Perpetuation

It's funny to me that I started writing here as a way to vent my frustrations and conflicting emotions in the wake of a terrible break-up, and then later as a way to confide the burgeoning of a reluctant romance. When I found myself in something that felt healthy and natural and good, however, I lost the impetus to post.

I suppose that is the way of art, at least for me; it's hard to create a spark in times of little friction.

But now, I'm much closer to where I started-- in abstract emotion, at least. I feel like I have grown leagues taller and broader in the past few months. What has actually been only a dozen or so weeks feels like the same amount of months; I don't know if any period in my life hitherto has stretched on so formless and plastic as this. I'm not complaining. It's been wonderful.

However, I think it's drawing to a close. The man whose head I was so ardently and earnestly throwing my affections has retreated almost completely, despite claims of wanting to make things work and being afraid of losing me. (My foot, I say. I'm learning to listen to actions over words).

It's unfortunate, truly, and I think this is as close as my heart has ever been to breaking. He's a wonderful person, and we're damn near perfect for each other, but he's held himself back so much that we never got a chance to truly be in love, and now I'm afraid the opportunity is lost forever. What hurts most is the neglected potential: that we could have been so much, and that that will never be realized.

But of course, my friends have heard this all a thousand times. I've been conscientious of my feelings and open about them-- to myself, to him, to the trusted few who will listen. It's complicated, and delicate, fragile and volatile... but that is the nature of relationships, and I suppose we just have to make of them what we are able.  I think-- especially with his upcoming move to Minneapolis-- that the happy age of bubbling, buoyant affection and intrigue is turning now into a quieter era of contemplation and solitude. I hope that regret will not be included in the litany, but only time will tell.

I have a few self-reliant dreams, though, so I can only imagine that everything is for the best. I have been working almost every day, and even though it sometimes exhausts me, I mostly enjoy it. I'm getting a promotion in September, and I hope that the accompanying raise will be enough to allow me to have my own apartment. I love the autonomy I have living here, where my roommate is neither related to me nor meddling in my business, but I don't really like anything about the arrangement itself. The apartment is small and dirty, everything's broken, I am not getting along with aforementioned roommate, the neighbors are disruptive and rude... the list goes on. So, hopefully, I will figure out a way to live on my own.

My next little dream is one that has been growing for awhile... It's in a delicate stage still, mostly just the amorphous stuff of thought and inspiration, but I think it has real potential. I want to start an autonomous theatre collective for young people here in Bemidji. I think there's a terrific market for it, plenty of talent and interest, and boundless potential. I'd like to incorporate social justice interests, too, and produce pieces that are thoughtful and provocative as well as entertaining and well put-together. I certainly think it's feasible. I'm going to be writing up a manifesto for it soon, and reaching out to contact relevant parties after that. My hope is that we can begin staging shows by next June.

The most significant foreseeable setback is, very simply, myself. By nature, I am a wonderful starter of things, but I am rarely able to sustain them and see them through to completion. I shall do my best, though, and perhaps motivate myself by tracking it here and in social circles. Wish me the best, if you please.

Honey

There's a poem, called "Honey," written by a Minnesota native named Connie Wanek. I've come across her work before, but I found this one through Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. As it happens, it was the poem of the day for March 14th, which is a wonderful date for an array of reasons. Personally, it also marked a first-- and very important-- kiss. The poem, though! (Before I blush!)

Honey

Luxury itself, thick as a Persian carpet,
honey fills the jar
with the concentrated sweetness
of countless thefts,
the blossoms bereft, the hive destitute.

Though my debts are heavy
honey would pay them all.
Honey heals, honey mends.
A spoon takes more than it can hold
without reproach. A knife plunges deep,
but does no injury.

Honey moves with intense deliberation.
Between one drop and the next
forty lean years pass in a distant desert.
What one generation labored for
another receives,
and yet another gives thanks.

--Connie Wanek.

Now here's the strange part. Normally, a few reads into a poem, I Get It. You know? Things click into place, and every subsequent reading brings a little more to the meaning I have previously gleaned from it. This one, though, I am having trouble with. I have a few ideas-- I am probably wrong-- I am going to leave it up here so that I can check back on it often and see if I have any thinks.

A Prayer

In other news-- and news there is aplenty, but we'll get the good stuff first-- I may have a new favorite poem. It feels like the distillation of every circular (or spherical) thought process that I have been going through recently.

A Prayer

Whatever happens. Whatever

What is is is what

I want. Only that. But that.

--Galway Kinnell.

Correspondences:

So I have been a terrible blog-mama of late. This poor critter is damn near abandoned, but the best explanation I could offer would take weeks at least.

Instead, I will offer this letter that I wrote tonight, as an explanation to one of my dear friends why I have not been around:

(Names and details included; you have been warned).

Fulcrum

Well. There went the week.

I feel, right now, like I'm at something of a turning point. Things were really, really terrible for a few days, I won't lie. I feel, though, that I had to sink to the bottom to feel the grit and sand of desperation between my toes before I could swim all-out for shore.

Last weekend wasn't busy, though I did end up puppy-sitting a stray dog who we had rescued a few days' prior. My mom brought him over with the intent on him being adopted the next day; her friend, though, first postponed the pick-up and then changed his mind entirely. So I was saddled with a young, un-housebroken puppy for the week with nothing to do with him and nowhere to put him while I was in class. Fun.

I made the mistake, too, of agreeing to cut my ex-boyfriend's hair for him. This is more intensive than it may seem; his hair has been growing out for years, with only occasional trims, and he wanted it cut short before he left for a three-plus-month trip to the Amazon. Of course it was going to be emotional, but things had been better between us, so I thought it might be alright.

Needless to say, I was deeply, devastatingly wrong. First he was late in meeting me, which was a wasted hour and a half, and then he had forgotten his camera-- another hour round-trip for him to fetch it from home. The evening wore on, and we were getting away from the small talk and into more personal territory; I talked to him a bit about the new guy I have been dating, and my feelings on the matter. As you, reader, are undoubtedly more astute than I, you will surely and correctly assume that this is where things got Bad.

It started out with him making subtle comments about how futile it was to date someone with whom you weren't planning a concrete and long-term future. I tried explaining that we were young, and it didn't really matter, that it was more about enjoying each other's company and not having to plan too far ahead... that has always backfired on me, after all. Of course, none of this went over well, and he got more and more worked up over the subject. Eventually we were fighting, shouting, crying, and he was employing his favorite manipulative tactics by turns because he so badly wanted (rather, wants) to be with me. Charming, right? Why wouldn't I want that?

I still do care for him, though, and when things were ugly I couldn't turn him away. He revealed that he hadn't been eating, and so I couldn't not feed him; he revealed dark, destructive thoughts, and I couldn't let him go home on his own. That was a mistake, of course, because once he had arrived home he sent me e few emails saying he was fine. I don't know how broadly embroidered-upon his confidences were, but they were scary enough that I couldn't ignore them. I made him stay that night (Monday) because he seemed so unlike himself; I hoped that he would be alright after some sleep. He barely slept, though, and woke me up every few hours trying to rekindle a fight. Failure.

I did get him home, though, and spent an emotional morning researching suicide hotlines and counselors in town for him-- though I know he would never use either. It's a burden too heavy for me alone, and I have been his only outlet for it. I have tried enlisting help from his parents, but they do nothing. From my mom, but she sides with him. He's been emailing me several times a day, trying to see me again, and I have of course refused... I'm just not sure what to do anymore. Luckily my friends, especially my closest girl-friend, have been absolutely wonderful in supporting me and helping me make the right decisions.

So my Monday evening had been wasted, and most of my Tuesday as well. Thank God I don't have classes and don't work until 3:30 Tuesdays and Thursdays, or I don't think I would have survived past that night. I was still home alone and still taking care of the pup, though I had had one response to the CraigsList ad I'd posted in looking for a home. Beyond that, rehearsals for the Women's Studies Department annual play (in which I am a lead) were getting more intensive, and that evening we were running the play for the first time. We were also off-script for the first time and I wasn't memorized so, you know... a good day. I wasn't home until around 11, and completely drained.

Wednesday, though, was when things came to their breaking point. I had missed my first class for the second time that week, due to the fact that I was rushing to get my work done and printed before (and, subsequently, during) class-time, and was too embarrassed to show up half an hour late. I got an email from my professor after my other morning class, saying that he was unsure whether or not I would be able to pass the course at this point, and I broke down. With so much going on in my personal life, and with so much going on in trying to get registered and paid and on top of things in my classes, it was just too much.

Wednesday morning culminated in me crying in the bathroom during lunch time, a move I hadn't visited since Junior year in high school. Throwbacks, yo! After that, though-- my aforementioned wonderful friend had come and sat with me and counseled me, and then reapplied cosmetics to my bloated shipwreck face afterwards-- things seemed to pick up. I went to class. I found the puppy a home. I did better at rehearsal (by the way, Tuesday's run? Was TERRIBLE). I even tried to hang out with one of my friends afterward, but he decided to nap instead. While I was at his house. This happened last time I was over, too, so I repeated my established tactic-- grab a beer and sit online. I don't like beer, actually, but it works. Things were Getting Better.

The rest of the week crawled by slowly, a drunk snail with an eviction notice but with the promise of a Floridian shanty town accepting new tenants sliding him along the pavement of life. I got a job, which is great! I start Tuesday, and I couldn't be more excited; it's a great little cafe, awesome atmosphere, brilliant co-workers-- theatre people! Hooray!-- and flexible hours. PLUS job security, so I'll be able to pay rent next school year. Yayy. Friday was as good as Fridays are, and rehearsals slowly got better; yesterday we did a preview performance for a Women's Hall of Fame luncheon, and were very well received. Encouraging!

Two best parts of the week have been in socializing, and not even with the people I expected to. I have a new penpal, who is brilliant and a wonderful writer and a lover of poetry and theatre. He's Scottish, too, but I'm in enough of a romantic mess to be as in love with him as my brain thinks I should be... furthermore, we're only casual penpals, as we're acquainted in real life and (this all comes around, I swear) now we're co-workers, as well! Hoo boy. We've had a couple good, thoughtful exchanges of emails, though, and really I don't need any more than that.

The next lovely thing was actually, simply, last night. After rehearsal-- we were done an hour and a half early! Yay! ...But it was only because two of our actors were missing and we skipped their scenes! Boo!-- I went home with my director. Of course, she's also the oft-mentioned life-saving bathroom-counseling makeup-applying best fraann, so it was less weird than it sounds. My co-star (read: on-stage lesbian love interest) (hot damn!) was also there, and we had a WONDERFUL night of girl talk and secrets and emotional analyses of each other... and, of course, tequila. And Vodka. Neither of which I had had before, but hey! No hangover! It was a welcome reprieve from the sober responsibilities (pun fully intended) that I have been dealing with so much lately.

Tonight brings more rehearsals, and then homework; tomorrow's our last day before the first performance. I also start work on Tuesday, at 5:45 am... so, eight hours of work and then a performance. I got this, it's cool. Like I said, things are starting to turn around.

Weekending

My Friday nights are unquestionably cursed.

It’s been this way for quite awhile now. It seems the only way to escape misfortune, much less utter devastation, is to simply hole up and spend the day solitary. Really, though, I’m alright with this knowledge. I make an excellent hermit; I find myself entertaining. I like all the same things as I do. It’s a good time.

This weekend is the first in a long time where I have no plans—I don’t have to be any place in particular—I won’t be letting anyone down if I stay in my pajamas all day and brew coffee at ungodly hours and sing loudly along to whatever mediocre music I’ve got coming out of iTunes. I have the house to myself, and I love that; it’s a luxury I won’t be afforded much after these next few days. (That’s another post, though).

Weekends, when they’re busy, tend to bring with them plenty enough activity to incite gossip and drama in the days that follow. This has been especially true in the last month; my last three weekends were last-minute eddies of confusion and conflict and exhilaration and deliberation.

Let me explain. I have A Man in my life… but, it gets better. See, that one’s a classic story of a reluctant princess and a persistent hero, and it’s interposed inextricably with a post-modern art-film story of broken romance and ambiguous intentions. Potentially, these involvements could be the stuff of endless loathsome poetry, intricate and intimate, delighted and horrified by turns. Without knowing why or how (and continuously resisting the urge to ask both parties if they’re fighting over the right girl), I am stuck in the middle of it.

I’ll admit, there is a tiny, cruel, juvenile sliver of my stupid girl-brain that thrills at the attention. The rest of me, though, is mortified, and tired. I broke up with my long-term boyfriend in December… rather, the first attempt was in early November, but it dragged itself through muddy stalemate before finally ending, officially, in December. We’d been very, very close and had a network of plans together as vast and fragile as a spider’s web. In the end, though, we couldn’t be around each other without fighting, and there was one big lie that toppled us altogether once I had found out about it. It was ugly, and the break-up never seemed to end.

In the midst of this, enter the second fellow: a friend of a friend figure who I met more through happenstance than design. He left the university last spring, a full semester before I would transfer, but as we travel the same social circles I heard endless stories about him—and, furthermore, what great friends we would make should we ever be introduced. Of course, we did meet; he happened to be in attendance at a dinner theatre performance in which I was performing, and (although I was done up in a fake moustache and body glitter) he somehow concluded that I represented a worthwhile pursuit.

Since then, I have had innumerable hours of conversation with both of them, the flames of my frustration and confusion cauterizing the wounds of one while instantaneously igniting some new fuse in the other. I had consistent visions of myself as a tight-rope walker, though every day and every interaction raised the line a little higher above the crowd.

This is all a roundabout way of saying that things were painful and convoluted and uncertain for … well, for too long. I’d go into more detail—I seem to think it would do me some kind of good to get it out—but honestly, it’s exhausting. I’ve been living this for the past few months; dragging myself back through it for the sake of documented purgation is a few floggings short of torturous. Of course, it’s a rich mine of neuroses, so I may come back and drill the topic just to keep it from weighing me down.

In short, I’m in a strange place now. My ex has finally come around and cooled down, and for the first time in weeks we can see each other without breaking down. This is a good thing. We were wonderful friends, after all, and to simply walk away from what we had would be leaving a LOT behind. I’m not sure if I’m ready (or willing) to accept that we are completely over… unfortunately, I’m only just realizing this.

While things begin to clear with him, though, they have intensified with my … friend. I don’t know what to call him. He wants badly to be my boyfriend, despite my oft-repeated protest that I am neither ready nor looking for a committed relationship. I had thought that the mere fact of his living three hours away would be enough to deter us from getting serious. It’s worked for me, I guess, but I’m afraid my interest has somewhat waned as we breezed through the short epoch of flirtation and firsts. I want to be fair to him, and tried to make my intentions as clear as possible so he knew what sort of mess he was entangling himself in, but nonetheless he simply head over heels. He’s had me meet his family; he wants to meet mine. He wants to move up here; he asked if I would like to live together. I’m terrified! Suddenly, I’m wondering if it was really him I was interested in, or if I just so sorely needed what he offered in terms of attention and affection.

I should annotate: this guy is not a creep. He’s incredibly dynamic, talented, the life of the party; probably one of the most popular people I’ve ever come across. Friends across the spectrum. Crazy stories to tell, and they’re told well. Interesting, unconventional beliefs and opinions. We get along well; we have nearly identical senses of humor; we have a similar sense of fun and adventure and always manage to be doing something entertaining when we’re together. Our first date, we played D&D at a friend’s house with a host of other people, which turned inexplicably into a late-night game of Monopoly and then watching Firefly together. He kissed me the first time while watching Star Wars. The last time I visited him, we went to see a production of RENT in Minneapolis, and watched movies and made nachos and played Left 4 Dead together before I left. In short, we like all the same things. We’re perfectly nerdy.

He says all the right things. If they don’t come from the right person, though, what do the right things really mean at all?

Primavera

The first vestigial fins of Spring are cresting across the frozen plains, and so it seems that this is as good a time as any for beginnings. I'm not sure how long this blog's existed, though I'm sure the desire to share my thinklings has predated it by far; I'm determined to keep it as genuine as possible, in an homage to the nebulous self I can never seem to successfully pursue.

To wit, this will rise from nothing into a compendium of poems (my own and others), stories, observations, updates, fantastical dilemmas and mundane conundrums. In any case, there ought to be a lot of words.