i still love you. i don't love you anymore. i never loved you. i'm falling in love with you. i could never love you. love is a joke.
i'm in new york. again. i'm doing things like wearing swing coats and jackie o. glasses and silver kitten heels while running errands. i'm doing things like jogging 17k in 2 sessions in 3 days, in long johns and flashdance sweatshirts. i'm doing things like mending fences and burning bridges. i'm eating a lot of cottage cheese and drinking bourbon with impossibly attractive friends in hipster hell.
it looks like work lives here for me, and me will live here for work, eventually. i'm terrified.
i like you. i don't like you. i don't like talking about the things we never did. i don't like thinking about the things we did do. you're not who you think you are. you're exactly who i think you are. i'm a late bloomer. i'm an early adopter. i'm an abrupt abandoner.
i've been in new york long enough that the vendors on canal street have stopped trying to sell me things. i haven't been here long enough that i don't find rats adorable.
thanksgiving in america is making me think about the family i don't talk to. it's making me think about the people i love who aren't family who i do talk to. the odds are that if you are reading this, i love you or once loved you, or almost loved you.
make me love you. i have enough to give. make me hate you. i am due for a cull.
tell me to go. tell me to stay. come with me, and go away.
most importantly, ask me questions, because i have no answers.
i'm everything i never thought i was, in a surprisingly good way.
etc.
love,
me
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
You Might Like Me Now, But I Will Like Myself More Later
"Again? Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Jesus Christ. Really?"
"Yes."
I make terrible first impressions. I make terrible second impressions. Hell, I make terrible fifth impressions. You might think you know me, but you really won't until you've logged some serious hours with me. Until you do, you will think I'm wild and gregarious and brave. And it's true; I am those things, in part. But I'm also very anxious in a lot of social situations, and I bluff better than most.
I'm a great dinner party guest. But it's not necessarily me you're hosting.
I'm often told, after the feathers settle, months into friendships, how much quieter and softer I am than initially perceived. How calm and soothing and focussed and gentle I am. How much less space and energy I consume. I know how intense I can seem, how exhausting it can be to keep up with me in a large social situation. Imagine how tired I get.
I try to tell people off the bat how anxious I am, as if to hopefully diffuse the anxiety. It seldom works. Nobody believes me, they pour me another drink, and I tell another ridiculous story. Everyone laughs.
Stick around, I want to say. It's worth it.
During my short-lived experiment with internet dating, I used to talk a lot of talk about going with my gut. About the lizard brain, and not wanting to waste time. Over the last few months, I've been feeling somewhat badly about the men I cut off immediately, without allowing them to warm up. The lizard brain only really tells you if you want to fuck someone. The lizard brain knows nothing of companionship, and can really only tell you how the first three months will go. The lizard brain fucks, and eats crickets. That is all.
I am the most confusing kind of slow burn. I start at a rolling boil. I polarize people. The energy somehow forces them to make snap judgments about whether or not they like me, romantically or otherwise. Except it's not really me, of course. This is why, I suppose, women often drunkenly confess at parties that they hated me for the first six months they knew me. Men come back to me later, after we've become friends, after we've decided not to date, and I've moved on. They get to properly know me, and have some sort of epiphany, and...i'm so amazing and how didn't i see it at the time and why don't we...There is one man who, 13 years after he put me in the friend ghetto, still emails me three times a year to tell me that he is in love with me. I haven't seen him in a decade. He's not the only one.
No. This is not about you. Or you. Or you, for that matter. It's about me. It's about the girl who thrice moved in after first dates, now wanting to go slowly. Wanting to go very slowly, and trying harder to give people the time to settle into themselves in the hopes that they will grant her the same generosity. Friends, lovers, whoever you are, be patient. You might like me now, but I will like myself more later.
"Yes, really."
"Jesus Christ. Really?"
"Yes."
I make terrible first impressions. I make terrible second impressions. Hell, I make terrible fifth impressions. You might think you know me, but you really won't until you've logged some serious hours with me. Until you do, you will think I'm wild and gregarious and brave. And it's true; I am those things, in part. But I'm also very anxious in a lot of social situations, and I bluff better than most.
I'm a great dinner party guest. But it's not necessarily me you're hosting.
I'm often told, after the feathers settle, months into friendships, how much quieter and softer I am than initially perceived. How calm and soothing and focussed and gentle I am. How much less space and energy I consume. I know how intense I can seem, how exhausting it can be to keep up with me in a large social situation. Imagine how tired I get.
I try to tell people off the bat how anxious I am, as if to hopefully diffuse the anxiety. It seldom works. Nobody believes me, they pour me another drink, and I tell another ridiculous story. Everyone laughs.
Stick around, I want to say. It's worth it.
During my short-lived experiment with internet dating, I used to talk a lot of talk about going with my gut. About the lizard brain, and not wanting to waste time. Over the last few months, I've been feeling somewhat badly about the men I cut off immediately, without allowing them to warm up. The lizard brain only really tells you if you want to fuck someone. The lizard brain knows nothing of companionship, and can really only tell you how the first three months will go. The lizard brain fucks, and eats crickets. That is all.
I am the most confusing kind of slow burn. I start at a rolling boil. I polarize people. The energy somehow forces them to make snap judgments about whether or not they like me, romantically or otherwise. Except it's not really me, of course. This is why, I suppose, women often drunkenly confess at parties that they hated me for the first six months they knew me. Men come back to me later, after we've become friends, after we've decided not to date, and I've moved on. They get to properly know me, and have some sort of epiphany, and...i'm so amazing and how didn't i see it at the time and why don't we...There is one man who, 13 years after he put me in the friend ghetto, still emails me three times a year to tell me that he is in love with me. I haven't seen him in a decade. He's not the only one.
No. This is not about you. Or you. Or you, for that matter. It's about me. It's about the girl who thrice moved in after first dates, now wanting to go slowly. Wanting to go very slowly, and trying harder to give people the time to settle into themselves in the hopes that they will grant her the same generosity. Friends, lovers, whoever you are, be patient. You might like me now, but I will like myself more later.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
That Thing You Always Were, That Thing You'll Always Be
(i just got back from an extended trip to new york. it was so spectacular that i'm still processing it, but hope to find a way to articulate how great it was soon enough.)
Over the last-night dinner in SoHo (corn dogs from house-made hot dogs and Tecate, in case you were wondering), we had a discussion about the character traits that define us. These traits manifest themselves pretty early on, and they often do not change over time.
I walked very early, as a baby. Like, freaky early. I just stood up one day, stumbled a few steps, then ran. Expertly (albeit in one direction, in laps), for an hour. And then I tried to change direction. And then I fell. Hard. Apparently, I sat in silence for a bit, then howled with rage and embarrassment. I didn't stand again, let alone walk, until much later than is normal. But when I finally did, I never looked back.
That's me. In a nutshell.
I'm still walking.
Over the last-night dinner in SoHo (corn dogs from house-made hot dogs and Tecate, in case you were wondering), we had a discussion about the character traits that define us. These traits manifest themselves pretty early on, and they often do not change over time.
I walked very early, as a baby. Like, freaky early. I just stood up one day, stumbled a few steps, then ran. Expertly (albeit in one direction, in laps), for an hour. And then I tried to change direction. And then I fell. Hard. Apparently, I sat in silence for a bit, then howled with rage and embarrassment. I didn't stand again, let alone walk, until much later than is normal. But when I finally did, I never looked back.
That's me. In a nutshell.
I'm still walking.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Taking It Back
When a relationship ends, romantic or otherwise, things get divided. Someone gets the stained-glass Elvis. Someone gets the autographed book. Nobody wants the nature watercolors, because nobody asked for them in the first place. Friends divide themselves, sometimes with misinformation. And the music? What about the music? These days, vinyl collections aside, most music collections are digital, easily copied to external drives, and nobody “loses” anything.
Except.
Sometimes you want to lose the music. Sometimes, it’s just a song. Sometimes, it’s a playlist. Sometimes, it’s the collected works of an artist. It sits in your iTunes, lying in wait. It ambushes you, waiting for moments when you have a leash in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and no way of getting to your music player in time. Sometimes, you let loose an audible groan. Sometimes, your eyes roll so far back in your head in frustration that you imagine that other people can hear, like a playing card clacking in a bicycle wheel. NO! NOT THIS NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL SONG! NOT NOW!
At some point, recently, I realized that there was a lot of music in my library that I was actively avoiding. Which is, I don’t have to tell you, ridiculous. So I’m on a campaign to reclaim these ghost songs. First up is Bob Dylan. I’m not sure how it happened, but over time, after a series of vaguely negative associations, I phased Dylan out. I have to confess, I’m pretty specific about my Dylan tastes to begin with. Breaking up with Victoria’s Secret Bob Dylan wasn’t difficult. It was a lot easier than getting back together with Bringing It All Back Home, John Wesley Harding, and Blood on the Tracks, for starters.
In 1995, I saw Dylan and The Dead in Highgate, Vermont. I went with my boyfriend at the time, and a bunch of his friends. I had no interest in seeing The Dead, but my mother had been a big Dylan fan, and it was my first chance to see him. I went. We drove. As the girlfriend, I got the privileged “hump” in the back seat (chivalry!). Partway there, we (my boyfriend and one of his friends) stopped for the night to camp. The spot was in the pitch dark, but my boyfriend had to take the car (and its headlights) to the highway to watch for other members of our party. As he left me and the friend to set up the tent, a biblical rain began. So, in the absolute black of night, in pouring rain, the friend and I attempted to assemble a tent that had never been assembled before. Eventually, the boyfriend returned. He was road-trip chipper and dry. We were crabby, and soaked to the bone. The three of us slept in an inch of water in wet clothing. The other members of our party never showed, having chosen to travel in a newly-procured VW van (trustafarian street cred, represent!), so new that they didn’t know that the headlights didn’t work. When they hit the border, they were stopped and forced to overnight in a parking lot until the light of day. We awoke (itchy! wet! angry!), and continued on to our destination. We set up our wet tent again. We bought beer. We headed off in a convoy to the show, a 20-minute drive away. And then we hit traffic. It took us 5 hours. We drank all our beer. We refused many offers to sell our tickets for many times what we’d paid. We arrived at the gates. Dylan was onstage, singing Like a Rolling Stone. AS WE CROSSED THE GATES (literally), they decided to let everyone in for free. Dylan finished his song AND HIS SET.
Sober, we sat though The Dead (sigh). Drums In Space can kiss my ass.
The trip home wasn’t much better. I rode the hump in a now-packed car to Quebec City. The boyfriend was nervous about driving on bridges, and made us turn off the stereo and roll up the windows every time we crossed one. His friends teased him, and his mood grew sour. He and I went back early to the hotel because he hurt his back.
Shortly thereafter, we broke up (again, for the last time). Dylan reminded me of the endless frustration of that young relationship, not to mention the fact that I bought TWO tie-dyed t-shirts on that trip, which…no.
There have been other reasons for Dylan distance—a long estrangement from a very close female friend, a misguided relationship with a complete bozo who only spoke in song lyrics (relying heavily on Dylan and Neil Young), not to mention Bob’s own decline (Christmas album, anyone?).
Those orphaned songs deserve to be heard. I’m coming for you, Sad Breakup Songs. I’m coming for you, High School Mixtapes. I’m coming for you, Songs I Shared And Blew Someone’s Mind And Then Regretted It. It’s time.
Except.
Sometimes you want to lose the music. Sometimes, it’s just a song. Sometimes, it’s a playlist. Sometimes, it’s the collected works of an artist. It sits in your iTunes, lying in wait. It ambushes you, waiting for moments when you have a leash in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and no way of getting to your music player in time. Sometimes, you let loose an audible groan. Sometimes, your eyes roll so far back in your head in frustration that you imagine that other people can hear, like a playing card clacking in a bicycle wheel. NO! NOT THIS NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL SONG! NOT NOW!
At some point, recently, I realized that there was a lot of music in my library that I was actively avoiding. Which is, I don’t have to tell you, ridiculous. So I’m on a campaign to reclaim these ghost songs. First up is Bob Dylan. I’m not sure how it happened, but over time, after a series of vaguely negative associations, I phased Dylan out. I have to confess, I’m pretty specific about my Dylan tastes to begin with. Breaking up with Victoria’s Secret Bob Dylan wasn’t difficult. It was a lot easier than getting back together with Bringing It All Back Home, John Wesley Harding, and Blood on the Tracks, for starters.
In 1995, I saw Dylan and The Dead in Highgate, Vermont. I went with my boyfriend at the time, and a bunch of his friends. I had no interest in seeing The Dead, but my mother had been a big Dylan fan, and it was my first chance to see him. I went. We drove. As the girlfriend, I got the privileged “hump” in the back seat (chivalry!). Partway there, we (my boyfriend and one of his friends) stopped for the night to camp. The spot was in the pitch dark, but my boyfriend had to take the car (and its headlights) to the highway to watch for other members of our party. As he left me and the friend to set up the tent, a biblical rain began. So, in the absolute black of night, in pouring rain, the friend and I attempted to assemble a tent that had never been assembled before. Eventually, the boyfriend returned. He was road-trip chipper and dry. We were crabby, and soaked to the bone. The three of us slept in an inch of water in wet clothing. The other members of our party never showed, having chosen to travel in a newly-procured VW van (trustafarian street cred, represent!), so new that they didn’t know that the headlights didn’t work. When they hit the border, they were stopped and forced to overnight in a parking lot until the light of day. We awoke (itchy! wet! angry!), and continued on to our destination. We set up our wet tent again. We bought beer. We headed off in a convoy to the show, a 20-minute drive away. And then we hit traffic. It took us 5 hours. We drank all our beer. We refused many offers to sell our tickets for many times what we’d paid. We arrived at the gates. Dylan was onstage, singing Like a Rolling Stone. AS WE CROSSED THE GATES (literally), they decided to let everyone in for free. Dylan finished his song AND HIS SET.
Sober, we sat though The Dead (sigh). Drums In Space can kiss my ass.
The trip home wasn’t much better. I rode the hump in a now-packed car to Quebec City. The boyfriend was nervous about driving on bridges, and made us turn off the stereo and roll up the windows every time we crossed one. His friends teased him, and his mood grew sour. He and I went back early to the hotel because he hurt his back.
Shortly thereafter, we broke up (again, for the last time). Dylan reminded me of the endless frustration of that young relationship, not to mention the fact that I bought TWO tie-dyed t-shirts on that trip, which…no.
There have been other reasons for Dylan distance—a long estrangement from a very close female friend, a misguided relationship with a complete bozo who only spoke in song lyrics (relying heavily on Dylan and Neil Young), not to mention Bob’s own decline (Christmas album, anyone?).
Those orphaned songs deserve to be heard. I’m coming for you, Sad Breakup Songs. I’m coming for you, High School Mixtapes. I’m coming for you, Songs I Shared And Blew Someone’s Mind And Then Regretted It. It’s time.
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