Apologies are cyclical and transactional. Action means reaction and a round of apologies. Emotions get tossed like coins at a wishing well, wishing away the circumstances. It’s when the coins are gone and the surface of the water quiets that the wronged is left with their time to heal and the apologist is left with promises to do better next time and those wishes have dried up and drifted away.
I had a boyfriend that swore to monogamy and ended up cheating three times because he wasn’t sure about us and had to ‘try out’ different guys. At the time he was ‘the one’ for me, even though I knew, he knew, we all knew that we were not well matched, except in the bed department. The bed department does not a relationship sustain, unfortunately, but that’s what we latched on to once, then twice, and three times a breakup. Each time he screwed up (no pun intended), he’d confess his transgression and beg forgiveness and promise never to screw up again and then he’d have a big arrangement of flowers sent to me at work. Stunning flowers. Monstrously gorgeous flowers. By the second set of tears and apologies, I hated the sight of them. I was “done,” following the third episode, even though my co-workers loved the ambiance and observed that I ‘got more flowers than a dead person’s funeral.’ Each time felt like a funeral, and in a way that’s what each apology and new promise was – a little more of the relationship dying. The mea cupla became the ritual acknowledgment of passing dreams. I had said to him each time: I was more sorry that I didn’t listen to myself better than him.
A decade later, now he’s still with the guy he cheated with the last time. We talked about what worked and what didn’t work years ago and we both shared how wrong we were for each other (even though the bed department was so right – the bastard still knows exactly what turns me on). Keeping in touch went from daily to weekly to eventually a few times a year. When I look back at what he used to mean to me, I know I still see the man he could have been, which is the ruin of all relationships. When we talk and he looks back, he sees the prior mea culpas I represented.
Our last conversation was a few weeks ago and saying goodbye was a pleasant sort of finality. We’ve always gone through the ritual of goodbye but his other line rang for work and he had to go and with a soft click he was gone. He texted me a few moments later and I read it and deleted and turned off my phone. He was still sorry, and I was still glad I grew a pair and left him. We were strangers trying to make sense of sorries from years ago, and I don’t want to pretend that we are any closer than we never were.
My grandma told the story to my father (he said), who told the story to me when I was growing up. My grandparents had gone on vacation to Mexico and came home with souvenirs and knick-knacks of their trip, one of the items being a small mirror adorned with bells that was supposedly a charm against evil spirits. The fact that my rigid, stoic, church-going grandparents had gone to Mexico was more shocking than their penchant for primitive magical beliefs, but my young-adult mind took the story in stride, listening to my dad’s voice and watching how his face changed as he enjoyed spinning the yarns he loved spinning. I’d heard the story being told to my uncles and cousins at a family party, but I felt lucky that he was telling the story to just me this time.
They hung the charm on the inside door of their bedroom closet. Over the years they forgot about it. My dad watched my face as he explained that one hot summer night my grandparents had gone to bed when they heard the sounds of bells shaking softly against their closed closet door. He must have been satisfied with my expression because he kept going with his tale, saying that my grandpa got out of bed. The sound of bells stopped, but he opened the closet door and pulled the string to the light switch, but inside, nothing was amiss. The charm hung calmly on a ribbon on a small nail, the bells silent.
Satisfied, my grandpa shut the door and went back to bed. They awoke to the sounds of bells again, ringing louder and more vigorously than before. Grandma got out of bed this time and the sounds stopped before she opened the door. She pulled the string to the light switch and looked around, and like my grandpa had seen, nothing was amiss. The charm hung silently against the door. She shut the door and went back to bed and they both fell asleep.
They both shot out of bed when they heard the sounds of howls and hissing accompanying the sound of bells ringing violently. My grandpa flipped the light switch and my grandma stood behind him when he threw open the closet door. A black shape leaped up and over my grandpa’s shoulder, they both screamed, and the black shape of a cat jumped out their bedroom window. There was a loud crack inside the closet and the sound of bells stopped. Grandma looked at the charm and the mirror was marred by jagged cracks. An evil spirit had come and gone.
I didn’t remember the story being told this way and I waited for him to finish. He was silent for so long I grew impatient and said, “It was just their cat, locked in the closet.”
My dad took a sip of his beer and looked thoughtful. “Son. They never had a cat.”
The redbud tree in the front yard is dropping leaves. The heart-shaped leaves crinkle and fold and fall to the ground and when the wind blows they scatter across the yard. The oak tree across the street shares its harvest with every neighbor in the court. When we walk Midas through the neighborhood, we’ve noticed a few trees that have bright and deep red leaves, but the ones that fall to the ground don’t have the same luster.
It’s a calm before the storm. Even as the wind blowing through the bay area lowers the temperature to ‘jackets required’ kind of weather, and even as the days shorten so that I’m leaving in darkness and soon-to-be coming home in darkness, I feel calm (I don’t want to jinx anything with the “p” word here). By the time I’ve driven home each day my mind has already put work inside a box with a lid and put it out of my mind for the night. I keep in touch via telephone, and I am comforted and glad that my family and friends are healthy and well, that there are celebrations and triumphs (marriages, divorces, house buying, moving, reconnections, custody attainment) despite extreme hardships (suicide, health issues, marriages, divorces, moving, custody conflicts). Lastly, I am more at peace with my own body since giving up soda, paying attention to what and when I eat, and by working out consistently. My endurance is back up and I’m doing double sets again. I’ve dropped 6 pounds, which is halfway to my goal.
I look at the world through the cycles of nature and Fall has usually been the most difficult season for me. Part of me feels that I should be stressed out or manic because I’m about to start graduate classes again. Part of me struggles with sitting down to write and share while other parts nod and smile and say, “Keep it up.” Part of me expects a certain amount of sadness with the changing season, but I just don’t have it in me. I’m enjoying the falling leaves that are instant reminders of life’s harvest before the bleak winter that doesn’t look so stark white. Life is good and sweet, which make for rather mundane posts. I think calm is good now and then.
(Fair warning: this is incredibly fractured and I’m tired and irritable.)
My role in the space I’ve created here this past year has been more of an unraveller than a weaver. Negligence is self-evident. I spent a lot of time tonight looking back at prior posts and comments and I cringed because there’s so much I didn’t do, least of which was writing and sharing. Those nice little strings here and fixing hems there haven’t been completed. Tonight I read other blogs that I haven’t been to in ages and noticed a common theme of people examining the space they’ve created and the reasons for which have changed over time. My space here and my intentions have changed too – and I don’t have the full answers yet because I’m in the middle of it. Obviously, I don’t want to let this space go or I wouldn’t have bothered writing at all. Somewhere in my heart is the need to afix more buttons to this work, to gather more threads where my life is woven with others and chronicle those moments and bindings. It’s not to say that there won’t be times when I cut a thread or get cut myself – nothing nothing nothing in this universe stays the same. Change happens, will happen, is happening. The weave we think we’re working with will invariably be knotted differently than we expected.
When I read other blogs and their spaces spaces and looked back at my own I had to pause and take it in and appreciate the connections. While blogging may be one of the most self-centered and narcissistic exercises this side of Facebook status updates, it is the act of reading and feeling others in their experiences of exhibitionism and self-less narcissism that make this weave of life so fascinating and worthwhile. All these words on virtual pages that may or may not make an immediate difference to anyone or ourselves, but in time may show our textures and colors and changes because we’re able to see a pattern that moves beyond this space we can “see” only in now.
I have been holding the threads in my mind that mean both connection and specific people and I’ve been asking myself questions that won’t get answered, at least not here. The answers will come later, after the part where I quietly attend to the loose stitches, the hems, and all the button holes. I’ll know when I know when I’m not tired and manic and annoying myself because I do feel guilt and I really hate that.
***
I am sitting here listening to music. I keep forwarding through songs when something bothersome comes on, such as Beck’s “Loser” or Nitzer Ebb’s “Murderous.” I am thinking too much. I have been writing this in between reading posts and email: write, backspace, edit, repeat. I’m absorbing the fact that as of today I’m back in grad school, that class starts on November 3rd, and that I’ll be finished next November. I’m annoyed with my parents because they’re aging and they tell me stories instead of telling the truth about their health. I’m happy I made dinner tonight for Scott (yes, it’s a rare thing). I’ve lost five pounds of the ten I gained this past year. I’m slightly concerned about my current contract and the financial challenges in California for higher education. I’m blathering.
I’ve written a lot of nothing and I’m okay with that because it means I’ve sat my ass down and wrote. Please note that if you consider all the words on this post, know that I’ve deleted more than what is posted. At this point, you may also consider yourself blessed. G’night.
I’m “stuck” in the Eighties in the sense that the music was so entwined with personal growth and self discovery. I’m not apologizing for my musical tastes – I’m putting it on the table. My friends have been the second biggest musical influence in my life, allowing me to break out of the sounds I find comfortable and comforting, and enjoy sounds and artists I wouldn’t normally care to discover: Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, and Green Day, to name a few. Since the days of the internets, it’s been easier and easier to share music via MP3’s and other file formats and I’d like to say that I jump on the email when I get an attachment in my inbox, but I will admit here that I sometimes sit and look at the file and don’t open it for days.
Days.
Sometimes more days.
Because I’m afraid that if I listen and like it that I will have a new purchase in my future, and I’m STILL organizing the hundreds of cds that line one wall in my office. I’ve been known to get online and download albums with a few simple clicks and blow through a budget before I can blink, so I resist. I resist. In the end, if the music (and pardon the phrase) strikes the right chords with me – I’m sold. I’m a goner.
But there’s been a semblance of a truce to my compulsive disorder. Rhapsody (subscription based) and Pandora (say this in a high C: FREE!). The difference between the two is that through Rhapsody, you can listen to any song in their database service, add favorites, fast forward, repeat, and direct buy.
Pandora is a free service (that has recently introduced annoying 10-12 second sound byte (and visual) ads) where you can create your own “music stations” and even share those with friends. You can play or pause, but you cannot rewind nor fast forward. You can create “stations” of various likes, but you cannot dictate which song you hear. Some of the magic of the sight is the random, and I’ve discovered some great artists simply by letting certain stations pick songs or artists for me based on little feedback from me. Through Pandora, I “found”: Toyah, The The, Beck, and Katy Perry. I seriously would never have broken out of my own shell if I hadn’t been introduced to the sound of the aforementioned artists if I hadn’t streamed music randomly and been impressed enough to say “who was THAT I just heard?”
Care to share any of your musical discoveries or recommendations in the comments section?
Most couples have their code words or gestures for wanting to leave a social gathering, but we read each other so well we’ve rarely had to use them. Saturday, we were both dreading a certain party, Scott, because he was afraid I wouldn’t know many people, and me, because I knew someone was going to play the accordion. We agreed that we’d split at the first sign of a recital and anyone carrying a large musical case, or else I threatened that I would jump through a window. Scott wasn’t sure if I was serious. I repeated our ‘code’ and smiled sweetly.
We arrived and I met the host and hostess and recognized most of the folks. A sweep of the room for some quick hellos and a beeline to the niblies and drinks – I kept it to one margarita. Who knew what could happen with a mixed group with alcohol – they could suddenly square dance (which is how they all knew one another)… or play the accordion. I weighed the risk of stomach acid and a second (or third) margarita and chose water. The host needed a little help with the barbecue (he’s nearly blind), so I played chef, which is unfortunate for anyone who wanted their hamburgers on the rare side. The food and banter were excellent and I had a great time.
Scott and I sitting next to each other when the host got ready to serve dessert, but first, we were in for a musical treat! I looked at the window and then at the margarita pitcher and he sort of smiled nervously. I blinked slowly and looked at Scott and he looked at me and we both shrugged at each other with our eyes. I squeezed his knee and leaned back in the chair and watched our friend get out a black behemoth of an instrument with way too many keys and buttons and rest it on his thigh. I was ready to imagine rolling hills and ponies and sunshine on my shoulders and being far from this place. I wanted another margarita.
He started playing and the room melted away. I was hit by so many associated sounds and images that I felt lightheaded for a minute, but I was brought down to earth when he’d pause to flip the sheet music. Much more intricate than playing a piano, he played the treble notes (on similar piano or organ keys of ivory and black) with his right hand, he played scores of bass notes with his left, and he pushed and pulled the accordion as it drew in or expelled air to make tones and sounds. He played six songs, and in that time I saw rooms of people dancing, funerals, carousels, waltzes, and Bohemian parties. He said he had not played for a while, but his playing seemed nearly flawless to me. The music stayed with me all weekend and I’m glad that we stayed to hear him play. It is hysterical to me how intentions and planning sometimes mean nothing to the surprises we go through in life. Sometimes these moments feel more than or greater than the instance itself. Life, or something like it, because how can you describe those moments that take you out of yourself and bring you back to more than what you were before you left?
For Talk Thursday, I’m behind a few weeks with “Milestones and Mortality,” and my own topic of “Castaways.” I’ll think of some suitable self-torture in another venue, but for now, all ya’ll get a little stream of consciousness. Instead of a cohesive piece, it’s gonna be piecemeal, disjointed, and chaotic – kind of like the top of my desk at the moment.
Mortality is much on my mind most of the time. The last few weeks, even more so because of big time life and death events: elderly relatives’ birthdays, friends’ children’s birthdays, a friend’s suicide, and my mom’s increasingly poor health. I’d love to channel Elton John’s “Circle of Life” (belted out at the top of my lungs) and force myself through a deeper understanding of life and the challenges thereof, but my sense of grace and wonder is jaded. Most days I’m more in tune with Depeche Mode’s “Blasphemous Rumours.” Most days. I don’t have many issues with my own mortality. I don’t know how to deal with people nearest to me dying. I’m clueless, flailing, and graceless.
I reached a certain health milestone today when I went to the follow-up physical after my little summer aspiration episode. Lovely time, that – I hope to never repeat it (the aspiration, not the physical). Other than my stomach acid issue (which can be controlled through drugs, diet restrictions, and exercise), I’m healthy as a fookin’ horse (though not nearly as hung, thankfully). Here I be, 41 years old, and the doc was impressed with my bloodwork and improvements since summer. Thank the lords for small mercies, right?
I was listening to the song “Castaways,” by Toyah, when I made myself send out a topic, any topic, to the Talk Thursday group. I didn’t have a thought or story to tell. At that moment, I felt rather adrift in my own thoughts about blogging, about writing, about online communities and the rhetoricals of what constitutes sharing too much? Hard to imagine that I am questioning the whole blogging thing after 3+ years into this space, but that’s where I am. No, I haven’t given up, but I’m acknowledging that sometimes I just don’t feel like talking. Thanks to the folks who’ve stuck around through those silent spaces.
It’s not too often that I’m moved positively by political behavior. Most of the time I feel downright postal, especially when it comes to Utah politicians.
The national “debate” is about health care. One man lately has cajones. Huge cajones. (Granted, a pre-pubescent has more cajones than a full-grown Democrat in most cases, but I’m not inclined to verify, personally.) Here’s to Representative Alan Grayson of Florida.
Posted by sideon 
Posted by sideon 
Posted by sideon 
Music and Tastes
October 21, 2009I’m “stuck” in the Eighties in the sense that the music was so entwined with personal growth and self discovery. I’m not apologizing for my musical tastes – I’m putting it on the table. My friends have been the second biggest musical influence in my life, allowing me to break out of the sounds I find comfortable and comforting, and enjoy sounds and artists I wouldn’t normally care to discover: Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, and Green Day, to name a few. Since the days of the internets, it’s been easier and easier to share music via MP3’s and other file formats and I’d like to say that I jump on the email when I get an attachment in my inbox, but I will admit here that I sometimes sit and look at the file and don’t open it for days.
Days.
Sometimes more days.
Because I’m afraid that if I listen and like it that I will have a new purchase in my future, and I’m STILL organizing the hundreds of cds that line one wall in my office. I’ve been known to get online and download albums with a few simple clicks and blow through a budget before I can blink, so I resist. I resist. In the end, if the music (and pardon the phrase) strikes the right chords with me – I’m sold. I’m a goner.
But there’s been a semblance of a truce to my compulsive disorder. Rhapsody (subscription based) and Pandora (say this in a high C: FREE!). The difference between the two is that through Rhapsody, you can listen to any song in their database service, add favorites, fast forward, repeat, and direct buy.
Pandora is a free service (that has recently introduced annoying 10-12 second sound byte (and visual) ads) where you can create your own “music stations” and even share those with friends. You can play or pause, but you cannot rewind nor fast forward. You can create “stations” of various likes, but you cannot dictate which song you hear. Some of the magic of the sight is the random, and I’ve discovered some great artists simply by letting certain stations pick songs or artists for me based on little feedback from me. Through Pandora, I “found”: Toyah, The The, Beck, and Katy Perry. I seriously would never have broken out of my own shell if I hadn’t been introduced to the sound of the aforementioned artists if I hadn’t streamed music randomly and been impressed enough to say “who was THAT I just heard?”
Care to share any of your musical discoveries or recommendations in the comments section?