(nobody sings that song better, by the way. nobody.)
imagination only gets you so far. you ride the rest of the way on the tide of experience.
below is the best example of my experience. this is what love has taught me.
the structure outside in the park reminds me of a whirlpool, of you, of drowning, of lying on your sofa with your arms around me, your legs entwined with mine, your words beating on, then breaking my happy, idyllic bubble, sinking me, my
tears leaking onto your shirt, mopped up with your tissue. a boy whizzes past on his skateboard. the wheels over the concrete sound like water down the drain. there i go. there we go. but everything goes on around me, just as it had
seconds before, reminding me that this was years ago and not yesterday, that i have resurfaced. memories of you pull me
back under, but not as deeply as before, and not nearly as long
there’s laughter, squeals, joy in almost everything. a
girl hangs upside down and
grins. i watch
this is what my childhood taught me.
that one was taught at a catholic school by a sour-faced, plain and unremarkable woman. the only concrete memory i have of her is that she wore the black and white headpiece of a nun’s habit atop her straight, chin-length, dry, dirty blonde hair.
my mother says this teacher placed me in a cardboard box.
i’ve no memory of this. i can, however, recall feeling segregated.
i can also recall the day we’d made valentines for our classmates. first we decorated those plain brown paper lunch bags and placed them on our desks. these were for the valentines we received.
and then we made valentines (or filled in the to/from on our storebought ones) for our classmates.
i remember that my peers’ bags were stuffed with cards.
i remember that mine was not. in fact, mine was practically (if not) empty.
thirty years have passed since this.
and i feel as unlovable now as i did then.
i suppose that’s my fault.
i’m not afraid to say it. i’m a firm believer in that if you have a thought, you speak it. because holding on to it, letting it fly around such limited space in such protected air, that’s not being true to the thought. speak it and be done with it. no matter how heinous and hurtful the thought could be.
i’ve been called sir more than i’ve been called ma’am. most people who have committed this infraction (and it is an infranction … not only are you not seen as a woman, but after closer inspection, you’re found to be an ugly woman. and all this does is separate the parties. i’ve been looked upon as though i am lesser because of my face.
i’ve learned enough, gone to enough bars and such that i can see who’s interested in whom and who’s interested in him or herself.
take this date, for example, that a friend of mine witnessed at some taqueria (that it’s at a taqueria should tell you alot about the thing from the get-go).
a barkeep asked me why i didn’t flirt with a guy a little. ask him out. i said, i’m tired of having to do the asking. it’s his turn.
i’ve made these four couples, and they will find success. i’ve made them pretty. i’ve made them with at least one redeeming quality apiece.
the basic bones of the story are there.
i know crushed and anxious and overwhelmed. i don’t need helping writing those things. i’ve got’m down. really, really well.
so this is what i suggest.
i need to know joy. that time when you like every single thing about that person because neither of you have opened the dungeons yet.
i don’t remember that point in things from my experiences. not well enough to write them.
if you bother to read this maligned post (most of which was written as the ambien kicked in–i’ve been pretty sick and haven’t been sleeping well), and feel compelled to contribute to the creative process at all (PLEASE) …
leave a comment telling me about a cool thing that you and your guy/gal did. a nice conversation. good quality time. that sort of thing.
a long, long while ago, i asked for bad date stories. now i want the good ones.
so go ahead. brag a little. thanks.