Tag Archives: Relationships

January 10, 2011 · 16:46

Loquacious outlining…

My mother brought this up the other day.  She said, “Mary, you haven’t been writing lately.”  At first, the response was simple and to the point.  “You’re right.  I just haven’t had anything to say.”  Well, yes, that is the truth, albeit a heavily truncated version of the truth.  After dissecting that statement over the past few days, I believe I have a better, more thought out response to that: I had words to say (and correction: I have been writing…the ever-in-progress-novel).  I just didn’t know if they were relevant.

This brings me to the question of relevance and all that encompasses that.  I don’t know necessarily who is reading this (other than the president of my fan club, my mother) and sometimes, when wondering who your audience is (know your audience), you begin to question the validity of statements and tone.  Well, sorry folks, I’m done questioning.  I don’t know who you are but here we go…yippee.  Hi mom.

So while deconstructing that argument of validity, I began to outline what has been happening since the last post (I am too embarrassed to even check when the last post was, what I do know is that I have skipped every major holiday and avoided them in writing much as I did in ‘real life’).  A debriefing of sorts I suppose shall suffice:

  • I fell into my standard holiday depression.  I am beginning to wonder if depression is something that will continue to plague me as the years progress and hormones continue to spiral out of control.  Dear women on birth control, I commend you.  I almost wrote a piece about that but decided for the male subscribers, that would be a little too much information.  Also, that requires having a partner (even random) to have said ‘meetings’ with and well, BC hasn’t exactly been necessary when your life can easily be lumped into four things: Work.  Sleep.  Eat.  Dog.  If someone ever wanted to case my house, it would take a mere matter of days for them to figure out my schedule.  Moving on…
  • I am in a bit of a bickering match, or lack there of with my best friend right now.  We haven’t spoken in over a week and while we are two very stubborn individuals, my feelings are still gravely hurt and I don’t know how to piece the words together appropriately to tell her how I feel other than to say, you fucking pissed me off.  And never, I repeat NEVER put my dog in his crate again (that’s not what started the argument but it certainly did not help either).
  • I don’t believe in New Year Resolutions as I gather they are most often broken.  I am instead relying on what I now call my New Year Responsibility.  What is that? you ask.  Well, I have not mentioned this as it’s not a very proud conversation but here it is anyway.  I am in a wee bit of debt outside of my student loans.  Put it this way, I spent the early part of my 20s being irresponsible and behind a bottle.  I didn’t exactly pay some medical bills when they were due and well, I want to buy a house at some point in my life.  Insert 2011 and Operation Get Out of Debt (aside from the hellacious student loans).  I am determined, budgeted, and have even acquired a Tri-Met pass.  Farewell car and downtown parking fees.  Hello public transportation and a slowly rising credit score.  I thought getting old was supposed to be fun…
  • My life isn’t where I had expected it to be at 25-almost-26.  I didn’t expect to be married, kids, the white picket fence, but I figured I wouldn’t still be bartending my way through bartending.  I am tired…so tired.  I had to start seeing a chiropractor just to find walking comfortable again.  By the end of this year, I refuse to be bartending.  It’s time to make shit happen in more ways than just the credit score.  This year, I will find a job that doesn’t make we want to pull my hair out.  Hopefully one with a little piece of joy I refer to as health insurance.  Something that makes me come home at the end of the day NOT hating humanity.  I am sick of correcting grammar.  I am sick of booze.  And I don’t even drink the shit.  Maybe I should change the name of 2011 from Operation Get Out of Debt to Operation Make Life Count.  Yes.  That’s the spirit, Burger.
  • I am single.  I don’t know really where to go with that but yup, I still am.  I didn’t think that would change and I have been the last person to act on that.  Maybe that is why I ignore New Years Eve and the debacle that is Amateur Night.  I am almost afraid that I enjoy being alone too much such that I purchased a new TV (hello HD) and now have streaming NetFlix.  Maybe life as a cave woman (in high definition) is the way for me.  Or maybe I should start getting out more.  Please, just please, don’t talk to me on the bus.  I am still from a New England family, a wee bit snobby, and am well-versed in firearms and self-defense.

So there it is.  I’m sure somewhere hidden in that loquacious outline is a sense of relevance with all of you.  Or maybe a simple conversation starter.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I have a tendency to be redundant.  You heard (or read) me whine for over a year about a broken heart.  I am kind of in that “now what?” section of life when that heart is no longer broken, doesn’t belong to anyone, and though I may suffer from bouts of depression and significant solitude, I am happy.  I don’t know how to write when I am happy.  And I don’t want to write on a consistent basis when all I am writing about is the same thing, just reworked and reworded.  So I guess, Happy New Year.  Skordo says woof and Olive, well, she says meow and just peed on my bathmat.  Great.  At least she is consistent.
Wow.  I missed this…

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October 27, 2010 · 19:46

The right lie…

I lied to someone the other day.  I knew it as the words came out that I was lying.  At the time, I didn’t know if it was necessary.  I had to sit on it for hours before finally retracting my statement.  Was it worth it?  Well, it never really is.  The audience wasn’t entirely worthy of the truth but at the end, I knew I had to give honesty where honesty was deserved.  Even to him.  Even if it was for the last time.

After the I.H., I wondered how long it would take before finally being comfortable with the notion of a relationship.  I questioned if I would ever be ready for that level of company in my life again, more than just for an evening.  I challenged myself to think outside of him, where we had been, and how far I have come from him.  Never will there be a light saying it’s done, it’s gone and over.  Never will I know without a reasonable level of doubt, but finally ridding myself of the distraction that his presence once left in my life was all I needed to say this is as ready as I have ever been.

This year has been a hailstorm of unnecessary proportions.  Even the past few months has been a challenge in and of itself.  Learning to deal – simply that: deal – with life alone again has brought out pieces of me that I had forgotten existed.  It has been empowering in a bizarre, flustering sort of way.  I surprise myself with bits.  And when I finally said “I’m done.  Enough.  Enough now.” the other day when taking my lie back, there was an honest smile where once a crooked, self-doubting grin had once been so at home.

But the lie.  I had lied when I said I didn’t want an emotional attachment.  I do.  I know myself now to be happy alone.  I don’t know if I have ever been this happy in my life, even with another body in it.  But this time, for the first time, I am by myself and so positively content.  Why would I want to disrupt that?  Who knows.  What I do know is that down the road, whether that road is tomorrow or next year, I want a presence in my life.  I want another level of happiness that can only be brought on by another.

So I lied to conceal that.  I don’t know why I did.  My knee-jerk reaction was to bottle it up and hide from it – from him – again.  But with that lie I knew it to be my last.  Whether it was the last contact forever or simply the last lie I could ever give him, I knew I was done.  It’s strange that a lie could draw out such a level of empowerment that it gave an extra boost to my step.  I bounced around the city the following day with a smile, knowing the reason for its presence being simply mine.  My decision that I made, alone.  It’s amazing that my little lie could bring something so right.

Maybe this is the ending to our book.  Maybe Berlin will never crumble again and I will never get the answers I have so wanted from you in order to give her the final words of prose.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I would rather live my life with a series of maybes, lingering on the last words of how the wall of Berlin fell but only for a moment, than to know Berlin only to be a myth.  I know where I will be and I will never let a heart push me to run so fast again…I will never be Elizabeth again, but maybe someday down the road, you will come to know me as Mary.

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August 26, 2010 · 12:50

Fearless or fearful…

As a repeat victim of identity theft, I wonder how much we should make available of ourselves online.  If you read the last blog, you are probably wondering what I am not willing to put online.  Certain things I am not ashamed of, even more so if they raise a valid point.  Well, my friend challenged me.  She won.

Once you hit your mid-twenties, dating becomes a bit more challenging I have noticed.  My best friend (aptly titled the BFF from here on out as I am not that witty with monikers before 2pm) has some serious balls.  I have complained about this before (yes…whined, complained, bitched) that as we age, the market gets slimmer and slimmer and opportunities to meet new people are not as easy as being drunk in college, class, or walking down a campus street.  Yes, we live in Portland.  Yes, we both have jobs (though I refuse to date customers – won’t happen.  Ever.) that could open up a dating pool.  And yes, we live ‘active’ social lives.  Her social life is a bit more vibrant than mine as again, I am lacking her fearless set of balls of going to a bar alone to have dinner and BAM! – she meets someone new this week.  Love her.  Admire her.  And am often in fear of her.

So we (excuse me, she) decided to try online dating.  OK, let me be clear about my opinion of online dating: it scares the absolute shit out of me.  Yes, I have Facebook and a very dormant MySpace page.  I have a blog.  I online shop (though am fearful of it now due to the recent identity theft).  I google map my life pretty much.  At any given moment, I can find what I want online.  In conversation with customers a few weeks ago, we wanted to know how meth is made (not for personal consumption but to see exactly what the process is and why crack-heads are so nimble).  I grab my faulty Blackberry Storm and within a minute, the “recipe” was in hand.    I don’t want to put my height online, have to classify my weight as either slim/slender or athletic (I run, but I also eat?).  I don’t want someone to already know what I absolutely despise or love for that matter.  I want to have something to talk about over our first coffee together.  Dear gods of the internet, I love you, just not enough to try dating through you.  The BFF is again the woman in charge and she gives it a shot.  I sign up on the same website though avoid putting a picture up, don’t even fill out the ‘about me’ page or even the ‘looking for’ section as I know I am not even window shopping here.  This is research.  She on the other hand is shopping.  Go to town.  She has a couple of dates over the course of a few weeks and though skeptical of the realm of online dating, has proven so far to be victorious.

What did I find?  Well, as this was far from shopping, I just wanted to see what was out there.  If I were in the market for someone much older than I who enjoys long walks on the beach and taking the sailboat out on the weekends all the while discussing his markedly rising cholesterol level, then I would have absolutely scored.  The pickings are slim if you are picky, fearful, and cautious to the notion of online dating.  It made me wonder though, are we there yet?  Are we at the age when it is time to settle down and find someone rather than play the field, play hard to get?  Is the party over and we should resort of the fact that shit, we are adults now and maybe we should start dating them?  Or at least like them?

I look back before I could even drive and I remember what I thought life would be like.  I had always figured I would be married (Young Mary, you almost did it), have a child, and would never have spent a year living with your mother in South Florida amidst Yankee hell.  But I was naive, and I am probably better for it.  I know now that children will never be in the cards for me and I am content with that.  I recognize certain parts of the country are not designed for this Oregon blood, and when in picking a date, I should not approach it as I do shoe shopping.  Though beautiful and tall, they are going to seriously hurt and are not appropriate for dancing or long-term wear.

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August 22, 2010 · 11:14

The Booty Call

For the past month, I have been struggling to determine which direction to take this blog into – love (or lack there of), moving (presently: still), politics (ew), or sex and dating (hmm…).  For over a year, my life was focused on moving and where to go next – where I belong.  Not to say I have exactly tackled that notion but for the moment, I am content.  What happened last week seems to be a natural transition into some moderate level of relevancy in my life.  This is happening.  I am single.  Lord, save us all.

Being single marks a strange turn in my life.  Yes, I did it for the past year but let’s face it, I was living with my mother.   If you knew her, you would understand the responsibility it takes to peacefully coexist with that woman on a daily basis is an entity unto itself.  Prior to living with A, I was with The Ex.  It’s difficult to even remember life before that so naturally to be alone (finally), has presented itself with a strange level of challenges and triumphs.  And I must say, I am relishing in this single embodiment.  My apartment is currently a disaster but it’s all my mess.  I occasionally allow Skordo to sleep on my bed with me.  I have been watching seasons of House for over three weeks now and dammit, I pity the person who tries to alter my remote control state of mind at 1AM on a Tuesday.

Then comes the bizarre scene that is dating.  Allow me to make this clear: I hate dating.  It’s confusing, annoying, I can never figure out what to wear and is there protocol on what I am supposed to eat when out to dinner?  My last name is Burger.  I eat.  A lot.  I refuse to nibble on a salad just to look dainty.  Embrace me and my cholesterol level.  I hate the awkward first kiss, the “when should I call/text?” game (which is an entirely annoying system unto itself), and the general game that dating is already.  One would think that you could sell yourself better than a used car salesman sells a car.  No.  This is not the case.  Or maybe my forehead is still reading: I am judging you for your continual truncation in text messages, your clear needy behavior (I get it, you’re single.  I am too.  I’m planning my week, not my year.  And no, I’m not ready to meet your mother), and I know if we were to have sex, I would probably not want you there in the morning.  Wow.  This is hardly an online dating profile…

And then comes sex.  We have all been there.  There is an undying level for intimacy that doesn’t pass whether you are single or attached.  Many of my single friends (excuse me, the three of them) and I all have that go-to for, well, sex.  It works.  It’s emotionally painless, and requires little to no effort on a grandiose scale.  But what happens when someone new suddenly makes you into the booty call?  Someone you may very well be interested in and willing to pursue on a further level?  Someone you would actually want there in the morning to have coffee with?  My married friends, I commend you.  Still not jealous, but good work.

So I am at work on Thursday night.  It’s moderately slow and I look over and see the tell-tale red light flashing on my phone.  This is normally a spam e-mail at this hour so I was pleased to see the text message icon flashing.  Let’s call him CH (gold star to the first person to figure that out).

CH: Hi 🙂

Me: Hey.  How are you?

CH:  I’m good – you?

Me:  Working 😦

CH: Stiff drinks for us then huh?  🙂  haha

Me:  Yes, absolutely.

CH:  When you off? (This needs a verb!!!!!)

Me: No later than midnight.  Too late?

CH:  Probably not 🙂 text me when ur done. (Again, truncation…painful)

Many of you are probably already catching the error here.  And yes, I did too.  Immediately.  But in my work mind, I kept going until I realize oh shit, this is a booty call.  I get off work and am home in bed (alone) by one.

2:41AM CH: You up?

No.  I am not awake.  Nor am I going to wake up, get in the shower and shave my legs only to get off, get a couple hours of sleep, and do what I know to be the walk of shame to my car outside your very nice waterfront condo.  Herein lies the problem:  I liked this individual.  Not that I want to dive into some massive relationship but I would have pursued a few more evenings and the “let’s see where it goes” game.  Yeah, I can put myself out there for that.  I think I can handle it.  So how do you appropriately tell someone you don’t look at them as the booty call without scaring them off?  I have other people I can call if it’s just that.  I just like being near you.  And for some reason that makes me want to gather the answer, you intrigue me.  This is Mary, signing off from Disasters in Dating.  I’m not shaving my legs for a week.

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July 14, 2010 · 21:21

Waiting for the sky to turn…

I haven’t exactly been at a standstill, but thoughts have been piled and jumbled into an odd level of catastrophe over recent weeks.  I am still trying to process the next step, challenge, and endeavor.  Not to say that today was any remote view of clarity, but it left for hope on the horizon.

As mentioned in the last post, I have been struggling with the next chapter of this blog.  Well, it’s not only the blog I am pulling right now.  It’s absolutely me too.  This is far different than last year though.  I have exactly what I wanted.  I am where I want to be.  I could do a song and dance about my love affair with my apartment and restaurant downstairs, but I will refrain for the time being.  Rest assured, a future homage to my landlord will be documented.  Heavily.  I am just quiet now and this is odd.

A conversation sparked a thought that has been long resonating.  This is a topic I have been wary of broaching but I feel the time is appropriate.  You have seen me through the worst – the end of Berlin – so why not venture through what is left and where this heart is heading now?  I don’t see too much harm in that.  And quite frankly, with the exception of changing Skordo’s diet, finally getting cable (praise Comcast), and going to Corvallis to see The Asshole, nothing else is outwardly different in this life of mine.  So here it goes.

Are you looking for love?  Am I?  Is anyone ever?

There is something to be said about the active/inactive pursuit of happiness.  I have found over the past month that this solitude is far more welcoming than I would have expected.  We have covered that though but it goes further than that.  At what point do you begin to create space for someone else in the life you are creating?  And if so, do you try to find it or just let it happen?  Well, these questions were proposed to me today and I was surprisingly quick to answer.

I am not looking.  The knee jerk response from the other end of said conversation was “is anyone ever looking?”  Well, yes.  There is an odd level of desperation hidden deep down.  No one wants to admit it.  Some do not possess this notion and some do.  I know women looking for love, a partner, a dinner date, or a man to bring her flowers.  I also know that other woman that takes strange joy in her quiet evenings, waiting for the sky to turn black and to only be surrounded by candles.  These candles are not meant for another but only for herself.  She will listen to the same song over and over again, eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the floor, then take a run at midnight strictly because she can.  There are no words spoken in these moments, just silence and thoughts bouncing through her head.  But she is happy.  And that was all she wanted.

How is that solitude disrupted though?  Where does it come from?  Suddenly, love walks in just as unannounced as the newspaper.  How do you reconstruct to make it fit in this life that is already perfectly whole?  Better yet, do you want to?

I am challenging myself with my series of ‘maybes’ again.  Maybe I want this, maybe I don’t.  Maybe I am not ready for it again.  Maybe to force yourself to choose which side of the fence to be on is irrational and obtrusive.  Maybe any level of pressure on love will only create a hailstorm of unnecessary proportions.  Maybe it has always been there waiting to make itself known.  Or maybe, it’s just that:  Love, you may be now.

That is my window. Just now
I have so softly wakened.
I thought that I would float.
How far does my life reach,
and where does the night begin

I could think that everything
was still me all around;
transparent like a crystal’s
depths, darkened, mute.

I could keep even the stars
within me; so immense
my heart seems to me; so willingly
it let him go again.

whom I began perhaps to love, perhaps to hold.
Like something strange, undreamt-of,
my fate now gazes at me.

For what, then, am I stretched out
beneath this endlessness,
exuding fragrance like a meadow,
swayed this way and that,

calling out and frightened
that someone will hear the call,
and destined to disappear
inside some other life.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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July 1, 2010 · 21:30

Now what…

There are parts of this that I am still adjusting to.  It’s strange to be in this city again.  It’s shocking, cold, joyful, and more than often surreal.  I found my umbrella after unpacking one of the last boxes and have yet to use it (determined to maintain my Real Oregonians Don’t Use Umbrellas stance).  I continue to get in the wrong lane when crossing the ever confusing and terrifying bridges.  My sense of direction is still backwards as I am once again used to the ocean being on the opposite side of where it presently is.  Maybe someday I will stay in one place long enough to make sense of that…

It feels like home though.  I have one box left to unpack (surround sound speakers).  With the exception of that cord ridden box, I am home and settled.  And it’s strange.  A spoiled me.  This is the first time in over a year that I have spent time constructing a grocery list.  I can’t remember the last time I bought cleaning supplies (and actually cleaned…).  And true to my sheer luck with plumbing, I have already had to call a plumber twice.  On a totally unrelated side note, if your toilet is ever clogged to the point of desperation, I’m your girl.  I felt like Wonder Woman today.

I walked into my quirky apartment tonight and sighed a breath of relief.  Home. To be surrounded by my things again – the stuff I have now schlepped across this country twice and to the tune of a few thousand unnecessary dollars – is more welcoming than I ever remembered.  Maybe it was because the last time I used these dishes, organized and alphabetized the plethora of books, or slept in my sheets was when I was living with the ex.  These things are all mine again and no one else is telling me to move something, redecorate and accessorize with blue or a Go Ducks! poster (insert massive cringe), and if the shower decides it doesn’t want to turn off and after excessive turning of the handle, erupts into a fountain of steaming hot water all over a fully clothed Mary, well, it’s my problem now.  And yes, that happened.  Three weeks ago.  Someday I will tell you the story of an old apartment that one night decided to have a waterfall of laundry water.  Complete with steam.

Just to be still again is better than I ever remembered.  I remember the last time I lived here running around this city, constantly moving.  This has been quiet so far this time around and I would sooner unclog a toilet than disrupt that.  Before I moved to Florida, I remember being in this great search of simplicity and calm.  Turns out, I didn’t have to trek across the country (twice) to find that.  All I had to do was move above the nicest Egyptian family and their Mediterranean restaurant to find it.  My grandfather has never been more proud of my living situation as he is now.  Go figure…plant the Greek girl above Greek food, work for Greeks and boom!  She’s happy.  Shocking…

Now comes the hard part though.  No, I refuse to complicate my little existence with an unnecessary distraction (and all the implications there could be).  It’s trying to make sense and plan the next battle and step.  I started writing this blog to chronicle my move.  Turns out, that move quickly turned into a pluralized notion.  But now that I am here, what now?  Where do I go with this?  With all of it: me, life, partners (still a nauseating notion), and parking.  This is a strange shift in my identity and while I am welcoming the alteration, I feel I am proceeding with more caution than I ever have before.  Still though, I find myself asking the same question every night before I fall asleep:  what now?

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June 20, 2010 · 20:26

“Push in the clutch!”

Father’s Day has never been as hard as one would have expected it to be.  I’m sure it’s hard on my mother.  I’m sure it’s difficult for my family to think of but for me, it has never been that stinging.  Just because he hasn’t been around, doesn’t mean that someone else hasn’t been.  I still don’t want to talk about him today.  We talked about him enough a few months ago.  There is someone else I would rather give homage to, and a man far deserving of it.

On the previous About Me page, I briefly mentioned that I have been fortunate enough to have a handful of great men to step in and take over the void that was left when my own father passed away.  These great men – family friends, my orchestra conductor growing up, and my old boss at a small coffee shop in Corvallis – all have played instrumental roles in my life.  They have all given me those wise ‘fatherly’ bits of wisdom and at times crude humor.  I have cried with these men, screamed bloody murder at a few, and was even taught how to give a proper hug by one.  These are some great men.  And they had some massive shoes to fill.

One in particular though is the man who I describe as the man who raised me.  I’m sure I could come up with a better moniker for him, but to be honest, this is rather fitting.  For now, I am going to call him the Asshole.  Excuse me, Mr. Asshole.  He is far from one, though he often believes himself to be.  He would probably curse me a bit for sharing the fact that he is indeed kind and giving, and I have even seen him cry.  Once.

This was the man who taught me how to drive.  My mother had made an attempt at it but needless to say, her white knuckles did not bode well for my 15-year-old “I’M AN ADULT, MOM!” hormones and he quickly separated We Burger Women before one of us ended up buried next to my father.  He was patient, understanding, gave all commands in German (which I now give to other people when giving directions), and never yelled when I stalled and lurched trying to make the clutch and gas move in some semblance of smooth, forward motion.  I got the hang of it and I owe it all to him.  Well, far more than that actually.

I keep pictures of Mr. Asshole and me in my apartment next to pictures of my father.  We are never smiling in these pictures and that is quite fitting of us.  We have shared our glory moments of laughter together (mostly at my mother’s expense) but only one piece of evidence exists of this and that photo is lurking in Florida at my mother’s house.  I think it is a bizarre sense of understanding we share between us.  If I didn’t know the difference, I could swear to you that this man is my father.  And when people mistakenly ask if I am his daughter in introduction, I take a sense of pride in it.

He is much of the reason I moved back to Oregon.  The best day I have had so far was with him in Corvallis.  We sat in the yard and watched our dogs run laps, chasing their tails.  I remember sitting back and staring at this man knowing that though I am not even remotely close to the time zone that my nearest biological family lives, I have one of the best parts of my family here.  If he ever leaves, I may chase after him.  He has become a part of me and the past decade would have been a dull existence if it weren’t for him.  It takes one strong man to keep me in line but he has managed to do it and stick around for these great ten years.  I may be the source of a few (hundred) gray hairs on his head, and he is at times the source of angst ridden phone calls to my mother.  Yes, he is an asshole but he is my Mr. Asshole. So to you, Happy Asshole’s Day.

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April 27, 2010 · 12:28

One month…

I have 30 days left in South Florida.  I came here with a mission in mind and I feel I will be leaving with a sense of accomplishment.  Truth be told, I am terrified.

Something happened here that I didn’t expect.  My outlook shifted.  My ideals for the future changed.  What I want in the present has now moved farther away from where it once was.  Love evaporated out of my soul only to creep its way back in again.  It’s amazing what changes after a year and 3550 miles yet also what remains the exact same.

I dare say I am going to run away from it again.  This time though, I put up a fight.  I gave what I could give.  This won’t break me as badly as it did last time but I know a part of me will stay here until the feeling evaporates.  Again.  Love, you are tricky business and I still don’t understand you.  I must say, I appreciate the feeling more now than I did a year ago.  My stomach does not burn in pain as it is reciprocated.  My face is not forced to smile for it is simply there.  Happiness is not a four-letter word and I dare wonder if I am making a mistake.  Or if this is yet another part of the “everything happens for a reason”.  I would love to know the answer to that reasoning though…

But back home I must go.  I feel her pulling me and as the date grows closer and closer (my moving company has actually given me a ‘frequent buyer discount’), I have to remind myself a little bit to keep breathing, that this will all make sense at some point, and fairytale happy endings may not be entirely necessary.  Oregon makes sense.  That is home, and if belonging has any level of significance in the future, then that is where I feel I belong.

Is that what I want though?  I still don’t know.  I am torn but torn in the right way.  This is balancing with the best of intentions on either side of the fence.  This is writing that list of what I want and what I don’t, what scares me and what brings delight.  It’s amazing to point out what I don’t want and the one thing I do though.  To quote a beautiful woman who came into my life last night: “Mary, sometimes love is enough.”

it is so long since my heart has been with yours

shut by our mingling arms through
a darkness where new lights begin and
increase,
since your mind has walked into
my kiss as a stranger
into the streets and colours of a town–

that i have perhaps forgotten
how,always(from
these hurrying crudities
of blood and flesh)Love
coins His most gradual gesture,

and whittles life to eternity

–after which our separating selves become museums
filled with skilfully stuffed memories

E.E. Cummings

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April 10, 2010 · 13:53

Just speak…

Do you ever find yourself without anything to say?  When the words are almost at the tip of your tongue then they cannot escape into the sentences you so longed to say?  When if anything, you wanted to scream them at the top of your lungs in the middle of a crowd, only to find yourself silenced by fear, judgment, or the worst – yourself.  Well, I lost my words.  I couldn’t scream.  I couldn’t write.  I couldn’t even talk.  I think I found my words again.

Berlin came creeping in again.  Now before you roll your eyes and say “Oh, not this again”, rest your weary eyes and read me out on this one –  I win.  I finally have conquered this.  In some strange version of technological, love-ninja, warfare, he found me again.  But that was all – he just found me.  He didn’t get to me.  My heart didn’t skip a beat.  My palms weren’t sweating.  My world did not suddenly stop and revert back to my strange Oregon standstill that had so plagued my first months here.  Everything kept moving…I kept moving.  For the first time, I can finally say (and believe myself when I say it) I am over it, him…all of it.  I slightly feel like I conquered the world, or maybe just my little world.  Either way, I did something right by moving here.

Back to the words though.  My best friend and I have long talked about starting a blog together.  We finally came to an agreement last week with another girl that we are going to do it.  Tomorrow, I will begin construction on the new blog and the three of us will be up and running with love, relationships, and everything I have lived in fear of saying on here.  A, this is where questions are not asked and some strange semblance of anonymity can be achieved.

But the words, Mary!  The words!  I have been sitting on something now that I wanted to say and I haven’t been able to muster the strength to say it.  Maybe strength isn’t the right word, maybe it’s courage.  I have felt them begin to pour out, yet there is some bizarre membrane encompassing them; a censor, if you will.  I ask you friends, when do you finally say the words?  When do you release all guardianship of yourself and just say it, just let it out?  Even if it is just to hear the words come out of your own mouth, when is it the appropriate time to say them, anything, whatever they may be?

I will keep you posted on the word jail-break, my friends, and also the latest addition to the blog community.

There is fiction in the space between
The lines on your page of memories
Write it down but it doesn’t mean
You’re not just telling stories

There is fiction in the space between
You and reality
You will do and say anything
To make your everyday life
Seem less mundane
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There’s a science fiction in the space between
You and me
A fabrication of a grand scheme
Where I am the scary monster
I eat the city and as I leave the scene
In my spaceship I am laughing
In your remembrance of your bad dream
There’s no one but you standing

Leave the pity and the blame
For the ones who do not speak
You write the words to get respect and compassion
And for posterity
You write the words and make believe
There is truth in the space between

There is fiction in the space between
You and everybody
Give us all what we need
Give us one more sad sordid story
But in the fiction of the space between
Sometimes a lie is the best thing
Sometimes a lie is the best thing

Tracy Chapman – Telling Stories

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March 25, 2010 · 06:35

The three wise men…

I did something last night that I haven’t done before.  Maybe I had been putting it off.  Maybe I didn’t want the opinion of another.  Maybe I just didn’t care enough…until now.  I looked up the definition of love.  Yes, I referred to Merriam-Webster and looked it up.  No, I am not writing a wedding speech, vows, or anything even remotely close.  Not to make M-W the end all of the definition of easily the most complicated four letter word in the English language, but I wanted to see what was out there.  I didn’t really find what I was looking for.

OK, so why?  Where does this stem from, Mary?  Last night at work, I had three very different conversations with three very bright men on the topic of love.  Each of them had very differing views and opinions.  Certainly, three people would as they have all experienced love in different ways.  One, a fifteen year love lost.  Another, the clinging for all belief and hope that love is still out there.  And the last, the thought that maybe love isn’t right for him.  I stood and listened to these men in such deep contentment and was absolutely enthralled by their words, the depth behind the force of what four small letters can mean to someone, and how it can absolutely shift a life.

There are quotes, phrases, definitions, and words of wisdom encompassing love all around.  One of my favorites is by Kahlil Gibran from The Prophet and it reads: “And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”.  And then there are the advice dripping quotes that read something to the tune of “In order to move on from heartbreak and great love is to fall in love with another”.  I heard that from a customer not too long ago and as the words came out of their mouth, my stomach turned at the very thought of executing that notion.

And then there is hope.  The second man to give prose to this topic of love last night is a very dear friend of mine.  As we have continued to converse on this subject, it is clear that he and I share a very similar view.  Yes, we are the kids that carry our hearts on our sleeves, and we will be the first to say it was not always that way.  Maybe it takes great heartbreak to eventually end up this way.  Maybe it takes the reconstruction and consequential crumbling of the Berlin wall, whether it be your own or a partner’s.  Or maybe it is simply hope that it’s there, that it has been there, waiting in the wings for its beautiful aria.

The very last conversation I had last night on the topic of love was a bit different.  A couple who has been married for “184 years” said in joking tone “We love each other, and that’s why we put up with each other’s shit”.  I couldn’t help but laugh and say “Well put, my friends”.  Maybe that is my love for Skordo:  I love you, therefore I pick up your shit everyday.  Maybe there doesn’t even need to be an explanation of why the love is there, it just is:  A, I am predisposed, genetically, and cosmically bound to love you (and you are beautiful, giving, the best mom ever, and a phenomenal cook).  Or maybe love is just there to be a word that on one random night can spark a conversation that sends a bartender home with a smile.  That was all I needed last night.  Thank you, my friends.

“Venture too far for love…and you renounce citizenship in the country you’ve made for yourself.”

Michael Cunningham – The Hours

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