Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Open Letter Series: #6

For Lucy, forever ago**:

Yesterday I found the ring.

The ring I lost three years ago. The one you gave me because February. The one you brought back from the desert to turn my finger green.

I remember the day it disappeared. I was changing and in a hurry when it flew off my thumb and was swallowed up by some rift in time and space. I scoured my bedroom for months afterwards. I rearranged the furniture; ran my fingers across every square inch of floorboard and molding. I never found it. I assumed it was some cosmic sign quietly telling me “Enough”. I was always losing totems back then. Gifts with emotional significance would go missing when my relationships had reached a state of such discord that there was no chance of recovery. Rings and necklaces, clothing. Even pets.

As somebody who has historically been terrible at letting go, these losses were bittersweet. An involuntary release is still a release. There was momentary panic then relief in the missing. Relief in the acceptance of the thing and its absence. The sweatshirt lost after a night downtown. The charm that slipped off my neck and down the bathroom drain. The string around my wrist that frayed and broke. These small goodbyes like mile markers; like debris torn from moving vehicles.  

It was a cheap mood ring from some tourist trap in Arizona, the colored band perpetually declaring I felt romantic or cold. I loved it. I wore it faithfully until the morning I woke up with a crippling hangover and no recollection of how I’d made it to my house, let alone my bed. My finger was battered and swollen, blood crusting around the ring’s sharp metal edge. I still have the shiny knot of scar tissue in my finger. It was the month after we broke up and we hadn’t spoken in a week, but you texted me that morning. Said “Hello b”. Said “I miss you”.  

After that I wore the ring on a chain around my neck. You made fun of me. Called me Frodo and asked me about Mordor. Called it My Precious, japed me about my “quest for love”.  Asked me why. Constantly why, and I didn’t have an answer but I liked the way that chain slipped through my fingers like a knockoff rosary. I liked to twist that ring around and around when I was thinking, or anxious, or bored; liked to trace it across my lower lip while I wrote 122 love poems. I had been living in Portland for 10 months when the chain broke. I was sad and small, and it fit loosely on my thumb so I bent the band to feel more secure. It was there one day and then it wasn’t.

And now it’s back.

It’s hardly recognizable anymore. From the mutable color constantly shifting to tell you how I felt, to glossy black, to mottled patches of sick greens and yellows. When the paint chipped clean it was a brassy polish which rubbed into brighter silver. Now that shine is wearing away, the color below something soft and golden. We are getting closer to the heart of the thing.

Yesterday you texted me to say you are happy. Sitting across from the girl at the bar she watches me twist the ring around my thumb. She asks me what it means to me and I laugh, overwhelmed by the answers I’ve always used before. I used to say “It is a constant reminder that somebody loves me, even at my least lovable.” but this is not that story anymore. So I tell her it’s a beautiful metaphor; the evolution of every me. It's becoming more true, layer by layer. The metamorphosis of everything precious.

I am getting closer to the heart of the thing.


**This is a nod to Bon Iver, who is incredible and who you should definitely check out if you’re unfamiliar

Monday, January 18, 2016

Easy as falling off a bicycle.

Recently, in an effort to be kind to my body, I decided to try Restorative Yoga. From the description on the website it seemed like the perfect opportunity to focus my mind and open my chakras while strengthening and stretching the meatbag that holds my bones. I don’t know what part of “quiet your nerves and rest your body” made me envision a dreamy, androgynous yogi draped in loosely fitted white clothes. I pictured us standing on a sun-drenched, windswept bluff overlooking the ocean, the instructor’s dulcet tones encouraging us to deepen our pose and also our consciousness.

Yes I knew the class was in a studio. Yes I knew it was Portland and December and 7:30pm (AKA 3+ hours after sunset).

My notions of restorative yoga as exercise were crushed when I settled myself in the dark studio and the instructor encouraged us to build a cozy nest out of blankets and bolsters. At least three bolsters per person, and as many blankets as we could lug back to our mats. Duly equipped we proceeded to drape our limp bodies over padded bolsters in various positions for a full hour. During this hour, the instructor approached me no less than three times. Encouraging me to release the tension in my back. The tension in my shoulders. Reminding me to breathe. Letting me know it was ok to close my eyes; I didn’t need to ogle the other adults also draping their bodies over padded bolsters.

Anyways. Here’s a brief and incomplete list of thoughts that passed through my brain while I napped. I mean “meditated”:

Alright, yoga, here we go. I’ve never liked you before but maybe things are different now. I’m a grown ass lady. I feel so capable of existing mindfully for an hour. What is an hour anyways? Nothing. Practically nothing. One episode of Shameless… Ok, more than one episode of Shameless, especially since I skip through the opening credits and theme song. 1.37 episodes of Shameless. It’s a good song though. I wonder what my pals the Gallaghers are up to right now…

I wonder if my little toe is supposed to feel all cold and dead like that. Probably. That’s probably completely normal. Try not to think about it.

Alright, next pose! Things are getting real. I wonder if relaxing every muscle in my body counts as “exercise”. I’m not sure it does. I’ll probably still eat potato chips for dinner. Wellness is all about achieving balance. This is potentially the hardest easy thing I’ve ever done.

I am relaxed, goddammit! Oh. No, you’re right. I wasn’t. That feels better. Thank you.

Oh, there goes the right arm. Things are going to be so uncomfortable when blood starts pumping into my fingers again.

No, I cannot focus on my breathing without controlling it. You make it sound so easy, like people just casually observe their own basic functions all the time. Now I’m deep breathing and I don’t think I usually do that. Maybe I don’t breathe at all, actually. I don’t know how to stop controlling my breathing now. I’ll be hypervigilant forever. Literally everything I do will be multi-tasking. I’ll never get into grad school when over half of my brain power is wasted thinking about breathing and burritos.

Mmm, burritos… god bless burritos.

Joss Whedon, you asshat. Things didn’t have to end that way. Completely unnecessary. Maybe if the series had in fact ended at Normal Again, Anya would still be alive and nobody would wake up in the middle of the night sweating and cursing your name. It would have been a good series finale.

Am I asleep right now? Do I still have a body or have I actually become this bolster? When was the last time I opened my eyes? Oh, they do still open. Oh my god, there are still 45 minutes left.

Maybe I’ll eat chicken salad with my potato chips. A chicken salad-potato chip burrito. With a fried egg on top. And some bacon.

Maybe I’m living a real life version of Normal Again, and everything I assume to be real is just a projection of my psychosis. There is no Portland. There might not even be an Earth. Nothing matters. I wish my psychosis were a little more creative. It could have made me a vampire slayer, instead of a sleepy and very hungry adult in a restorative yoga class.

These shorts were a foolish choice. Sorry, everybody in this room. I hope you’ve all become bolsters also.

Alright, this isn’t so bad. I can no longer feel my limbs, and I don’t know if I’m awake or sleeping, and I’ve been consciously willing myself to breathe for at least 40 minutes, but things could be a lot worse.  I’m definitely probably asleep. Or meditating so hard. Except if you’re thinking about how well you’re meditating, maybe you’re not meditating very well at all.

I should do this every week. I’ve never felt so relaxed in my whole life.

Oh thank god, it’s over. Namaste, beezies. I’m out.

Summarily, it was an hour of intensive introspection and many important lessons were learned. 1) I still hate yoga, 2) nothing is real and 3) burritos. I hope you carry this newfound peace and clarity into your daily practices, sweet babies.


Friday, December 18, 2015

Breathing Underwater.

In a middle of a room… 

there is a stage, and on the stage there is a girl, and on a girl the words “Lone Wolf”. Black ink calligraphy, one word sprawling across the back of each thigh. Tall socks and gold hoops. Black lace. When she smiles it’s all lips, and when she looks at you it’s no fucks, but when her back is turned there are acne scars and the slope of shoulders, and longdark hair. You watch her face in the mirror and maybe the facade falls away, or maybe this is just another type of mask. A harder one to remove: the eyes vacant, pointing always to the upper right corner of the ceiling. ...stands a suicide. Cross-legged in the booth at the back, we sip our drinks and take turns walking our dollar bills to the stage. Lay them at the dancers’ feet like an offering or apology.

Sniffing a paper rose. It’s been raining like fuckall and the weather has me surly. Seventeen days of breathing underwater. Sitting across from a human, the damp sinks into layers and layers. Wet wool and cotton. We wrap our tongues around cheap beers. Smiling to a Self. She says just once she wants to be the You; says she wants to kiss a hurricane, but I am a new type of storm these days. Something slow and pervasive. Sinking through layers and layers. I am not the disaster you’re looking for.   

“somewhere it is Spring and sometimes
people are in real:imagine
somewhere real flowers,but
I can’t imagine real flowers for if I
could,they would somehow
not Be real”

She says the whiskey stops her hands from shaking because she asked it to. Wraps her fingers around the shotglass, sipping and suddenly shy. A girl leaves a stage, takes a man by the hand. Settles herself in his lap. Through the gap of gauzy curtains her half-closed eyes as she gyrates. (so he smiles, smiling) I take a girl by the hand and we sit in the noisy silence and there is no shaking.

“but I will not
everywhere be real to
you in a moment”

I leave her on the corner. I do not look back. Describe to me the shape of a Self.

It’s 8am and I’m driving to work and the sun is shining through rain like a curtain as I pull onto the Ross Island Bridge. I’m sure this is a metaphor, somehow. And everything is easier than I had guessed everything would be.I say the words but they don’t feel like mine. I say the words but they taste like nostalgia. I say the words And everything is easier. The sun. The rain. Than I had guessed everything would be. The is blonde with small hands. The is wet wool and cotton. The is half-closed eyes and black lace. The is wrapping a tongue around whiskey and smiling back syllables, afraid of sounding foolish. The is falling asleep at the wheel.

Remembering the way who looked at whom first, anyhow dancing.

Tell me about your closest brushes with death. Tall buildings or pedestals: I have no use for that kind of height. How far can you jump before it’s considered falling? How long before you hit the ground?

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Find nothing but faith in nothing.

When I am lonely I go to that place, and today I realized it when I was halfway there the way I will realize it when I’m halfway there next time. When I left my house I thought it was because I needed food. When I left it was because I thought I needed a change of scenery. When I left it was because staying seemed too easy, seemed like it could be forever. So 2pm and I peel myself out of bed and put clothes on my body, tuck a book under my arm. I am halfway there before I realize I am lonely. Two blocks to go and I'm stuck in my head, floating through last night. Peanut butter porter and Why didn’t we talk sooner. Afterwards, karaoke and too-bright lights. A dimly remembered recurrence like deja vu. This weekly outing sinking slowly into the realm of habitual. Cyclical time. Luis and Paula playing their usual roles. Paula with her Patsy Cline. Same songs, same drinks. This family they have created. Luis sits at the bar, speaks to me in pretty accented English. Says I sing beautifully. Says I could be one of them. A glimpse into some future I can still turn away from. I turned away. Today last night is just a lingering headache. Tired eyes and sore limbs, a bellyful of bad decisions. Today I walk into the bar with the noise and the lights, wet and cold lingering on my skin. In my hair. Find a booth at the back, go to the bar. Food. Change of scenery. When I am lonely, I go to that place. And standing at the bar, standing between me and a cheeseburger, standing between me and some hours of undistributed reading. Mike. Fucking Mike, with his brunch-drunk midafternoon advances. Mike with his standing too close, with his questions. With his introductions and explanations I didn’t ask for. Mike with his I don’t want to take too much of your time, taking too much of my time. He asks for my name, wants to know what I do. He lives just down the street, what about me? I realize halfway through the truth that I don’t have to give it to him. I don’t owe him anything. But I feel guilty; I don’t want to be rude. So I keep spewing generalizations. Lame platitudes. Conversation enders. Mike sips his Bloody Mary, the straw resting against his cracked bloody lower lip. Looking down at me, asks for my number. I give him nine out of ten honest digits, my heart in my throat. I’m sure he can tell I’m lying, positive he’s going to call me out. But he saves the fake number. Smiles. Says Cool, says I’ll talk to you later and all the while I wonder why I couldn’t just say no. No you can’t have my number, or my time, or my attention. Instead I say Great. I order my food, and a drink, and slink to my booth. I try to read with half my attention tracking his movements. I'm dreading the moment he comes through the doorway, wishing I had closed my tab, wishing there was another bar or a backdoor.

When he finally leaves I breathe easily for the first time since first contact. Watch him stumble down the street through my periphery, unwilling to accidentally make eye contact through the window. Once he’s out of sight I gather my things, close my tab, hoping he doesn’t come back. I leave the bar, turn right instead of left. He went left. He lives just down the street.

Mike, I'm sure you are a nice guy. I'm sure your intentions were pure. I'm sure you saw me walking into that bar and just wanted to reach out. Make a human connection. Dip your toes into the water to see if I was drowning. Or maybe you just liked my jacket. Maybe you were drunk and chatty. Regardless, your inability or refusal to read my body language made me feel vulnerable. You were exercising an ignorance afforded you by privilege I'll never know. Now I’m sitting in my bed thinking about the truth. Thinking about the moment I realized I could be anybody or anything. The stories we tell ourselves. The stories we tell other people. The spaces we occupy. The ways we are allowed to occupy them.

When I am lonely, I go to this place.