If I left tomorrow, would you come with me?
You had so many questions. Where would you go? What would you do? How would you get there? And I didn't have any answers for you. Just that question. That was all that mattered.
I give you credit, you needed a night to sleep on it. In the morning, a full 8 hours later, you gave me your answer.
No.
And that was it. We were over, without ever having to say it.
Now you have a new girl, and she's lovely. Someone to grow old with, in the same spot. Someone who wants that white, picket fence, 2 car garage, and 2.5 children. An undeniable safety to return to after a long, hard day in the office. Food on the table, or leftovers, at least, in the fridge, waiting for their microwave warm-up.
You'll be happy, Because that's normal, and it's lovely. Safety is a beautiful thing, isn't it? I don't say that in any kind of arrogant, scoffing tone. I really do think it's something wonderful.
But I don't want it. Never did.
That's where you left me, broken-hearted; no hand to hold.
Maybe that's what drives me.
How can you romanticize something so sad? you asked. As though my quest for some ideological freedom was just a sad, lonely girl running away.
Maybe it was.
But it's what I want, and why is that something to be compromised?
Broken-hearted I stayed, till I found someone new. Someone strong and wonderful, and I love him more than I ever loved you. I don't even say that to be mean or hurtful, just as a fact.
But I don't ask him the question.
I already know the answer; I just don't want to hear it.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
A Sad Moment
I have become the most uninteresting person alive.
I know that because you have chosen to spend your long weekend with the dog.
I know that because you have chosen to spend your long weekend with the dog.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Show-and-Tell
Billy walked to the front of the classroom, anxiety twisting his otherwise placid features. He wanted so desperately for the other students to like what he brought for presentation. Not only to like it, but to really look closely at it, so they could see how special Billy was.
It was important to Billy that the other children thought him special. All the television programs he'd been watching told him he was, and it was often so confusing when the rest of the world didn't seem to notice. Billy would like for his classmates to pay more attention, and start picking him first in gym class. Special boys, he was certain, were always picked first for team sports. They also got their pick of lunch tables, and even had dibs on the desserts other children brought for lunch. People like giving their treats to special people, because it makes them special by association.
Show-and-Tell was meant for yesterday's class, but Billy didn't see any reason why he should have to participate. He intentionally didn't bring anything, expecting that to be acceptable. Teacher, however, had other ideas and insisted that participation was required. She sent him home with a stern reprimand and threats of cleaning chalkboards during recess if he didn't bring in something to show the class the following day.
"It doesn't have to be remarkable, just something that interests you. Billy, it's time you became an active participant in this class. I know you miss Tommy, we all do, but the police will find him soon, and before you know it, he'll be back at home like nothing had ever happened. In the mean time, this gives you a wonderful opportunity to make friends with some of the other children. Bring in something you'd like to talk about with your classmates; it'll be your first step towards some new friendships."
Again, Billy was confused how Teacher could be speaking to him as though he were just another student. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. How could Teacher expect the same things from him as she does from the other students? Isn't it her job to recognize the special boys?
A frown now plagued Billy's countenance.
He got home and threw his bag into the corner of his room, angry at Teacher. Tommy Tommy Tommy, he thinks. All anybody ever talks about, as though they actually think Tommy was the special boy. Of course, Billy knew better, Tommy was just another ordinary boy, but it still bothered him. The very idea that the police were even wasting their time looking for Tommy vexed him.
Tommy was his best friend and treated Billy just the way he liked. When they played tag, Tommy was always "it," even when he caught up with Billy. Same with Hide and Seek. At sleepovers, Tommy knew to always let Billy have the bed, even when his leg was in that cast.
But last week, Tommy was not being very good at all. He had a Score Bar that he tried to hide from Billy. Even after Billy found it in his jacket pocket, Tommy refused to share, claiming that Billy never shared his candy, and it wasn't fair. It was as though he had forgotten that ordinary boys should ALWAYS share their treats with special boys.
Billy watched him eat the toffee treat, and then decided to share something with Tommy. He walked into Mommy's room and grabbed the small brass key she kept in the top drawer of her bureau. Mommy kept the key beneath her delicates, like that would ever stop him. How stupid Mommy can be, he thought, as he made his way, key in hand, to the attic. The attic is where Mommy keeps things that scare her.
Billy was gone for a few minutes, long enough for Tommy to lick his fingers clean of chocolate, and then returned with a dusty old album, with a picture on the cover that looked a little like Billy's dad. Billy told Tommy when they first started palling around that his dad one day just went missing, and Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Half the boys in their class had dads that went missing, and now they saw them on birthdays and Christmas, when they got to have extra presents.
Billy put the photo album in Tommy's lap and then excused himself to take a wiz. Tommy looked at the cover photo of Billy's dad and felt a little...perturbed. His dad had long needles in his face, and his mouth was open like he was screaming. Creepy, thought Tommy, and he opened the photo album.
When Billy came back, only the photo album was in the room, with a new picture on its cover. Tommy, done up like some boy from an old movie, but a needle poked through his face. Tommy's mouth open in a scream. I'll bet he wishes he shared his candy bar now, thought Billy, as he sat down to play some video games.
The police have been looking for Tommy for two weeks, but Billy knows exactly where to find him. Every day, there is a new needle, and Tommy looks more scared and Billy is glad to be teaching him some manners.
It didn't take much thought to decide on what to show the class. Billy was so angry with Teacher and is happy to finally show the class what a special boy he is. He brought his two most prized possessions that day for his Show-and-Tell inside a pillowcase, to keep them from being seen before he was ready. Now, standing in front of the class, full of ordinary boys and girls, he feels ready. Billy reaches into the pillowcase and pulls out his two presentations. First, is his skeleton toy. It is his favorite, he tells the class.
Then, the big reveal. Mommy's special photo album.
Teacher squints and leans closer. "Billy....is that a picture of Tommy? But why have you made him look like that?"
Billy smiled at Teacher, like a nice boy.
Then he squeezed his eyes shut and opened the album wide, for the whole class to see.
Then, a sound. Of a pencil rolling and falling off a desk. Billy opened his eyes. A terrible smile upon his placid features.
It was important to Billy that the other children thought him special. All the television programs he'd been watching told him he was, and it was often so confusing when the rest of the world didn't seem to notice. Billy would like for his classmates to pay more attention, and start picking him first in gym class. Special boys, he was certain, were always picked first for team sports. They also got their pick of lunch tables, and even had dibs on the desserts other children brought for lunch. People like giving their treats to special people, because it makes them special by association.
Show-and-Tell was meant for yesterday's class, but Billy didn't see any reason why he should have to participate. He intentionally didn't bring anything, expecting that to be acceptable. Teacher, however, had other ideas and insisted that participation was required. She sent him home with a stern reprimand and threats of cleaning chalkboards during recess if he didn't bring in something to show the class the following day.
"It doesn't have to be remarkable, just something that interests you. Billy, it's time you became an active participant in this class. I know you miss Tommy, we all do, but the police will find him soon, and before you know it, he'll be back at home like nothing had ever happened. In the mean time, this gives you a wonderful opportunity to make friends with some of the other children. Bring in something you'd like to talk about with your classmates; it'll be your first step towards some new friendships."
Again, Billy was confused how Teacher could be speaking to him as though he were just another student. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. How could Teacher expect the same things from him as she does from the other students? Isn't it her job to recognize the special boys?
A frown now plagued Billy's countenance.
He got home and threw his bag into the corner of his room, angry at Teacher. Tommy Tommy Tommy, he thinks. All anybody ever talks about, as though they actually think Tommy was the special boy. Of course, Billy knew better, Tommy was just another ordinary boy, but it still bothered him. The very idea that the police were even wasting their time looking for Tommy vexed him.
Tommy was his best friend and treated Billy just the way he liked. When they played tag, Tommy was always "it," even when he caught up with Billy. Same with Hide and Seek. At sleepovers, Tommy knew to always let Billy have the bed, even when his leg was in that cast.
But last week, Tommy was not being very good at all. He had a Score Bar that he tried to hide from Billy. Even after Billy found it in his jacket pocket, Tommy refused to share, claiming that Billy never shared his candy, and it wasn't fair. It was as though he had forgotten that ordinary boys should ALWAYS share their treats with special boys.
Billy watched him eat the toffee treat, and then decided to share something with Tommy. He walked into Mommy's room and grabbed the small brass key she kept in the top drawer of her bureau. Mommy kept the key beneath her delicates, like that would ever stop him. How stupid Mommy can be, he thought, as he made his way, key in hand, to the attic. The attic is where Mommy keeps things that scare her.
Billy was gone for a few minutes, long enough for Tommy to lick his fingers clean of chocolate, and then returned with a dusty old album, with a picture on the cover that looked a little like Billy's dad. Billy told Tommy when they first started palling around that his dad one day just went missing, and Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Half the boys in their class had dads that went missing, and now they saw them on birthdays and Christmas, when they got to have extra presents.
Billy put the photo album in Tommy's lap and then excused himself to take a wiz. Tommy looked at the cover photo of Billy's dad and felt a little...perturbed. His dad had long needles in his face, and his mouth was open like he was screaming. Creepy, thought Tommy, and he opened the photo album.
When Billy came back, only the photo album was in the room, with a new picture on its cover. Tommy, done up like some boy from an old movie, but a needle poked through his face. Tommy's mouth open in a scream. I'll bet he wishes he shared his candy bar now, thought Billy, as he sat down to play some video games.
The police have been looking for Tommy for two weeks, but Billy knows exactly where to find him. Every day, there is a new needle, and Tommy looks more scared and Billy is glad to be teaching him some manners.
Then, the big reveal. Mommy's special photo album.
Teacher squints and leans closer. "Billy....is that a picture of Tommy? But why have you made him look like that?"
Billy smiled at Teacher, like a nice boy.
Then he squeezed his eyes shut and opened the album wide, for the whole class to see.
Then, a sound. Of a pencil rolling and falling off a desk. Billy opened his eyes. A terrible smile upon his placid features.
Springtime Hopeful
Oakland library has a bunch of daffodils out front, in full bloom. I know California's winters are different, and flowers are always blooming, but these daffodils struck me as a "Finally, Spring has arrived!" kind of vibe.
With that comes so many ideas of what this warm weather will bring.
Maybe a bicycle ride through the Napa vineyards. Progressively more drunk and dangerous to myself and to the very idea of "upright."
New walks with the dog. Maybe Muir Woods. That place always looks beautiful.
Road trips!
Sorbet!
This year, Spring will lead all the way to Summer, where my 30th birthday awaits. Like a bear hibernating, it will soon crawl out of its cave and lunge at me.
I've decided Spring will be the few months I need to get back into shape. So that I can hit 30 feeling good about myself, and not hide beneath any more ponchos.
This Spring, I've learned to knit. A few hats (one of which is more of a fez, really, given my lack of pattern knowledge), one half of a pair of fingerless mittens, and a lonely pair of legs to a monster who remains out of my reach as of yet.
Spring is a general time of housecleaning and exercise, and a general willingness to persist in both. I welcome it all this year, and maybe I'll even welcome 30.
With that comes so many ideas of what this warm weather will bring.
Maybe a bicycle ride through the Napa vineyards. Progressively more drunk and dangerous to myself and to the very idea of "upright."
New walks with the dog. Maybe Muir Woods. That place always looks beautiful.
Road trips!
Sorbet!
This year, Spring will lead all the way to Summer, where my 30th birthday awaits. Like a bear hibernating, it will soon crawl out of its cave and lunge at me.
I've decided Spring will be the few months I need to get back into shape. So that I can hit 30 feeling good about myself, and not hide beneath any more ponchos.
This Spring, I've learned to knit. A few hats (one of which is more of a fez, really, given my lack of pattern knowledge), one half of a pair of fingerless mittens, and a lonely pair of legs to a monster who remains out of my reach as of yet.
Spring is a general time of housecleaning and exercise, and a general willingness to persist in both. I welcome it all this year, and maybe I'll even welcome 30.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Nursing Home
Every morning on my way to work, walking down Mission away from the 16th Street BART, I pass a dirty building with dirty windows. Actually, I pass by dozens of such structures (this IS the Mission, after all), but this one, above others, breaks my heart.
Bars in the windows, presumably to keep potential burglars out, but likely with the side effect of deterring visitors, making prisoners of the elderly.
You see, this specific squalid construct is a nursing home. Its one large window streaked (nay, caked) in detritus, overlooking a vacant building and parking lot now resembling a shanty town. Remnants of a garden in front, clustered only with weeds.
"Promise you'll never put me in a rest home," my mum's words, spoken years earlier, echoing through my mind.
Next door is a bright, newly refurbished cafe. Free Wifi enticing youth inside. Clean suits and briefcases forming a line for their fix, accidentally emphasizing the clear lack of a line of callers just next door. The cafe is auroral, its inhabitants young and animated.
An elderly lady watches them all, as she does every morning. Today, just as yesterday, and the day before, she is impeccably dressed, makeup applied. A face of bleak hope.
She sits in her wheelchair in the doorway, blocking no one, and I hope today (as I did yesterday) that just behind me, on the horizon, her visitor approaches. I nod at her and the nurse behind her. The nurse, hands on hips, casts me an illusory smile, and I hurry on my way.
Every night I take a different route back to the BART, walking South Van Ness rather than Mission. The idea of seeing her, still waiting twelve hours later, too grim a thought.
"Promise you'll never put me in a rest home," she asked.
"I won't. I promise."
Bars in the windows, presumably to keep potential burglars out, but likely with the side effect of deterring visitors, making prisoners of the elderly.
You see, this specific squalid construct is a nursing home. Its one large window streaked (nay, caked) in detritus, overlooking a vacant building and parking lot now resembling a shanty town. Remnants of a garden in front, clustered only with weeds.
"Promise you'll never put me in a rest home," my mum's words, spoken years earlier, echoing through my mind.
Next door is a bright, newly refurbished cafe. Free Wifi enticing youth inside. Clean suits and briefcases forming a line for their fix, accidentally emphasizing the clear lack of a line of callers just next door. The cafe is auroral, its inhabitants young and animated.
An elderly lady watches them all, as she does every morning. Today, just as yesterday, and the day before, she is impeccably dressed, makeup applied. A face of bleak hope.
She sits in her wheelchair in the doorway, blocking no one, and I hope today (as I did yesterday) that just behind me, on the horizon, her visitor approaches. I nod at her and the nurse behind her. The nurse, hands on hips, casts me an illusory smile, and I hurry on my way.
Every night I take a different route back to the BART, walking South Van Ness rather than Mission. The idea of seeing her, still waiting twelve hours later, too grim a thought.
"Promise you'll never put me in a rest home," she asked.
"I won't. I promise."
Friday, December 10, 2010
It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
It seems to be that time of year again, when I spend money I don't have on an inordinate number of cards to send out (which will most likely just live in my nightstand's top drawer, along with all the others), and bitch about all those ugly life-size Frosty dolls on people's lawns.
The boyfriend has implied on more than one occasion that I'm a scrooge, but I'd still like to know WHEN Christmas became code for "be as tacky as you possibly can."
Still, though, I love seeing Santa. Not in my home at midnight, because then he'd be uninvited and most likely robbing me, but out on the street ringing bells or listening to wishes. The Bay Area, it seems, is a wonderful place for such sightings.
Take last weekend for example, on our way back from watching A Very Merry Murder Mystery (which I highly recommend, because what says "holiday cheer" better than murder?), we took a short jaunt through the Marina, only to be entrenched in Santas. All kinds of Santas, even the slutty variety, and all of them raging drunk. Santas carrying each other home, Santas fighting in the street, Santas peeing in the alleys. We saw them all.
I tell you, I'm not much of a Christmas spirit kinda gal, but watching a third Santa try to break up a fight between two other Santas really brought a tear to my eye. I'm a better person for being reminded of what this time of year is all about: boozing.
The boyfriend has implied on more than one occasion that I'm a scrooge, but I'd still like to know WHEN Christmas became code for "be as tacky as you possibly can."
Still, though, I love seeing Santa. Not in my home at midnight, because then he'd be uninvited and most likely robbing me, but out on the street ringing bells or listening to wishes. The Bay Area, it seems, is a wonderful place for such sightings.Take last weekend for example, on our way back from watching A Very Merry Murder Mystery (which I highly recommend, because what says "holiday cheer" better than murder?), we took a short jaunt through the Marina, only to be entrenched in Santas. All kinds of Santas, even the slutty variety, and all of them raging drunk. Santas carrying each other home, Santas fighting in the street, Santas peeing in the alleys. We saw them all.
I tell you, I'm not much of a Christmas spirit kinda gal, but watching a third Santa try to break up a fight between two other Santas really brought a tear to my eye. I'm a better person for being reminded of what this time of year is all about: boozing.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Time to Pretend
I'd like to tell you a little story now, and I apologize beforehand for its melancholy notes.
Let's say you're a man, new to a city, starting a new life with your partner. You both spent most of your money to move out here, find a home, and start fresh.
Now let's say it's a national holiday, and you don't have to go into work today. A day of respite after a few hard weeks. Your partner wakes up early and volunteers to take the dogs for a walk, allowing you to stay in bed and catch up on some much needed sleep.
Less than an hour later, a phone call wakes you up. We're at the Starbucks on King Street. Get here now.
Now let's say you're a different man. You've taken a brisk walk around your new city, with your two dogs by your side, Nina and Nani. They're a couple of mutts, not like the purse dogs you've seen so much of lately. You catch Nina, mid-stride, looking up at you, one ear cocked back, like she's asking if she's doing it right. You're ok, N, good girl.
It's nearing the end of your walk, and you decide to surprise your partner, still asleep back home, with a big cup of coffee. You tie Nina and Nani to the base of a table and head into Starbucks.
And then a commotion.
A dog is barking across the street and Nani perks up, ready to play. Nina looks at the door, looking for you, ready to check in. Just then, Nani bolts, no longer able to resist the call to frolic, and Nina follows, dragging the table behind them.
A screech.
2 thuds.
A lump of dread in your throat as you call your partner. We're at Starbucks on King Street. Get here now.
You're a young dog and you were on a walk, and now you're in this strange place. There's blood running into your eye. Most of your scalp has been ripped off, exposing the entire top of your skull, and your ribs are broken. You'll go into surgery soon and the people in blue will fix you. You're nervous, though, looking around for Nina.
You're a good dog, and you meant to ask for permission. You're having a hard time breathing because something has caused your intestines to be pushed forward into your chest. Maybe you could be fixed, but your people just moved to this city, and they can't afford it. Then again, maybe you couldn't be fixed anyways.
You're on a blanket and your favorite people are petting you and calling you Good Dog.
There's a needle.
2 kisses on your head.
Then nothing.
Let's pretend now that you were driving too fast on your commute. Out of nowhere, 2 dogs ran into the street. You couldn't avoid them. Who could really blame you? Horrible things happen every day.
But then you sped away.
And that's what makes you a terrible person.
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