories of love were fresher.

No, he never did see me the same way I saw him. And it’s a shame. Yet, tonight I think there was still a singular, fragile beauty in bending my brow to the question. Even though the answer was not what I wanted.

* * *

There are large blurs of memory, especially as we travel further back in recollection. But, there are specific kisses I remember… the first, and the way you held me with a gentleness I knew you possessed but was still surprised to feel, or the one outside by the car that sent little bolts of electricity down my arms. If it were possible to mind-meld, I would show you that electricity, show you the complexities of emotion over the course of this thing with you and me, at ebb tide and when waves slash, violent, at the shore.

But then, I am often guilty of showing my hand too early, which doesn’t really matter, I suppose — you read my tells. Still, I am probably more eager to bet everything and lose if it means not playing a game. I’m too serious just to play for playing’s sake.

I know you dig your autonomy; it’s important to me, too. But, you know me: still thinking that it’s possible to be fully yourself and fully with someone else, if you’ve got the right someone… and probably the right atmospheric conditions. (Nothing for it, if the barometer disagrees.) Although, it takes something beyond oxygen to get there. The honesty we have seems a pretty good start. Yet, for all of it, those now-and-again times when you tell me what I mean to you, I still don’t really know. Because you’re not sure, and that’s okay. This lack of clarity belongs to the both of us, and there’s a singular, fragile beauty in bending our brows to the question.

I guess all I’m saying is that,

for all your brazenness,

for all your logic,

for all your bad habits,

all your bad days,

for all the ways you hide your face,

all the things your eyes disguise,

I see you. I see you in a way that, if you saw me the same, we would be nigh inseparable. Not clingy, not like a couple puppy-dog-eyed kids addicted to one another — after all, we both need our aloneness — but more like Sondheim put it: “You always are what you always were, which has nothing to do with, all to do with her.”

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I recognize the folded piece of thick sketchbook paper, know what I’ll find inside before I even open it. Hazel eyes, black hair… it’s the colored pencil drawing I made when I was in Virginia without him, without even a photograph and desperate to see his face. Suddenly, the rhythm I’ve established in cleaning my office breaks. I count those three weeks as a few of the most difficult I’ve had, and yet… in a way, I’m there again, though also not at all. I personally am better; I’ve grown; I’ve dealt with some stuff. And things are a little better now, in most ways, though losing him is the key way they feel worse. A side effect of the sadness and loneliness that form the wake of a failed relationship is that the impulse to create comes back in force. I’m playing guitar more and writing more poetry and blogging more. Much of this is born of the internal torque when what seems possible clashes with what I wish were, when what I desire to say clashes with what seems possible. A lot will be left unsaid; that’s just the nature of things when they’re over.

I also have the urge to paint again.

There have been a few small occurrences that have had me thinking about it in brief snatches over the past month or so that don’t necessarily merit their own mention. Then I found the drawing. Then, yesterday evening, my college roommates and I got together to celebrate one friend’s birthday, and after dinner, we walked over to a nearby coffee shop to see her fiancé’s paintings on display. I walked out thinking again about painting and how I miss it, how I’d need to buy a lot of supplies to get going again. Later last night, I finally watched My Left Foot, which I’ve been wanting to see for a while, and I came away from it with a lot of thoughts and feelings (ALL THE FEELS), including:
(1) holy cow, Daniel. Day-. Lewis.
(2) I really miss painting. Now that my master’s is done, I’d like to do something about that.