Slouching Towards Bethlehem

I read somewhere that, if you feel as though you are stuck, you should make a list of what you would like to do, what you would like to learn, what you would like to complete, and what you would like to say. Once the list is complete, you should label each item listed as "N", "L", or "NITL" -- now, later (with date specified), and "not in this lifetime." Then you should proceed to accomplish/complete the items on your list in the priority with which you designated them. The "not in this lifetime" designation is useful because it determines that that desire and/or that task, while acknowledged, need not be completed and thus moved off of the priorities list.

I am still working on initially compiling my list. Surprisingly, it is taking longer than expected. I am thinking, however, that I may have a little "in memoriam" moment for all of the items I end up listing as "NITL."

So far there is only one (query whether I am too ambitious, or too much of a perfectionist, to give up on any of my goals. Apparently the only quality I have that overrides the aforementioned two, is an unabiding fear of confrontation....): As such, my one NITL thus far is telling The Boy exactly how I feel about him coming back to town. But if I were to muster the courage (and, honestly, if I thought there was even a scintilla of a benefit at all -- to me -- I would) to tell him such things directly, this is what I would say:

I am so angry at you. I wish that I weren't because it means that, at some level, I still care. A lot. But the truth is I cared a lot for such a long time that just walking away from those feelings is impossible. They have to go somewhere. And so, with a brief stop at hurt, they caromed from caring to anger. You, on the other hand, feel nothing at all about this situation. Actually that isn't right. I know you feel something: Relief.

Relief that you didn't actually make eye contact when you passed me on the street.

Relief that I didn't stop right there and call your name.

Relief that, having ignored my last email (in response to yours), I have not attempted to contact you again.

Relief that you will never have to see me again.

Actually, I understand all of those things (I have been there myself). Well, except for the last thing. I do not claim to understand that at all, because, frankly, it is just stupid. If we did not live in the same neighborhood and share an (albeit extended) network of friends, perhaps it would not be so preposterous, but given those unavoidable facts it is the equivalent of a three year old sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling, "La, la, La, I can't hear you" when trying to avoid hearing a hard truth. Rational behavior for a toddler? Yes. For a thirty year old? Not so much. Again, stupid.

So now, in addition to having hurt me through your revealing the depth of the profound lack of respect that you have for me, you have also placed the burden of being the bigger person, the one to act like an adult, squarely on my shoulders. When we meet again, as in this small, small town we inevitably will, it will be my burden to smile and make nice. To keep things brief but civil. To wear a mask of conciliation, and to will it not to crack until the moment I am finally able to turn away from you. Maybe you will be alone. Maybe you will be with a significant other ("So nice to meet you. Really.") Worse still, maybe you will be with one of our mutual friends and then there will be no escaping. There will be no tears. There will be no screaming. There won't even be a snide backhanded comment. There will just be prolonged agony of the unspoken and the unsaid. And you will walk away unscathed and unrepentant. And I will be unwound. Tending to the wound -- the gaping hole in my chest that allows me to draw only intermittent rough, raw breath which serves only to punctuate the unceasing rush of pain -- which I had worked so hard to heal with acceptance and patience. Once again, freshly reopened.

I had wanted to try to avoid that silent melodrama with the "How's things" email I sent you, but you chose not to take that road. Again, I understand this too -- avoiding hard truths. It is certainly easier -- for you. Then again, for you every potential approach in this situation is weighted that way -- it is just in in your character. Unavoidable, really. And so I understand, but damnit, I hate you for it. And, in spite of it all, in my quiet moments, I will admit to myself that I miss you. And I hate myself for that. But it will be okay. Some day there will be no reflexive sting to hearing your name. Some day there will be total indifference.

I read the following sentence today, which says it all: "If you have judged someone's character rightly he or she is not likely to disappoint you." I am not hurting now because you misjudged me. I hurt because, clearly, I misjudged you. And that misjudgment leaves me feeling angry, and hurt, and embarrassed. And yes, disappointed.

But you know what? I will get over it, and I will do so precisely because I did misjudge you:

You may be exceptional, but, turns out, you are just not that special.

Dancing About Architecture

It could be that what I attempt to do here in this forum is an impossibility -- like trying to write about music or dance about architecture. It could be that the entire threshold proposition is so preposterous that what follows is necessarily nothing but disjunctive noise.

Much head scratching in the peanut gallery leads me to believe that there is one question which absolutely begs to be asked here: Do I even have a threshold proposition?

I believe I do. Though it may have developed only on a secondary level (we can debate the questionable assumption that one can have a threshold proposition that only comes into being well after the project it is supposed to inform is well underway another day) and may simply be enabling the creation of another shrine to my own narcissism, it is a threshold proposition nonetheless. At least, as with most things in my life, if you squint at it a little.

My threshold proposition is this: I just want to understand. There is so much in this world that I do not understand: extreme partisanship, abject cruelty, imperviousness to the psychic pain of others, being a fan of the Boston Red Sox, inability to use spell check, political motivations in apolitical situations, the ascendancy of Ryan Seacrest. The list goes on and on. But the only item of confusion on the list which I can truly be held accountable for, and for which I will continue to pay a price day after day, is my inability to understand myself (yes, again with the narcissism). I may never know the allure of owning 200 cats or selling everything you own to get four tickets for the Superbowl or why people can often be so cruel, but I can at least attempt to understand myself better. If I can better make out the shape of that entity that is "myself" maybe fitting into my own skin will be a more comfortable fit, and in the comfort, I might be a better citizen of the world, and able to give more to my loved ones and to everyone else.

So if understanding myself is truly the threshold proposition, then even if my body of work here oftentimes has a repetitive and cacophanous ring, I do believe I am making progress. Probably not as much as I should be, as I have a sneaking suspicion that I am far simpler an individual than I make myself out to be, but progress nonetheless.

My most significant issue, as far as I can tell from posts from the beginning until now, has always been one of perception. My eyes -- both the ones on my head and the one in my mind -- often fail me. My reaction to my dimly lit sight has been to throw up my hands and weep at the mere realization of it. Perhaps, as with the physically blind, I should accept the limitations created by my metaphorical blindness and begin to work on how to overcome my visual shortcomings through the use (and ultimately, the heightening) of other senses and abilities.

Sound good in theory, but at this point, I am not sure what these other senses I should work on should be. Hearing is not necessarily an option, as the richness and complexity of what I love about words and and construction of them, is the same thing that makes them a less than reliable guide to accurate perception. It depends on what the meaning of "'is' 'is'", you know?
Touch is also eliminated because the motivations to make physical connections are easily hidden and have the most potential for diametric opposition. Smell could be reliable whenever it is a factor, but it is so rarely present, that it would be a fog horn that sounds once an hour in a lifelong fogbank. Hardly any help at all.

So what am I left with? My gut. The proverbial spidey sense in the deep down recesses of oneself that has always made decisions instantaneously, and which I have scrupulously argued and fought with every moment thereafter until the decision absolutely must be made.
Wow, this doesn't sound all that reliable either, but I do appreciate the fact that it requires trust in oneself and a sort of emotional centering so that "the gut" can be heard. Ah, I guess "hearing" does play a role after all.

One of the perception "sub" issues that vexes me most is, of course, romantic relationships (with nearly every platonic relationship I have running a close second on the vexation/anxiety inducing scale). Like most every woman I know who has read far too much Cosmo et al in her lifetime (and, who, for that matter, watches too much Lifetime), I started out making a list of the things I wanted in a mate (okay, the fact that I was using "mate" as a category of reference at all says something unto itself. These days I do prefer the term "partner" -- though the kind that doesn't require a capital call). At 17, the list wasn't that lengthy, mostly consisting of broad sketching details such as, "Green eyes, Dark hair, and 'Must be like Lloyd Dobbler.'" Basically, I think I was looking for Lloyd Dobbler. Someone sweet and nice, who was funny, bright and kind, who adored me, and whom I found attractive. Ah, even then, with limited language and experience, I was still a big fan of seeking the impossible.

I realize no one can be Lloyd Dobbler all of the time, in large part because he is a fictional character. People are flawed and difficult and selfish, and that most of us are doing our best to be the best person we can be, but some days are inevitably better than others. But I would like some Lloyd Dobbler at least some of the time. I haven't ever really had that -- and whether that has been due to my poor choices or some cruel cosmic joke is a debate for another day -- but when it comes to romantic love and the act of being cherished, I have very little in terms of experience or frame of reference.

Resultantly, I often feel cast aside. I feel rejection intimately. It must be me. Always. Now, I have had at least two suitors tell me that, yes, it was in fact me. But that aside, it isn't always. I don't think.

So how do I balance with what is good for me versus what I like? I think that there are certain things that I am attracted to that have a high potential for blowing up in my face (i.e. arrogance, swagger, and unrelenting drive), but there are others (maybe more muted versions of the former category) that I think I can keep without fear of harm (i.e. raconteur, confident, smart, motivated, humble even in the face of being accomplished, a little bit snarky). Even if I can keep the latter group without fear of harm, it doesn't mitigate the near impossibility of all those traits landing in one person (and especially since I still insist on throwing "tall" in with those qualities as well). So at this point, it seems that if a gathering of those traits is an impossibility, I should modify my expectations or always be disappointed.

But here is the problem: I have found those traits in a very few people. I have seen the possibilities, and it leaves me both hopeful and terrified. How does anyone else ever measure up? Those people have yet to embrace me as I embrace them, so where does that leave me, other than perpetually alone?

The thing is this -- when I find that amalgamation of those traits in someone, something very curious happens. Rather than getting more nervous, anxious and apprehensive (as such states of being appear to be my status quo), I even out. I feel more and more at ease, and, it is in such moments that I experience the truly rare experience of "feeling like myself." Someone with such traits brings out the best in me, because they just make me comfortable with myself. It is hard to explain and I am doing a poor job here. I guess the best way to explain it is that I am perpetually thinking two steps ahead in nearly every social situation -- romantic or platonic -- because I always feel so awkward and navigating the social waters always seems to perilous to me. Over the years I have found a few trusted friends, where this tendency is obviated. I am comfortable enough to live, to feel, to be in the moment. This is why they are also my family. With romantic contexts, I have only had this happen to me on a handful of occasions. Less than a handful. But the feeling was amazing -- so different from anything else I had ever experienced. And that last sentence has nothing to do with physical acts. It was just that ability to be present and joyful and thrilled, in the moment. The Bridget Jones moment -- perfect, just as it is.