Dreams and not-dreams
On October 9, 2007, I wrote the following:
I suppose - and if you've ever had a burnt crème brulée, then you know this to be true - that the sweeter something was, the more bitter its ashes taste.
I only wish I could break the habit of occasionally tasting the soot to see if I can make out the tiniest hint of its former flavor. It would be better to just close my eyes and savor the memory, but no; after all these years, I keep going for the ashes. I try for one more taste, and end up with yet another mouthful of the ruins of that love, all the more acrid against the memory of the perfect sweetness that had burned away.
Exactly seven months later, I am again awake in the wee hours, typing on the same keys. Again I have a dream to write about… but this one wants a bit of backstory.
Several hours ago, I leaned against a cool granite bartop and learned of its legacy of memories forged and revisited, a lover's attempt to summon forth the multi-sensory recall of a time when all things were right in the world, for a while - the flavor of Then.
Oh, how I know that taste. My little bistro was the Norah Jones album that I had listened to approximately a million times in the Spring of 2005 - the very last time that I pulled up a chair to my own banquet of ashes. The songs had etched themselves into my memory and were burnished in with hope, regret, heartbreak, and resignation.
For a total of 11 years, I was truly haunted. Alex. Captain Dan. Mills. Ed. All made secondary to a ghost from the past. And unapologetically, too, because it did not even occur to me that it was dysfunctional. If I can't be with him, then why not this guy? That seemed entirely reasonable, even as I walked down the aisle. It was just like that awful Stephen Stills song… "There's a rose in a fisted glove, and the eagle flies with the dove-" Yeah, you know the rest. Well, let me be the first to state what really should been obvious: "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with" is not a particularly sound foundation upon which to build a successful marriage.
Nonetheless, I did start one last relationship under the unfortunate aegis of that broken philosophy. The difference was that this time I knew better than to pretend that it could substitute for something I still craved. It didn't matter that lost love would never be rekindled; the fact remained that my heart was still in it --still in it, stuck in it, and therefore not available to be given. Be it romantic nihilism or a staunch refusal to indulge in romantic nihilism, I knew that never again would I fail to see a fling for what it was. So I slapped on the warning label at day one, and laid down the ground rules right from the get-go: "Forever" was off the table.
Thus began an honestly acknowledged casual relationship. No strings. No pressure. No starry eyes. It was going to work out just fine. A few weeks into it, I doubled down. "Sure, I'll meet your friends." I allowed myself to be drawn out into other circles and to create an entirely separate segment of my life with an all-new cast of characters. Just like the dynamic of moving to another city, there were tons of new faces and endless opportunities for new experiences - opportunities that I was prepared to pick up, look at, and put back down. I was not looking for my future in this context - least of all in a romantic sense. There was absolutely no fear of an emotional security breach; the key to my heart had broken off and rusted in the lock. What could possibly go wrong?
Thus began my extended cruise upon a certain, infamous river in Egypt. Because it was just a crush, you see. Plain and simple. There was no reason to rock the boat, because for heaven's sake it was just a crush. just. a. crush. Right? Nothing more…
Inertia is a dominant force. Like a post-term pregnancy with quadruplets, there is only so long that you can convince yourself or anyone else that forward motion isn't there. Before long, you're waddling into a scene about a minute and a half after your waistline gets there, resting your coffee mug atop your belly, and announcing that your pants feel a bit tight today and you wonder if you oughtn't lay off the Krispy Kremes for a while. Sure. Right.
To their credit, some of my friends did me the service of calling me out. Some were coy or hesitant, but not all of them. Specifically, I have Jennie to thank for doing it in a very matter-of-fact way, several times. Patient, patient girl. I would have slapped me after the first hundred or so feeble refrains of "but it doesn't matter!" Her suggestions to take the first step and clean house were spot on, and her gentle but firm dance-floor-side reminders to clear the smolder from my face before my steady date joined the party were also quite appreciated - even at the time, when I was still trying hard to convince myself that there was nothing to clear. I'm just completely transparent to others… and in the end, I'm glad of it, honestly.
In any case, I was apparently an open book after two shots of vodka anyway… but unfortunately, I don't listen to myself when I've been drinking, so for me to get the memo, it literally had to ambush me in my sleep…
A delivery truck pulls into my driveway. The camera angles are nauseating - one oblique shot after another, spanning hundreds of ill-timed cuts, coming in from every direction, varying between fast and normal speed - as I come into view, sitting heavily on the sandy ground in a limp cotton sundress, with my legs at awkward angles in front of my body. The undersaturated, washed-out scene opens up and I blink in slow motion as the driver moves abruptly towards me and tosses the international-overnight package over to me. It lands in my lap and I open it - my hands moving in slow motion while the leaves and mulch blow around me at double speed - and peer into the box as the camera tightens in on my reddened eyes. My pulse rushes audibly as the camera moves back to reveal the contents of the box, which contains my beating heart. I blink again, and begin to smile, very slowly, until my laughter echoes, distorted, over the spinning scene, finally mixing with the tinny ringing of a mobile phone, which I answer as we fade to white.
Yes, it was back. It was back, and pounding in my chest as I woke. Jennie had said, "What is the first step?" The first step - clean house. I needed counsel on how exactly to implement Step One, so I found a reason to make a date with my favorite advisor. Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Right after kickball.
Incidentally, have you ever tried to put a cat in the bathtub? The cat knows what's coming. Before you even utter the words, it senses its fate and proactively protests, scratching and biting when you try to approach it. Then when you manage to pick it up, it sinks every claw into your skin and holds on for dear life, oblivious to your discomfort. "Nice kitty… you'll feel much better when you're all clean… the water's warm and it's for your own - OWW!!! FUCKER!"
Step One took nearly a week, and was much more scratchety than I would have liked.
By the following Sunday, steps Two through Forty-eleven had also occurred. It felt like the chasm between sleep and waking, when you can't find yourself against the background because you've become everything, and everything part of you. Moments were split in half and lived from the viewpoint of two realities at once: Awake, and still dreaming.
I can vividly remember the moment I realized that I was completely awake, and that this was really happening. It was in Jennie's car, and we'd just had a conversation about the end of the world - specifically, what people would choose to do if they knew the world was ending tomorrow. We mulled over the issue from several angles, focusing mainly on the things you would finally own up to, that you'd been holding back thus far. Are you living your authentic life? Is it the life you'd live if tomorrow marked the end? Or are you just treading water? With whom would you choose to spend your last moments - and is it different than the person you're spending your time with now? It was a deep question, and one that most people have pondered before. I was ready with my stock answer. I joked that we'd have to put off the end of the world for a few more weeks while I got my passport renewed, because I knew exactly where I'd go; it hadn't changed in over a decade - I'd go straight to…
I would go…
No. No, I wouldn't. I suddenly acknowledged EXACTLY where I wouldn't want to be, and I knew it with all five senses before I knew it in words. The maybe-face in the shadows was NOT his. The realization was like a warm spring breeze billowing through a dusty attic. I sat, speechless, and felt it blow through until the last cobweb had drifted out of sight. It knocked the wind out of me.
So there I was, sitting in my friend's car, slowly swallowing my new reality: The last of the ashes have blown away, and in their place is a stemmed glass filled with ruby liquid, sweet elixir of tomorrowhood. I remember this glass; I've seen it before, through a choking fog of self-deception. I recall the lines I wrote - at the time only dimly aware of their weight and wondering why they caused my chest to feel as if someone were boring through it, slowly, with a dull drill bit:
on the table, next to mine,
goblet of exquisite wine
I remember that song slowing down in my perception as a familiar scent followed my intake of breath, and I could almost taste it. Only the borrowed bass line hung in my chest as I ran a finger down the glass and fought the compulsion to take a sip. I recall almost picking it up… then turning on my heel, pushing open the heavy glass door to escape and breathe and forget it, a crisp January riverfront breeze whipping over my damp skin and chilling me twice over.
I recall the cold reality of months spent nearly drowning in denial, absentmindedly fingering the rim of that glass. Round and round I circled it, the slip-stick effect steadily increasing, the tone building. The sound finally became impossible to ignore - even over the roar of the relentless northeast wind coming over the sea, and even at that particular pitch, to which I'd painstakingly developed selective deafness. When I could hear nothing else over it, it was time to listen.
As I stand looking back over the road behind me, I'm amazed at the magnitude of the ashen scar along its length. A few moments of sunny sweetness occasionally punctuated many years' worth of bitter regret. Once I stopped reaching for that memory, it took three years of slow and steady downpour to wash it away.. I welcomed the cleansing, flavorless rain that had replaced the burnt aftertaste, and was truly grateful for it. I never, ever expected anything more. But, to my great surprise, I have lived to see the sun come out again, shining down upon the rest of the road as it winds away and out of sight. It is warm and bright, and the taste of anticipation that now lingers constantly on my lips is as sweet as pure honey. Whatever is down that road, it's calling my name, and I look forward to meeting it all.
I suppose - and if you've ever had a burnt crème brulée, then you know this to be true - that the sweeter something was, the more bitter its ashes taste.
I only wish I could break the habit of occasionally tasting the soot to see if I can make out the tiniest hint of its former flavor. It would be better to just close my eyes and savor the memory, but no; after all these years, I keep going for the ashes. I try for one more taste, and end up with yet another mouthful of the ruins of that love, all the more acrid against the memory of the perfect sweetness that had burned away.
Exactly seven months later, I am again awake in the wee hours, typing on the same keys. Again I have a dream to write about… but this one wants a bit of backstory.
Several hours ago, I leaned against a cool granite bartop and learned of its legacy of memories forged and revisited, a lover's attempt to summon forth the multi-sensory recall of a time when all things were right in the world, for a while - the flavor of Then.
Oh, how I know that taste. My little bistro was the Norah Jones album that I had listened to approximately a million times in the Spring of 2005 - the very last time that I pulled up a chair to my own banquet of ashes. The songs had etched themselves into my memory and were burnished in with hope, regret, heartbreak, and resignation.
For a total of 11 years, I was truly haunted. Alex. Captain Dan. Mills. Ed. All made secondary to a ghost from the past. And unapologetically, too, because it did not even occur to me that it was dysfunctional. If I can't be with him, then why not this guy? That seemed entirely reasonable, even as I walked down the aisle. It was just like that awful Stephen Stills song… "There's a rose in a fisted glove, and the eagle flies with the dove-" Yeah, you know the rest. Well, let me be the first to state what really should been obvious: "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with" is not a particularly sound foundation upon which to build a successful marriage.
Nonetheless, I did start one last relationship under the unfortunate aegis of that broken philosophy. The difference was that this time I knew better than to pretend that it could substitute for something I still craved. It didn't matter that lost love would never be rekindled; the fact remained that my heart was still in it --still in it, stuck in it, and therefore not available to be given. Be it romantic nihilism or a staunch refusal to indulge in romantic nihilism, I knew that never again would I fail to see a fling for what it was. So I slapped on the warning label at day one, and laid down the ground rules right from the get-go: "Forever" was off the table.
Thus began an honestly acknowledged casual relationship. No strings. No pressure. No starry eyes. It was going to work out just fine. A few weeks into it, I doubled down. "Sure, I'll meet your friends." I allowed myself to be drawn out into other circles and to create an entirely separate segment of my life with an all-new cast of characters. Just like the dynamic of moving to another city, there were tons of new faces and endless opportunities for new experiences - opportunities that I was prepared to pick up, look at, and put back down. I was not looking for my future in this context - least of all in a romantic sense. There was absolutely no fear of an emotional security breach; the key to my heart had broken off and rusted in the lock. What could possibly go wrong?
Thus began my extended cruise upon a certain, infamous river in Egypt. Because it was just a crush, you see. Plain and simple. There was no reason to rock the boat, because for heaven's sake it was just a crush. just. a. crush. Right? Nothing more…
Inertia is a dominant force. Like a post-term pregnancy with quadruplets, there is only so long that you can convince yourself or anyone else that forward motion isn't there. Before long, you're waddling into a scene about a minute and a half after your waistline gets there, resting your coffee mug atop your belly, and announcing that your pants feel a bit tight today and you wonder if you oughtn't lay off the Krispy Kremes for a while. Sure. Right.
To their credit, some of my friends did me the service of calling me out. Some were coy or hesitant, but not all of them. Specifically, I have Jennie to thank for doing it in a very matter-of-fact way, several times. Patient, patient girl. I would have slapped me after the first hundred or so feeble refrains of "but it doesn't matter!" Her suggestions to take the first step and clean house were spot on, and her gentle but firm dance-floor-side reminders to clear the smolder from my face before my steady date joined the party were also quite appreciated - even at the time, when I was still trying hard to convince myself that there was nothing to clear. I'm just completely transparent to others… and in the end, I'm glad of it, honestly.
In any case, I was apparently an open book after two shots of vodka anyway… but unfortunately, I don't listen to myself when I've been drinking, so for me to get the memo, it literally had to ambush me in my sleep…
A delivery truck pulls into my driveway. The camera angles are nauseating - one oblique shot after another, spanning hundreds of ill-timed cuts, coming in from every direction, varying between fast and normal speed - as I come into view, sitting heavily on the sandy ground in a limp cotton sundress, with my legs at awkward angles in front of my body. The undersaturated, washed-out scene opens up and I blink in slow motion as the driver moves abruptly towards me and tosses the international-overnight package over to me. It lands in my lap and I open it - my hands moving in slow motion while the leaves and mulch blow around me at double speed - and peer into the box as the camera tightens in on my reddened eyes. My pulse rushes audibly as the camera moves back to reveal the contents of the box, which contains my beating heart. I blink again, and begin to smile, very slowly, until my laughter echoes, distorted, over the spinning scene, finally mixing with the tinny ringing of a mobile phone, which I answer as we fade to white.
Yes, it was back. It was back, and pounding in my chest as I woke. Jennie had said, "What is the first step?" The first step - clean house. I needed counsel on how exactly to implement Step One, so I found a reason to make a date with my favorite advisor. Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Right after kickball.
Incidentally, have you ever tried to put a cat in the bathtub? The cat knows what's coming. Before you even utter the words, it senses its fate and proactively protests, scratching and biting when you try to approach it. Then when you manage to pick it up, it sinks every claw into your skin and holds on for dear life, oblivious to your discomfort. "Nice kitty… you'll feel much better when you're all clean… the water's warm and it's for your own - OWW!!! FUCKER!"
Step One took nearly a week, and was much more scratchety than I would have liked.
By the following Sunday, steps Two through Forty-eleven had also occurred. It felt like the chasm between sleep and waking, when you can't find yourself against the background because you've become everything, and everything part of you. Moments were split in half and lived from the viewpoint of two realities at once: Awake, and still dreaming.
I can vividly remember the moment I realized that I was completely awake, and that this was really happening. It was in Jennie's car, and we'd just had a conversation about the end of the world - specifically, what people would choose to do if they knew the world was ending tomorrow. We mulled over the issue from several angles, focusing mainly on the things you would finally own up to, that you'd been holding back thus far. Are you living your authentic life? Is it the life you'd live if tomorrow marked the end? Or are you just treading water? With whom would you choose to spend your last moments - and is it different than the person you're spending your time with now? It was a deep question, and one that most people have pondered before. I was ready with my stock answer. I joked that we'd have to put off the end of the world for a few more weeks while I got my passport renewed, because I knew exactly where I'd go; it hadn't changed in over a decade - I'd go straight to…
I would go…
No. No, I wouldn't. I suddenly acknowledged EXACTLY where I wouldn't want to be, and I knew it with all five senses before I knew it in words. The maybe-face in the shadows was NOT his. The realization was like a warm spring breeze billowing through a dusty attic. I sat, speechless, and felt it blow through until the last cobweb had drifted out of sight. It knocked the wind out of me.
So there I was, sitting in my friend's car, slowly swallowing my new reality: The last of the ashes have blown away, and in their place is a stemmed glass filled with ruby liquid, sweet elixir of tomorrowhood. I remember this glass; I've seen it before, through a choking fog of self-deception. I recall the lines I wrote - at the time only dimly aware of their weight and wondering why they caused my chest to feel as if someone were boring through it, slowly, with a dull drill bit:
on the table, next to mine,
goblet of exquisite wine
I remember that song slowing down in my perception as a familiar scent followed my intake of breath, and I could almost taste it. Only the borrowed bass line hung in my chest as I ran a finger down the glass and fought the compulsion to take a sip. I recall almost picking it up… then turning on my heel, pushing open the heavy glass door to escape and breathe and forget it, a crisp January riverfront breeze whipping over my damp skin and chilling me twice over.
I recall the cold reality of months spent nearly drowning in denial, absentmindedly fingering the rim of that glass. Round and round I circled it, the slip-stick effect steadily increasing, the tone building. The sound finally became impossible to ignore - even over the roar of the relentless northeast wind coming over the sea, and even at that particular pitch, to which I'd painstakingly developed selective deafness. When I could hear nothing else over it, it was time to listen.
As I stand looking back over the road behind me, I'm amazed at the magnitude of the ashen scar along its length. A few moments of sunny sweetness occasionally punctuated many years' worth of bitter regret. Once I stopped reaching for that memory, it took three years of slow and steady downpour to wash it away.. I welcomed the cleansing, flavorless rain that had replaced the burnt aftertaste, and was truly grateful for it. I never, ever expected anything more. But, to my great surprise, I have lived to see the sun come out again, shining down upon the rest of the road as it winds away and out of sight. It is warm and bright, and the taste of anticipation that now lingers constantly on my lips is as sweet as pure honey. Whatever is down that road, it's calling my name, and I look forward to meeting it all.