Photographs: September 2008 Archives

I don't quite know what to say about the last few days. It's one of those times when there's so much going on, both internally and externally, that I am at a loss. When I don't know what to think, I generally don't know what to say.

There's also the fact that much of what is going on is excruciatingly personal.

My legs felt the need for a rest, so I stayed at home, off the bikes, knitting and working, and IMing with a friend. She had good advice, and I fear it was one of those conversations where I took more than I gave back, and I hope to rebalance the equation at some point soonish.

I am changing so fast this year that I sometimes wonder what I will uncover about myself next. On the whole, it's a good process, even if the roads are occasionally bumpy.

Sometimes the bumps involve other people, and I falter and lose my way, and wonder what the hell I am doing in this part of the woods, and whether it's time to ditch this metaphor and look for something less mangled.

I had a weird weekend, with one thing and another. Some sad things. Some hopeful things. It left me feeling tired, and quite a bit confused. Mostly about what I want. Both of the people I talked to about it today kept asking me what I want. What do I want? I have very little solid idea.

Ultimately, of course, I'd like to feel happy and whole in my own skin.

I am not at all sure whether that means having a partner hanging out with me, touching that skin on occasion. I just don't know. I have certainly been wishing for some element of that, but every time I get close to thinking about getting close, it's too too close, and I just close up like a crab. A hermit crab.

My hair feels too long.

I made soup.

I'm always hungry.

I'm knitting some beautiful gloves for Special J. They feel soft and look subtle.

I danced around the apartment a little. I listened to Parliament on the train. I huddled on the couch like a little old lady, knitting away on toothpicky dpns. Somewhere, maybe, there is a man who'd be delighted by me, who is feeling lonely and working on his hobby, whatever that is, and thinking he's not sure what he wants from life, either. Maybe.

(I am thinking of no one in particular, mind you.)

It's never gonna be normal, you and me. What you're signing on for is a storm at sea. - Zero Seven, Pageant of the Bizarre
How long does one wait after having been through one of those storms before getting close enough to risk another one?

Yesterday I rode into another state on my trusty bicycle, with a small posse of the fastest men I've ever met.

I must be crazy.

It was fun, it was exhilarating, it was a wee bit scary.

I discovered a few things along the way.

1. I am faster than I think I am.
2. I am not as good at climbing as I think I am.
3. I might actually like one of these guys.

Uh-oh.

No, really, uh-oh. I am not sure I can do this. I mean, I don't know if he likes me, too, but he might. (I get a lot of hugs when I see him.)

Here's the thing.

a) Boywich, for all that he is a wonderful, unique, precious-to-me human being, was hell to live with. I am not contemplating living with anyone ever again, and no that's not his fault, I am just clarifying that it's not the living-with that's important here, it's the hell.

b) How long does one need to wait after that kind of experience (and it was a LONG experience, not like a year of that but close to a decade of it) before getting entangled with somebody else, even to the small extent of being willing to let them into your heart at all?

c) Even apart from that, I have been doing Big Work in the last year, Big Work on Old Shit. That kind of work requires a lot of personal space. Can I date somebody during that? I mean, somebody other than an off-again, on-again sexy blonde playmate who would never in a million years get close enough to me to be (emotionally) risky?

This man is not the blonde. Emphatically not the blonde.

Not only is he not blonde by any stretch, but he is (from what I've seen) warm, sweet, interesting, and very experienced in the ways of the world and what that world can throw at a human being. Also handsome, in unbelievable shape, and quite close to my own age.

Crap, right?

Did I mention he has the most beautiful eyes I think I've ever seen on a human being?

He's also a friend whom I increasingly value as a friend, and if anything is going to happen between us I would want to make sure that we could still be friends if it didn't work out. CRAP.

PS. All photos courtesy of pocketcam, which has been performing a yeoman's job in my bike bag lately.

PSdeux. Reading back over this, it sounds like things were all bad with Boywich, which isn't true. A lot of things were good, which was why it lasted so long. It's just that the things that were bad, were bad.

The trouble with owning a really big brain, my darlings, is simply this: one tends to rely on it. To the exclusion of other, equally useful skills and attributes.

I have spent this past summer (which I suppose is pretty much over, though I am in wilful denial about that) unlearning that bad habit. Or trying out new ways of functioning that don't involve so much analysis and overthinking and overlay of heavy expectations of life and of people.

It's been going rather well. I came to a big decision about my immediate professional future without once frowning and fretting over it (okay, I exaggerate, there may have been a frown or two - but that was about 486 less than there normally would have been). I got over feeling obscurely heartbroken about a little June fling. I played and played and toyed and toyed with any number of cute young boys.

I got a tattoo. I took risks. I did a whole lot of bicycling and a whole lot of leading with my body, and my instincts, and not my big big brain. And it was good for me. And I liked it.

And now I am looking at how to keep that going, as the fall comes on with its heavier tone, its back-to-work mentality, its changing colors and smells, its Rhinebeck and its apples to be picked, and its skies so gorgeous they traditionally make me feel like I'm just not doing enough to appreciate them every day.

Breathe, the summer taught me. Just breathe. Pedal, and breathe, and pedal some more. Spoke-music. Hands on grips. Hair rumpled by wind and crushed under helmet. Ruffle it up and move along. Wear the little dress that flips up under the rim of the bicycle seat. Don't worry so much whether the new people like you or don't like you.

Think about what you want for dinner in the next five minutes. Think about what that is, flying over there, wings beating the sky - hummingbird or bee? Think about what pretty yarn you can buy for Shannon at Rhinebeck. Think about that beer. Yum. Beer.

Think about how kissing the blonde was just as nice with stubble on his face as without. Think about popsicles.

"He's like sorbet," I said. "Palate-cleansing."

Yes, like that. I do like that. Pity I've just overloaded my stomach with all those brownies I'd made for Special J. Note to self: Wait until dear friend is actually ready to receive visitors before beginning the baking. Don't worry, Special J: more where that came from, honey.

It's late and I'm rather exhausted, so I'll make this quick. The last two weeks or so there have been searchlights in the sky. The first few times I saw them, I kind of noticed the light without really registering them. Then it hit me - clunk - oh yeah. Those beams of light pointed straight up are the towers. The Ghost Towers.

They've been doing this subtle memorial for years - every year from 2002 on, in fact. One or two of those years I wasn't here, and didn't see them. But most years I have. And of course, in 2001 I saw the real ones burn and die.

There isn't anything to say about it here that hasn't already been said elsewhere (or even here, by me), and I don't have much to add, except this.

Humans have a remarkable ability to pick themselves up out of chaos, out of the rubble - be it physical or metaphysical - and just start walking.

I don't know if that counts as heroism. I don't know, really, if it's even an admirable quality, though I guess if you asked me, I'd say yes, of course it is. It's a remarkable thing, and it's maybe the only thing we have.

It's round about this time that I become especially aware of how colorful things are. How brilliant the sky, how rich the sunlight, how bright those umbrellas, how soft the smell of water.

It's not always an easy thing to experience sensations of normal life in the face of abnormal awfulness; it's like having someone very important to you die and then wanting to blot the sun out for a while, so you can grieve, uninterrupted.

That W.H. Auden poem. You know.

But I suspect the tendency of the world to go on beating like a great white heart, right in your face, is where we get our continued-walking ability. We have the world as our teacher - irrepressible nature, unstoppable life. It's good, I think, even when it hurts.

PS. Boywich, I am thinking of you.

Apparently it's not only possible to bike to the beach; it's a damn fine day out. Especially when the weather is like this: spotlessly sunny skies, warm but not hot temperature, and that oddly hard to place but unmistakable California feel to the air.

I rode down to Coney with a friend (okay, a date), and then along miles of waterfront, and then some more miles of city streets, and then had dinner, and then rode home (ahem, the latter by myself, thank you). And it was a perfect, perfect day.

I'd like to have those more often, if it please the court.

I have been noticing beauty in the things I see every day lately, and I want to remember to bring a camera with me next time, so I can show you. But in the meantime:

There's a perforated metal fence with the late-day sunlight poking through it. There's a bowl of yogurt with huge blackberries thrown on top, their juice trailing little streaks of purple here and there.

There's the mental image of a three-year-old boy whom a friend saw riding what had to be his first bicycle around the track at Kissena. There's the sweet smile on the face of another friend as I roll up in front of my bike shop (I got hugs).

There's white sand between toes (a few weeks ago, but I remember it).

There's gliding along, wind in the spokes, that purity of movement.

There's a pretty pretty salad I made.

There's a little girl-kitty asleep on the couch (shedding like a monster).

There are the beautiful faces of my tattooed girls at brunch, laughing about a mediocre date one of them had the other day. She told it so well, we almost became a retroactive Greek chorus.

There's the idea that fall is coming - the breath of it on the wind, a crisping up of air and a deeper-bluing of sky. I start thinking of apples, as I always do.