so I think
I think I'm writing the history of the person I wish I'd been for the last 25 years, if the person I'd been was bound to do the things I did, but not to see them the same way, and not to be so hard-headed about it all.
....
some time ago i was involved with a gorgeous blond, one of the few blonds i've really been attracted to, in one of those borderless relationships that are defined by their lack of any real definition. much time spent together, long discussions, great sex (in my mind, which quite probably was only so-so when viewed from the other direction), but for all the content, there was no context.
then one day i kissed her and thought "i recognize this kiss..." but I couldn't exactly place it. the reason, of course, is that i was tasting something on the receiving end that i'd only ever experienced giving, and nothing tastes the same inside-out, not a peanut butter sandwich and certainly not a kiss. it was a kiss given grudgingly, everything done to the precisely measured minimum constitution of a kiss, lips touched but not pressed to lips, tightly held top to bottom with the slight frown of pursed lips and regret.
when i'd extracted myself, as i walked down the stairs from her overhanging porch, my mind was informing me of the simple fact that she'd found someone else, and i, in turn, was trying to convince my mind not to worry itself with figuring out whom it might be. i spent a long time, after that, just not talking to her, until i finally got around to telling her that i knew she'd found someone new. she, predictably if not admirably, told me of how she hadn't meant for it to happen, how she'd wanted to tell me, but it was hard, and how she was appreciative of what we'd had, but that it was over. and it was. and that was alright.
sure, i would have liked to have been informed a bit earlier on, but that was mostly because, had i been informed, i could have avoided the humiliation of that kiss, and the recognition, not only of my sudden unattractiveness, but also of the feeling of sudden unattractiveness that i'd caused in others over the years. yes, i did actually think about those other girls, and i did feel real remorse. i feel it often, it just doesn't usually lead to any better action on my part.
over the following weeks, after her repeated inference of a strong desire to remain friends, we stopped speaking to each other. this was, she told me, largely due to being very busy with school, and we both agreed that having a new boyfriend that she was so happy with would also make it harder to have time for me. this was also fine. as i certainly wasn't all that busy, i told her that, whenever she might have a desire to talk to me, she was more than welcome to call. she took advantage of that offer a couple of times, but at some point even those rare calls stopped, and i had come to a point where i didn't think about it.
from time to time i would remember something we'd done, a conversation, a caress, and i would catch a glimpse, somewhere in the back of my mind, of her hair falling across her face in the morning sun. it always woke me up, the sunlight shooting through all the dust hung in the air between the bed and the window, making for thousands of tiny fairies slowly falling from the sky, some to land, lucky if they did, on the down of her cheek. but, intense as the remembrances may have been, they were not frequent, and they did not cause me pain when they came.
some months later, sitting on my couch prowling through my phone's contact list looking for someone i hadn't spoken to for a while in order to bug them about why they hadn't spoken to me in a while, i ran across the name of an old friend, someone whom i'd seen on a more than weekly basis for almost a year, and then, due to scheduling conflicts and personal obligations, i'd lost almost complete touch with. no fault involved, really, just timing. i began a text message to him, implying great fault on his part and utterly abject ennui on mine, as a result of this long lapse in our friendship. a moment before sending the message, however, i suddenly saw, quite clearly though without any specific evidence, that he was the man that my beautiful blond had found.
i very honestly cannot say how i knew this, i have nothing to support the absolute certainty i felt, but this is often the case in my life: i will know something, quite of a sudden, and have no reason for the knowledge. more than a few girls have been rather annoyed at my ability to know when something was wrong, when they're done something untoward or even when they just wanted to. some lied and told me that there was nothing going on, others simply confirmed what i'd come to know. a very few had tried to prove me wrong, pointing to details of what i told them, but the bottom line was that i'd known the generality of what was going on, and whether or not i had the exact scheduling of instances and locations right was of little consequence.
the odd thing, in that moment, was that i chose to send the text. i chose to send it, and i did not plan to bring it up with him, or even, as was more my style, to lead the conversation in a direction meant to trip him up as he attempted to dance about the point. i just wanted to know what was going on with him. i missed him. i missed him as i missed her; i enjoyed their company.
it makes me sad, how often we lose people because we are afraid to tell them something. we ought to tell them, but we don't tell them, time passes and if we ever get to the point of telling them, we immediately cut them off, trying desperately to avoid the shame we feel afterwards. what confuses me is that we never stop doing things we will end up being ashamed to speak of. that step seems to be a bit beyond our comprehension. we never choose not to have the affair, no matter how horrible the guilt might be later. true, many people are faced with the opportunity for such things, affairs, a theft of personal property, corporate money, dealing someone by whom we feel wronged a blow, and true, many of those people choose not to commit. it does not, however, strike me that these acts are avoided due to fear of the guilt they will cause, but instead avoided due to the potential risk for other losses: our beloved, our beloved comfort, our beloved possessions, our beloved freedom, our beloved self-righteousness. how many times have i chosen not to do something only so that i might lord it over someone else who had not made such a choice?
and so i sit here, thinking about them, missing them, wishing i could make them not feel that guilt. maybe he'll call and we'll talk. maybe he'll tell me he's been seeing her, and tell me they're very happy, and maybe i'll be honest and tell him i was hurt but that i miss him more than i'm hurt, that i'd rather have them as my friends than to try and avoid the painful fact that she chose him over me. i know she chose him over me. it already hurts, and it's nothing but selfishness, not kindness, that has them seeking to keep from coming out and telling me this. there are a large number of men on this earth who have been chosen over me, by a list of girls far too long to dwell upon. and these choices have been made, some permanently, some more temporary; the girl whom i love more than i have ever loved another is married, most certainly not to me, and i haven't spoken to her in years. but not speaking to them doesn't make it any better.
....
some time ago i was involved with a gorgeous blond, one of the few blonds i've really been attracted to, in one of those borderless relationships that are defined by their lack of any real definition. much time spent together, long discussions, great sex (in my mind, which quite probably was only so-so when viewed from the other direction), but for all the content, there was no context.
then one day i kissed her and thought "i recognize this kiss..." but I couldn't exactly place it. the reason, of course, is that i was tasting something on the receiving end that i'd only ever experienced giving, and nothing tastes the same inside-out, not a peanut butter sandwich and certainly not a kiss. it was a kiss given grudgingly, everything done to the precisely measured minimum constitution of a kiss, lips touched but not pressed to lips, tightly held top to bottom with the slight frown of pursed lips and regret.
when i'd extracted myself, as i walked down the stairs from her overhanging porch, my mind was informing me of the simple fact that she'd found someone else, and i, in turn, was trying to convince my mind not to worry itself with figuring out whom it might be. i spent a long time, after that, just not talking to her, until i finally got around to telling her that i knew she'd found someone new. she, predictably if not admirably, told me of how she hadn't meant for it to happen, how she'd wanted to tell me, but it was hard, and how she was appreciative of what we'd had, but that it was over. and it was. and that was alright.
sure, i would have liked to have been informed a bit earlier on, but that was mostly because, had i been informed, i could have avoided the humiliation of that kiss, and the recognition, not only of my sudden unattractiveness, but also of the feeling of sudden unattractiveness that i'd caused in others over the years. yes, i did actually think about those other girls, and i did feel real remorse. i feel it often, it just doesn't usually lead to any better action on my part.
over the following weeks, after her repeated inference of a strong desire to remain friends, we stopped speaking to each other. this was, she told me, largely due to being very busy with school, and we both agreed that having a new boyfriend that she was so happy with would also make it harder to have time for me. this was also fine. as i certainly wasn't all that busy, i told her that, whenever she might have a desire to talk to me, she was more than welcome to call. she took advantage of that offer a couple of times, but at some point even those rare calls stopped, and i had come to a point where i didn't think about it.
from time to time i would remember something we'd done, a conversation, a caress, and i would catch a glimpse, somewhere in the back of my mind, of her hair falling across her face in the morning sun. it always woke me up, the sunlight shooting through all the dust hung in the air between the bed and the window, making for thousands of tiny fairies slowly falling from the sky, some to land, lucky if they did, on the down of her cheek. but, intense as the remembrances may have been, they were not frequent, and they did not cause me pain when they came.
some months later, sitting on my couch prowling through my phone's contact list looking for someone i hadn't spoken to for a while in order to bug them about why they hadn't spoken to me in a while, i ran across the name of an old friend, someone whom i'd seen on a more than weekly basis for almost a year, and then, due to scheduling conflicts and personal obligations, i'd lost almost complete touch with. no fault involved, really, just timing. i began a text message to him, implying great fault on his part and utterly abject ennui on mine, as a result of this long lapse in our friendship. a moment before sending the message, however, i suddenly saw, quite clearly though without any specific evidence, that he was the man that my beautiful blond had found.
i very honestly cannot say how i knew this, i have nothing to support the absolute certainty i felt, but this is often the case in my life: i will know something, quite of a sudden, and have no reason for the knowledge. more than a few girls have been rather annoyed at my ability to know when something was wrong, when they're done something untoward or even when they just wanted to. some lied and told me that there was nothing going on, others simply confirmed what i'd come to know. a very few had tried to prove me wrong, pointing to details of what i told them, but the bottom line was that i'd known the generality of what was going on, and whether or not i had the exact scheduling of instances and locations right was of little consequence.
the odd thing, in that moment, was that i chose to send the text. i chose to send it, and i did not plan to bring it up with him, or even, as was more my style, to lead the conversation in a direction meant to trip him up as he attempted to dance about the point. i just wanted to know what was going on with him. i missed him. i missed him as i missed her; i enjoyed their company.
it makes me sad, how often we lose people because we are afraid to tell them something. we ought to tell them, but we don't tell them, time passes and if we ever get to the point of telling them, we immediately cut them off, trying desperately to avoid the shame we feel afterwards. what confuses me is that we never stop doing things we will end up being ashamed to speak of. that step seems to be a bit beyond our comprehension. we never choose not to have the affair, no matter how horrible the guilt might be later. true, many people are faced with the opportunity for such things, affairs, a theft of personal property, corporate money, dealing someone by whom we feel wronged a blow, and true, many of those people choose not to commit. it does not, however, strike me that these acts are avoided due to fear of the guilt they will cause, but instead avoided due to the potential risk for other losses: our beloved, our beloved comfort, our beloved possessions, our beloved freedom, our beloved self-righteousness. how many times have i chosen not to do something only so that i might lord it over someone else who had not made such a choice?
and so i sit here, thinking about them, missing them, wishing i could make them not feel that guilt. maybe he'll call and we'll talk. maybe he'll tell me he's been seeing her, and tell me they're very happy, and maybe i'll be honest and tell him i was hurt but that i miss him more than i'm hurt, that i'd rather have them as my friends than to try and avoid the painful fact that she chose him over me. i know she chose him over me. it already hurts, and it's nothing but selfishness, not kindness, that has them seeking to keep from coming out and telling me this. there are a large number of men on this earth who have been chosen over me, by a list of girls far too long to dwell upon. and these choices have been made, some permanently, some more temporary; the girl whom i love more than i have ever loved another is married, most certainly not to me, and i haven't spoken to her in years. but not speaking to them doesn't make it any better.