Tag: marriage

Hey Baby Are Your Parents Pilgrims? (Because It Looks Like You’re Settling)

Sandy asks me why I’m so quiet, and I don’t know what to tell her. Lately I’ve felt a lack for words and feelings although I’m pretty overstocked on both. I suppose I could be hoarding sentiments, saving them for a rainy day or bright eyed Jane on the subway. And I hear the tip-tip-tip-tap-tap-tip drizzle against my window sill but when I stare at the shelves then back at Sandy I just can’t bare to part with a single phrase or hug or Good Morning Beautiful. I’m overflowing again with so many thoughts in my head, but they don’t race any more. Instead they’re sluggish and relentless – dragging their feet through the recesses of my day while I’m in the shower or silently consoling strangers on the train. This afternoon I made a best friend and we carved our names on a tree trunk just outside of town although he doesn’t know it yet.

Sandy knows it though, I think. She knows too much sometimes.

And normally stuff like this is fine because I’ve always kind of lived my life with head in the clouds (and between warm legs,) just musing for amusement and just going through the motions with my body on autopilot. I’ve forgotten what the sun feels like so now I’m restless and sticky and asking what this thing dripping down my brow and heart is. Sandy says its pulp, and then I wonder if she’s calling me a fruit or something she can squeeze dry. I guess human adaptability can also be a pretty terrible thing when you think about it – becoming so used to something that the opposite feels like a threat. What a strange notion, to consider that I’m not used to happiness. It’s such an off term also if you read too deep into it like I always do: used to happiness. Used to it.

Happiness is using me, so happiness must be conniving.

So I’m far from melancholic, far from lonely, far from Moloch, far from observations of human desolation, but I’m never far from Sandy. And I’d rather not write about love if it ends well, to be honest, although that’s exactly what this disease is. I know it, but I won’t ever say it. Not ever. There’s a certain level of defeat that goes with that statement, and I don’t really mean in a sense of being ‘vulnerable’. It’s defeat because I feel I can still do better. My hormones remind me often – super models, and that girl who turned me down in secondary school, and that cutie on the third floor with the red hair and bitter eyes: they’re all as appetizing, have infinite possibilities and maybe friends that are probably even more attractive and more quirky and have even more strange and fascinating habits I can poke fun at over lattes and orgasms.

But they aren’t Sandy. They’ll never be Sandy.

Two Wrongs Don’t Make A Right and Three Lefts Will Get You Nowhere (in bed)

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” She said. “I’m sorry for making you feel as if you did.”

I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling. I wonder how strangers do it, and wince at their ability to feign interest or sadness with a sort of quiet mix of pity and admiration. It takes talent to appear good without being so, damn what Plato said, and I wish I could pretend to care about the excessive acclaim people place on their trivial and self made problems.

“It’s been a hard week. A lot’s been going on,”

Be kind, I’ve heard it said, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

“I’ve been drinking too much and trying to figure this out. I didn’t want anybody to see me like this.”

But some fights weigh heavier than others. Try whining about your boss or cell phone coverage and see how much Atlas shrugs.

“He destroyed my whole apartment, Noel.”

The way she says my name is devastating, leaves me aching and reaching for her like that first cigarette after work. I’ve read that saying a persons name for emphasis is a social trick, how we’re conditioned to turn our heads and attention, listen closely to whoever utters it. Who must obviously know and acknowledge us, and by extension, deserves the same.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked. How are you?”

I’ve never been a fan of emotional cons, and I know all about Pavlov’s dogs. Lucky for me, I’ve always been more of a cat person. You might say my name a hundred times but I won’t so much as look at you until I absolutely feel like it.

“My aunt died but I couldn’t make it to the funeral, and I can’t figure out if I should quit my job or not. Shrug life, I guess.” I said, because comedic deflection is kind of my specialty.

She pauses on the phone and makes an audible sigh, a sign that she’s internalizing what’s been presented. The next words out of her mouth I know are I’m-So-Sorry, but, I wonder, is she really? Staring at the door frame he’s torn down for the fourth time. Her mind racing to make excuses and justifications I won’t bother to pay much mind to.

“Its been hard for both of us,” Is all she said. “How are we going to get over it.”

And in the background I hear a click of a mousepad, and I imagine its probably for the number to the locksmith she always forgets.

I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling.

To be between her and a failing marriage is a place I’m all but unfamiliar to. My All-Or-Nothing is something of a gift and a curse that way. How many relationship hang ups have I profited of? How many times have I felt the thighs of disatisfied army wives only looking for a shoulder and bit of understanding? Enough for me to realize I am no Casanova or protagonist, but a short escape for those with nothing to lose, twisted hearts, and a bit of time on their hands.

“I guess we’ll figure it out, Kate.” I said.

Because who doesn’t love a game of cat and mouse.

 

‘Til Death Do Us Part’ Sounds Like Less Like A Promise and More Like A Threat

“I just had a shower that was wonderful,” Karina said. “But there’s something in the air that troubles me. This feeling that, tonight, there’s something a little off about you. A thought that’s invasive and makes you act this way. It sounds like…crickets from my window, and it’s not alarming, but it’s there.”

How had she learned my moods so quickly? There’s always a silence in me that’s not so quiet nor my own- full of crickets, left-over sentiments, bubble-gummed sidewalks and marooned moonlight. The phantoms and faceless anxieties I am perpetually facing are nameless, despite the labels and disordered name-tags; are large as the clouds and just as vague, hard to pin into anything so definitive and limiting as a sentence. Tonight’s specters are Friendship, A Sense of Belonging, Suffering and The Much Less Fortunate. With a special guest performance by Empathy & Minutiae. Analyzing the underlying message beneath the most complex social cues and feintest text just saying ‘hey’.

“Call me when you have the chance. I have something to tell you later, even if it means we’ll never speak again.”

I like to over-think because emotions are so unreliable and sticky: like children’s hands at birthday parties. Reason makes much more sense and I love to overanalyze a feeling, but I’m a sucker for attention. Give me the slightest piñata string of affection, and I can get more than just a little hung up on being the helpless one in a relationship.  And being the self-bruting masochist that I am, a part of me quite enjoys it. I already know Karina has to confess that she is already in a relationship, but I’ll not let misery have me this time. And rage can exit stage fuck-off, because I already know from all those tires that I’ve kicked that it’s impotent. That nothing ever comes from it.

My mother once told me life is much like a chain- that we are smithed and molded to fit one another like the links on a fence.  She meant it in a very old and semi-Catholic way: a butterfly effect that says what each of us are, at birth, is inherent- and thus what we are will inevitably attract only a certain type of person. A personality that connects. I never believed her, but if this was true, my maker must have made me as the ideal third for cucks.

“Is this because I forgot your birthday?” I said, because strings of the heart were made for tugging. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen, I’ve gotten too comfortable with you. We’ve only just recently met but for some reason it feels like we’ve known each other for so much longer. As if this was something we always did.”

Only women of a certain disposition find my demeanor type appealing – and whether they were bored, out of love, desperate for attention or a despot, I couldn’t say. And even if I could, it wouldn’t be my place to judge.

“That made my heart sigh,” Her text said. “How do you phrase what I want to say not knowing that I want to say it?”

Because I love you, and my endings are written clear across the chain-link.

 

Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous: Isabella

I’ve never been good at listening to other people’s problems and I’m chronically late to pity parties. I don’t have the patience for whine and dining, I’d rather jump straight to bed where the daily inconsequentials about yourself take a back seat to the deeper things that are at play. Most people are old fashioned and like to take things slow after sex, consider honest truths about themselves too “intimate” to be shared before the flesh or so immediately. I suppose that must make me a slut, spreading my heart to the first pair of honey eyes and warm thighs with a violent pulse.

I don’t blame the shame because I’m no romantic and either way it doesn’t last. Nothing does. Maybe that’s why I have a tendency to hit it and quit it, emotion wise. And sometimes when I’m standing in a grocery line or watching a movie I have this incredible urge to stand up and yell. I never do so I never know what I would actually say. It can’t be anything healthy, whatever it is that’s pent up, but I’ll never let it out. That might be counterintuitive but that’s life.

Nature can turn against itself. My cat likes to chew on plastic.

“There’s something in the way you look at me,” she says. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like you do.”

Isabella doesn’t drink, she simmers. When I stare into those bright, cloudy pools of milk and caramel she calls eyes a dark desire fills my heart and all extremities. Like burning alive on a smaller scale, and there is no lie in her fire. My nerves tingle in a calm excitement and I become painfully aware, sensitive to the slightest touch that tethers our bodies. Her beautiful mouth curves a smile and I’m called…no, tugged and compelled towards her like a marionette by a string.

“Do you have a wife?” She asks me casually, and I answer no. “A girlfriend then,” she presses, and in the soft intimacy of her legs wrapped in mine, I confess to so-and-so’s. To my heart having grown brash, bitter and unstable. That I don’t trust these whimsies and so called feelings, for they’ve betrayed me, and in their wake I find less beauty in life and even lesser of myself. Sentiments leave a wound and I’ve never been able to resist a scab. Yet it was in that flame of deception and lies that I was tempered, and I was surprised to find my mettle too strong to be melded.

Outside five burros are crying to the dry, arid sunrise. A cricket chirps, two coyotes wail at the moon, and between the bitter thymes of El Torito and Sergio Vargas it begins to rain. Begins to wet the still and thirsty earth so yearning for its due. Isabella mewls and I feel her warm heart thump against the imprint of palm. the crease and edges of her skin smooth and tell a story to my fingertips like braille. Its five am and soon a cab will call me down to home and other sunsets. The notion numbs me. I can’t bare the thought, to leave her side or moment unfulfilled, but what matter that we lay together when sleep tears us apart and a dream will keep us separate.

“Will you stay the night?” She asks. And I nod to confess so.

The coyotes howl and somewhere back home my cat is chewing happily on a garbage bag. I kiss her sweet lips and feel the the ashes of my soul ignite my passion once again.

Love, like life, must find a way.