and the snow has been falling since 2:30 this afternoon, fat lazy flakes in no particular hurry to reach their final destination. I am driving slowly home. I am writing these sentences in my head, to write down later. I remember that this is how I used to write, in the old days, as I fell asleep, writing and re-writing until I had a paragraph or two, until finally I had written too much to carry and turned on the computer to put it down.
The snow is beautiful. Hardly anyone on the road. Driving as meditation.
At home, I warm up leftover chicken soup--the comfort of chicken soup makes up for my lack of cooking skills. Afterward I warm up a glass of Irish Creme. This may be the best idea I've ever had.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Being Good
Apparently, on at least one occasion, he had a little time to spare, wanted to see me, but didn't. Because he felt like he should wait until he had time for more than just a booty call. I think he's trying to be "good" to me, or for me. I think it's sweet. I could also cheerfully kill him. He wasn't the only one unhappily celibate. I would had preferred hours to talk and cuddle and hang out. But I would have settled for fifteen minutes every now and then until he got things worked out. I was tearing my hair out, wanting him, and convincing myself that he didn't want me.
Of course, at the time, he never actually said what he was thinking. And I never said what I was thinking. We are poster children for lack of communication.
The same thing happened when we were first dating and I was trying and failing to get him into bed with me. I was confused, and frustrated, wondering are you really more interested in the TV than me? And he was thinking how hard it was to be a "good boy."
I guess this is about two things, really. It's about our lack of communication. Our relationship was nearly over, several times, and we didn't really talk about it. I said things like I really need to be able to see you again, I need this to get better. But I never said if it doesn't get better I'm going to break up with you, and I'm willing to wait until January but that's it.
It's also about these rules he goes by, to be "good." He's always trying to take me out to dinner (it never works, because our schedules never match during dinnertime); he refuses to let me pay for my drinks. He doesn't want sex to seem important to him. And I don't mind, exactly. I do make an effort to buy drinks when he isn't looking, but I appreciate that he wants me to know that I'm more than a convenient, dependable lay. But sometimes I feel the rules assume that I don't have a sex drive. And sometimes I feel like I've been misplaced on a pedestal.
It's funny, because we met under the labels of Bad Boy and Good Girl. He posted an ad looking for someone to Satan-worship with him. I answered the ad and told him that I bathe twice daily in holy water. And I am, comparatively, a Good Girl to his Bad Boy. (One time, he looked at me and said, as if it were a weird thing to find out, you've never been arrested, have you?) But, fuck, I'm not a Leave it to Beaver character. And he seems over-awed, sometimes, by graduate school, by the jobs I'm applying for. I don't want those things to matter. I want to be cute, or fun, or a good kisser. I don't want to be impressive. I wish he didn't see me that way.
Of course, at the time, he never actually said what he was thinking. And I never said what I was thinking. We are poster children for lack of communication.
The same thing happened when we were first dating and I was trying and failing to get him into bed with me. I was confused, and frustrated, wondering are you really more interested in the TV than me? And he was thinking how hard it was to be a "good boy."
I guess this is about two things, really. It's about our lack of communication. Our relationship was nearly over, several times, and we didn't really talk about it. I said things like I really need to be able to see you again, I need this to get better. But I never said if it doesn't get better I'm going to break up with you, and I'm willing to wait until January but that's it.
It's also about these rules he goes by, to be "good." He's always trying to take me out to dinner (it never works, because our schedules never match during dinnertime); he refuses to let me pay for my drinks. He doesn't want sex to seem important to him. And I don't mind, exactly. I do make an effort to buy drinks when he isn't looking, but I appreciate that he wants me to know that I'm more than a convenient, dependable lay. But sometimes I feel the rules assume that I don't have a sex drive. And sometimes I feel like I've been misplaced on a pedestal.
It's funny, because we met under the labels of Bad Boy and Good Girl. He posted an ad looking for someone to Satan-worship with him. I answered the ad and told him that I bathe twice daily in holy water. And I am, comparatively, a Good Girl to his Bad Boy. (One time, he looked at me and said, as if it were a weird thing to find out, you've never been arrested, have you?) But, fuck, I'm not a Leave it to Beaver character. And he seems over-awed, sometimes, by graduate school, by the jobs I'm applying for. I don't want those things to matter. I want to be cute, or fun, or a good kisser. I don't want to be impressive. I wish he didn't see me that way.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Notes left in Barthes, part 3
December 31
Let there be no misunderstanding: it is cold. Even in the middle of summer, the water in San Diego remembers being in Alaska not so long ago. This is December. But because it is San Diego, the cold is not too terrible, and the sun cancels out the breeze, and besides, I am resolved to going in the water today. Last month I put my toes in Lake Eerie (because it was Lake Eerie in November, I quickly took them out again). I am hardly going to chicken out of this venture.
Still, I don't have the courage to just go running in. I walk out a few steps at a time and let the water take me by inches.
Each wave starts with a lifting of the horizon. The water stretches up, and up, until it couldn't possibly hold itself, and then, impossibly, it keeps growing, breathing in and up, reaching above my head before it collapses into a rush of foam. The best part is when I can catch it right at the moment when the first edge of white appears at the top of the wave, right before it turns from a solid wall into rubble. I am lifted, held, and then brought gently down again.
Let there be no misunderstanding: it is cold. Even in the middle of summer, the water in San Diego remembers being in Alaska not so long ago. This is December. But because it is San Diego, the cold is not too terrible, and the sun cancels out the breeze, and besides, I am resolved to going in the water today. Last month I put my toes in Lake Eerie (because it was Lake Eerie in November, I quickly took them out again). I am hardly going to chicken out of this venture.
Still, I don't have the courage to just go running in. I walk out a few steps at a time and let the water take me by inches.
Each wave starts with a lifting of the horizon. The water stretches up, and up, until it couldn't possibly hold itself, and then, impossibly, it keeps growing, breathing in and up, reaching above my head before it collapses into a rush of foam. The best part is when I can catch it right at the moment when the first edge of white appears at the top of the wave, right before it turns from a solid wall into rubble. I am lifted, held, and then brought gently down again.
Notes left in Barthes, part 2
December 29
I am always convincing myself that he doesn't want me. I think I must enjoy it--I do it so often. I am so good at it.
I think that what I really want is to be The Other Woman, always in flux, never sure of where I stand. I would have a secret. I would be sexy. I would know the face of the woman I was afraid of.
I am, not happiest, but the most content, when life appears the way it does in the movie version of my life that plays, constantly, in my head. I don't need things to be good, I only need them to be right.
I am always convincing myself that he doesn't want me. I think I must enjoy it--I do it so often. I am so good at it.
I think that what I really want is to be The Other Woman, always in flux, never sure of where I stand. I would have a secret. I would be sexy. I would know the face of the woman I was afraid of.
I am, not happiest, but the most content, when life appears the way it does in the movie version of my life that plays, constantly, in my head. I don't need things to be good, I only need them to be right.
Notes left in Barthes, part 1
December 28
This isn't life. This is happening somewhere around the corner and out of earshot of life. This is notes in the margin.
I don't want to be here anymore. It isn't home, it hasn't ever been home. I feel like a tourist in my own memory. I am done with this strange sunny weather. I want my stupid dingy apartment and my stupid boyfriend who might not be my boyfriend much longer and my ice and snow and stress and my whole stupid life back.
This isn't life. This is happening somewhere around the corner and out of earshot of life. This is notes in the margin.
I don't want to be here anymore. It isn't home, it hasn't ever been home. I feel like a tourist in my own memory. I am done with this strange sunny weather. I want my stupid dingy apartment and my stupid boyfriend who might not be my boyfriend much longer and my ice and snow and stress and my whole stupid life back.
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