Saturday, February 11, 2006

Perfections And Imperfections

When I am not trying to write the words flow so effortlessly, tripping over each other in their haste to jump into my consciousness. Then I sit down to write and sometimes putting thoughts to words become a chore. So I abandon it and let the words flow. And very often I end up writing something completely different than what I had intended.

Vic used to joke about my crushes after in a moment's impulse I confided in him that up until the age of 22 I had only been in love with characters from books. He used to tease me about that and say, "No wonder we poor mortals can't compete. We don't have the luxury of the kind of perfection that comes from our lives being encapsulated in 300 pages, all our virtues played up and our vices reduced to footnotes." He used to say, "You are in love with words." I would dismiss it. What did he know? He was just a boy and everyone knew boys were immature.

But maybe he had something there. For as long as I know I have been in love with an ideal. It's all very good to say you should love who you are with but to me that sounds suspiciously like settling. Why should I force myself to love someone I am with when I can be with the one I love? Ah! The inarguable logic of a romantic idealist.

Last night was fun. John & I went bowling. We got our shoes, grabbed an alley and sat down. He got us some pizza and drinks. I kept bowling gutter balls, he kept bowling strikes. I kept pouting and he good-naturedly tried to lose a few times. We had a good time. Halfway through a couple of his friends showed up. I had met one of the guys at John's super bowl party. He was shamelessly flirting with me on Sunday and picked right up where he had left of, which made me laugh. It was casual and fun all around although at one point John did shove him a little and say, "Go get your own girl!" We all laughed at that too. It was oddly reminiscent of a simpler time, of school, of back when I could hang out with cute boys and laugh because they were just boys and everyone knew boys were immature and they didn't interest me the way men in books did.

Before adult relationships and heartbreaks.

I have written several paragraphs without writing what I had meant to write. John offered to take me to the airport tomorrow which was both strange and sweet. We seemed to have bypassed dating and moved straight into some kind of a pseudo boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. I don't know why, where, when or how it happened or what to do about it for that matter but right now I don't feel like trying to analyze this. So I am letting him take me to the aiport. Next week when I am away from here and have more time I will figure it out.

But that's not what I had meant to write either. I had meant to write about the nightmare. The terror, the paralyzing effect it has/had on me.

I woke up like I always do from one, suddenly but quietly. Lying there wide awake, unmoving, barely breathing, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, struggling against the tears. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat, my muscles shaking but afraid to move in case there was someone in the room, in case my motions betrayed my existence. Maybe if I laid very still they would go away. I stayed like that for almost half an hour wishing I could dissolve into the sheets, fighting the blinding panic, before I got up the nerve to raise my head and look around. No one.

I got up, drank some water. Then I pulled on my favorite sweater, a big, thick, very warm, cashmere tunic that falls just past mid-thigh, and went out onto the balcony. A minute before I had been afraid that there was someone in the balcony. But no. It was empty. I sat there in the moonlight. Was it full moon last night? It was beautiful. Outside the world so quiet and peaceful. The moon looked like a polished piece of glistening sugar hard candy. It looked so real and small and smooth and perfect. For a second I honestly thought I could reach out and touch it, pluck it out of the sky and pop it in my mouth.

I don't remember when exactly I came inside and fell asleep again. When I woke up this morning it was 11:30. The sun was out, bright and shining.

On a clear day you can see the mountains from my living room. Today is a clear day. I can see the entire shadowy silhouette of the range topped by its white peaks. Sometimes I wonder about night and day. I know how it works, scientifically. But I wonder about the two, so different, blending, melding into one another and making a whole. I wonder about the nightmare and the bright morning. Perfections and imperfections, opposites, side by side. Crazy world.

3 Comments:

Blogger Neil said...

What is the perfection? The morning? The moonlit night? Or are you putting your romantic ideals to work again, like you do with people. Because neither day or night is really perfect. One is without light. One is without quiet.

2/12/2006 1:25 PM  
Blogger beefdrop said...

I am happy for you and John. It seems like he cares for you, and doesn't that feel great? I also like that thing he said to the other guy "go find your own girl". He has taken ownership of you (not that you are a material thing), and will now protect his woman from the elements (other men). Whats the Valentine's plan? I guess you guys are away from eachother, as you'll be with your mom. I bet he will surprise you with a little gift at the airport... I hope he does anyway. It would be pretty harsh for him not to do something for you for valentine's. Oh, I bet John's got something worked out, he seems like a smart cookie.

Do you remember your nightmares? Do they usually revolve around the same theme? Childhood memories, or new horrors? There are so many dream decoding books, but it all seems hoaky.

I paint aswell, like flowers and stuff. I wouldn't do it justice by talking about it, so I won't (oils are my prime choice, I also enjoys water colors).

Regarding green thumbs... The best trick to successfully doing plants, is to read the instructions. Regular watering, and learning by trial and error will give you the best results. Its okay if a few plants die, it happens, just keep working at it. Find a little local garden shop, and make friends with the people there. They will nourish your efforts. Or don't do plants, thats okay too.

With the pottery, you'd probably need to take lessons first anyways. If there is an arts center near you, they probably offer lessons and stuff.

Do I comment to much? I feel like I dominate your comments section, but I feel its okay, because I think to myself that you enjoy my comments. But then I realize that I may be dellusional, and that I might be imposing all my thoughts all the time... maybe I should comment less? Maybe I shouldn't care...

2/13/2006 12:35 PM  
Blogger cherchezlafemme said...

Neil, you rhymed! Oh right. And yes, I agree with you. Night and day are both perfect and imperfect. I meant more the nightmare and the bright morning, my expectations and reality. Contrasts. That was some poorly developed symbolism clearly.

Beefdrop, thanks. That's very helpful. I will check out the local nursery about the plants. And the pottery class sounds good. Makes sense I will have to take classes of course. And yes, John did give me a gift at the airport.

2/13/2006 2:39 PM  

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