There has been no rational resolution to all this, but perhaps it's past rationale and has decided for itself that it's over. The inadequacy of that statement is an ironic summation of itself: It doesn't need saying. I am over Julie, just not the feelings for her. I still want her attention but make less effort every day to get it. I like to see her; I like to look at her, but I won't interrupt my work to do so or position my task to put her in my sights. It's mostly a conscious effort--not to avoid her, but to remember why I'm really at work--but it becomes easier, more natural. I suppose I'm faking it, but I guess I'm making it, too. I am still envious of the people she talks to, and I still wish she held enough interest in me to initiate conversation, but I am beginning to form useful, rational mantras to chant to myself when the feelings arise that help calm me and subdue rising resentment. I don't say them with bitter resignation, either, but with as little attitude as possible. I seem to have a regular slot on the desk with Julie Thursday nights. I hope it stays. Tonight I asked after her mom, who has moved to a rehab center. I hoped, out of habit, to have her ask after me, but stated to myself that there was no reason she should. There was no anger, no feeling that she would or should talk to me, bu a realistic resignation based (finally!) on what I knew of her. There was simply no reason to resent her being who she was.
I will say this is the end of this journal, and saying it makes it so, because there's little else more pathetic than hanging on too long. Perhaps resolution has been reached, imperfectly and at least in spirit, without irony, or the expectation of it. I'm convinced resolutions yet to come will now come more easily. On that new road I've taken I'm no longer walking backward, but before each step is a bend around which I can't see. I'll just try to enjoy the scenery.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Yeah, But Where's the Ball? (3/11/09 Wednesday)
Tammy wasn't in Monday till late, so I asked her yesterday if she knew Done had been removed from the roll. She sighed and said, "Yes. I guess I have to talk to you about it." The committee had told both Ahmed and Tammy, and Tammy half-expected Ahmed to bring it up to me Monday. Anyway, the story goes: Somebody on the committee clicked through to Book Monkey Says but didn't stop there; they even read the comments by a reader who simply calls herself "Girl." That's as far as Tammy got in the story before I all but screamed "What?!" Tammy felt I was "ganged up on," and I am reluctant to speak the words lest I rally behind them and a wall of righteous indignation. I'd rather laugh at the irony, but the best I can do is tighten my jaw and shake my head. Tammy said I could get back on the roll if I hid BMS from Book Monkey's profile, but that would defeat the purpose of Done being on the roll, so I must content myself with what success I mustered while it was visible (112 profile views and counting).
I took another step as well: Julie's blog is not on the roll, but she left it up on the computer at the front desk. I made Book Monkey a follower. there's nothing personal on her blog, and not something I'll continue to read. She can make the connection easily enough, but I don't care (of course, or I wouldn't have done it). I'm just having fun. she won't read BMS once she knows who Book Monnkey is. She can think as she likes from there. Perhaps this is no way to put her behind me, but I consider it a compromise to cold turkey. I have removed her picture my bike, and at night when I awake with anxiety and her face before me, I push the face aside and get back to sleep. Spring is coming fast, and I want to experience it; and I'm looking forward to a summer of own this year. It's been nearly ten months since I first put pen to paper about this. As well as I fabricated the inspiration for all this ink expenditure, I should as easily find real reason to write. There is no good logic in that statement, I'm aware, but it sounds good. I've already accepted that I don't need a reason to continue writing, just, perhaps, a reason to finish the blog.
I suppose I am a blogger now. It's the only community I feel a part of, accepted fully within, wherein I can speak and be heard and respected, and where the rules are not so rigid that I have to feel every act of natural individualism is a rebellion against the culture. Normally, given that freedom, I would rebel even against that, for no reason probably than to rebel. But if rebellion is to have meaning it must have a goal beyond its own preservation, as must the blog. Have I reached the goal?
I took another step as well: Julie's blog is not on the roll, but she left it up on the computer at the front desk. I made Book Monkey a follower. there's nothing personal on her blog, and not something I'll continue to read. She can make the connection easily enough, but I don't care (of course, or I wouldn't have done it). I'm just having fun. she won't read BMS once she knows who Book Monnkey is. She can think as she likes from there. Perhaps this is no way to put her behind me, but I consider it a compromise to cold turkey. I have removed her picture my bike, and at night when I awake with anxiety and her face before me, I push the face aside and get back to sleep. Spring is coming fast, and I want to experience it; and I'm looking forward to a summer of own this year. It's been nearly ten months since I first put pen to paper about this. As well as I fabricated the inspiration for all this ink expenditure, I should as easily find real reason to write. There is no good logic in that statement, I'm aware, but it sounds good. I've already accepted that I don't need a reason to continue writing, just, perhaps, a reason to finish the blog.
I suppose I am a blogger now. It's the only community I feel a part of, accepted fully within, wherein I can speak and be heard and respected, and where the rules are not so rigid that I have to feel every act of natural individualism is a rebellion against the culture. Normally, given that freedom, I would rebel even against that, for no reason probably than to rebel. But if rebellion is to have meaning it must have a goal beyond its own preservation, as must the blog. Have I reached the goal?
Monday, March 9, 2009
Instead of Them Cutting Me (3/09/09 Monday)
Where am I? What has all this come to? It's so difficult to judge my progress that I don't feel far from just calling all this a failure. Certainly, it failed to gain Julie's affection. In that respect, it went on about sixty thousand words too long. I'm looking for positive, but I just can't find it. James, I guess--I gained James. But I didn't gain my self. I sublimated my personality to be someone I thought Julie would like. Where am I now? Where's the rest of me to hang on this skeleton? Was this all just an addiction? Is cold turkey the only way to put this behind me? It might be the only way my self-esteem will survive, but doesn't it denigrate, marginalize all this writing to just throw it aside? I expressed myself. Was I paying attention? It's the "investment" question again: Am I trying to make something back when I should be cutting my losses? If I'd answered that question honestly in regard to my pursuit of Julie, I wouldn't be asking it again in regard to anything else. But when have I ever cut my losses?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Where's My Irony Now? (3/08/09 Sunday)
Julie's mother had a severe stroke the previous weekend. I hadn't known when I asked her Wednesday if she'd been snowed in. She answered, "No, but I wish that was why I was out." I was puzzled, but slow to respond, and she was gone with a cart before I'd gathered my wits. Julie appeared very tired the next day. Angie told me about the stroke. The last hour Thursday I spent on the desk with Julie. I asked quietly after her mom. She was not reluctant to talk, though she must have by then answered the same questions several times. She looked at me as she did; her eyes were red-rimmed and moist; her voice didn't waver, but she sniffed lightly a few times. That hour humbled me, threw into relief my arrogance and petty meanness in judging her character. Julie had always been an object, not a person. Finally I felt the compassion for her for which I'd sought. It began the re-evaluation of this whole project and the consideration that it was over.
The blog I created to replace Book Monkey Says as the representative of the Web 2.0 exercise made the blog roll this week and was removed this week. I had not been forewarned or brought onto the carpet to have explained to me why this would be done. It was just taken off the roll. It was called Done and contained two posts and a total text of three words. The first post, "Week 2," said, "Done." The second, "Week 3,"about RSS feeds, read, "Read. Fed." When I discovered the blog removed I added "Up." Book Monkey is the author of Done, though not in persona. A click on his profile reveals his other blog. In the few days Done was on the roll Book Monkey received eighty-three views (now, two days later, ninety-five), no doubt nearly entirely from library personnel, as I have not claimed it online. Of course, I don't know how many or who clicked through to Book Monkey Says, but someone did, and many more than just the moralistic brown-noser who flagged it. How indignant can I be? Henrico County is not the forum for my agenda, and since talking to Julie about her mother I have not been exactly zealous to forward it or to have Julie read Book Monkey Says. She does not appear to have, but I can't be sure, and at this point would be embarrassed, if not ashamed, to find that she had.
A Bright, Ironic Hell is winding down. Perhaps my feelings for Julie aren't as moribund as I've recently stated, but they have changed beyond the scope of the blog. I don't know what, if anything, has been resolved. I loathe loose ends, but this is not a novel but a living..."living" what? (Something else to resolve?) There will be loose ends because only time will allow me space enough to see the seasons for the year, the transitions and growth. I have reread the blog to the point of meeting Jan (that being the "manuscript"). I tried to read it as an outsider, and I achieved that about as well as could be expected, so I got a broad view of intense doubt despite a sometimes razor-sharp clarity: A firm, intuitive grasp was often reasoned away from all believability, often becasue I simply didn't want to believe it. How many times I said she couldn't be interested in me is virtually uncountable, but I wanted to believe I was wrong, that Julie was somehow "playing" me, "compartmentalizing," instead of being indifferent to me. I couldn't accept the indifference. I pressed for a reaction, hoping/expecting it to be positive. Getting exactly the opposite reaction pressed me into a prideful corner, out of which I tried to fight with indignation. Now, here I am, with nothing I wanted, but perhaps everything I deserve. What that is, I might determine with another reading.
The blog I created to replace Book Monkey Says as the representative of the Web 2.0 exercise made the blog roll this week and was removed this week. I had not been forewarned or brought onto the carpet to have explained to me why this would be done. It was just taken off the roll. It was called Done and contained two posts and a total text of three words. The first post, "Week 2," said, "Done." The second, "Week 3,"about RSS feeds, read, "Read. Fed." When I discovered the blog removed I added "Up." Book Monkey is the author of Done, though not in persona. A click on his profile reveals his other blog. In the few days Done was on the roll Book Monkey received eighty-three views (now, two days later, ninety-five), no doubt nearly entirely from library personnel, as I have not claimed it online. Of course, I don't know how many or who clicked through to Book Monkey Says, but someone did, and many more than just the moralistic brown-noser who flagged it. How indignant can I be? Henrico County is not the forum for my agenda, and since talking to Julie about her mother I have not been exactly zealous to forward it or to have Julie read Book Monkey Says. She does not appear to have, but I can't be sure, and at this point would be embarrassed, if not ashamed, to find that she had.
A Bright, Ironic Hell is winding down. Perhaps my feelings for Julie aren't as moribund as I've recently stated, but they have changed beyond the scope of the blog. I don't know what, if anything, has been resolved. I loathe loose ends, but this is not a novel but a living..."living" what? (Something else to resolve?) There will be loose ends because only time will allow me space enough to see the seasons for the year, the transitions and growth. I have reread the blog to the point of meeting Jan (that being the "manuscript"). I tried to read it as an outsider, and I achieved that about as well as could be expected, so I got a broad view of intense doubt despite a sometimes razor-sharp clarity: A firm, intuitive grasp was often reasoned away from all believability, often becasue I simply didn't want to believe it. How many times I said she couldn't be interested in me is virtually uncountable, but I wanted to believe I was wrong, that Julie was somehow "playing" me, "compartmentalizing," instead of being indifferent to me. I couldn't accept the indifference. I pressed for a reaction, hoping/expecting it to be positive. Getting exactly the opposite reaction pressed me into a prideful corner, out of which I tried to fight with indignation. Now, here I am, with nothing I wanted, but perhaps everything I deserve. What that is, I might determine with another reading.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
So, What Will It No Longer Be--Bright, Ironic, or Hell? (3/07/09 Saturday)
I doubt that I ever really wanted to live in a bright, ironic hell, but it was easy to believe in. It was easy to create and perpetuate, too, especially as its foundation was subconscious. Conscious effort--what I "knew better"--seemed destined to subversion by an ingrained negativity: What I knew to be true and right was undermined by a history of poor results--an almost automatic self-fulfillment of a prophecy of doom. Well, a lot of things are easy to believe, and without proof of any of them being the right or wrong thing to believe, why not believe what you choose to believe, and choose to believe positively? Because I'm a skeptic, I suppose. But I don't have to be a cynic. Can I choose to be happy? and if I do does that make me happy? It can't be that easy. But why not? Why even reason it out?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Begending (3/05/09 Thursday)
I forgot to post yesterday's journal entry yesterday. I'm beginning to wonder how much writing is left to do on the blog. I wonder, too, if the blog itself is perpetuating my angst, if I'm reaching for agony to write about. What if I stopped? I can't stop writing, but what now am I writing about? I am a cynical person, but I don't want to be that way, and A Bright, Ironic Hell has been a long justification of my cynicism. That attitude won't change overnight, but it can't change if I continue to celebrate it. I am past the crossroads--I've already taken a turn--but I'm walking backwards, looking at it.
Travels In Nihilon (3/04/09 Wednesday)
Woke with a familiar headache and a stiff neck. The hip I couldn't sleep on was one I had to walk on all day yesterday. The main streets were cleared of snow then, and I was determined to pedal in so I'd be able to top anyone else's whining travails and because I didn't want my mode of travel to come up wanting in comparison. But the neighborhoods had been left to nature's devices and, therefore, me to my own. I trudged through the park in the granny gear, bouncing and crunching through refrozen bootprints, wincing at what sounded like my tires shredding, but when I emerged from the park's backside I was faced with an icy downhill and the choice of falling now or falling at speed. If I could keep my balance to the bottom--a very tense prospect--I still would be unable to stop, because even touching the brake would mean falling. But I was already starting downhill, so I touched the brakes and fell over. So, I have a road rash on my left hip and a slight lateral whiplash. I keep looking for the bruise on my hip, but I just don't bruise. I suppose in another fifteen years we'd be talking hip replacement.
Julie wasn't at work. I think she got snowed in. I could have found out from Judy, but I want to ask her myself. In order to finish off these moribund feelings for her I have to suck it up and be the person I should be with everyone else, all those other people I never had a crush on. Five days without her makes that perspective easy. I can't pretend her presence won't alter it, but I think it's important that I try. It's not just a pretense, but a sacrifice of pride, and why should I cling to that?
What does that make of The Admittance? Can I really be in love with Julie and still break away from the feelings I once had for her? I have to doubt I'm in love. Was The Admittance true then but no longer? Can it work like that? But as it seemed unquestionable upon its appearance, it seems as much so now. Should I just let it be?
I dreamt of Jan last night. It seemed we were in a small city (Winchester?). We met by chance, but soon after a friend of hers chanced upon her as well, and they sat at a table and chatted. I stood at a far end of the coffee shop waiting impatiently for her to come to me or at least beckon me, but finally left to explore. I fell in with a group of tourists, about six Italian men, speaking their native tongue, not noticing me. We passed many strange, modern shops. I did not get back to Jan, and she didn't find me.
Julie wasn't at work. I think she got snowed in. I could have found out from Judy, but I want to ask her myself. In order to finish off these moribund feelings for her I have to suck it up and be the person I should be with everyone else, all those other people I never had a crush on. Five days without her makes that perspective easy. I can't pretend her presence won't alter it, but I think it's important that I try. It's not just a pretense, but a sacrifice of pride, and why should I cling to that?
What does that make of The Admittance? Can I really be in love with Julie and still break away from the feelings I once had for her? I have to doubt I'm in love. Was The Admittance true then but no longer? Can it work like that? But as it seemed unquestionable upon its appearance, it seems as much so now. Should I just let it be?
I dreamt of Jan last night. It seemed we were in a small city (Winchester?). We met by chance, but soon after a friend of hers chanced upon her as well, and they sat at a table and chatted. I stood at a far end of the coffee shop waiting impatiently for her to come to me or at least beckon me, but finally left to explore. I fell in with a group of tourists, about six Italian men, speaking their native tongue, not noticing me. We passed many strange, modern shops. I did not get back to Jan, and she didn't find me.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Not Citric (3/2/09 Monday)
Snow replaced the rain yesterday afternoon, and now there are several inches of it this morning. I slept last night wihout setting the alarm, and no one's called me from work wondering where I am. I will have to trudge up to the store, but that should be the only venture I will have to undertake outdoors today. I'm grateful for another day off. My attitude toward Julie and the women of the workplace is nearly acid. If there's a question any longer of what Julie is a symbol of, the answer is the chip on my shoulder. She manifests what I've always resented about "dating"--the man's obligation to present himself for approval, the tacit implication there being that woman is the judge of man's worthiness, her standards being the only ones of value: Man is only worth what woman allows him. So my acceptance by a woman is contingent upon my conformance to her standards, my own standards being irrelevant. I refuse to play that game, and I refuse to stoop to tit-for-tat. I am an individual, not Men. Julie is Women, and that's not how I want to see her. I don't want to think at her, "If you never say yes, you deserve to be alone. What makes you think Prince Charming will come to you? How can you be sure you can recognize him? or that he exists? or that he could possibly find you?" but I do. Because I am bitter, and bitterness makes me feel like just another loser in a long line of them who brought her the wrong glass slipper. Should I pity her instead? Should I just not care? What double standard am I trotting out to judge her by?
Sunday, March 1, 2009
J for J (3/01/09 Sunday)
Unusually, for a Sunday, I showered when I got up. I probably wanted a few minutes to myself before facing the kids. I held off posting the last paragraph of yesterday's journal entry. I can't quite explain why (especially since the radio's on and the kids are talking to me). Simply (and beside the real reason), it wasn't a good paragraph, unfinished and digressive. But I couldn't finish it; the digression appropriated the promise of the paragraph, making it impossible to fulfill. It was the promise I made, though, to extact revenge or at least fight for my dignity at work that brought me up short of posting the paragraph. I suddenly felt that indignation again that I thought I'd reasoned away, and I was angry that I hadn't gotten past it yet--another failure of the mind to rationalize the emotions. And I knew, besides, that I couldn't make good on the threats without a serious and sudden improvement of my assertive communication abilities. Book Monkey, too, was on my mind when I woke up, as it was when I went to bed. That promise I will keep: Book Monkey will be known.
I have not heard from Jan, and the old fear creeps back: She's read BIH and thinks that she means little more to me than a distraction from Julie. Sometimes I wonder that myself, but there's much more to Jan that I like and appreciate than there ever was to Julie. I'm excited to know Jan, and eager to know her better. I do, indeed, want to replace Julie with her, but because she can be the friend Julie can't. Replacing a negative with a positive is a good thing, right? (It would be nice, too, to have someone to talk about, to gloat about at work.) If I take my worries out of paranoia mode I worry about her. She can't live long on her credit card without a job. I hope she's made inroads into alleviating that situation (and that it's happening in Richmond). What more can I do?
I have not heard from Jan, and the old fear creeps back: She's read BIH and thinks that she means little more to me than a distraction from Julie. Sometimes I wonder that myself, but there's much more to Jan that I like and appreciate than there ever was to Julie. I'm excited to know Jan, and eager to know her better. I do, indeed, want to replace Julie with her, but because she can be the friend Julie can't. Replacing a negative with a positive is a good thing, right? (It would be nice, too, to have someone to talk about, to gloat about at work.) If I take my worries out of paranoia mode I worry about her. She can't live long on her credit card without a job. I hope she's made inroads into alleviating that situation (and that it's happening in Richmond). What more can I do?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Touching Air (2/28/09 Saturday)
I tried to call Jan last night. Julie on my mind was making me angry. I couldn't get through to Jan's cell (the only number I have) on my land line, and I couldn't pick up any service on my cell. It had been warm, in the sixties, during the day, and was still mild enough at eight to ride in shorts to pay my rent. It was an excuse to go to Target, itself an excuse to be around people. But there weren't many people there. I made no contact with anyone. My cell still had no service. I'd had coffee with dinner, anticipating--wanting--an active evening. I was home at ten-thirty, having done nothing but buy some t-shirts, socks, shorts, and underwear. No one had called. I emailed Jan, explaining the phone problems and saying I'd hoped to see her this weekend. Then I wrote James, depressed I'd had no one to do anything with and angry thinking of Julie. That's how I felt when I went to bed at two.
Love, Hate--Six of One... (2/27/09 Friday)
The meeting with Ahmed brought back much of the recent resentment of Julie, the old indignation of persecution, and the older feelings for Julie. I don't want any of them. I've gotten two or three hours on the desk with Julie each of the past two weeks, and each one has been more of a struggle than the previous to maintain my self. What now does being in love with her mean? Anything? Is it even true? And now that I question it, I want more than ever for it to be true, because there was comfort in the faith I had in its trueness. I don't want Julie, and I don't want to want her. I don't want to be around her or hear her voice. Why that should hurt, I don't understand. I don't feel embarrassed that I wasted so much time on her. I'm no longer trying to make back some of my emotional investment. I make those statements sincerely, but I don't know if they are true. What can there be about her anymore that holds me in her thrall? She's beautiful, but so what? I can think of nothing else about her that I actually value.
And then I hear her talking about that man who tried to talk her up on the desk that time, and how he so doesn't have a chance with her. She was not oblivious that day; she was shunning him. I sneered about it then, but now it angers and hurts me. She admires Stacey for putting herself out there, yet there is no respect for the man who puts his dignity on the line when she won't do it for herself. Does he deserve your ridicule, Julie? I want to say some very cruel things right now, but I'm a better person than that--forget deference to anyone's feelings; I'm just not going to stoop to that level. I'll just sit here with my arms crossed and listen to my shoulders knot up.
And then I hear her talking about that man who tried to talk her up on the desk that time, and how he so doesn't have a chance with her. She was not oblivious that day; she was shunning him. I sneered about it then, but now it angers and hurts me. She admires Stacey for putting herself out there, yet there is no respect for the man who puts his dignity on the line when she won't do it for herself. Does he deserve your ridicule, Julie? I want to say some very cruel things right now, but I'm a better person than that--forget deference to anyone's feelings; I'm just not going to stoop to that level. I'll just sit here with my arms crossed and listen to my shoulders knot up.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
House of the Rising Gorge (2/26/09 Thursday)
Book Monkey will not make it to the blog roll. Tammy approached me as I was discarding an unrepairable paperback. "You and I need to talk with Ahmed in his office," she said. I looked at her. "Is this about the blog?" She said, "Yes." "Jeez-us Christ!" I exclaimed. "Don't kill the messenger, " she said. I tore off the back cover of the book, tossed it in the wastebasket, took a deep, huffing breath, and with undue deliberation did the same to the front cover and title page. Finally, I stood and followed Tammy to Ahmed's office, throwing the book with angry force into the discard box under the sink.
Anger still clouds my memory, so blow-by-blow account this will not be. To start with, let me just say that that paranoia that was beginning to tighten it's grip with each day my blog didn't appear on the roll was entirely justified. Ahmed told me my blog was "too personal." My iteration that it was fiction did not fly with him. "You have to admit," he said, "that it is a lot like what happened here not long ago." Oh, you mean that thing that was none of your business in the first place? How personal would this be if your nose had been kept clean of it? I looked at him. He said, "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" Seeing his discomfort at having to bring it up, I let him squirm a moment more. "Yes," I said. He went on to explain how, in light of the way some people have used this exercise to forward non-library agendas, the 2.0 committee has had to narrow its previously stated focus and re-evaluate the blogs. "There are many less relevant blogs than mine," I told Ahmed. He said, "And they are being talked to by their supervisors." Too many times, he said, "Don't take this personally," and I was pissed that I couldn't, really. He also said too often that there was "absolutely nothing offensive" about my blog--it was simply "too personal."
I left his office impatient to get to my break, of which this meeting had stolen ten minutes. I snatched up my food and water and marched into the woods at the back of the parking lot with hard, long strides, staring at the pavement. I didn't eat my lunch but pounded the path through a loop and came back with the same gait. I tossed my lunch aside, gathered my writing and made for Planet Teen's computers. I promptly published each of the posts queued up for Book Monkey Says, then went back to the empty breakroom and choked down my sandwich.
Anger still clouds my memory, so blow-by-blow account this will not be. To start with, let me just say that that paranoia that was beginning to tighten it's grip with each day my blog didn't appear on the roll was entirely justified. Ahmed told me my blog was "too personal." My iteration that it was fiction did not fly with him. "You have to admit," he said, "that it is a lot like what happened here not long ago." Oh, you mean that thing that was none of your business in the first place? How personal would this be if your nose had been kept clean of it? I looked at him. He said, "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" Seeing his discomfort at having to bring it up, I let him squirm a moment more. "Yes," I said. He went on to explain how, in light of the way some people have used this exercise to forward non-library agendas, the 2.0 committee has had to narrow its previously stated focus and re-evaluate the blogs. "There are many less relevant blogs than mine," I told Ahmed. He said, "And they are being talked to by their supervisors." Too many times, he said, "Don't take this personally," and I was pissed that I couldn't, really. He also said too often that there was "absolutely nothing offensive" about my blog--it was simply "too personal."
I left his office impatient to get to my break, of which this meeting had stolen ten minutes. I snatched up my food and water and marched into the woods at the back of the parking lot with hard, long strides, staring at the pavement. I didn't eat my lunch but pounded the path through a loop and came back with the same gait. I tossed my lunch aside, gathered my writing and made for Planet Teen's computers. I promptly published each of the posts queued up for Book Monkey Says, then went back to the empty breakroom and choked down my sandwich.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
J vs. J (2/25/09 Wednesday)
I would like to see Jan this weekend, when I have the Saturday off, but, as before, I haven't heard from her since the day after we were last together. It's not easy to believe everything is all right with her. I know she is disorganized and probably not hard-wired into the internet culture, but I also know that she takes an anti-depressant and that it's been six months since she had a drink. In Plan-9 she said, after lamenting that Jimmy Buffett was no longer worth listening to since she couldn't have a marguerita, "Sometimes I think that I could have just one drink...." I worry that she's had that drink, but try to trust her not to have.
Meanwhile, I await Book Monkey's debut and wonder how my being in love affects my feelings toward Jan. Am I pacing myself with Jan becasue I still hold out hope for Julie? Can I be in love with Julie and not want her?--and still want Jan? I have myself believing I can--or at least feeling I can. There seems to be no conflict. If I found myself loving Jan, could I then still be in love with Julie? But that's a cart far in front of the horse. The Admittance has engendered an acceptance of much that I'd otherwise have questioned, and my natural rebellion against this "irrational" acquiescence seems unable even to lift an angry fist even to shake, much less to strike with. For answers--indeed, for any further questions or speculation--I can only await Book Monkey's impact.
Meanwhile, I await Book Monkey's debut and wonder how my being in love affects my feelings toward Jan. Am I pacing myself with Jan becasue I still hold out hope for Julie? Can I be in love with Julie and not want her?--and still want Jan? I have myself believing I can--or at least feeling I can. There seems to be no conflict. If I found myself loving Jan, could I then still be in love with Julie? But that's a cart far in front of the horse. The Admittance has engendered an acceptance of much that I'd otherwise have questioned, and my natural rebellion against this "irrational" acquiescence seems unable even to lift an angry fist even to shake, much less to strike with. For answers--indeed, for any further questions or speculation--I can only await Book Monkey's impact.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Oh, Monkey, Monkey Me! (2/23/09 Monday)
A Julie-day such as I haven't had in months, if at all, and there was nothing special about it. I've simply regained her trust. I'm still a nervous wreck anywhere near her, but I don't avoid the proximity. Today, incident brought us near often, and though I was nowhere near natural, I managed to meet her eyes and match her jests. It was a relief to laugh with her. I'm not raising hopes--that soil is exhausted--but trying to find normal. Though I'm often acutely aware of her presence, I do a better job now of not being so aware of her presence as to make every action of my own about her and the hope of her noticing me. It's easier to do my job.
Then I remember that first Tuesday in December, when I was giddy to see her after what seemed an eternity, little knowing that everything I'd built would be torn down without a thought within a few hours. And I think of how the awesome hair-day is always followed by the most horrendous one. Perhaps this sounds fatalistic. Consider, then, that Book Monkey has not yet made the blog roll. This time the sabotage could be my own. I worry that she'll think I'm seeing signs again, especially since I've made such a turnaround in the past week with my attitude toward her. I don't want her afraid of me again and of her actions towards me.
When I didn't see Book Monkey Says on the blog roll, I was miffed. My first chance to look for it came when I replaced Julie on the desk at eleven. She'd even left that page up. I scrolled down the roll, though, and didn't find the blog. I emailed the Web 2.0 committee asking how long it took for that to happen. Later, reading the blogs in the roll, I came across someone writing, in passing, about the difficulty she was having modifying the roll. I commented on that post that I was eager to see my blog on the roll, but that I'd try to be patient. In order not to corrupt Book Monkey's persona, I signed in with my Bright, Ironic Hell username and password. Now, if she clicks on that, thinking she'll find the blog to which I was referring, she would get BIH. Great.
But I am eager to expose Book Monkey. It's important before I can continue posting to it, or even before I write much more of it. Though I don't want to simply translate the real action to fiction, I need to get the feeling from the consequences of the exposure. I want the fiction to "happen," to present itself to me. It's almost as if the reality is the role-playing for the fiction. Oh, boy, I like that. I'm seeing these characters as real, and I don't mean I'm seeing the person they're base upon, because that person was just the skeleton, and now they are flesh-and-blood. Book Monkey is not me; May is not Julie. And Gail--who is she? She's Gail! I don't know a Gail, real name or otherewise. Fiction (except for delusion) has not come from my pen for many years, and it's never come like this, so real. How much realer is it about to get?
Then I remember that first Tuesday in December, when I was giddy to see her after what seemed an eternity, little knowing that everything I'd built would be torn down without a thought within a few hours. And I think of how the awesome hair-day is always followed by the most horrendous one. Perhaps this sounds fatalistic. Consider, then, that Book Monkey has not yet made the blog roll. This time the sabotage could be my own. I worry that she'll think I'm seeing signs again, especially since I've made such a turnaround in the past week with my attitude toward her. I don't want her afraid of me again and of her actions towards me.
When I didn't see Book Monkey Says on the blog roll, I was miffed. My first chance to look for it came when I replaced Julie on the desk at eleven. She'd even left that page up. I scrolled down the roll, though, and didn't find the blog. I emailed the Web 2.0 committee asking how long it took for that to happen. Later, reading the blogs in the roll, I came across someone writing, in passing, about the difficulty she was having modifying the roll. I commented on that post that I was eager to see my blog on the roll, but that I'd try to be patient. In order not to corrupt Book Monkey's persona, I signed in with my Bright, Ironic Hell username and password. Now, if she clicks on that, thinking she'll find the blog to which I was referring, she would get BIH. Great.
But I am eager to expose Book Monkey. It's important before I can continue posting to it, or even before I write much more of it. Though I don't want to simply translate the real action to fiction, I need to get the feeling from the consequences of the exposure. I want the fiction to "happen," to present itself to me. It's almost as if the reality is the role-playing for the fiction. Oh, boy, I like that. I'm seeing these characters as real, and I don't mean I'm seeing the person they're base upon, because that person was just the skeleton, and now they are flesh-and-blood. Book Monkey is not me; May is not Julie. And Gail--who is she? She's Gail! I don't know a Gail, real name or otherewise. Fiction (except for delusion) has not come from my pen for many years, and it's never come like this, so real. How much realer is it about to get?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Operation Devolution (2/22/09 Sunday)
I would not have expected The Admittance to be a liberator, but for the first time I feel able to reconcile my understanding to my knowing. Understanding I could come to, and knowing I could understand, but I couldn't know what I understood. Muddy as that seems, it's exactly what I've been putting myself through over most of the past year. The Admittance all but marginalized those tribulations, saying, "Stop right there. Bottom line: You're in love with her. No more talking around it." But should this not have made my pursuit all the more necessary? What about The Admittance made it suddenly so easy to accept Julie feeling nothing for me? It's as if being in love with her was all I wanted all along; that I didn't need her to love me back. Strange to consider, but the less so the more I do so.
And what now? I may have little time to bask in this complacence once Book Monkey speaks. Of course it will be construed as a new pursuit of Julie, but how much more of an object could she be, now that I've created Book Monkey? She's practically an archetype. And all because I'm in love with her? This is no attempt to turn Julie my way--that will never happen--but I do want her to know I am in love with her. I know I said otherwise yesterday, but why deny the first reason for creating Book Monkey? But do I expect anything of Julie over this? Absolutely not. I thought she should know, and this was the silliest and subtlest way I could let her know. And why not let everyone else know, while I'm at it? I hate secrets. Julie would keep this a secret even from me if she could, but let's obviate the whispers. I won't be the only one amused. Let's laugh out loud, not stifle it under our breaths and behind backs. This joke is at no one's expense but mine. What offense can Julie take that doesn't flatter her to think she's Book Monkey's love interest? Hell, who's the butt here? I'm the monkey!
I've already written several posts for Book Monkey Says, but I won't post a second one before the blog has made it to the roll on the Web 2.0 sidebar. I want the first one to stand alone for a day to promote the effect of isolation. After that, I plan to release no more than one post daily, as I don't want the latest post to smother the previous before it's had a chance to be read. I'm excited and stimulated by this new project. I think it will resonate far beyond the joke it was born as.
And what now? I may have little time to bask in this complacence once Book Monkey speaks. Of course it will be construed as a new pursuit of Julie, but how much more of an object could she be, now that I've created Book Monkey? She's practically an archetype. And all because I'm in love with her? This is no attempt to turn Julie my way--that will never happen--but I do want her to know I am in love with her. I know I said otherwise yesterday, but why deny the first reason for creating Book Monkey? But do I expect anything of Julie over this? Absolutely not. I thought she should know, and this was the silliest and subtlest way I could let her know. And why not let everyone else know, while I'm at it? I hate secrets. Julie would keep this a secret even from me if she could, but let's obviate the whispers. I won't be the only one amused. Let's laugh out loud, not stifle it under our breaths and behind backs. This joke is at no one's expense but mine. What offense can Julie take that doesn't flatter her to think she's Book Monkey's love interest? Hell, who's the butt here? I'm the monkey!
I've already written several posts for Book Monkey Says, but I won't post a second one before the blog has made it to the roll on the Web 2.0 sidebar. I want the first one to stand alone for a day to promote the effect of isolation. After that, I plan to release no more than one post daily, as I don't want the latest post to smother the previous before it's had a chance to be read. I'm excited and stimulated by this new project. I think it will resonate far beyond the joke it was born as.
Swimming Pool or Tea Cup? (2/21/09 Saturday)
Well, I've gone and done it--and what have I done?! Book Monkey Says (Book Monkey was taken) has been created, the first posting posted, and Tammy and the 2.0 committee notified. I suppose it will be on the blog roll Monday. I've been laughing about this since I conceived it, but it's been quieted to a nervous chuckle by the thought of the consequences. Of course, as I've said, the fiction blunts the truth, but the assumption can make a sharp enough knife on its own. Maybe it isn't provable, but who will that matter to but me? At least the people out of the loop to begin with will likely remain so. That helps me with a couple deep breaths. I'm almost certain I don't want Julie to know I'm in love with her, but she will make the expected assumptions. Of course, she won't confront me, and about what, anyway? You know I had to stir something up. I'll just grin, pinch my nose and step off the high dive into it. And I can't even swim.
Friday, February 20, 2009
sNIPpet (2/20/09 Friday)
My second (third?) chance came last night. It came sooner than I expected, and I was unprepared, but I knew the next chance might not come. I kicked my pride's ass, gagged the Wise Man and let myself out of the paper cage. The chance was another desk hour with Julie, and seven hours from its discovery seemed, at first, too little time to formulate a plan. So I didn't, and the longer I didn't and the closer the hour loomed the more I became aware of what I must do, or what I must not do, which was ignore Julie. Monday's hour was torture; I wasn't going through that again, however satisfying it was to my pride. The hour before we met on the desk we passed in the back hall. I offered a smile, small and shy, but sincere. Julie returned the same.
I took the near desk. No words passed between us for fifteen minutes. No tension, either. Then Julie laughed, and I said, "What's so funny over there?" For our Web 2.0 training we are all to start by creating a blog. She was reading the training page and directed me to a link of "amusing cat photos." I am not the person she is, but I did find the pictures amusing. We didn't talk, but it wasn't necessary; I'd accomplished my mission by not having one. It had crossed my mind hours before that I might apologize to Julie for my behavior in ignoring her, but it seemed an egotistical endeavor, and I've always preferred showng to telling, anyway.
Besides, I have a new venue for those feelings. The blog I'm creating for work will be called Book Monkey, and will be about and by a monkey that shelves books. This monkey is a loner, out of place among both monkeys and men--and in love with a coworker whom he knows can never love him back. To anyone who knows of and has read A Bright, Ironic Hell, Book Monkey will border on scandalous, but who could accuse me of anything untoward? Julie might not read more than the first post, but she will read that, and that would be enough for me. I won't hesitate, either, to use the phrase "in love with." After all, this is a monkey talking and who ever heard of that?
I took the near desk. No words passed between us for fifteen minutes. No tension, either. Then Julie laughed, and I said, "What's so funny over there?" For our Web 2.0 training we are all to start by creating a blog. She was reading the training page and directed me to a link of "amusing cat photos." I am not the person she is, but I did find the pictures amusing. We didn't talk, but it wasn't necessary; I'd accomplished my mission by not having one. It had crossed my mind hours before that I might apologize to Julie for my behavior in ignoring her, but it seemed an egotistical endeavor, and I've always preferred showng to telling, anyway.
Besides, I have a new venue for those feelings. The blog I'm creating for work will be called Book Monkey, and will be about and by a monkey that shelves books. This monkey is a loner, out of place among both monkeys and men--and in love with a coworker whom he knows can never love him back. To anyone who knows of and has read A Bright, Ironic Hell, Book Monkey will border on scandalous, but who could accuse me of anything untoward? Julie might not read more than the first post, but she will read that, and that would be enough for me. I won't hesitate, either, to use the phrase "in love with." After all, this is a monkey talking and who ever heard of that?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
That's Because It's Love--Remember? (2/19/09 Thursday)
If my conscience didn't bother me Monday, it's now shredding me like a nightmare beast. Yesterday, I made the same mistake of bad timing I had made Saturday. The results were different. I pushed the cart of mail books down the back hall, but I wasn't halfway when I heard a familiar laugh at the other end. I pushed harder, stepped longer, but Julie turned the corner from the breakroom, smiling. My sympathetic instinct was to smile, but in a blur of conflicting thought and emotion, a split-second entanglement of rationale over what would be right or wrong to do and what her reaction might be to any of my possible actions and what power I might gain or lose as a consequence, I hardened my face like baking clay and looked at her. Her smile vaporized. It was as if I had slapped her. She flattened against the wall as I approached and passed. I was, and am, thoroughly ashamed of myself.
I can't deny that I still desperately want her attention, but not as some scary, wild-eyed sad-sack pining for her. And what other attention can I ever expect from her? None. I can't say that I don't want my behavior to affect her, but I don't want her pity. I can't say what I want. Nothing's logical.
I can't deny that I still desperately want her attention, but not as some scary, wild-eyed sad-sack pining for her. And what other attention can I ever expect from her? None. I can't say that I don't want my behavior to affect her, but I don't want her pity. I can't say what I want. Nothing's logical.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Toasters at Twenty Paces (2/17/09 Tuesday)
Of course, I'm fighting this love thing to the death. I'll take it to the highest court. I'll get a restraining order, a gag order. This must be overturned. Will the ACLU take my case? It was, after all, a gross violation of my freedom of choice. It matters not whether I might actually want to be in love--it's the principle of the thing. And what am I if not principled?
James suggested that this...entity...that has made The Admittance for me is taking its "last, best shot" at keeping me after Julie, so I have to, reflexively, take mine at it. But it's as if I've been tranked; the will is there, but the power is not. I'm in some kind of evil Happy Land, where everything is provided before I can ask for it or even decide if I really want it.
An hour on the desk with Julie yesterday. Can you believe it? It had been at least six weeks. (No, I've not been counting.) It was not intentional, though: Tammy switched names instead of duties on the schedule, so I got Angie's usual slot. I knew I'd be going on the desk at ten, but I hadn't looked for my partner, because it just hasn't mattered in a long time; but when I saw Julie amble out there after checking the schedule I bolted from my desk and doubel-checked. I was glad, and nearly petrified. Tammy's separating us from mutual desk duty had probably been deliberate. I doubt that Julie had asked for it, but this happening dispelled--or quieted-my itchy paranoia. James and Mike were on the desk. James was busy at the near station, Mike was not, when I followed Julie out, but Julie stood at the counter beside James, waiting for his seat. Mike left his when I approached him. The door had barely closed behind James when Julie followed. I thought she might be going to get the leasebook cart, and I was miffed that I hadn't gotten it first, but she came back empty-handed. That's when I got the cart. I spent the next half-hour shelving, looking up occasionally to see if Julie needed help. Julie called me over once, and spoke to me once more while I shelved to let me know she was going to the workroom to find a book for a patron. After I'd put up all the leasebooks, I rolled the cart back to the workroom then sat silently at the desk a few feet from Julie, glasses off. It was a long, challenging half-hour. The only discomfort I can name was a hopefulness. If she were uncomfortable, I was glad. My conscience was not bothering me, though I can't say that of now. I wanted more than anything to stare at her, but that's not how I wanted to make her uncomfortable, and I couldn't afford to let her think I was mooning over her. That's why my conscience wasn't bothering me: I'm under a mandate to not show any feelings toward her, and there is nothing I can say to her or interest I can show in her that could point to anything but those feelings, because that would certainly be the motive behind them. My hands are tied. I don't recall which of us first ran from the desk upon relief, but I was all but staring at the clock on the wall behind us for the last twenty minutes.
Mike had an hour out there with Julie today, and I was jealous (or envious--I forget the distinction sometimes). I was shelving the DVD's and could hear them talking. Actually, it was her talking to him that really made my gut churn, but I calmed it somewhat when I realized she wouldn't be talking to him if he weren't "safe"--i.e., not a candidate for romance. It was still hard hearing her voice. Later, I had a holds hour while Julie sat at her desk with her headphones and a/v. I sat directly in front of her, at Angie's desk (mine has no barcode scanner). As I approached I was almost pointedly careful not to look at Julie. I'd brought no music, deliberately, in order to challenge my tolerance. But Julie never spoke except to Greta about a Harry Potter movie she was apparently watching. She's a big Harry Potter fan (not I!). When she put on the her very fake English accent to quote a line, I cringed and muttered, "Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet" from behind clenched teeth until she stopped. All this within the first two hours, and there were still two more to go. Tomorrow will likely be worse, though. I'd rather leave Julie there for the last four hours on a Tuesday than to spend the last four hours on Wednesday without her.
James suggested that this...entity...that has made The Admittance for me is taking its "last, best shot" at keeping me after Julie, so I have to, reflexively, take mine at it. But it's as if I've been tranked; the will is there, but the power is not. I'm in some kind of evil Happy Land, where everything is provided before I can ask for it or even decide if I really want it.
An hour on the desk with Julie yesterday. Can you believe it? It had been at least six weeks. (No, I've not been counting.) It was not intentional, though: Tammy switched names instead of duties on the schedule, so I got Angie's usual slot. I knew I'd be going on the desk at ten, but I hadn't looked for my partner, because it just hasn't mattered in a long time; but when I saw Julie amble out there after checking the schedule I bolted from my desk and doubel-checked. I was glad, and nearly petrified. Tammy's separating us from mutual desk duty had probably been deliberate. I doubt that Julie had asked for it, but this happening dispelled--or quieted-my itchy paranoia. James and Mike were on the desk. James was busy at the near station, Mike was not, when I followed Julie out, but Julie stood at the counter beside James, waiting for his seat. Mike left his when I approached him. The door had barely closed behind James when Julie followed. I thought she might be going to get the leasebook cart, and I was miffed that I hadn't gotten it first, but she came back empty-handed. That's when I got the cart. I spent the next half-hour shelving, looking up occasionally to see if Julie needed help. Julie called me over once, and spoke to me once more while I shelved to let me know she was going to the workroom to find a book for a patron. After I'd put up all the leasebooks, I rolled the cart back to the workroom then sat silently at the desk a few feet from Julie, glasses off. It was a long, challenging half-hour. The only discomfort I can name was a hopefulness. If she were uncomfortable, I was glad. My conscience was not bothering me, though I can't say that of now. I wanted more than anything to stare at her, but that's not how I wanted to make her uncomfortable, and I couldn't afford to let her think I was mooning over her. That's why my conscience wasn't bothering me: I'm under a mandate to not show any feelings toward her, and there is nothing I can say to her or interest I can show in her that could point to anything but those feelings, because that would certainly be the motive behind them. My hands are tied. I don't recall which of us first ran from the desk upon relief, but I was all but staring at the clock on the wall behind us for the last twenty minutes.
Mike had an hour out there with Julie today, and I was jealous (or envious--I forget the distinction sometimes). I was shelving the DVD's and could hear them talking. Actually, it was her talking to him that really made my gut churn, but I calmed it somewhat when I realized she wouldn't be talking to him if he weren't "safe"--i.e., not a candidate for romance. It was still hard hearing her voice. Later, I had a holds hour while Julie sat at her desk with her headphones and a/v. I sat directly in front of her, at Angie's desk (mine has no barcode scanner). As I approached I was almost pointedly careful not to look at Julie. I'd brought no music, deliberately, in order to challenge my tolerance. But Julie never spoke except to Greta about a Harry Potter movie she was apparently watching. She's a big Harry Potter fan (not I!). When she put on the her very fake English accent to quote a line, I cringed and muttered, "Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet" from behind clenched teeth until she stopped. All this within the first two hours, and there were still two more to go. Tomorrow will likely be worse, though. I'd rather leave Julie there for the last four hours on a Tuesday than to spend the last four hours on Wednesday without her.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Whose Fool Am I? (2/16/09 Monday)
There's really nothing I can do about this, is there? A finality with no closure. There seems no reasoning left to do. Is this the religion to which I predicted I'd succumb? In what am I putting my faith? To what have I given over this problem? I didn't resign to this, so how could this be what I wanted? How could it seem such a certainty? I'm fighting this blind faith with no weapons, weapons I allowed to be taken from me simply by saying I'm in love with Julie. I say "allowed," but that is boasting a control I just did not have. The only fight I have left is for that control back. Over what? Over what have I ever had control? Is that the real admittance?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
NIP in Bloom (2/14/09 Saturday)
As my interpretive powers have been stunned by the magnitude of The Admittance, the best I can do is recount my day.
I lingered in bed only a few minutes after the alarm and lingered on the toilet longer than usual and necessary, unblinking, muttering, "What am I going to do?" I showered but didn't shave. Shaving's become an occasional thing--only once this week. Ate my granola and drank some of my coffee in front of the penultimate episode of The Prisoner, then finished the coffee staring out the window. Got up suddenly in the middle of that revery to retrieve a ring, a spoon ring I bought as a teenager in the seventies. I'd last worn it the day I met Julie at Stir Crazy. I'd been wearing it a couple months to that point. I couldn't take it off quickly enough when I got home. I slipped in onto my left middle finger, the only one on which it would fit. I somehow managed to leave on time--7:45 to get to the library by 8:30. I actually did make it on time, though my legs felt heavy after sixty miles already this week. Traffic was very light, and the lights were efficient. I was off the handlebars for most of the last half mile. Julie would not be there till 9:30; still, I looked for her car.
I changed. Last night I changed my mind on what I'd wear today. Halfway through the day I realized I was wearing what I wore to the coffee shop--and red on Valentines's Day--and the ring. I managed to finger-comb my hair into decent shape.
Till ten I'd be backup. From the bookbin I pulled only four books--the 24/7 must have behaved overnight--and they turned out to have been due three years and three months before. Discarded two of them for being hoplessly obsolete. When I knew Julie had arrived I contrived to be out of the workroom when she reached her desk by taking the branch mail to the back to pack, but my timing was perfectly awful: The hall was blocked by Julie's approach. With a small dramatic flourish, she made way for me, but the hall might as well have been the eye of a needle. With my cart of books I banged nearly everything in sight--carts, walls, my own feet--trying to make more room for myself to get past her. A swift glance, a muttered thanks and my back was all I gave her as I passed. When I returned to the backup station she was gone from the workroom. I took my glasses off in case she returned.
The next hour I deleted holds while she was on the desk. Safe though it seemed, I still put in the earbuds and put on Singles Going Steady. I was only a few songs in when Julie came back, looking for a hold. She leaned over my desk to look at what I'd pulled from the holds shelf out front. She wore mascara and her hair was up off her neck. I had just deleted the hold she was looking for, and she took it. I came out to the desk next hour glad to see her busy with a patron. I relieved Bethany instead, pulled the chair from the desk, sat, and looked at the thick twist of hair high up Julie's neck. I watched her go when Megan relieved her.
It was a long hour, but not the longest of the three I spent out there. Most of that hour my glasses were off. I brooded on The Admittance and the apparently absolute impossibility of its resolution. Despite only the rare blink, a slow gathering of tears maintained the moisture in my eyes. I discreetly dabbed them once or twice. The second hour, I was nearly catatonic, but my last hour on the desk was a constant irritation of patrons. I left there to be Julie's backup for my last hour of the day. She was out there solo since Judy left early because of pain from a fall yesterday. Julie called me out, I dealt with a patron and left, walking behind Julie toward the door. "Thank you, Dion," she said after I'd passed. I turned my head but not my body to say, "You're welcome" to a profile and a cocked ear. I thought of the other day's "Hello, by the way."
At five o'clock I was changing for the bike before Julie was off the desk. I wanted to see her again but could think of no excuse to go back to the workroom. I pulled my jacket from the hanger, which tangled with the adjacent one. I couldn't shake them apart so I hurled them both against the wall. One of them broke into three pieces. I didn't feel a whole lot better, and I didn't want to go home to the responsibility of the kids, whom I couldn't even tell about my day. That's why I stayed up three hours past their bedtime to write this.
I lingered in bed only a few minutes after the alarm and lingered on the toilet longer than usual and necessary, unblinking, muttering, "What am I going to do?" I showered but didn't shave. Shaving's become an occasional thing--only once this week. Ate my granola and drank some of my coffee in front of the penultimate episode of The Prisoner, then finished the coffee staring out the window. Got up suddenly in the middle of that revery to retrieve a ring, a spoon ring I bought as a teenager in the seventies. I'd last worn it the day I met Julie at Stir Crazy. I'd been wearing it a couple months to that point. I couldn't take it off quickly enough when I got home. I slipped in onto my left middle finger, the only one on which it would fit. I somehow managed to leave on time--7:45 to get to the library by 8:30. I actually did make it on time, though my legs felt heavy after sixty miles already this week. Traffic was very light, and the lights were efficient. I was off the handlebars for most of the last half mile. Julie would not be there till 9:30; still, I looked for her car.
I changed. Last night I changed my mind on what I'd wear today. Halfway through the day I realized I was wearing what I wore to the coffee shop--and red on Valentines's Day--and the ring. I managed to finger-comb my hair into decent shape.
Till ten I'd be backup. From the bookbin I pulled only four books--the 24/7 must have behaved overnight--and they turned out to have been due three years and three months before. Discarded two of them for being hoplessly obsolete. When I knew Julie had arrived I contrived to be out of the workroom when she reached her desk by taking the branch mail to the back to pack, but my timing was perfectly awful: The hall was blocked by Julie's approach. With a small dramatic flourish, she made way for me, but the hall might as well have been the eye of a needle. With my cart of books I banged nearly everything in sight--carts, walls, my own feet--trying to make more room for myself to get past her. A swift glance, a muttered thanks and my back was all I gave her as I passed. When I returned to the backup station she was gone from the workroom. I took my glasses off in case she returned.
The next hour I deleted holds while she was on the desk. Safe though it seemed, I still put in the earbuds and put on Singles Going Steady. I was only a few songs in when Julie came back, looking for a hold. She leaned over my desk to look at what I'd pulled from the holds shelf out front. She wore mascara and her hair was up off her neck. I had just deleted the hold she was looking for, and she took it. I came out to the desk next hour glad to see her busy with a patron. I relieved Bethany instead, pulled the chair from the desk, sat, and looked at the thick twist of hair high up Julie's neck. I watched her go when Megan relieved her.
It was a long hour, but not the longest of the three I spent out there. Most of that hour my glasses were off. I brooded on The Admittance and the apparently absolute impossibility of its resolution. Despite only the rare blink, a slow gathering of tears maintained the moisture in my eyes. I discreetly dabbed them once or twice. The second hour, I was nearly catatonic, but my last hour on the desk was a constant irritation of patrons. I left there to be Julie's backup for my last hour of the day. She was out there solo since Judy left early because of pain from a fall yesterday. Julie called me out, I dealt with a patron and left, walking behind Julie toward the door. "Thank you, Dion," she said after I'd passed. I turned my head but not my body to say, "You're welcome" to a profile and a cocked ear. I thought of the other day's "Hello, by the way."
At five o'clock I was changing for the bike before Julie was off the desk. I wanted to see her again but could think of no excuse to go back to the workroom. I pulled my jacket from the hanger, which tangled with the adjacent one. I couldn't shake them apart so I hurled them both against the wall. One of them broke into three pieces. I didn't feel a whole lot better, and I didn't want to go home to the responsibility of the kids, whom I couldn't even tell about my day. That's why I stayed up three hours past their bedtime to write this.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Only Four-Letter Word That Is Truly a Curse (2/13/09 Friday)
It's a struggle, and I'm letting go. I'm not letting go of Julie, but of the denial that I'm in love with her. I must be. Everything has been working ironically because everything I've convinced myself of is a lie. I don't know what love is, but the good feelings feel bad, and the bad feelings feel good, and soon I won't know which is which. Every thought seems a contradiction of itself; every feeling hurts. Can I be in love with Julie? God--bitter, spiteful god that you are--help me. How can this be true? How could it be anything else? What else could be so impervious to logic? If I am in love with Julie I am also in serious trouble, for it will never be requited. And if it was hard to be around her before, it will be impossible from now on. I say that love is impervious to logic, but when I say I'm in love with Julie, nearly everything I've thought or felt or denied thinking or feeling about Julie makes sense. But--oh, I don't want this! Damn it all!
I can't judge my day today at work as good, bad, neutral or anywhere in between. The more I tried to ignore Julie, the more I just wanted to stare at her, which I did at least twice to her face. Before I'd yet seen her today I knew she was to relieve me from the window. I didn't want to be there when she did, so I went to the 24/7 room to scour the bins for books, though I'd done it just the minute before. As I emerged I knew peripherally where she was, standing between her desk and the window station, facing me. From eight feet away I finally fully raised my head and gazed levelly at her, daring her to speak to me. I would not have been the first to speak. That was not a determination; I simply was content to stare at her face, and it was up to her to remove it. "Dion," she said, cautiously testing a smile, "I'm ready to take over for you at the window." "Okay," I said. It wasn't hard to suppress a smile--I didn't feel it--but the corners of my mouth twitched almost imperceptibly upward. "Thank you." "You're welcome," she said as we both turned from each other.
At three o'clock I relieved her from the desk. When I approached she was turned from me and the desk, talking to Jen. A patron approached the desk, and Julie partially turned toward them, but I stepped up and reached for their checkouts. Julie's turn to see whose arm had intervened and my step closer to intercept the patron brought us face to face, barely a foot apart. I stared down into her right eye (it was very dark) and said in a strong, clear voice, "I'm up." "You are?" she said. I didn't answer or move. She slid off the chair and left. It was then I knew I just wanted to stare at her. And it's about all I can do and not betray my affection. Love. God, not love!
I can't judge my day today at work as good, bad, neutral or anywhere in between. The more I tried to ignore Julie, the more I just wanted to stare at her, which I did at least twice to her face. Before I'd yet seen her today I knew she was to relieve me from the window. I didn't want to be there when she did, so I went to the 24/7 room to scour the bins for books, though I'd done it just the minute before. As I emerged I knew peripherally where she was, standing between her desk and the window station, facing me. From eight feet away I finally fully raised my head and gazed levelly at her, daring her to speak to me. I would not have been the first to speak. That was not a determination; I simply was content to stare at her face, and it was up to her to remove it. "Dion," she said, cautiously testing a smile, "I'm ready to take over for you at the window." "Okay," I said. It wasn't hard to suppress a smile--I didn't feel it--but the corners of my mouth twitched almost imperceptibly upward. "Thank you." "You're welcome," she said as we both turned from each other.
At three o'clock I relieved her from the desk. When I approached she was turned from me and the desk, talking to Jen. A patron approached the desk, and Julie partially turned toward them, but I stepped up and reached for their checkouts. Julie's turn to see whose arm had intervened and my step closer to intercept the patron brought us face to face, barely a foot apart. I stared down into her right eye (it was very dark) and said in a strong, clear voice, "I'm up." "You are?" she said. I didn't answer or move. She slid off the chair and left. It was then I knew I just wanted to stare at her. And it's about all I can do and not betray my affection. Love. God, not love!
Friday, February 13, 2009
But the Arrogance of the Individual Is Kryptonite (2/12/09 Thursday)
I was in unusually high spirits at work yesterday. It was easy avoiding Julie, and I was careful not to wish for more of a challenge. But the same south wind that pushed me to work put a palm to my forehead as I swung wildly at it on the way home. It took me nearly an hour, rarely getting into third gear. By the time I finally turned into the complex I was thinking bitter thoughts of Julie's rejection, rueing these stupid roles pressed upon us. Wouldn't I like the chance to be "flattered" by a "nice girl." Dammit, I've been round and round this: If she didn't feel it, she didn't feel it. Why do I still want her to? Do I still want some payoff on my investment? or is there really something in Julie for me?
The wind has not abated this morning--over twenty miles an hour from the west--but I'm not on the bike today. Walked up to Ben Franklin, the gusts quickening my steps. I thought that if I left my feet at the moment a gust were to shove me I might be carried on it for a while, like the leaves that were racing past me, but I tried it and didn't get the slightest lift. Bad timing, I guess.
I took Julie's picture to Ben Franklin. I'm still working on how to attach it to the fender so that I can expose it when I ride and cover it at work. I thought I might find a small photo pocket. I didn't find one at the photo shop yesterday when I picked up the picture) or get it laminated. I'd then attach it at the corners to the fender with velcro tabs and simply flip it back and forth. I left Ben Franklin with only a small paper cutter. We have a laminator at work, but I don't know how to use it. Besides, my conscience isn't likely to let me use company equipment for my own pleasure, especially given that the pleasure is illicit in that the photo, if it were seen would, once again be a violation of Gay Lynn's trust. Of course, despite my efforts at discretion, someone could still flip the picture over and leave it exposed, and then even move my bike as they (Chris) did before under the tag scanner by the back door so everyone could get a gander. But that would be to assume that anyone at work still reads the blog. The more accurate assumption might be that they think they killed the blog. Ah, but the arrogance of the mob is no match for the righteousness of the individual.
The wind has not abated this morning--over twenty miles an hour from the west--but I'm not on the bike today. Walked up to Ben Franklin, the gusts quickening my steps. I thought that if I left my feet at the moment a gust were to shove me I might be carried on it for a while, like the leaves that were racing past me, but I tried it and didn't get the slightest lift. Bad timing, I guess.
I took Julie's picture to Ben Franklin. I'm still working on how to attach it to the fender so that I can expose it when I ride and cover it at work. I thought I might find a small photo pocket. I didn't find one at the photo shop yesterday when I picked up the picture) or get it laminated. I'd then attach it at the corners to the fender with velcro tabs and simply flip it back and forth. I left Ben Franklin with only a small paper cutter. We have a laminator at work, but I don't know how to use it. Besides, my conscience isn't likely to let me use company equipment for my own pleasure, especially given that the pleasure is illicit in that the photo, if it were seen would, once again be a violation of Gay Lynn's trust. Of course, despite my efforts at discretion, someone could still flip the picture over and leave it exposed, and then even move my bike as they (Chris) did before under the tag scanner by the back door so everyone could get a gander. But that would be to assume that anyone at work still reads the blog. The more accurate assumption might be that they think they killed the blog. Ah, but the arrogance of the mob is no match for the righteousness of the individual.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
As in "...it in the bud!" (2/10/09 Tuesday)
Monday morning Mike asked about my weekend, so of course I had to tell him about my outing with Jan. We were at the discharge stations before opening. Julie was in and out of the workroom, and was in and very close by when I said, "...but she lives out of town, so we won't get to see each other but a couple times a month, maybe." At the time, I was sure that would sound like I was seeing someone, though now, when I think about it, it could as easily have meant Colin or Kevyn. the idea, of course, was to induce jealousy. At the same time, I was worried she'd decide with relief that I was over her. It could go either way.
I told Angie, too, that I had had a "coffee date." "How did that go?" "It went great," I said, "a million times better than the last one." I'd often wondered how much Angie actually knew, and her laughter and "Oh, lord, yes!" told me that. But from whom or what? From Julie or the blog? I would prefer she'd consulted the blog, but she's not a reader or a snoop.
Thomas brought the second mail early today, just after noon and my sitting down to lunch. He'd come right on the heels of the first mail, so Tammy told him to cool his jets while Mary Lou at backup finished unpacking. You don't have to tell Thomas twice to chill. He sat down at the next table and engaged me about Julie. I all but spilled my guts, or at least my brains. I told him about the "date" and how I'd told her I wanted to get to know her better (leaving out "fascinating") and how shocked she seemed to be at my request. He said, "Did you apologize?" "For what?" "For surprising her like that. For coming on so strong." How smart and perfect that would have been, too, if only I hadn't been hurting. Tammy gave Thomas the go-ahead and he went back to his truck. By then people were streaming in on the next shift, and there was no way I'd be finished lunch and out of there before Julie, usually a couple minutes late, arrived. I had just finished my sandwich when I heard her voice in greeting of Thomas at the back door. In the time it would have taken her to open the fridge door to put lunch in, she still hadn't shown. She'd have gone to her desk straightaway, but she'd be here for her ice and water in a few minutes. I usually sat with my back to the kitchen, so I could both see out the windows and avoid seeing anyone else. I finished my yogurt and stood to gather my containers, journal and manuscript when I heard the relase of the freezer door and the clinks in the glass. I slowed, fumbling with my pens and bookmark as the footsteps crossed to the sink and water floated the ice. I had a handle on my stuff as the footsteps reversed. "Hello, by the way," said Julie, still walking away, I noticed when I finally turned and said a flat "Hello." Now, as I am trying to maintain a strict non-interpretation policy (NIP) in regard to Julie's actions, I will not speculate on that greeting--but boy do I ever want to sink my teeth into it!
I told Angie, too, that I had had a "coffee date." "How did that go?" "It went great," I said, "a million times better than the last one." I'd often wondered how much Angie actually knew, and her laughter and "Oh, lord, yes!" told me that. But from whom or what? From Julie or the blog? I would prefer she'd consulted the blog, but she's not a reader or a snoop.
Thomas brought the second mail early today, just after noon and my sitting down to lunch. He'd come right on the heels of the first mail, so Tammy told him to cool his jets while Mary Lou at backup finished unpacking. You don't have to tell Thomas twice to chill. He sat down at the next table and engaged me about Julie. I all but spilled my guts, or at least my brains. I told him about the "date" and how I'd told her I wanted to get to know her better (leaving out "fascinating") and how shocked she seemed to be at my request. He said, "Did you apologize?" "For what?" "For surprising her like that. For coming on so strong." How smart and perfect that would have been, too, if only I hadn't been hurting. Tammy gave Thomas the go-ahead and he went back to his truck. By then people were streaming in on the next shift, and there was no way I'd be finished lunch and out of there before Julie, usually a couple minutes late, arrived. I had just finished my sandwich when I heard her voice in greeting of Thomas at the back door. In the time it would have taken her to open the fridge door to put lunch in, she still hadn't shown. She'd have gone to her desk straightaway, but she'd be here for her ice and water in a few minutes. I usually sat with my back to the kitchen, so I could both see out the windows and avoid seeing anyone else. I finished my yogurt and stood to gather my containers, journal and manuscript when I heard the relase of the freezer door and the clinks in the glass. I slowed, fumbling with my pens and bookmark as the footsteps crossed to the sink and water floated the ice. I had a handle on my stuff as the footsteps reversed. "Hello, by the way," said Julie, still walking away, I noticed when I finally turned and said a flat "Hello." Now, as I am trying to maintain a strict non-interpretation policy (NIP) in regard to Julie's actions, I will not speculate on that greeting--but boy do I ever want to sink my teeth into it!
Monday, February 9, 2009
Not a Train In Sight (2/08/09 Sunday)
Up and ready early, I warmed up the computer to post a couple entries. I checked my email first. Jan had written: She was going to be late; she had stayed up very late (the email had been sent at 3:34 a.m.) and needed some sleep. She'd call around noon. But I was ready and wanted to start my day. I replied as much and gave her my cell number.
It being winter, I dressed for it--t-shirt under shirt under light wool jersey under Gore-Tex rain jacket, and cycling shorts under rain pants. It must've been close to sixty when I stepped out with the bike at eleven. I didn't feel like peeling anything off, and didn't. I stopped on the next block to order two wallet prints of Julie at the photo shop. Four miles more up the road I stopped at Book People. They'd left a message I hadn't quite understood about Flemington. The paperback was out of print, they told me now, but they could get a first from Britain for about forty bucks total. I told them to go for it. Outside, I unzipped and untucked but did not peel. I locked up at the Belmont library and changed inside. Trying to manuever in that tiny stall reminded me of my city hall days when I had a similar space in which to do the same thing every morning. I sat on the toilet to remove my shoes, and stood on them to remove my pants and shorts. I replaced them with my "ass pants." I removed the jersey and Gore-tex, untucked and unbuttoned the shirt, left the t-shirt in. The shirt was green-khaki canvas, the t-shirt a chocolate brown. I replaced the bike shoes with brown Eco-Sneaks. I crammed the excess clothing in the saddle bag after removing the canvas satchel and slinging it across my shoulder, strapped the bike shoes on the rack where the Eco-Sneaks had been, and walked up to Cary Street. It was close to noon. I bought four CD's at Plan-9--Play by Magazine, because I wanted to hear "The Light Pours Out of Me"; The Plastic Ono Band, because Emma wanted to hear "Working Class Hero"; Taking Tiger Mountain by Eno for every bit of it; and Neu! because it was playing in the store and I couldn't stop my whole body from reacting to it. I went to Jean-Jacques from there.
I had nearly finished my second (because it was free) cup of coffee and was pinching together the crumbs off a banana nut muffin to drop in my mouth when Jan burst in. "So you got my messages," she said, breathing heavily.
"No," I said, though she didn't seem to hear me as she sat down beside me at the small, square table.
"So, what have you been doing with your morning?"
"Oh, just wandering around down here."
"I need some protein," she said. "And coffee." She hopped up and peered into the pastry cabinet.
I looked at at her. Except for the athletic shoes, she was dressed less for walking than for a casual meeting--jeans and a form-fitting purple-and-white-striped mid-sleeved t-shirt that just reached the top of her jeans. I admired both her form and her style as she bent to peer through the glass. I would guess she was at least five years my senior, but she dressed much younger, though not in that pathetic pretense of clinging to adolescence. She dressed as herself. What she wore she wore honestly, and that's what I was admiring.
Now, I don't have a photographic memory; I can't recount each word Jan and I exchanged. We were together five hours and shared a lot of words, sitting in Jean-Jacques and walking through the neighborhood. We made all sorts of connections with each other, and never was I uncomfortable. Near the end Jan asked if she'd "talked my ear off." We had to step off the curb to skirt the crowd around a street "magician."
I answered, "No. You talked a lot, but you had something to say. Some people who talk a lot seem to be talking to hear their own voice, but you have ideas." I tried to apologize for "being..."--and couldn't think of the word--
"Vulnerable," she supplied. I had just finished telling her about the blog fiasco and was feeling abashed and exposed at having over-divulged. Vulnerable was not the word I was after, but maybe it was the word I meant, so I didn't protest.
She did not accept my apology. "Men," she said, and I was suddenly alert for a generalization, "seem to want only one thing." We were weaving our way single-file, me in the lead, toward Plan-9. "I can tell you're not like that," she added. "I think it's important to develop a friendship first."
"Oh, I agree," I said, ducking under a low branch of a Bradford pear. "There's nothing before friendship."
In the store I showed Jan Suzanne Vega's first album, thinking she'd like it. She'd never heard it. She pulled it up on Pandora on her iPhone and listened to some of it. She decided to get it.
But I had to go. I had at least half an hour on the bike and sunset was only twenty-five minutes away. Besides, the girls would be there soon. Parting was awkward--they always are for me, being unsupplied with the conventional social graces--but this was maybe not so much about that as the deepening of our bond. On the bottom step of the Plan-9 basement she reached across and patted the side of my arm. But, not satisfied, she offered a hug. We parted with promises of keeping in touch. Never had those sounded more like a commitments than a niceties.
The library was closed. I crammed all the clothing I could in the saddlebag, wore the rest, rolled my jeans up to my knees, and, once again, rode off into the sunset.
It being winter, I dressed for it--t-shirt under shirt under light wool jersey under Gore-Tex rain jacket, and cycling shorts under rain pants. It must've been close to sixty when I stepped out with the bike at eleven. I didn't feel like peeling anything off, and didn't. I stopped on the next block to order two wallet prints of Julie at the photo shop. Four miles more up the road I stopped at Book People. They'd left a message I hadn't quite understood about Flemington. The paperback was out of print, they told me now, but they could get a first from Britain for about forty bucks total. I told them to go for it. Outside, I unzipped and untucked but did not peel. I locked up at the Belmont library and changed inside. Trying to manuever in that tiny stall reminded me of my city hall days when I had a similar space in which to do the same thing every morning. I sat on the toilet to remove my shoes, and stood on them to remove my pants and shorts. I replaced them with my "ass pants." I removed the jersey and Gore-tex, untucked and unbuttoned the shirt, left the t-shirt in. The shirt was green-khaki canvas, the t-shirt a chocolate brown. I replaced the bike shoes with brown Eco-Sneaks. I crammed the excess clothing in the saddle bag after removing the canvas satchel and slinging it across my shoulder, strapped the bike shoes on the rack where the Eco-Sneaks had been, and walked up to Cary Street. It was close to noon. I bought four CD's at Plan-9--Play by Magazine, because I wanted to hear "The Light Pours Out of Me"; The Plastic Ono Band, because Emma wanted to hear "Working Class Hero"; Taking Tiger Mountain by Eno for every bit of it; and Neu! because it was playing in the store and I couldn't stop my whole body from reacting to it. I went to Jean-Jacques from there.
I had nearly finished my second (because it was free) cup of coffee and was pinching together the crumbs off a banana nut muffin to drop in my mouth when Jan burst in. "So you got my messages," she said, breathing heavily.
"No," I said, though she didn't seem to hear me as she sat down beside me at the small, square table.
"So, what have you been doing with your morning?"
"Oh, just wandering around down here."
"I need some protein," she said. "And coffee." She hopped up and peered into the pastry cabinet.
I looked at at her. Except for the athletic shoes, she was dressed less for walking than for a casual meeting--jeans and a form-fitting purple-and-white-striped mid-sleeved t-shirt that just reached the top of her jeans. I admired both her form and her style as she bent to peer through the glass. I would guess she was at least five years my senior, but she dressed much younger, though not in that pathetic pretense of clinging to adolescence. She dressed as herself. What she wore she wore honestly, and that's what I was admiring.
Now, I don't have a photographic memory; I can't recount each word Jan and I exchanged. We were together five hours and shared a lot of words, sitting in Jean-Jacques and walking through the neighborhood. We made all sorts of connections with each other, and never was I uncomfortable. Near the end Jan asked if she'd "talked my ear off." We had to step off the curb to skirt the crowd around a street "magician."
I answered, "No. You talked a lot, but you had something to say. Some people who talk a lot seem to be talking to hear their own voice, but you have ideas." I tried to apologize for "being..."--and couldn't think of the word--
"Vulnerable," she supplied. I had just finished telling her about the blog fiasco and was feeling abashed and exposed at having over-divulged. Vulnerable was not the word I was after, but maybe it was the word I meant, so I didn't protest.
She did not accept my apology. "Men," she said, and I was suddenly alert for a generalization, "seem to want only one thing." We were weaving our way single-file, me in the lead, toward Plan-9. "I can tell you're not like that," she added. "I think it's important to develop a friendship first."
"Oh, I agree," I said, ducking under a low branch of a Bradford pear. "There's nothing before friendship."
In the store I showed Jan Suzanne Vega's first album, thinking she'd like it. She'd never heard it. She pulled it up on Pandora on her iPhone and listened to some of it. She decided to get it.
But I had to go. I had at least half an hour on the bike and sunset was only twenty-five minutes away. Besides, the girls would be there soon. Parting was awkward--they always are for me, being unsupplied with the conventional social graces--but this was maybe not so much about that as the deepening of our bond. On the bottom step of the Plan-9 basement she reached across and patted the side of my arm. But, not satisfied, she offered a hug. We parted with promises of keeping in touch. Never had those sounded more like a commitments than a niceties.
The library was closed. I crammed all the clothing I could in the saddlebag, wore the rest, rolled my jeans up to my knees, and, once again, rode off into the sunset.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Frankentale--Preface (2/07/09 Saturday)
Though I've professed to myself, Kevyn, James, and Stacey that whatever happens with Jan happens and will not be adorned with hope, I am excited to be seeing her again. There is no spark of romance, just a feeling of newness, of stepping off in a new direction not simply without fear but with ready anticipation. Call that hope if you like, but that would be premature, and I want nothing about this to be premature. Everything in its time. But as I was showering I thought it would be nice to have a tale to tell Monday if anyone should care to ask about my weekend. And I would want Julie to hear it. (The audience sighs and shakes its head.) In the moment, at the bakery, I will make nothing of anything, and afterwards, on paper, I will subdue the event in reportage, but Monday, at work, I will breathe a life into it, deservingly or not. I'm a storyteller, after all.
Nover (2/06/09 Friday)
Thursday night I had a desk hour with Jennifer. I thought I owed her an apology for thinking she had been the original snitch of the blog. Jennifer wouldn't have known this, because I never sent that email invitation, of course, Chris' conscience having stepped in at the nick of time to urge his confession (if only it had stepped in earlier to obviate the need for a confession), but Tammy warned her I was gunning for her. Ever since, I've felt the need to apologize for the distress this may have caused her. Well, I tried to apologize--in fact, I must be given credit for doing so, even it ws accepted as if I were trying to return a borrowed tissue. It wasn't grace or humility that didn't want my apology, but fear and embarrassment. She actually seemed to physically shrink when I mentioned the "blog...mess" and waved her hands across each other in front of her face. "It's over, she said sharply over my words. I said, "I know it may be water under the bridge, but I just thought I owed you an apology for blaming you for something you didn't do," the sentence was woven through with her "No, it's okay, it's over, it's good, it's all good." That was a first for me--browbeating someone with an apology. It seems only a guilty conscience would so vociferously refuse an apology. Makes me glad I opened the wound. "Over," she'd said. Just like that, huh? For whom?
Encountered Thomas at the back door on my lunch break as I was gathering the manuscript and journal book. "Where's the picture?" was the first thing he said to me. (I still park the bike by the back door.) "I was forced to remove it." "What?" he said, the expulsion of the word recoiling his head and shoulders. "Yeah," I said, "but I'm puttin' it back on there." Thomas howled. "Ah, you go, Dion!" With his handtruck piled with book bins he trailed me up the hall laughing. "Man, you are all right!"
I have plans tomorrow morning, and it's not scooter soccer with Matt. Jan emailed me today to say she'd be in town. I called her when I got home, and we set up a rendezvous for ten-thirty at Jean-Jacques.
Encountered Thomas at the back door on my lunch break as I was gathering the manuscript and journal book. "Where's the picture?" was the first thing he said to me. (I still park the bike by the back door.) "I was forced to remove it." "What?" he said, the expulsion of the word recoiling his head and shoulders. "Yeah," I said, "but I'm puttin' it back on there." Thomas howled. "Ah, you go, Dion!" With his handtruck piled with book bins he trailed me up the hall laughing. "Man, you are all right!"
I have plans tomorrow morning, and it's not scooter soccer with Matt. Jan emailed me today to say she'd be in town. I called her when I got home, and we set up a rendezvous for ten-thirty at Jean-Jacques.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Fungs (2/05/09 Thursday)
The fun came at me yesterday. Scared out of my wits, I ran. Avoiding Julie had been too easy this half day of concurrent schedule, and I was chagrined at the lack of challenge. It was after three, and I was shelving in Children's knowing Julie was at her desk with her headphones on, listening for flaws in a CD or DVD. At the top of the next hour I'd be going to lunch, and afterwards to the desk as she left for home. I hate it when scheduling makes my mission so easy. How can my point be made when it's shadowed by routine?
Bemoaning this from my knees as I shelved the easies, a stack of books landed heavily beside me. I looked before she unbent, at the lyart hair fallen across her face and down the billowed v-neck of her sweater at the curve of her breasts. Both the recognition and the compromising view ordered my glance quickly away.
"Here, Dion. Shelve these," said Julie with mock officiousness then a laugh to hedge her tone to ensure I knew it was a joke. I laughed meekly, and she laughed again more appreciatively.
"What makes these books so special?" I said.
"Well, I read this section earlier, and these books that go there were staring at me from the sorting cart. I knew it wouldn't take long to shelve them."
She was there for ten minutes, the last nine of which my shirt was undone and sleeves pushed up above my elbows to vent my boiling blood. When, done, she walked away, I cursed her. Dammit, I thought to her back, you don't make it easy to ignore you. But, there, exactly, was my challenge and chance to have fun, and those were the words that should have been spoken. I got what I wanted, didn't I? But I wasn't careful how I asked for it: I wasn't aware I was asking.
When I returned with the cart five minutes later, all the while assessing the damage to my strategy caused by this new monkey wrench, I instinctively, against muffled warning, shot a glance down to the last desk. There Julie sat, headphones on, looking at me. She looked away, I looked away. I parked the cart, and at that moment knew I could not possibly stop ignoring her now for fear that she'd think I'd seen a sign of affection. She may have been trusting me again with her silliness, but all I can do about it is nothing, except learn to rejoin her.
Bemoaning this from my knees as I shelved the easies, a stack of books landed heavily beside me. I looked before she unbent, at the lyart hair fallen across her face and down the billowed v-neck of her sweater at the curve of her breasts. Both the recognition and the compromising view ordered my glance quickly away.
"Here, Dion. Shelve these," said Julie with mock officiousness then a laugh to hedge her tone to ensure I knew it was a joke. I laughed meekly, and she laughed again more appreciatively.
"What makes these books so special?" I said.
"Well, I read this section earlier, and these books that go there were staring at me from the sorting cart. I knew it wouldn't take long to shelve them."
She was there for ten minutes, the last nine of which my shirt was undone and sleeves pushed up above my elbows to vent my boiling blood. When, done, she walked away, I cursed her. Dammit, I thought to her back, you don't make it easy to ignore you. But, there, exactly, was my challenge and chance to have fun, and those were the words that should have been spoken. I got what I wanted, didn't I? But I wasn't careful how I asked for it: I wasn't aware I was asking.
When I returned with the cart five minutes later, all the while assessing the damage to my strategy caused by this new monkey wrench, I instinctively, against muffled warning, shot a glance down to the last desk. There Julie sat, headphones on, looking at me. She looked away, I looked away. I parked the cart, and at that moment knew I could not possibly stop ignoring her now for fear that she'd think I'd seen a sign of affection. She may have been trusting me again with her silliness, but all I can do about it is nothing, except learn to rejoin her.
Diaphanous Allusion? (2/04/09 Wednesday)
Julie is invisible again, or almost; I haven't quite gotten back in the swing. If Monday's chill stare wasn't enough, my new attitude prodded me backward, suppressing the conscience that made me uneasy about it before. If I'm really to believe that all this hasn't been about her, as I've professed, then she must truly be made an object--or, maybe, rather, the vehicle on which this project rides. Or would she be the fuel propelling the vehicle? What is she? Not a metaphor, apparently.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Ghost of Reality Future (2/03/09 Tuesday)
James asked me last night, haltingly, carefully, if I really, honestly, "100 percent," wanted to be over Julie. The question mark wasn't off his lips before I answered, emphatically, "No!" So, there, I said it, I have a witness--there's no honest equivocation to rationalize it, to convince my mind to convince my heart. But--if I'm to keep this (whatever "this" is) going I have got to have fun with it. I've emailed Matt hopeful of him still having the Julie picture I emailed him. His would be the only extant copy, since I so diligently destroyed the prints, erased it off the CD, deleted Gay Lynn's email of it, and emptied the bin. I intend to replace it on my bike fender, but this time cover it with a flap that I can velcro closed. It's a taunt, to be sure, but one Julie would never see; if she didn't see it the first time before someone told her, she wouldn't so much as glance at it this time around, having reason already to believe that "danger" over. Having it there before made me feel good, and I got a chuckle rubbing the dirt from her face. It was not a shrine to a goddess. On the cover I'll put something like "Guess Who?" If anyone lifts it they can see underneath, of course, but they'd also be invading my privacy. Where I take the fun from there, I don't know, but I have to have some laughs about it if I'm to minimize the pain; and with the right perspective I can do that.
There was nothing funny yesterday when, after a week away, I walk into the workroom and come face to face with Julie at the bottleneck beside my desk where everyone stops to check the posted schedule. It was a standoff, the briefest yet most steadfast standoff, and I backed away. Our eyes met, and at that moment she struck me as old, at least several years older than I. She seemed to have wrinkles where a week ago there'd been none. She looked tired, if not haggard. I muttered, "Good morning," without a smile and backpedalled into my desk space to let her pass, which she did with neither smile nor word. I was chilled. I did not see her face again, though I was constantly looking for her and would be disappointed if she wasn't there. Still, if she was, I did not look beyond recognition, taking no chances on eye contact. But what had I seen that first time?
There was nothing funny yesterday when, after a week away, I walk into the workroom and come face to face with Julie at the bottleneck beside my desk where everyone stops to check the posted schedule. It was a standoff, the briefest yet most steadfast standoff, and I backed away. Our eyes met, and at that moment she struck me as old, at least several years older than I. She seemed to have wrinkles where a week ago there'd been none. She looked tired, if not haggard. I muttered, "Good morning," without a smile and backpedalled into my desk space to let her pass, which she did with neither smile nor word. I was chilled. I did not see her face again, though I was constantly looking for her and would be disappointed if she wasn't there. Still, if she was, I did not look beyond recognition, taking no chances on eye contact. But what had I seen that first time?
Friday, January 30, 2009
"Polish Me" (1/30/09 Friday)
Here's the weekend, and I'm already seeing Monday. Once the kids show up Saturday, it's a routine slide into work, Julie and dread. My first thought of Julie this morning was of how beautiful she is, and it seemed a strange thought, detached from my feelings for her. She'd become an object. But hadn't she always been that? Hadn't she always been a representation of something other than herself, of something I wanted? Now she seemed even less, just something to enjoy looking at. Is that what I want? Though that detachment has lingered through the morning, its dominance has faded as the dread reminds me of my embarrassment over her power over me and the pride it has cost me.
Julie had never been a sexual being to me. Not only did it seem cart-before-horse, but it would have pulled her down from the pedestal. The plaque on the pedestal: What did it read? Is she still on it? I still do not think of her sexually, but I think less of her in other ways--ways for which I can't fault her but which I can finally move to the category of Irreconcilable Differences--essentially, in the departments of sophistication and depth of intellect. From the foot of the pedestal I would gaze upward past these "faults." Now they are flashing neon that makes her character look garish. Yet still so beautiful.
Julie had never been a sexual being to me. Not only did it seem cart-before-horse, but it would have pulled her down from the pedestal. The plaque on the pedestal: What did it read? Is she still on it? I still do not think of her sexually, but I think less of her in other ways--ways for which I can't fault her but which I can finally move to the category of Irreconcilable Differences--essentially, in the departments of sophistication and depth of intellect. From the foot of the pedestal I would gaze upward past these "faults." Now they are flashing neon that makes her character look garish. Yet still so beautiful.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Square Zero (1/29/09 Thursday)
Came a time when, bitter and frustrated, I wondered if I'd ever actually been fascinated with Julie, and I'd all but convinced myself I had not but had, instead, fabricated the infatuation from the whole cloth of hope. I am less convinced now--that is, I believe that much of the fascination was wishful thinking, but that it eventually took on a life of its own. If I was not initially fascinated, I was nonetheless curious. My curiosity asked questions, paid attention. Answers begged more questions. Now, I likely know Julie better than anyone else at the library save Stacey, a yet she's still an utter mystery. Many people there I don't know at all and am indifferent to knowing; others make sure you know more about them than you'd ever care to. But I can't know Julie enough, even now, when there is absolutely no hope of being anything more to her than a co-worker; when I can't stand to hear her voice; when her presence in the same room forces me to peel off a layer or roll up my sleeves to counter the super-heating manic blood flow. I still want to know--about the brother who died, the boyfriend who influenced her to take up horticulture at Tech, the "mess" that she ran from, how she got into music and why she left. And then there's me: Why did she agree (and so readily) to meet me at Stir Crazy and yet was shocked to hear I had feelings for her? What made her afraid of me after that? Why did she not come to me about the picture and the blog? What does she think now that I've told her how I felt about having to continue to work with her, was still writing the blog, and had been offended by her pre-rejection flattery? If I had these answers would I feel any better? She'd still not be attracted to me or care for my attention. Should I have let this go long ago? I don't let things go; that's ignore-ance. I want things resolved. Thank god I don't have an addiction, huh? I don't know how to stop hurting over Chris' betrayal and Julie's reaction. And it's over for them; they can let go. Well, I'm in between those ends they were holding up, and the load isn't any lighter sitting on my back. Ah, but there I go, bearing the cross, playing at martyrdom. Chin up, stiff upper lip, what what! Doesn't work, any more than does time away from Julie. Or ignoring her. Or thinking about her. Or writing about her. I hate being back at this square, still wondering, wishing, hoping, seething.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Ask King Status the First on His Crowded Throne (1/28/09 Wednesday)
My boredom is only a lack of challenge. The challenge of reading is more than finishing the book, but the challenge it presents to my mind is not often the challenge I seek. If I could define what I seek I could refine my choices to match it. The challenges I can't define are the ones I don't make for myself. They present themselves, unbidden, and I accept them or don't. In setting no schedule, talking to no one, doing no chores, I am not challenging myself, and into the breach steps boredom, a new challenge. Boredom challenges me to fail at putting emotional distance between myself and Julie, which, with mention of her name I have just done. I'm kidding no one--myself, that is. If I took a year off and came back to work and saw Julie, all would be lost. I did not succeed in ignoring her for very long, and now I feel she's won. Won what? I have no regrets anymore over the email I sent her; it said things that had to be said and gotten off my chest. And though I knew damned well she would not respond in any concrete way, I, of course, still hoped. There was no communication at all about it, except for the first few days afterward, when her behavior toward me mirrored mine toward her, tacitly acknowledging my email. Those were my last satisfying days at work, bitterly ironic as that satisfaction was: Her acknowledgment of my deliberate cruelty (though it could only be cruel if she cared) was the rise I used to want to see as a blush. Then Saturday we exchanged smiles and shared a spontaneous laugh, and, suddenly, the status quo was back in power.
Is this a challenge I just can't give up? Am I destined for another humiliation? What's to gain in continuing? What's to lose in giving it up?
Is this a challenge I just can't give up? Am I destined for another humiliation? What's to gain in continuing? What's to lose in giving it up?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Character (1/27/09 Tuesday)
Awoke to the sound of tapping, as of fingernails, on my window. Frozen rain. Then the ironic haunt of Sparks' "Equator" began. I was snug and reluctant to leave bed. I'd placed the alarm clock out of reach, but I could still hear the rhythmic clunk of the clumsy wall clock. I'd gotten to bed before ten the night before, so I knew I'd gotten plenty of sleep. My stomach had been upset then, too, from an overingulgence of coffee, probably, augmented by the rising gorge induced by Rob Catto of Bunker Man, the basest, most reprehensible protagonist I've ever come across. It was much better in the morning (my stomach, not the book), and I've been reading Ring of Bright Water, a swift and certain palliative. I'd finish it off if I didn't expect to need it after I finish Bunker Man, though how Rob Catto can posibly be redeemed as a human being (and that's all there is to read for now, redemption) is beyond my ken. Blackden did not in the least prepare me for Bunker Man.
I took a walk last night, for a little exercise, fresh air and verticality. Today I'll have to take one up to the store for milk and a couple other things for the girl's dinner. The rain, still falling, won't bother me--I'll be well protected--in fact, it will further insulate me from contact. But my dream of forty-eight hours without speaking to someone other than myself will fall a few hours short.
I have not heard from Jan since I last wrote her. I'm not concerned. We don't know each other to take offence. She said she'd contact me when she next came into town, a trip contingent upon a job interview here. Apparently, she hasn't gotten it. Another possibility, which amuses me in the only way it could--ironically--is that she googled me and found my blog and was scared off. The blog, then, will have assumed the role of albatross to prospective relationships, though I would rather consider it a litmus test. The blog and all I've expressed in it are a permanent part of me that must be accepted as such. When I told Stacey of this speculation, she said, "So, are you going to take down the blog?" "No," I said firmly, almost shrilly. "I have nothing to apologize for." Anyone who judges me by the blog as unfit for their company is right, though the reflection is on them.
By the late afternoon yesterday I found myself a bit bored, but not so much that I was willing to dissipate the time in watching tv or noodling on the computer. I hope never to get that bored, though I might end up at the mall to do some clothes shopping. Besides finishing a few books, I don't have any goals for the week, but when I'm not reading I'd like to be applying myself creatively. I have some serious grunt work to do on the manuscript: Every paragraph break was removed in copying it to Word, so I have to find them, put them back, and print out a fresh copy to supplant the one that cost me nearly nine dollars to print. Not exactly a creative endeavor, but closely linked to one. Distillation of necessity has seen to my having very few distractions left to play with. The computer may be the only one left. Free cell is one of my few remaining vices besides procrastination, but I won't turn the computer on for anything less than email.
I took a walk last night, for a little exercise, fresh air and verticality. Today I'll have to take one up to the store for milk and a couple other things for the girl's dinner. The rain, still falling, won't bother me--I'll be well protected--in fact, it will further insulate me from contact. But my dream of forty-eight hours without speaking to someone other than myself will fall a few hours short.
I have not heard from Jan since I last wrote her. I'm not concerned. We don't know each other to take offence. She said she'd contact me when she next came into town, a trip contingent upon a job interview here. Apparently, she hasn't gotten it. Another possibility, which amuses me in the only way it could--ironically--is that she googled me and found my blog and was scared off. The blog, then, will have assumed the role of albatross to prospective relationships, though I would rather consider it a litmus test. The blog and all I've expressed in it are a permanent part of me that must be accepted as such. When I told Stacey of this speculation, she said, "So, are you going to take down the blog?" "No," I said firmly, almost shrilly. "I have nothing to apologize for." Anyone who judges me by the blog as unfit for their company is right, though the reflection is on them.
By the late afternoon yesterday I found myself a bit bored, but not so much that I was willing to dissipate the time in watching tv or noodling on the computer. I hope never to get that bored, though I might end up at the mall to do some clothes shopping. Besides finishing a few books, I don't have any goals for the week, but when I'm not reading I'd like to be applying myself creatively. I have some serious grunt work to do on the manuscript: Every paragraph break was removed in copying it to Word, so I have to find them, put them back, and print out a fresh copy to supplant the one that cost me nearly nine dollars to print. Not exactly a creative endeavor, but closely linked to one. Distillation of necessity has seen to my having very few distractions left to play with. The computer may be the only one left. Free cell is one of my few remaining vices besides procrastination, but I won't turn the computer on for anything less than email.
Hunker Man (1/26/09 Monday)
It's begun snowing, or maybe it has been and I've just noticed it since putting on my glasses. I'm not a particular fan of snow, but as long as I'm off work I wouldn't mind a good dump of it to make things cosier here, with my books, tea, and coffee. If I don't find I need something from the store, I can get away with not speaking to anyone till the girls come over tomorrow evening. By then it will have been forty-eight hours since I said goodbye to Matt after scootering . But the sky's too bright, and already it's harder to see the snowflakes. Still, I don't have to go anywhere. I'm plowing into a stack of books, semi-systemically alternating betyween them, the Richmond library books getting priority because they're due Friday. I could renew them, but I've set myself a challenge to finish at least those three books before getting back to work. So I'm halfway through Ring of Bright Water, Bunker Man, and These Demented Lands. Bunker Man takes up the venerable Scottish literary tradition of the doppelganger where Jekyll and Hyde left off. These Demented Lands is fascinating as long as I can just go with it--that is, not try to pick up the pieces before they're handed to me; and as long as I can suspend my disbelief that Morvern Callar actually has the inteligence to tell a story with a vocabulary that can fluctuate from four-year-old to poet within a sentence. Thankfully, she's not the only narrator, but her voice is never entirly out of the narrative. No complaints at all about Ring of Bright Water. It serves its place will after those other two: It pulls me from the darkness, if only into the cloudy daylight: Out of the mind of the individual and into the soul of man's place in nature. It has stopped snowing entirely. It left not even a wet dot on the sidewalk.
I like the idea of it being February when I get back to the library. Winter will be nearly half over, and I will have skipped the commute through it for five days. I won't miss the load of books coming back, a load that seems never to lighten since too many people shirk shelving. Of course, it will be the worse this week without me, and when I think of those shirkers I am maliciously glad to have thrown my load off on them, though, of course, it will be the real workers that will pick it up, and for them I feel the real compunction. Nobody minds the shirkers being off "sick" or whatever. But none of this was on my mind when I asked off. We all know who was and why, so the less said there the better, it's the only way to make distance.
I like the idea of it being February when I get back to the library. Winter will be nearly half over, and I will have skipped the commute through it for five days. I won't miss the load of books coming back, a load that seems never to lighten since too many people shirk shelving. Of course, it will be the worse this week without me, and when I think of those shirkers I am maliciously glad to have thrown my load off on them, though, of course, it will be the real workers that will pick it up, and for them I feel the real compunction. Nobody minds the shirkers being off "sick" or whatever. But none of this was on my mind when I asked off. We all know who was and why, so the less said there the better, it's the only way to make distance.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Irony with a Capital G-O-D (1/23/09 Friday)
It was good to sleep a little longer, without anticipation of the alarm. Surprising, too, given my elevated stress level this week. Twice yesterday I looked directly into Julie's face, and it was the second one that made me feel ridiculous over what I've been doing. There was nothing in the look or the return, no reading of expression that flashed an epiphany. A switch simply flicked, and I wanted to laugh. At myself. I say "ridiculous," but my vocabulary is short of the word that truly describes my attitude toward Julie lately. I was still laughing this morning as I walked up to Starbucks for breakfast. A month into winter, and the variety and volume of birdsong was more that of early spring. The robins have been out of the woods for two weeks, right on schedule. Today will reach nearly sixty. Highs were below freezing most of last week. But my laughter fades almost to derision when I consider how to pull myself out of this morass. "Derision" is perhaps too strong a word. The smirk is well-cemented, so the glee, if ironic, is undeniable. There seems a masochism in this glee, but it's really an acknowledgement, a nod to those implacable forces of irony that seem to rule my life. What do I do? Have I already done the first thing in facing Julie? Let's say so--now what? Will it even do me any good to plan? Has it ever? Yeah, somewhere, at some time, I'm sure, but that's not really the point of planning, is it? The point of planning is to give irony something on which to act--a host.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Who Are Always Right (1/22/09 Thursday)
Thank god I get tomorrow off. I'm glad to be working Saturday, instead, if only for the free day in between. I haven't even been to work yet today, and I'm having to takedeep breaths as if in preparation for some extreme dread, as indeed this long day with Julie is. I'd rather be home here, on the sofa or in bed, surrounded by the six books I'm reading and pen and paper, wrapped in a throw, sipping tea. But that will be next week, which I've taken off, merely to get away from work. Oh, to get away from that forever, to run from my embarrassment and immaturity! One of the books I'm reading is Something to Blog About. It fell into my hands as a hold. The moment I saw it I knew it was my story, and a glance inside the jacket confirmed it--only, in this book, I am a teenage girl. I opened it up, about three-quarters of the way in, where I thought I might find the exposure of the blog, and read one line of dialogue that convinced me to place my own hold on a copy: "But you put it on the internet!"
So what has changed since high school? Has anyone grown up? The same emotions filtered through greater experience yields...nothing--no wisdom, no maturity. It's still gossip and backstabbing, but with slightly less overt intent. Cunning--that's what you have where wisdom should be--ever subtler ways of doing the same childish things in response to the same emotions. It's fair enough that the emotions would not have changed; their creation was wholly outside of our conscious power, given to us carelessly and accepted mindlessly by us impressionable vessels. But some always believe what they felt then and filter subsequent experience through these unquestioned emotions, instead of examining the emotions in the light of experience. They remain children because they never question their parents.
So what has changed since high school? Has anyone grown up? The same emotions filtered through greater experience yields...nothing--no wisdom, no maturity. It's still gossip and backstabbing, but with slightly less overt intent. Cunning--that's what you have where wisdom should be--ever subtler ways of doing the same childish things in response to the same emotions. It's fair enough that the emotions would not have changed; their creation was wholly outside of our conscious power, given to us carelessly and accepted mindlessly by us impressionable vessels. But some always believe what they felt then and filter subsequent experience through these unquestioned emotions, instead of examining the emotions in the light of experience. They remain children because they never question their parents.
Sucfailcessure Guaranteed (1/21/09 Wednesday)
Of course, there is an irony to be found in my avoid-dance: I have to be aware of where Julie is in order to not encounter her. That is how I have set myself up to fail: Since I refuse to monitor her whereabouts--not looking for her name on the schedule or her writing beside her name on the whiteboard--so as to ward off obsessive behavior while aiding the pretense of her non-existence, I hinder my ability to carry out the endeavor. And that's as it should be. I can't do this forever; I have to let reality prevail, eventually, if only surreptitiously. By not aiding the immature behavior to creep in over it. In theory. I have not, in a long while, mentioned any action of Julie's not relative to me. I've refrained, even, from mentioning the few interactions between us. They don't matter anymore, do they? Certainly not in the way I'd always tried to make them matter before. Realistically, I am over Julie: emotionally, I am not. I'm trying to make emotional distance with physical distance, but I fear I'll make much more distance than I want. To state to Julie what I'm doing is to force her involvement, to bring her down to my level. And she's already reached it. One of my old habits broke through for a moment just before she left. We crossed paths, I looked at her, she didn't look at me. I'm fairly certain this is not what I wanted. What did I want? How could such behavior have any noble intent? Closure is what I want, but I don't know how to get it or even what I want closure to. Am I still trying to force Julie to talk to me? That's just not going to happen--yet another of those things I know but can't seem to get. What stops me from getting it? What is this force, this barrier that prevents assimilation of this knowledge? It's like half an epoxy or a vitamin that needs another vitamin to work. What is missing?
Parture (1/20/09 Tuesday)
I already regret sending the email. I failed to keep out the bitterness, self-pity and martyr attitude. That was difficult, and though for the most part I was successful, the parts at which I failed may have the strength to overpower the entire message. A lot is up to Julie's receptivity, which, because I can't realistically place much stock in it, is unlikely to be favorable; so the negative aspects could receive the greater nurture in her mind. I can't help that. It's lunch time now. I hurried my food down and split the breakroom for the upstairs. I'm hoping that either she or I will be on the desk at the top of the hour, so that I can have at least another hour out of her presence. I'm not entirely regretful for sending the email. At least now I've somewhat explained my behavior, all but justifying its continuance and tempering my feelings of guilt.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sent (1/19/09 Monday)
"I've been ignoring you. It's immature, I am not proud of it, and I get no joy or satisfaction from it. The requested 'trade' to Tuckahoe fell through, so I'm stuck here. Whatever embarrassment I felt about the blog has long since faded and not stopped me from writing it, but the disappointment has not abated. I am disappointed in myself for trying to take from you more than you could give me; in Chris, for betraying my trust (I told him about the blog four months ago) and not coming to me with his concerns; in you, for going to management instead of coming to me; and in the high-school level of maturity shown by many of our co-workers last month. I am disappointed in both you and Chris for reading only 'enough' of my blog to slap a derogatory label on me or to think that I could be harmful to you. The biggest of those disappointments is in myself for ignoring the advice of my intuition. Neither did I miss any of the hints hurled at me during that torture session at Stir Crazy; I just chose not to catch them. (For the record, the pre-rejection flattery--'nice guy,' 'great guy,' whatever--is something maybe most guys will let themselves believe for the sake of their pride, but to me it is simply a condescension, an assumption of inability to handle the truth.)
"As usual, I write all this with no expectations whatsoever. It is the forum I would never otherwise get; no one here exactly specializes in assertive communication. Besides, whatever issues are left are mine, not on anyone else's agenda now that the fun's over for everyone else. There's no recompense for which to ask, nothing that can be fixed, no principal characters willing to talk about it. To think that all I ever wanted was for you to talk to me is to induce in me a grin and a slow shake of the head over what came of my stubbornness to admit failure. So I ignore you now as my childish way of finally acquiescing to the unreality of that hope and learning to live with it. Things would be nice the way they were, when you at least trusted me with your silliness, but as I betrayed that trust with hopes of more, I'll understand not being so trusted again. These days, you are happier than I've ever seen you, practically outside yourself. I will content myself empathetically with that."
"As usual, I write all this with no expectations whatsoever. It is the forum I would never otherwise get; no one here exactly specializes in assertive communication. Besides, whatever issues are left are mine, not on anyone else's agenda now that the fun's over for everyone else. There's no recompense for which to ask, nothing that can be fixed, no principal characters willing to talk about it. To think that all I ever wanted was for you to talk to me is to induce in me a grin and a slow shake of the head over what came of my stubbornness to admit failure. So I ignore you now as my childish way of finally acquiescing to the unreality of that hope and learning to live with it. Things would be nice the way they were, when you at least trusted me with your silliness, but as I betrayed that trust with hopes of more, I'll understand not being so trusted again. These days, you are happier than I've ever seen you, practically outside yourself. I will content myself empathetically with that."
The Last Denial (1/19/09 Monday)
More reading than writing this long weekend, and more thinking than reading. The thinking and the writing have been about how I treated Julie Thursday. I wrote a letter--an email, to be more accurate. I haven't sent it yet. I'm afraid to. It isn't harsh, but does state my disappointment in both her and Chris not coming to me before seeking a more public audience. I don't let myself off the hook, either, citing my own actions Thursday as childish and immature. But I don't play the victim, and I ask for nothing. I wrote it simply to say my piece. I hope I did that much. I will send it. I have to. It's probably my pride that needs this more than anything. This isn't an apology to Julie, just an explanation--I hesitate to say defense, because I'm always loathe to defend myself. But this missive feels like just that, so that's likely the origin of my reluctance to send it.
I'll likely give Julie the same treatment tomorrow as Thursday. I'll send the email; that and the short concurrent day will temper my behavior somewhat. When or how that will change I can't predict.
It's nearly ten p.m., and I haven't spoken a word since four-thirty yesterday. It's not something I mind in the least. I went back to bed after breakfast, possibly an unprecendented act for me, and slept a few more hours. I'll be late getting to bed, but at least I won't have to talk to anyone while I'm up.
I'll likely give Julie the same treatment tomorrow as Thursday. I'll send the email; that and the short concurrent day will temper my behavior somewhat. When or how that will change I can't predict.
It's nearly ten p.m., and I haven't spoken a word since four-thirty yesterday. It's not something I mind in the least. I went back to bed after breakfast, possibly an unprecendented act for me, and slept a few more hours. I'll be late getting to bed, but at least I won't have to talk to anyone while I'm up.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The First Betrayal (1/16/09 Friday)
With a full day yesterday in which to ignore Julie, I succeeded beyond my worst nightmares. By the end of the evening she was turning her back on me. I looked past her and through her several times--times where I would normally have given her at least a weak grin. But I can't force that grin anymore, and to look her in the eye without it would frighten her with its candor. I'm not pleased with what I'm doing. I don't feel any kind of power or glee, even of the malicious kind. I've killed something.
I have memories, once fond but now painful to recall, of a time before I'd put a name to my feelings by writing them, when Julie did engage me, if only in tiny, playful, friendly ways. Trusting ways. I betrayed a trust by wanting these things to be more meaningful. It's her trust I killed. She gave what she wanted to give, and it wasn't enough for me. There's no getting back that trust. I feel sick at what I've done. I now know why I was never comfortable with my hope.
I have memories, once fond but now painful to recall, of a time before I'd put a name to my feelings by writing them, when Julie did engage me, if only in tiny, playful, friendly ways. Trusting ways. I betrayed a trust by wanting these things to be more meaningful. It's her trust I killed. She gave what she wanted to give, and it wasn't enough for me. There's no getting back that trust. I feel sick at what I've done. I now know why I was never comfortable with my hope.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Whatever Happened To? (1/15/09 Thursday)
There will be no farewells. There were no takers at Tuckahoe. I have to figure out how to adjust. My first thought was to seek work elsewhere, but that's not realistic in this economic climate. My second thought was to win the lottery, a slightly less likely opportunity. After those, what is there?
I'm casting around for friends at work, but the best I can do is allies. That's not enough. Am I just looking for someone to undburden myself to? Probably. I wouldn't be much of a friend in that case, for how much would I care to hear their problems? If I've become demanding of friends it's because I know how far short I myself fall from my ideals. I am who I am and can be a good friend, but not to everyone. I'm weary of reaching out. Look where it's gotten me: more alone than ever. As with love, friendship has to come unbidden through a wide-open door. Perhaps that's a strange thing for me to say, having as I do such stringent membership requirements, but I'm not prepared right now to think that one out. It's just another irony, and all ironies make sense.
My adjustment will be difficult to achieve without that attitude. Otherwise, I can only stare agog at the utter unreality of the situation, for nothing makes the kind of sense it should. The more sense I try to make of it, the more I wonder how I could be the only one to see it, the more disappointed I become in the vapidity of my coworkers, the more alienated I feel. This mass delusion-- Is this the social contract we must all sign to assure a facade of happiness? Happiness is elusive. Must we settle for the pretense of it? or is it worth the uncertain pursuit? You know my answer.
I ignored Julie entirely yesterday. I brought the music back in and drowned her out with Buzzcocks. Today I work the same shift, and I ride in with Stacey. Julie and Stacey always park near each other. If they arrive at the same time I'll walk ahead, not waiting for Stacey to gather her stuff. I'll warn her before we get there.
We didn't get there--or, at least, Stacey didn't. I walked over to her place a few minutes later than usual, and her car wasn't there. I didn't think even she would forget me. When I got back I checked the answering machine in case she'd called while I was in the shower. Nothing. I changed into the bike clothes, transferred my stuff to the bike, called to announce my lateness and left, fuming. Finally, the physical manifestation of her ethical desertion of me.
I'm casting around for friends at work, but the best I can do is allies. That's not enough. Am I just looking for someone to undburden myself to? Probably. I wouldn't be much of a friend in that case, for how much would I care to hear their problems? If I've become demanding of friends it's because I know how far short I myself fall from my ideals. I am who I am and can be a good friend, but not to everyone. I'm weary of reaching out. Look where it's gotten me: more alone than ever. As with love, friendship has to come unbidden through a wide-open door. Perhaps that's a strange thing for me to say, having as I do such stringent membership requirements, but I'm not prepared right now to think that one out. It's just another irony, and all ironies make sense.
My adjustment will be difficult to achieve without that attitude. Otherwise, I can only stare agog at the utter unreality of the situation, for nothing makes the kind of sense it should. The more sense I try to make of it, the more I wonder how I could be the only one to see it, the more disappointed I become in the vapidity of my coworkers, the more alienated I feel. This mass delusion-- Is this the social contract we must all sign to assure a facade of happiness? Happiness is elusive. Must we settle for the pretense of it? or is it worth the uncertain pursuit? You know my answer.
I ignored Julie entirely yesterday. I brought the music back in and drowned her out with Buzzcocks. Today I work the same shift, and I ride in with Stacey. Julie and Stacey always park near each other. If they arrive at the same time I'll walk ahead, not waiting for Stacey to gather her stuff. I'll warn her before we get there.
We didn't get there--or, at least, Stacey didn't. I walked over to her place a few minutes later than usual, and her car wasn't there. I didn't think even she would forget me. When I got back I checked the answering machine in case she'd called while I was in the shower. Nothing. I changed into the bike clothes, transferred my stuff to the bike, called to announce my lateness and left, fuming. Finally, the physical manifestation of her ethical desertion of me.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
At Least It's Not Old-Growth (1/14/09 Wednesday)
I printed out the blog up through the fourth. My intention is to read it through once without marking it, keeping editorial ideas to myself. There's no way I can read it as a reader, though, and that's what I most need to do if I'm ever to understand what I've been through. If I can make this writer another person, perhaps I can identify with him, empathize with him. Another irony: being someone else in order to find myself. This would also help me become the narrator of the book, a viewpoint that will augment, elaborate and even contradict that of the journal-writer.
But I hesitate to read it. I'm afraid of what I might find, though I know it would be valuable for my growth. I don't want to face the naiveties and immaturities that surely await me. I don't want to find validation for the label "obsessed"--not after I've worked so hard to deny it. There's bound to be a stack of denials to throw one-by-one on the fire, but most will still be green with reluctance and will simply emit an obscuring smoke. I might have to read it many times to dry it into a hardened objectivity.
But I hesitate to read it. I'm afraid of what I might find, though I know it would be valuable for my growth. I don't want to face the naiveties and immaturities that surely await me. I don't want to find validation for the label "obsessed"--not after I've worked so hard to deny it. There's bound to be a stack of denials to throw one-by-one on the fire, but most will still be green with reluctance and will simply emit an obscuring smoke. I might have to read it many times to dry it into a hardened objectivity.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
One Word--"Toaster" (1/13/09 Tuesday)
Do I demand too much of a friend? To work from ideals is to demand a lot, but I don't expect perfection. I do expect an adherence to natural ethics, or at least an earnest effort to do so. Self-interest is a feeble distraction and feebler excuse. How much do my ideals mean to me? Enough to drop a friend? If they don't fit in the shoes I give them, do I send them away barefoot? I have high ideals that I feel are worth upholding and achieving, demanding but realistic. Has any human endeavor been achieved without ideals? I endeavor to make friends-for-life. I have ideals for them to uphold. Simple.
I have not heard from Christine. I hope that means there's actually a prospect; otherwise, it seems, it would be a much simpler process--no takers, no deal, tell Dion, end of story. Or Burnnie hasn't done anything. My jaw is set and my lips are tightly sealed. If I don't have to speak, all the better. I'm annoyed at having to rejoin small talk. I'll have something to say when there's someone to hear it; otherwise, leave me to my job. But my attitude is not the most conducive to getting my job done. I hear a voice saying, "Ah, what does it matter?" I like my job, and I like doing it well, but I find it increasingly difficult to do it here. The job is never foremost in my mind. I'd always rather be writing. It's all I have anymore, and it's small solace.
Don't know and don't care why Julie didn't show till two, but it made it easier to ignore her. I never looked at her, but that last hour, with her and her voice in the same room, nearly boiled my blood. That power I had last week is gone. I'm wallpaper. That's still hard to accept, but I can't go soliciting attention. My attention to her is, after all, unwanted. I resent Chris all the more when I think that I'm not even allowed to give her the simplest attention for fear of her taking it the wrong way--the same thing she said to me at Starbucks. She may trust me when I say I'm "harmless," but how little provocation would it take to spoil that? Who knows? That's why I can do nothing. But get the hell out of there.
I can no longer pretend that Julie has nothing to answer for. After all, she's the one who aired this out to management, which had no business in it. She told Angie she regretted doing it, but she didn't apologize to me; she just expected Angie to pass on the word. Well, that's not good enough. Fuck "playing the victim"--where's my apology? Where's my justice? I'm nearly shaking with rage, blood crackling in my ears. If Chris thought I was dangerous to Julie....
Can't sleep, can't continue writing. What else is there?
I have not heard from Christine. I hope that means there's actually a prospect; otherwise, it seems, it would be a much simpler process--no takers, no deal, tell Dion, end of story. Or Burnnie hasn't done anything. My jaw is set and my lips are tightly sealed. If I don't have to speak, all the better. I'm annoyed at having to rejoin small talk. I'll have something to say when there's someone to hear it; otherwise, leave me to my job. But my attitude is not the most conducive to getting my job done. I hear a voice saying, "Ah, what does it matter?" I like my job, and I like doing it well, but I find it increasingly difficult to do it here. The job is never foremost in my mind. I'd always rather be writing. It's all I have anymore, and it's small solace.
Don't know and don't care why Julie didn't show till two, but it made it easier to ignore her. I never looked at her, but that last hour, with her and her voice in the same room, nearly boiled my blood. That power I had last week is gone. I'm wallpaper. That's still hard to accept, but I can't go soliciting attention. My attention to her is, after all, unwanted. I resent Chris all the more when I think that I'm not even allowed to give her the simplest attention for fear of her taking it the wrong way--the same thing she said to me at Starbucks. She may trust me when I say I'm "harmless," but how little provocation would it take to spoil that? Who knows? That's why I can do nothing. But get the hell out of there.
I can no longer pretend that Julie has nothing to answer for. After all, she's the one who aired this out to management, which had no business in it. She told Angie she regretted doing it, but she didn't apologize to me; she just expected Angie to pass on the word. Well, that's not good enough. Fuck "playing the victim"--where's my apology? Where's my justice? I'm nearly shaking with rage, blood crackling in my ears. If Chris thought I was dangerous to Julie....
Can't sleep, can't continue writing. What else is there?
Think Up Your Own Clever Fucking Title (1/12/09 Monday)
Woke up to the alarm wondering how I'd approach the day, but once at work I seemed to give myself no choice but to reinstate my previous policy--as little contact of any sort as possible with Julie. It wasn't difficult, of course, being cowardice.
I turn again to friendship and Stacey. I am free to give her "neutrality" any spin I like, but it is unequivocally a lack of support. She'd heard the rumors, knew what Chris did. How could she think what Chris did was right? If she used the same bogus argument--If someone had a blog about you, blah blah blah"--that everyone else uses to lionize Chris, then why didn't she rat me out herself? Is she as "guilty" as I am? How can she even implicitly condone what he did? I am still reeling at the mentality that has put me on the outside of right. God, I don't want to play the victim, but what has been done right by me? WHAT THE FUCK HAS BEEN DONE RIGHT?!
I turn again to friendship and Stacey. I am free to give her "neutrality" any spin I like, but it is unequivocally a lack of support. She'd heard the rumors, knew what Chris did. How could she think what Chris did was right? If she used the same bogus argument--If someone had a blog about you, blah blah blah"--that everyone else uses to lionize Chris, then why didn't she rat me out herself? Is she as "guilty" as I am? How can she even implicitly condone what he did? I am still reeling at the mentality that has put me on the outside of right. God, I don't want to play the victim, but what has been done right by me? WHAT THE FUCK HAS BEEN DONE RIGHT?!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Pay It Downward (1/10/09 Saturday)
The game has been joined, if not in the same spirit. Julie hasn't as much as greeted me in two days. I find myself a bit amused, if in a malicious way: Funny how people feel when something they've taken for granted has been removed. How much do the vapid niceties mean to people who share little else? Experimentally (and probably because I'm not taking quite as well as I've been giving), I looked at Julie as we approached one another, and she passed glancing away. My feelings are conflicted, of course. My conscience, my pride and my cowardice don't know which, if any of the others they're fighting.
Then, with a simple, spontaneous, thoughtless act of kindness I bring it crashing round my ears. I'd been managing fine, ignoring Julie, thinking I just might pull off a full day of it, having just avoided eye contact as I dodged that cart of Easies she pushed. That was three o'clock. Then Angie asked who was relieving her at backup, and, checking the schedule, I saw that it was Julie, who must have read it wrong, her shelving not scheduled till four. Judy was present at my discovery and told me to get Julie. I didn't want to, but I did want to--I was already faltering. I found Julie and told her, but she was certain she'd read the schedule correctly and left the cart behind to check. Just as sure of what I'd told her, I brought the cart in. I was already trudging up the hall to the workroom when Julie, having recognized her mistake, started toward the door and her cart. She saw me with it and said, "You didn't have to do that." I said, without a smile, "I was there," and right then something fell away, both a burden and a power. My bad mood was spoiled. Just as I was feeling some power over Julie and some distance from her, I go and do something like that! The moment she thanked me I realized how much I owned that petty strategy and how much it owned me. Now, that bond is broken, and I want it back. I got an energy, a purpose, of sorts, from it, a callous inspiration. Now where am I? Can I possibly go back to ignoring her? Can I possibly be that nice guy but with no designs on her affections? What--who--can I be?
It's not that I"m concerned with a resurgence of the old feelings, but I"m not ready to let go of the ones I've cultivated lately. Why? Is this a maturity being forced upon me? or just a vestige of the old affections forcing their way through the affectation? I still want Julie to talk to me, but I want it on my terms--no more trying to draw her out. That won't happen. My petty little strategy lately has been to spoon out a little of her own medicine--hardly proportional, considering that, on her part, it's just indifference. I'm trying to punish her to compensate for my embarrassment. I don't want to be what she wants me to be, what I've always been to her, an innocuous wallpaper. But that's what I am, and if ignoring her helps me be that while still allowing me some degree of dignity, however artificial, I'll take it--if I can get it back.
*****
Then, with a simple, spontaneous, thoughtless act of kindness I bring it crashing round my ears. I'd been managing fine, ignoring Julie, thinking I just might pull off a full day of it, having just avoided eye contact as I dodged that cart of Easies she pushed. That was three o'clock. Then Angie asked who was relieving her at backup, and, checking the schedule, I saw that it was Julie, who must have read it wrong, her shelving not scheduled till four. Judy was present at my discovery and told me to get Julie. I didn't want to, but I did want to--I was already faltering. I found Julie and told her, but she was certain she'd read the schedule correctly and left the cart behind to check. Just as sure of what I'd told her, I brought the cart in. I was already trudging up the hall to the workroom when Julie, having recognized her mistake, started toward the door and her cart. She saw me with it and said, "You didn't have to do that." I said, without a smile, "I was there," and right then something fell away, both a burden and a power. My bad mood was spoiled. Just as I was feeling some power over Julie and some distance from her, I go and do something like that! The moment she thanked me I realized how much I owned that petty strategy and how much it owned me. Now, that bond is broken, and I want it back. I got an energy, a purpose, of sorts, from it, a callous inspiration. Now where am I? Can I possibly go back to ignoring her? Can I possibly be that nice guy but with no designs on her affections? What--who--can I be?
It's not that I"m concerned with a resurgence of the old feelings, but I"m not ready to let go of the ones I've cultivated lately. Why? Is this a maturity being forced upon me? or just a vestige of the old affections forcing their way through the affectation? I still want Julie to talk to me, but I want it on my terms--no more trying to draw her out. That won't happen. My petty little strategy lately has been to spoon out a little of her own medicine--hardly proportional, considering that, on her part, it's just indifference. I'm trying to punish her to compensate for my embarrassment. I don't want to be what she wants me to be, what I've always been to her, an innocuous wallpaper. But that's what I am, and if ignoring her helps me be that while still allowing me some degree of dignity, however artificial, I'll take it--if I can get it back.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Now That the Scales Have Fallen From My Eyes, I Don't Have to Hide Them Behind These Rose-Colored Glasses Anymore (1/09/09 Friday)
Conscience delayed my sleep last night and shortened it this morning. I don't even know what colors Julie wore yesterday, never spoke to her, even when she spoke to me (but I had a spoon in my mouth). Stood within a foot of her facing me to shelve a hold and didn't look at her. She relieved on the desk again and I turned my back to her again. I am already trapped in this inane challenge. Why is my conscience bothering me? How do I get out of this trap? It's like a bad habit easily fallen into, almost an addiction. I can't see a possible gain from getting out of it, but a nagging is pulling me out of its complacence. Where is it pulling me to? Or is it just trying to pull me out? "What is the danger of remaining?" might be a better question than "What do I have to gain?" What am I sinking into? Though I'm not convinced Julie's untouched by my behavior, I'm becoming more aware that I'm doing damage to myself. My attitude and actions are unhealthy and immature. I thought I'd grown over the past year, but it takes less time to cut a tree down than to grow one. Careful consideration is no match for rash thoughtessness. Shouldn't I have learned that lesson from Chris?
Lunch with Chris happened, but not the discussion. I chose Chen's because it was close, so we wouldn't waste much time in transit. The place was empty, it being well past lunch and still a couple hours before dinner. The waiters were asleep, one curled on a booth bench, the other his head lying on his right arm stretched across a table. Great environment for a delicate conversation--until Judy and her husband came in and were seated across the aisle. "I gues we'll have to put off our talk," Chris said. I grinned. "Looks that way," I said, then laughed and added, "It's me, Chris. This is just how things work in my life." We had a good conversation, nonetheless; minus a lot of masking humor, which Chris acknowledged both as a tendency of his and inappropriate to the occasion. When he, unprompted, admitted some jealousy over Stacey's boyfriend Eric, I told him of my theory about his motivation for exposing the blog being rooted in that jealousy. "Have you thought about that?" I asked him. "You know, there's probably something to that. You're a pretty insightful person." The second line smelled like flattery, and the first one didn't answer the question. I didn't press him; he was probably uncomfortable with Judy so near. To his credit, Chris was the first to suggest that things were hardly patched up between us. They might never be, but at least I can like him again.
Sunday night I sent Jan a simple email:
She replied Monday that she was heading back to Winchester and planned to be back by the end of the week, then wrote again Tuesday, saying she didn't find the apartments Saturday and that she'd be back if she got called for an interview. I had hoped to hear from her today and have coffee with her, but neither happened. I suppose she didn't get the interview.
Stacey wants to make something of my meeting Jan, but I'm staying level about it. I'm making no more of it than a potential friendship. I'm not particularly attracted to Jan, except as a very interesting person. That, of course is how the most lasting relationships, of any kind, last, and that makes our meeting all the more important in potential. We met each other at our most casual, dressed for living, not work or show. Stacey said, "Are you going to get a haircut?" "Hell, no." I'm doing nothing for show. I'm having no pretensions. I want this to go where it will go. You think I'm eager to get my hopes up for romance? Anyway, romance isn't in the equation. What happens happens, and I'm not going to persuade it to happen or hasten its happening. I'm heartened to have met someone more real than Julie ever dared to be around me, but that's not reason upon which to build hopes of romance. I do have hopes of friendship, but they are realistic, given our first-meeting rapport, but if it comes to naught I'll have no difficulty accepting it. After all, what would have been the investment? and, anyway, I'd at least have a good time to remember. There couldn't possibly be any rancor or embarrassment involved in our not becoming friends. It would be just one of those things. I have to admit, though, that I really wanted to get together with Jan today to at least have something to talk about tomorrow when Bethany asks me how I spent my day. I won't lie and say I wouldn't have cared if Julie was around when I said I was with a woman most of the day, though how Julie could possibly care only my pride knows for sure.
I won't bring music to work tomorrow. It's the easiest thing I can do to reconnect with the workplace. I will hope, though, that Julie's not back there when I'm doing holds. It doesn't just bother me to hear her voice; it annoys me. Even her opinions grate. I mean, "I absolutely love
Shrek!" kicks my opinion of her right off the mountain. Honestly, I've ignored a lot of things like that from her over the past year, and the holding cell for my contrary opinions has reached capacity. Perhaps, now that the veil of my delusion has lifted, I'm lashing out at the embarrassment of having pretended not to mind the things about her that would have made me shudder had anyone else voiced them--things that would have made her less interesting, less of what I wanted her to be. I won't castigate myself over that; it's probably a natural reaction and eventually settles down into indifference. That eventuality, I fear, though, is not in the very near future, at least not nearer than a transfer to Tuckahoe.
Lunch with Chris happened, but not the discussion. I chose Chen's because it was close, so we wouldn't waste much time in transit. The place was empty, it being well past lunch and still a couple hours before dinner. The waiters were asleep, one curled on a booth bench, the other his head lying on his right arm stretched across a table. Great environment for a delicate conversation--until Judy and her husband came in and were seated across the aisle. "I gues we'll have to put off our talk," Chris said. I grinned. "Looks that way," I said, then laughed and added, "It's me, Chris. This is just how things work in my life." We had a good conversation, nonetheless; minus a lot of masking humor, which Chris acknowledged both as a tendency of his and inappropriate to the occasion. When he, unprompted, admitted some jealousy over Stacey's boyfriend Eric, I told him of my theory about his motivation for exposing the blog being rooted in that jealousy. "Have you thought about that?" I asked him. "You know, there's probably something to that. You're a pretty insightful person." The second line smelled like flattery, and the first one didn't answer the question. I didn't press him; he was probably uncomfortable with Judy so near. To his credit, Chris was the first to suggest that things were hardly patched up between us. They might never be, but at least I can like him again.
Sunday night I sent Jan a simple email:
Jan,
Just checking to make sure you found your way yesterday. Dark fell pretty quickly last night after we parted, but I doubt you had any trouble finding your way back. I enjoyed our chat. I'd like to have that cup of coffee some time.
Dion
She replied Monday that she was heading back to Winchester and planned to be back by the end of the week, then wrote again Tuesday, saying she didn't find the apartments Saturday and that she'd be back if she got called for an interview. I had hoped to hear from her today and have coffee with her, but neither happened. I suppose she didn't get the interview.
Stacey wants to make something of my meeting Jan, but I'm staying level about it. I'm making no more of it than a potential friendship. I'm not particularly attracted to Jan, except as a very interesting person. That, of course is how the most lasting relationships, of any kind, last, and that makes our meeting all the more important in potential. We met each other at our most casual, dressed for living, not work or show. Stacey said, "Are you going to get a haircut?" "Hell, no." I'm doing nothing for show. I'm having no pretensions. I want this to go where it will go. You think I'm eager to get my hopes up for romance? Anyway, romance isn't in the equation. What happens happens, and I'm not going to persuade it to happen or hasten its happening. I'm heartened to have met someone more real than Julie ever dared to be around me, but that's not reason upon which to build hopes of romance. I do have hopes of friendship, but they are realistic, given our first-meeting rapport, but if it comes to naught I'll have no difficulty accepting it. After all, what would have been the investment? and, anyway, I'd at least have a good time to remember. There couldn't possibly be any rancor or embarrassment involved in our not becoming friends. It would be just one of those things. I have to admit, though, that I really wanted to get together with Jan today to at least have something to talk about tomorrow when Bethany asks me how I spent my day. I won't lie and say I wouldn't have cared if Julie was around when I said I was with a woman most of the day, though how Julie could possibly care only my pride knows for sure.
I won't bring music to work tomorrow. It's the easiest thing I can do to reconnect with the workplace. I will hope, though, that Julie's not back there when I'm doing holds. It doesn't just bother me to hear her voice; it annoys me. Even her opinions grate. I mean, "I absolutely love
Shrek!" kicks my opinion of her right off the mountain. Honestly, I've ignored a lot of things like that from her over the past year, and the holding cell for my contrary opinions has reached capacity. Perhaps, now that the veil of my delusion has lifted, I'm lashing out at the embarrassment of having pretended not to mind the things about her that would have made me shudder had anyone else voiced them--things that would have made her less interesting, less of what I wanted her to be. I won't castigate myself over that; it's probably a natural reaction and eventually settles down into indifference. That eventuality, I fear, though, is not in the very near future, at least not nearer than a transfer to Tuckahoe.
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