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Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Letter to an ex-lover:
I plagiarized a thought of yours today. I hope I sounded smart when I said it, although I remember being annoyed when you first told me. I've been thinking about a few things. I wanted to tell you there’s a plastic supermarket bag full of Easter candy and egg-dying kits on the top shelf of my closet and it’s almost April again. Sometimes things happen like that. I think I’m going to throw it away but I might save the egg-dying kit. I had a chocolate bunny the other day while I was sitting in bed reading, which is something I love to do, sit in bed reading and eating chocolate.
I never liked kissing you, your lips are too thick, but I loved looking into your eyes and not blinking. They had these lashes like a brush of paint, wisping away and curved and delicate, substantial. Remember that boomerang I taped above your bed? Ceci n’est pas un boomerang. I couldn’t decide whether it was deep, but I decided that the phrase evidenced a certain resistance to interpretation that made it though-provoking, at least. I never figured out what I meant.
I think about you more than I should. It makes me happy to think someone knew me. But things come up.
I still expect to see you again, will I still be able to lean my elbow on your shoulder as we walk? Despite everything, I still saw the most stars that night in Texas when we laid on top of the moving van. I’m not mad at you for kissing me anymore, although I don’t know if it was the right thing, if there are right things.
Talking about Nietzche today made me remember how much you knew about things, how infuriating your fluency in current events and how you always talked shit on the court in the most annoying way and still made shots over me, even though you’re two inches shorter than I am, but I didn’t care. You were the umpteenth boyfriend to teach me how to throw a football, and I still didn’t learn.
When we got spicy buffalo wings and you wanted to watch the TV instead of me – did you think I could forget? What exactly I wanted to tell you I’m not sure. I’m still alive and I’ve thought a lot of things. You’ve probably thought about them longer and harder and better than me, you were always like that. And then I would tell you and you would say “yeah” like you were waiting for me to get to the point of my point. The last time I saw you the bus was pulling away and you were watching me leave, and I bought an ice cream and decided to go to Mexico.
I’m not here to thank you, or tell you I miss you. I don’t love you but I’m not indifferent to your absence. When you told me about connection I rolled my eyes inside, but now I steal your words and think of you.
I plagiarized a thought of yours today. I hope I sounded smart when I said it, although I remember being annoyed when you first told me. I've been thinking about a few things. I wanted to tell you there’s a plastic supermarket bag full of Easter candy and egg-dying kits on the top shelf of my closet and it’s almost April again. Sometimes things happen like that. I think I’m going to throw it away but I might save the egg-dying kit. I had a chocolate bunny the other day while I was sitting in bed reading, which is something I love to do, sit in bed reading and eating chocolate.
I never liked kissing you, your lips are too thick, but I loved looking into your eyes and not blinking. They had these lashes like a brush of paint, wisping away and curved and delicate, substantial. Remember that boomerang I taped above your bed? Ceci n’est pas un boomerang. I couldn’t decide whether it was deep, but I decided that the phrase evidenced a certain resistance to interpretation that made it though-provoking, at least. I never figured out what I meant.
I think about you more than I should. It makes me happy to think someone knew me. But things come up.
I still expect to see you again, will I still be able to lean my elbow on your shoulder as we walk? Despite everything, I still saw the most stars that night in Texas when we laid on top of the moving van. I’m not mad at you for kissing me anymore, although I don’t know if it was the right thing, if there are right things.
Talking about Nietzche today made me remember how much you knew about things, how infuriating your fluency in current events and how you always talked shit on the court in the most annoying way and still made shots over me, even though you’re two inches shorter than I am, but I didn’t care. You were the umpteenth boyfriend to teach me how to throw a football, and I still didn’t learn.
When we got spicy buffalo wings and you wanted to watch the TV instead of me – did you think I could forget? What exactly I wanted to tell you I’m not sure. I’m still alive and I’ve thought a lot of things. You’ve probably thought about them longer and harder and better than me, you were always like that. And then I would tell you and you would say “yeah” like you were waiting for me to get to the point of my point. The last time I saw you the bus was pulling away and you were watching me leave, and I bought an ice cream and decided to go to Mexico.
I’m not here to thank you, or tell you I miss you. I don’t love you but I’m not indifferent to your absence. When you told me about connection I rolled my eyes inside, but now I steal your words and think of you.
Monday, February 09, 2004
We sat around talking about what we would do if we won the lottery.
The fucking lottery, man. I’m telling you, if I won, I wouldn’t change a fuckin’ thing. Not a fucking thing. You know? I would get up, go to work, nothing would change. Just that I wouldn’t care anymore.
Lottery, they’ve done fuckin’ studies, you have a better chance, of, of throwing a dart at the Wall Street Journal and investing in that stock. You’d get a better return, than buying a lottery ticket. I mean, we’re talking one in six hundred million, here: nothing, zero.
You would work?
But I just like the hope. The feeling of going to bed, the night before, and thinking what I’ll do the next morning if I win the lottery.
Yeah, hell yeah I would work, what else would I do?
You know, if I won the lottery I’d involve myself in a million projects, and all of them would fail, like selling greeting cards for twenty dollars a pop. It wouldn’t succeed, it wouldn’t be a business, but I would do it because I wanted to. You know? I’d work for myself, save children, you know, keep busy. Have fun.
I’d fuckin’ get up every morning, go to work, my boss calls me in and yells at me? So what, who cares? You know? I just wouldn’t care. That’s what I would do if I won the lottery.
Everything is seen in red. The waitress has flirty eyes, cute. I stare into my beer, pink froth. Does it matter? Everyone out there is trying to make sense of meaninglessness. This is what it fuckin’ is, here. All art these days is people expressing how hard it is to express anything but the fact that there are no transcendent truths left to be expressed. Only frustrated writers, out of work actors, and real people.
You know what, I think, really: the real trick is to have the mindset, without winning the money. Right? I mean, do you need a million bucks to find satisfaction, peace? It’s training your mind, because at the end of the day, that’s what you have left. And that is within your control.
What? Oh, come on. Come on, don’t give me that.
What, what? I’m telling you, it’s all in your mind.
Ok, ok. Come on. No.
No one’s any help. You gotta win the money, or work your shit job. That’s it. Everyone in here is white. But I like it. I mean, is it bad that I like the place? There’s guys in sweatshirts, beautiful wives. Everyone. Microbrewery. Should I like diversity better? Should I like being the girl who grew up in the white bubble? I saw MTV had a casting call for bicultural young adults. And I thought of like, all my friends. Three of them at least. Is that good enough? Even if they went to school with the girl from Roseanne. Is that good enough?
My friend is convinced you don’t have to make it big.
All you have to fuckin’ do, I’m telling you, all you have to do, is be the fuckin’ guy who makes these, these little fuckin’ metal corner pieces that keep the corners of menus from getting frayed. That’s it. Because most of the people, ninety-nine percent of the people out there doing it, are idiots. And you just have to be the one guy who’s smarter. It doesn’t even have to be original. You just find your niche, you just have to have the balls. The cojones man. I’m telling you, these people that work for themselves – any idiot can work for himself. He’s just the fuckin’ idiot who had the cojones to do it.
And why aren’t you doing it? Why don’t you fucking manufacture the, the, the metal pieces on the corners of menus, for chrissake, you could be rich.
Throw in lots of swear words. Lots of fuckin’ swear words. A self conscious. Look straight at the camera. I can’t move. I can’t nod. My bangs will get in the way. They prescribe my field of vision, I keep putting them behind my ears, gingerly picking them out. Got milk beer froth. Pink.
Because, man. I’m too fuckin’ analytical for that. People give me ideas, they say, hey, I got this great idea for a trendy bar I want to open, what do you think? And I sit there and fuckin’ pick out the holes. Well, that’s a great idea, but did you think about this? And that? And what about this other thing? You know, that’s why I’m not the one out there doing something. But, you know, I’ve got ideas. And you just have to do it. I think I’m gonna start setting up some shit by myself, you know, some stuff I can just knock out on weekends, five-hundred bucks a pop, you know, it’ll just take a couple hours. I’m sick of this shit, you know? I’m not meant for it. Fuckin’ corporations, screwing your ass. My fucking junior analyst is a bartender on weekends. They can’t pay you enough to do this shit man.
The only thing left to show is people getting fucked up and it not meaning anything, but then somehow it’s supposed to mean something.
I’m fucked up at noon. I wonder if the “Barista” noticed I came in twice today. Huh, barista. Caffe mocha latte the first time. Then hot chocolate. Talking about war movies in the corner. I listened, stared at the girl outside. Drove home in the sunset. Golden. Traffic light slow. Golden across the water, sunpath. Got to keep my eye on the. With the birds swimming, the sun setting behind the cliffs, casting pink and golden. Green, get behind the Mercedes. It’s dark when I get home.
You know what? There was this guy I was talking to the other day?
I saw him in a movie. I wasn’t talking to him. I didn’t know him. I almost said it though.
The girl, who was pregnant, you know?
But I don’t know. I don’t know her. It wasn’t me.
And she saw baby flesh coming up in the garbage disposal. In the drains. And then she decided that every house had pipes, so she went home.
I went home, and then. And everything was coming up babies, at a time. You know, it wasn’t a baby, it was a decision, a situation. And at the end of it, I could imagine myself having an abortion, but I couldn’t imagine myself having a baby.
And you know what? I don’t care if you don’t fuckin’ get it. This is art. Man. This is how I see it.
So I saw babies coming up. No. I didn’t. She did. It was in a book I read. I thought I knew her, but she was just some character from a book I read, who ended up in a mental hospital. I thought I knew her.
There. That’s what it means.
The fucking lottery, man. I’m telling you, if I won, I wouldn’t change a fuckin’ thing. Not a fucking thing. You know? I would get up, go to work, nothing would change. Just that I wouldn’t care anymore.
Lottery, they’ve done fuckin’ studies, you have a better chance, of, of throwing a dart at the Wall Street Journal and investing in that stock. You’d get a better return, than buying a lottery ticket. I mean, we’re talking one in six hundred million, here: nothing, zero.
You would work?
But I just like the hope. The feeling of going to bed, the night before, and thinking what I’ll do the next morning if I win the lottery.
Yeah, hell yeah I would work, what else would I do?
You know, if I won the lottery I’d involve myself in a million projects, and all of them would fail, like selling greeting cards for twenty dollars a pop. It wouldn’t succeed, it wouldn’t be a business, but I would do it because I wanted to. You know? I’d work for myself, save children, you know, keep busy. Have fun.
I’d fuckin’ get up every morning, go to work, my boss calls me in and yells at me? So what, who cares? You know? I just wouldn’t care. That’s what I would do if I won the lottery.
Everything is seen in red. The waitress has flirty eyes, cute. I stare into my beer, pink froth. Does it matter? Everyone out there is trying to make sense of meaninglessness. This is what it fuckin’ is, here. All art these days is people expressing how hard it is to express anything but the fact that there are no transcendent truths left to be expressed. Only frustrated writers, out of work actors, and real people.
You know what, I think, really: the real trick is to have the mindset, without winning the money. Right? I mean, do you need a million bucks to find satisfaction, peace? It’s training your mind, because at the end of the day, that’s what you have left. And that is within your control.
What? Oh, come on. Come on, don’t give me that.
What, what? I’m telling you, it’s all in your mind.
Ok, ok. Come on. No.
No one’s any help. You gotta win the money, or work your shit job. That’s it. Everyone in here is white. But I like it. I mean, is it bad that I like the place? There’s guys in sweatshirts, beautiful wives. Everyone. Microbrewery. Should I like diversity better? Should I like being the girl who grew up in the white bubble? I saw MTV had a casting call for bicultural young adults. And I thought of like, all my friends. Three of them at least. Is that good enough? Even if they went to school with the girl from Roseanne. Is that good enough?
My friend is convinced you don’t have to make it big.
All you have to fuckin’ do, I’m telling you, all you have to do, is be the fuckin’ guy who makes these, these little fuckin’ metal corner pieces that keep the corners of menus from getting frayed. That’s it. Because most of the people, ninety-nine percent of the people out there doing it, are idiots. And you just have to be the one guy who’s smarter. It doesn’t even have to be original. You just find your niche, you just have to have the balls. The cojones man. I’m telling you, these people that work for themselves – any idiot can work for himself. He’s just the fuckin’ idiot who had the cojones to do it.
And why aren’t you doing it? Why don’t you fucking manufacture the, the, the metal pieces on the corners of menus, for chrissake, you could be rich.
Throw in lots of swear words. Lots of fuckin’ swear words. A self conscious. Look straight at the camera. I can’t move. I can’t nod. My bangs will get in the way. They prescribe my field of vision, I keep putting them behind my ears, gingerly picking them out. Got milk beer froth. Pink.
Because, man. I’m too fuckin’ analytical for that. People give me ideas, they say, hey, I got this great idea for a trendy bar I want to open, what do you think? And I sit there and fuckin’ pick out the holes. Well, that’s a great idea, but did you think about this? And that? And what about this other thing? You know, that’s why I’m not the one out there doing something. But, you know, I’ve got ideas. And you just have to do it. I think I’m gonna start setting up some shit by myself, you know, some stuff I can just knock out on weekends, five-hundred bucks a pop, you know, it’ll just take a couple hours. I’m sick of this shit, you know? I’m not meant for it. Fuckin’ corporations, screwing your ass. My fucking junior analyst is a bartender on weekends. They can’t pay you enough to do this shit man.
The only thing left to show is people getting fucked up and it not meaning anything, but then somehow it’s supposed to mean something.
I’m fucked up at noon. I wonder if the “Barista” noticed I came in twice today. Huh, barista. Caffe mocha latte the first time. Then hot chocolate. Talking about war movies in the corner. I listened, stared at the girl outside. Drove home in the sunset. Golden. Traffic light slow. Golden across the water, sunpath. Got to keep my eye on the. With the birds swimming, the sun setting behind the cliffs, casting pink and golden. Green, get behind the Mercedes. It’s dark when I get home.
You know what? There was this guy I was talking to the other day?
I saw him in a movie. I wasn’t talking to him. I didn’t know him. I almost said it though.
The girl, who was pregnant, you know?
But I don’t know. I don’t know her. It wasn’t me.
And she saw baby flesh coming up in the garbage disposal. In the drains. And then she decided that every house had pipes, so she went home.
I went home, and then. And everything was coming up babies, at a time. You know, it wasn’t a baby, it was a decision, a situation. And at the end of it, I could imagine myself having an abortion, but I couldn’t imagine myself having a baby.
And you know what? I don’t care if you don’t fuckin’ get it. This is art. Man. This is how I see it.
So I saw babies coming up. No. I didn’t. She did. It was in a book I read. I thought I knew her, but she was just some character from a book I read, who ended up in a mental hospital. I thought I knew her.
There. That’s what it means.
Everything will be fine if I just remember I don’t love him. If I can just keep that one thing straight. It’s when my wanting to love him overrides my not loving him, that’s when things get messed up, and I can’t remember what’s true or how I feel about anything.
I realized a long time ago that in order to be able to understand anything you have to be telling yourself the truth. Because if you’re lying about one thing, one central thing, then you can’t see the truth of anything, because nothing makes sense from within that perspective. If I say it is true that I love him, then it is not true that I should feel bad after we talk, it is not true that I should resent him, not true that I fantasize about winning arguments I never win all the time, not true I cry when I get off the phone just so I can be happy next time he calls. Better to say I like him. Better yet that I “appreciate” him. He has some “great qualities.” That is true. Objectively, he has some great qualities. And everything makes sense again.
On Saturday afternoon at 2 p.m. I decided I wanted to drive to Arizona. I decided, there is nothing I would rather do on a gorgeous sunny day than drive six hours to see my puppy and my boy for one day, and then drive back. I had been thinking about it since I woke up, but I had to let it percolate. I thought about it while I was surfing, I thought about it while I had coffee with Roo, only half listening to him, and wondering if I could make it in under six. If I left right now, I would be there at eight. We could have dinner together, I could play with the puppy. I went to work and printed out directions, mentally packed my bag so it wouldn’t take as long when I got home. Can I do this? Can I just drive out uninvited and show up in Arizona? It’s either incredibly romantic or incredibly pathetic. Anyway I’m just going to see the puppy. I miss the puppy. The puppy (not V) always “misses me.” I always tell V I “miss the puppy” too. I can’t wait to see the puppy. And the puppy can’t wait to see me. He is surely in love with me (the puppy). And I am driving to Arizona on a whim to say hello to my puppy, because the puppy will without a doubt be happy to see me. The puppy won’t think it’s slightly sad or wish he could be doing work, or not be at home.
But I have to make sure it’s ok. I call his friend:
“B, convince me that it’s a bad idea to drive to Arizona right now!”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Convince me not to do it. Tell me it’s a horrible idea. The worst idea you’ve ever heard. I’m an idiot for contemplating it. What do you think?”
“Well, it is kind of a long drive.”
“….You’re right, it is.”
“I mean, you should come if you want! It’d be great to have you. But, you know, you’ll be really tired when you get here.”
“No no, you’re right. I shouldn’t come. It’s a long drive. It’s stupid of me. Are you sure I shouldn’t though?”
“Well no, I mean, you should if you want to…I’m just telling you it’s a long drive.”
“Ok, no no, you’re right. It’s too long. I should forget about it.”
But I don’t. I drive home. It’s 3 p.m. If I were going, I would just be packing right now. But it’s a long drive. It’s stupid. He probably wouldn’t even want to see me. You know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid of this: my ex-boyfriend lived a long ways from his then girlfriend. He was up at school, she was six hours away in New York. But one day he borrowed a car from a friend, drove the crazy distance for no goddamn reason other than wanting to see her, showed up at her door, and she looks at him and starts crying.
That’s the problem with long distance.
4 p.m. I call up my friend in New York. Jen, I want to go to Arizona. Why didn’t I go? It’s too late now. It’s too long of a drive. I’m being stupid. If I left now I would get there at ten. I really want to go. I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to feel the silkiness of puppy ears between my fingers (and to rub his tummy, and curl around him), to watch him flop down on the floor and go to sleep (and kiss him goodnight, hello, good morning), let him sit in my lap, even though his weight is approaching mine (sit next to him, one leg sprawled over his, before we go to bed), and have him wake me up in the morning.
It’s almost dark now. If I left now I would get there at eleven. Still before bedtime. If I’d left before I would have only had four hours left.
Instead I walk on the beach alone at sunset. I feel like I’m in the middle of the earth, walking in a land that is enclosed, infinite, crashing. Everything seems eloquent, frozen in a climax of kinesis. The roll of the waves on the beach, the curve of the rocks in the sand, the crinkled power of the cliffs. The sun droops behind Catalina, retracts its glance from the crests of the waves, makes pastel fireworks of the spare clouds. If I left now, I could still make it by midnight. Or I could have had only two, maybe three hours to go. I stare at something bobbing in the water, walk back down the beach in somebody else’s footprints.
I go home and stare at the wall. Finally the phone rings.
“I miss you,” he says, now. “Why aren’t you here?”
If I left now I could be there by one. Seriously. I’ll pack my bags. Say the word and I’ll come.
“Haha! Yes! Come!”
“Ok, I’m packing my things.”
“Baby, it’s a long drive…”
“Ok, you’re right, you’re right.”
* * *
I wake up feeling like shit, hung over from drenching myself in regret. But I remember that he could have driven out as well.
***
The day before yesterday I’m desperate to be anywhere near him, yesterday I’m weeping uncontrollably because we are so different. Today all is well. The puppy is too big to hide in the closet now. And he thanks me for the help with his paper. Maybe he loves me. Maybe I love him. These things are true. I go to bed happy.
I realized a long time ago that in order to be able to understand anything you have to be telling yourself the truth. Because if you’re lying about one thing, one central thing, then you can’t see the truth of anything, because nothing makes sense from within that perspective. If I say it is true that I love him, then it is not true that I should feel bad after we talk, it is not true that I should resent him, not true that I fantasize about winning arguments I never win all the time, not true I cry when I get off the phone just so I can be happy next time he calls. Better to say I like him. Better yet that I “appreciate” him. He has some “great qualities.” That is true. Objectively, he has some great qualities. And everything makes sense again.
On Saturday afternoon at 2 p.m. I decided I wanted to drive to Arizona. I decided, there is nothing I would rather do on a gorgeous sunny day than drive six hours to see my puppy and my boy for one day, and then drive back. I had been thinking about it since I woke up, but I had to let it percolate. I thought about it while I was surfing, I thought about it while I had coffee with Roo, only half listening to him, and wondering if I could make it in under six. If I left right now, I would be there at eight. We could have dinner together, I could play with the puppy. I went to work and printed out directions, mentally packed my bag so it wouldn’t take as long when I got home. Can I do this? Can I just drive out uninvited and show up in Arizona? It’s either incredibly romantic or incredibly pathetic. Anyway I’m just going to see the puppy. I miss the puppy. The puppy (not V) always “misses me.” I always tell V I “miss the puppy” too. I can’t wait to see the puppy. And the puppy can’t wait to see me. He is surely in love with me (the puppy). And I am driving to Arizona on a whim to say hello to my puppy, because the puppy will without a doubt be happy to see me. The puppy won’t think it’s slightly sad or wish he could be doing work, or not be at home.
But I have to make sure it’s ok. I call his friend:
“B, convince me that it’s a bad idea to drive to Arizona right now!”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Convince me not to do it. Tell me it’s a horrible idea. The worst idea you’ve ever heard. I’m an idiot for contemplating it. What do you think?”
“Well, it is kind of a long drive.”
“….You’re right, it is.”
“I mean, you should come if you want! It’d be great to have you. But, you know, you’ll be really tired when you get here.”
“No no, you’re right. I shouldn’t come. It’s a long drive. It’s stupid of me. Are you sure I shouldn’t though?”
“Well no, I mean, you should if you want to…I’m just telling you it’s a long drive.”
“Ok, no no, you’re right. It’s too long. I should forget about it.”
But I don’t. I drive home. It’s 3 p.m. If I were going, I would just be packing right now. But it’s a long drive. It’s stupid. He probably wouldn’t even want to see me. You know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid of this: my ex-boyfriend lived a long ways from his then girlfriend. He was up at school, she was six hours away in New York. But one day he borrowed a car from a friend, drove the crazy distance for no goddamn reason other than wanting to see her, showed up at her door, and she looks at him and starts crying.
That’s the problem with long distance.
4 p.m. I call up my friend in New York. Jen, I want to go to Arizona. Why didn’t I go? It’s too late now. It’s too long of a drive. I’m being stupid. If I left now I would get there at ten. I really want to go. I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to feel the silkiness of puppy ears between my fingers (and to rub his tummy, and curl around him), to watch him flop down on the floor and go to sleep (and kiss him goodnight, hello, good morning), let him sit in my lap, even though his weight is approaching mine (sit next to him, one leg sprawled over his, before we go to bed), and have him wake me up in the morning.
It’s almost dark now. If I left now I would get there at eleven. Still before bedtime. If I’d left before I would have only had four hours left.
Instead I walk on the beach alone at sunset. I feel like I’m in the middle of the earth, walking in a land that is enclosed, infinite, crashing. Everything seems eloquent, frozen in a climax of kinesis. The roll of the waves on the beach, the curve of the rocks in the sand, the crinkled power of the cliffs. The sun droops behind Catalina, retracts its glance from the crests of the waves, makes pastel fireworks of the spare clouds. If I left now, I could still make it by midnight. Or I could have had only two, maybe three hours to go. I stare at something bobbing in the water, walk back down the beach in somebody else’s footprints.
I go home and stare at the wall. Finally the phone rings.
“I miss you,” he says, now. “Why aren’t you here?”
If I left now I could be there by one. Seriously. I’ll pack my bags. Say the word and I’ll come.
“Haha! Yes! Come!”
“Ok, I’m packing my things.”
“Baby, it’s a long drive…”
“Ok, you’re right, you’re right.”
* * *
I wake up feeling like shit, hung over from drenching myself in regret. But I remember that he could have driven out as well.
***
The day before yesterday I’m desperate to be anywhere near him, yesterday I’m weeping uncontrollably because we are so different. Today all is well. The puppy is too big to hide in the closet now. And he thanks me for the help with his paper. Maybe he loves me. Maybe I love him. These things are true. I go to bed happy.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Interesing Fact: The human eye can read the length of about two alphabets - 52 characters - and still find its way to the next line. If the line's much longer, the eye loses its place.
I always wondered why billboards used such large font.
