Dusting off old bones: Disaster songs (or, I'm wrong about everything)
[Readers should bear in mind that this was written months ago, before readers go all off-the-deep-end on me]:
Mike Chabon writes [fucking SOMEWHERE], in the middle of biographical and autobiographical appropriation and Pittsburgh nostalgia, a line that says all writers are obsessed with numbers; in the sense of all the possible permutations of luck. I agree, somewhat. I keep looking for the right formula, always have, hoped there where black-and-white correct choices while I spent all of my academic career exploring the grays. Every decision has a consequence that leads to another choice that leads ot another, each action spinning off into a thousand more permutations of possibilities depending on time and execution. If I'd called you back the same day instead of the next, or maybe if I hadn't left a voicemail and waited to talk to you, I'd have heard from you by now. If I'd called you the day after to apologize, maybe you would have made me a bigger priority in your whirlwhind schedule. If I'd had one or two less scotches than the five I'd polished off, there probably wouldn't be a need to apologize. Somwehere, there must have been the right combnation of decisions that would have led to another date, another conversation over Jack and ginger, another chance in the big bed in your tiny room. As it stands, I'm wondering which choice was wrong. Likely, all of them.
I'd like to think that none of this matters if there's real interest in between two people, but I know better. Love does not conquer all, so nor does like, nor infatuation, nor whatever mild interest and/or pity that I'd managed to stir up in my clumsy propositions and aimless dates. I'm left to wonder, beat my head on this desk, and re-enact the last time I saw you.
I drop you off and skip the kiss goodbye, because the coffee hasn't covered the taste of bile in my mouth from last night and that morning. You smile politely and I peel off, softly muttering "fuck" under my breath while speeding south down Clark St, blasting my disaster songs. You took me in, I was too wasted to drive. You showed me consideration, I threw up in your sink. You welcomed me to your bed, I fumbled into acts I couldnt complete. You said you were tired, graciously. I asked where the bathroom was, quickly. I didn't make it.
Because you chose not to kick me out, we were forced to make the most of the clusterfuck that was last night. You wanted pancakes. Breakfast conversation was like losing a job interview and then going to lunch with the interviewer. I shook my head while you filled in the blank spaces in my memory. I tried to fill silence while you chewed, but all your stories start with "When I was in St. Petersburg directing plays" or "When I lived in the vegan co-op that year" or "The New Years' I was in New York City with the limo full of puerto ricans;" and mine start with "This one time I was so totally wasted..." From date one, I knew I couldn't keep up. It's fitting that you were wolfing down exotic pancakes while I coudn't even stomach a bowl of Rice Krispies in skim milk. In a couple years, you'll be light years ahead of me. You're a four lane desert highway wnding through the open Nevada air with the city lights as your horizon, and I'm a goddamned bicycle tire.
Every encounter helps us learn something, I hear. I used to believe things like I was smarter tham most girls, that I'd calmed down and learned my limits in college, that I was ambitious enough, that I was ready to date. Believed that I respected women. I'm wrong about everything.
Mike Chabon writes [fucking SOMEWHERE], in the middle of biographical and autobiographical appropriation and Pittsburgh nostalgia, a line that says all writers are obsessed with numbers; in the sense of all the possible permutations of luck. I agree, somewhat. I keep looking for the right formula, always have, hoped there where black-and-white correct choices while I spent all of my academic career exploring the grays. Every decision has a consequence that leads to another choice that leads ot another, each action spinning off into a thousand more permutations of possibilities depending on time and execution. If I'd called you back the same day instead of the next, or maybe if I hadn't left a voicemail and waited to talk to you, I'd have heard from you by now. If I'd called you the day after to apologize, maybe you would have made me a bigger priority in your whirlwhind schedule. If I'd had one or two less scotches than the five I'd polished off, there probably wouldn't be a need to apologize. Somwehere, there must have been the right combnation of decisions that would have led to another date, another conversation over Jack and ginger, another chance in the big bed in your tiny room. As it stands, I'm wondering which choice was wrong. Likely, all of them.
I'd like to think that none of this matters if there's real interest in between two people, but I know better. Love does not conquer all, so nor does like, nor infatuation, nor whatever mild interest and/or pity that I'd managed to stir up in my clumsy propositions and aimless dates. I'm left to wonder, beat my head on this desk, and re-enact the last time I saw you.
I drop you off and skip the kiss goodbye, because the coffee hasn't covered the taste of bile in my mouth from last night and that morning. You smile politely and I peel off, softly muttering "fuck" under my breath while speeding south down Clark St, blasting my disaster songs. You took me in, I was too wasted to drive. You showed me consideration, I threw up in your sink. You welcomed me to your bed, I fumbled into acts I couldnt complete. You said you were tired, graciously. I asked where the bathroom was, quickly. I didn't make it.
Because you chose not to kick me out, we were forced to make the most of the clusterfuck that was last night. You wanted pancakes. Breakfast conversation was like losing a job interview and then going to lunch with the interviewer. I shook my head while you filled in the blank spaces in my memory. I tried to fill silence while you chewed, but all your stories start with "When I was in St. Petersburg directing plays" or "When I lived in the vegan co-op that year" or "The New Years' I was in New York City with the limo full of puerto ricans;" and mine start with "This one time I was so totally wasted..." From date one, I knew I couldn't keep up. It's fitting that you were wolfing down exotic pancakes while I coudn't even stomach a bowl of Rice Krispies in skim milk. In a couple years, you'll be light years ahead of me. You're a four lane desert highway wnding through the open Nevada air with the city lights as your horizon, and I'm a goddamned bicycle tire.
Every encounter helps us learn something, I hear. I used to believe things like I was smarter tham most girls, that I'd calmed down and learned my limits in college, that I was ambitious enough, that I was ready to date. Believed that I respected women. I'm wrong about everything.