(no subject)
One of my earliest memories is asking my mother, "Why are there so many songs about love?" after watching Top of the Pops for the millionth time. "Why is everyone so obsessed about it? What's it all about?" All that came was a knowing answer, smelling suspiciously like an adult weary of child-rearing; "You'll understand when you're older."
It wasn't enough, of course. I plagued my parents for weeks about the lyrics of Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby"; "BUT WHY WOULD THEY PUT ICE ON A *BABY*?? WON'T IT BE COLD??"
I can't remember exactly when I realised that love was significant. And that it hurt. It could have been delivering my mother's shakily hand-written note to the roadside where my father was killed- a letter she no longer recalls, perhaps thanks to the morphine coursing through her veins at the time; it could have been when I first dabbled in sexual relations and experienced the deep confusion and turmoil the next day; it could have been just slowly growing up and watching those around me, usually strong as oxes and rational as Aristotle, falling to their knees with dead eyes- because of some man or woman or other. What was this strange influence, I wondered, that floors even the great? That underlines and colours and overshadows their lives even when their careers and fates are otherwise sweetly swinging along?
The pain of getting older, I suppose, is just realising how much it can hurt, how much nothing else matters in comparison.
I am exaggerating for the present circumstances, of course; I am not feeling that bad. There were a few moments yesterday at work as I was scrolling through far more horrific news- North Korean concentration camps, Philippino murders, central African war crimes, Tibetan freedom fighters, child abuse, British soldiers dying in Afghanistan- when, trivially, all I could think of was him, and how things were over, would never be the same, and how many weeks, months, aeons, it would be before I met someone else I actually liked and enjoyed and wanted to be with. I allowed myself a few toilet breaks to gasp and grab at the toilet roll tissue to dab at my eyes and nose, before re-applying make up and striding back into the office with a fake swagger. I nervously checked my email every twenty minutes. I lie; every ten. Nothing in reply to my email, which had a full count of twelve 'can't's ; "I can't do this anymore... you can't give me what I want... things can't go on... the situation can't change...". I didn't notice at the time.
Things came to a head on our four day snowboarding trip. He acted with insoussiance, displaying a total lack of sympathy or empathy and with infuriating distance. He resisted kisses, made fun of my lack of scientific and technological knowledge. On Christmas Day he claimed exhaustion and rolled over- we slept in twin beds, pushed together- resisting all my attempts at affection or drawing closer. On Boxing Day, desperate, I came as close to rape as females can- and he came as close to resisting it as any red blooded until-then-still-interested male can. I didn't get it. I felt ugly, unwanted; did I smell, suddenly? Was there hair on my upper lip? Had I, unbeknownst to me, put on weight in strange places? Perhaps I just wasn't as big breasted, as beguiling in bed, as alluring as she was. Sunday morning I woke up at seven, tears streaming down my face. I pathetically willed him to wake up, to turn over and whisper, "Aw, baby, what's the matter?". The cocoon-shaped lump of duvet, sporadically emitting light snores, didn't budge. The tears came because I realised things would never change; he would never like me enough, or stop liking her enough. He would never be as nice to me as I wanted him to be, nor accept and appreciate the help, love, sympathy and care that I extended to him; and I would return, tear stained and weighed down with winter sports equipment, in the neon square of Shinjuku that evening. Home again, to an alien city full of ugly men and simpering girls and just enough residual Christmas decorations to make my heart ache and my knees tremble.
So it was; the reflection neon pictogram for 'new' and 'dormitory' 新宿 (Shinjuku) shuddered from the side of the bus against highway's thick plastic barrier. Teenage boys in the seats opposite nibbled wasabi flavoured nuts and shot sideways glances at me, the strange wet-eyed gaijin in the luminous gore-tex jacket. Back I was, with the brightly lit noodle bars and temples of empty consumption and sadness; back to a single bed and wondering where it went wrong and when rejection became the order of the day. I talked to him later, feeling icy and prickly. He said he realised he had acted oddly and that he had been battling with thoughts of her- and yet felt like he was fucking things up on two continents. He said he was terrified of losing me, the dear friend that I had become- and how scared he was I'd just cut him off. I wanted to say he couldn't have his cake and eat it, but I was still playing sucker. I said I'd wait. For him to sort out his head, for him to decide, for something to happen. I didn't know why but I was just unwilling to say goodbye.
I slept on it, only to wake up to an email from my mother imploring me to 'spend New Year alone and afresh!'. The message was short and briskly worded, and I felt bitter at how easy it was for her to write it and how much it hurt me to think about it. But I went into work- more saline drops pricking my eyes on the train- and wrote the 'can't' email, bustling away with the newspapers to keep myself distracted.
Now I feel somehow purified, somewhat relieved. If he said that things would be different, and suggest that we continue in some way, I don't see how I could agree. He was right all along that I'd get bored with him, that he would prove too morose, boring, one-dimensional. He tries too hard to define himself without realising the chasm between his words and actions. We ran out of things to talk about- perhaps because of his regular and intentional stony silences- but I want someone who can constantly entertain me and never allow me to feel awkward. In short, I know that I deserve better. I will not hang around for someone who does not even both to compliment me or know how to dole out affection and sympathy. It's not worth it. It's sad; but whatever I'm looking for, it wasn't to be found there.
It wasn't enough, of course. I plagued my parents for weeks about the lyrics of Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby"; "BUT WHY WOULD THEY PUT ICE ON A *BABY*?? WON'T IT BE COLD??"
I can't remember exactly when I realised that love was significant. And that it hurt. It could have been delivering my mother's shakily hand-written note to the roadside where my father was killed- a letter she no longer recalls, perhaps thanks to the morphine coursing through her veins at the time; it could have been when I first dabbled in sexual relations and experienced the deep confusion and turmoil the next day; it could have been just slowly growing up and watching those around me, usually strong as oxes and rational as Aristotle, falling to their knees with dead eyes- because of some man or woman or other. What was this strange influence, I wondered, that floors even the great? That underlines and colours and overshadows their lives even when their careers and fates are otherwise sweetly swinging along?
The pain of getting older, I suppose, is just realising how much it can hurt, how much nothing else matters in comparison.
I am exaggerating for the present circumstances, of course; I am not feeling that bad. There were a few moments yesterday at work as I was scrolling through far more horrific news- North Korean concentration camps, Philippino murders, central African war crimes, Tibetan freedom fighters, child abuse, British soldiers dying in Afghanistan- when, trivially, all I could think of was him, and how things were over, would never be the same, and how many weeks, months, aeons, it would be before I met someone else I actually liked and enjoyed and wanted to be with. I allowed myself a few toilet breaks to gasp and grab at the toilet roll tissue to dab at my eyes and nose, before re-applying make up and striding back into the office with a fake swagger. I nervously checked my email every twenty minutes. I lie; every ten. Nothing in reply to my email, which had a full count of twelve 'can't's ; "I can't do this anymore... you can't give me what I want... things can't go on... the situation can't change...". I didn't notice at the time.
Things came to a head on our four day snowboarding trip. He acted with insoussiance, displaying a total lack of sympathy or empathy and with infuriating distance. He resisted kisses, made fun of my lack of scientific and technological knowledge. On Christmas Day he claimed exhaustion and rolled over- we slept in twin beds, pushed together- resisting all my attempts at affection or drawing closer. On Boxing Day, desperate, I came as close to rape as females can- and he came as close to resisting it as any red blooded until-then-still-interested male can. I didn't get it. I felt ugly, unwanted; did I smell, suddenly? Was there hair on my upper lip? Had I, unbeknownst to me, put on weight in strange places? Perhaps I just wasn't as big breasted, as beguiling in bed, as alluring as she was. Sunday morning I woke up at seven, tears streaming down my face. I pathetically willed him to wake up, to turn over and whisper, "Aw, baby, what's the matter?". The cocoon-shaped lump of duvet, sporadically emitting light snores, didn't budge. The tears came because I realised things would never change; he would never like me enough, or stop liking her enough. He would never be as nice to me as I wanted him to be, nor accept and appreciate the help, love, sympathy and care that I extended to him; and I would return, tear stained and weighed down with winter sports equipment, in the neon square of Shinjuku that evening. Home again, to an alien city full of ugly men and simpering girls and just enough residual Christmas decorations to make my heart ache and my knees tremble.
So it was; the reflection neon pictogram for 'new' and 'dormitory' 新宿 (Shinjuku) shuddered from the side of the bus against highway's thick plastic barrier. Teenage boys in the seats opposite nibbled wasabi flavoured nuts and shot sideways glances at me, the strange wet-eyed gaijin in the luminous gore-tex jacket. Back I was, with the brightly lit noodle bars and temples of empty consumption and sadness; back to a single bed and wondering where it went wrong and when rejection became the order of the day. I talked to him later, feeling icy and prickly. He said he realised he had acted oddly and that he had been battling with thoughts of her- and yet felt like he was fucking things up on two continents. He said he was terrified of losing me, the dear friend that I had become- and how scared he was I'd just cut him off. I wanted to say he couldn't have his cake and eat it, but I was still playing sucker. I said I'd wait. For him to sort out his head, for him to decide, for something to happen. I didn't know why but I was just unwilling to say goodbye.
I slept on it, only to wake up to an email from my mother imploring me to 'spend New Year alone and afresh!'. The message was short and briskly worded, and I felt bitter at how easy it was for her to write it and how much it hurt me to think about it. But I went into work- more saline drops pricking my eyes on the train- and wrote the 'can't' email, bustling away with the newspapers to keep myself distracted.
Now I feel somehow purified, somewhat relieved. If he said that things would be different, and suggest that we continue in some way, I don't see how I could agree. He was right all along that I'd get bored with him, that he would prove too morose, boring, one-dimensional. He tries too hard to define himself without realising the chasm between his words and actions. We ran out of things to talk about- perhaps because of his regular and intentional stony silences- but I want someone who can constantly entertain me and never allow me to feel awkward. In short, I know that I deserve better. I will not hang around for someone who does not even both to compliment me or know how to dole out affection and sympathy. It's not worth it. It's sad; but whatever I'm looking for, it wasn't to be found there.