Me and Mr. Jones

At this moment, you should be with us.

Thom is sitting next to me on the couch. We both are staring at our computers. This is a common scene.

“If a body catch a body coming through the rye…”

I only realized yesterday how comfortable life really was for me. It was a moment when I had accomplished my work and had a weekend day ahead of me with no obligations save for a nap and a catchy song. Thom was in the shower then, and I hoped to explain this all to him but he wouldn’t have really cared because I chatter all the time and I believe he usually tunes me out.

And so I returned to my chair and considered how I would write it all down for you to consume. It was as though something really didn’t mean anything unless I had someone else’s validation. That, friends, is a scary and pathetic thought. And all clarity and calm vanished. This is also a common scene.

Sometimes Thom smiles and shakes his head at me. I can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. One wonders if I should worry, but one would be wasting his/her time because I worry about EVERYTHING! Well, sometimes.

So this is where we are. But who are we? Two boys, living together. Kisses in the morning and kisses at night. Relatively regular. Constant.

I still worry sometimes about that constant because I don’t want us to take it for granted. He of me or me of him. Us of us. And there is SO much of me internally that is not regular. The only thing that I can say for sure is that I love him.

But this is also why I worry: what would it mean if something went wrong? I am erratic, clumsy, and getting cushy around the belly. And I’m also not as starry-eyed as I used to be. I am critical of things. Of me. Of him. Of others. This is positive, I feel, because it makes me focus and consider. It encourages me. And it reminds me of how much I love him in particular.

Wait. I need to remember to focus on me at the moment because I’m falling out of focus. I’m still so worried about the physical. The browning tooth. The random hairs. My droopy eyes. And this distracts me.

The emotional core of many people I know seems to be withheld. I’ve been drowning my own. There seems to be so much pressure to have a plan and/or trajectory rather than simply dealing with those moments of pure joy or fear. The distracting anxiety. The lust or insecurity. The inner life.

I haven’t figured out how the inner life relates to outer in my day to day world. Thom is really the only person who gets the benefit of both my inner and outer. I hope he enjoys it.

At this moment, you have been with us. The tinkling of computer keys and the inner-monologue. Occasional smiles. My life.

Good night.

Colbert said it. I know it to be true. Muhahahahahahahahah!

Everyone has different ideas of how to address those random occurances. I usually try to hold my breath or drink about a gallon of water or simply distract myself by doing something else. This morning nothing would stop them and I suffered for about an hour. I even began to shout “I hate white rabbits!” and still my diaphragm convulsed like a madman.

And thus began my day at home. A sick-day following a half-day to try and recover from this crazy sinus/allergy/coughing mess. I slept again once the hiccups subsided, and then I moved to the couch to nap and read my daily dose of online news and “stuff”.

I like compulsions, except when it comes to things like hiccuping or throwing up. Or inertia. That inability to begin when in repose. The fear, or perhaps the distaste.

And then I just kept on hiccup-ing. Despite my greatest will…

i would like to have some better moments to describe. i don’t. i would like to tell you that i began reading raymond carver when my creative writing teacher gave me “a small, good thing” during one of our workshops. or when abby began to read both his poetry and prose obsessively during my junior year, that fated semester we all lived in the same house. but instead i have to confess (because they could show you anyway) the google search terms of “writers and alcohol” and the resulting web pages that list mr carver among the many who have written great things while ruining their livers.

okay. so now you know. but i’ve been reading for a couple hours now, and how strange it is to possess a man in a couple of volumes for only $30 some odd dollars and cents.

but i do feel a kinship. and release.

inspiration from reading is rarely a luxury i indulge in. lately. but tonight…

My parents, obviously (we all do).
My first boyfriend.
My potential.
My front tooth when I passed out at the foot of that cop
after getting drunk because I was in love
with that boy.
My morality (at times).
My liver.
My professors who felt sorry for me.
My grades.
My chance at ever getting into heaven (good riddance).
My sister’s first fish.
My life.

This poem.

When I don’t have to work, I enjoy…

showering,

reading,

and resting.
The End.

Is that Jiminy Cricket hollerin’ in my ear? Alas, my blog betrays me again.

My beloved “peanut gallery” wants to know more about my week, this past week when I supposedly didn’t drink. The fictional week that never really surfaced. Of course, this begs the question–why not? Where did this exercise in self-control go? It went the way of good intentions. It paved the way to….

Last night I discussed my boredom. Now boredom is a curious thing. Wikipedia claims: “Boredom is a state of mind in which one interprets one’s environment as dull, tedious, and lacking stimuli. There is an inherent anxiety in boredom; people will expend considerable effort to prevent or remedy it, yet in many circumstances it is accepted as an inevitable suffering to be endured….Time often seems to move more slowly to someone who experiences boredom; this results from the way in which the human mind measures the passage of time, combined with the infrequency of events perceived as notable.”

And as if that doesn’t persuade you, John Milton reminded us that a mind “…Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heaven”.

Now I mention these things simply to say that I have quite a mind. (One that I seem to be pickling.) It screams at me, it tickles my toes, and I spend so many meandering thoughts pacing with “inspiration”. Some nights it feels as though it can’t handle itself without some support. For that we have anxiety medication and something to drink. I haven’t always had a drink every evening, and I still don’t always indulge, but lately I don’t exactly make much of an effort not to.

And that is the context while the rest is habit. Work, home, couch, bed…I talk about this too much! Now I’m boring myself.

Perhaps it is frustration because I have such a serene vision of my life that isn’t yet: More focused writing and more adventurous exploring. Those stacks of books to read and that lump of belly to dissolve.

You want to know about my week without? It began today. So far not much else to report except that I haven’t had anything to drink and I finished my grades.

The liberation of our latest apartment wasn’t easy. We had moved in so quickly and with such relief that items fit themselves someplace and we just assumed it was fate. Only a year and a half later did the shape actually begin to emerge from the stone.

We bought the couch and then suddenly my mind was aflutter with the possibilites of rearranging. A live-action Tetris game. The computer was to move into the guest room, our bed should shift walls, and all of the old boxes would have to give way.

Now I sit in our semi-office but mostly still guest room able to type or read at my leisure while he sleeps behind the french doors. Sheltered from my light. The possibilities rarely seemed so various and enticing.

This could extend into some sort of extended metaphor for figuring each other out after 6 years of love. Still nothing is perfect but many things make more sense. This serenity is what I’ve waited for.

And even with this latest comfort comes the inevitability of change–our lease could end and we might move. Or we may renew and buy something else. Who knows? It is the uncertainty that makes it fun, and the stability that makes it all worthwhile.

Oh, and did I mention that my sister is pregnant and my little brother likes to spend his evenings drawing 40 penises on the windows of cars? No? Well, I’m sure it will come out eventually.

Good night.

let’s just start with the concrete. it is probably
one hour before i will lay down to try and sleep. i am waiting for him
to come home. i cleaned up tonight because he is bringing a guest with
him. so the apartment now represents the best that it can. this is a
beginning.

this week is hard. every morning motivation lacks and i have to drag myself to breakfast table to shower to car to classroom. jesus. two days left and then a three day weekend.

i haven’t accomplished much. i’ve
arrived at work, dealt with some of the drama of my students. handled
some drama from my colleagues. apologized for this weekend’s
indiscretions. listened to some music.

the shower is my most directed form of thought. i am able to consider what i’ve read, what i’ve seen, and what i plan. i’ve been working on a plot.

one of my collaborations with george will be performed in hong kong. this seems the extent of my influence but i’m not holding my breath.

today the mud surprised me, because it appeared sloppy and yet stood solid, frozen.

this will be terribly uninteresting once published. oh well, there’s always tomorrow.