ten million miles

Ambivalent spring stumbled in today. Not in that blue-sky-tulips-pushing-up-euphoria-in-the-air kind of way, but with a shrug and a shuffle, and a resigned tepid warmth.

And in Harvard Square, the layers were shed, our pasty New England flesh revealed, begging for some UV rays. The benches filled up, parents and toddlers and dogs and students and street urchins and musicians. Restless. Grateful for the warmth but wanting something more. And despite the pile of unread books on my floor, I couldn’t resist the bookstore’s pull. I went straight for the B’s. James Baldwin. Balm for a troubled soul.

And made a beeline for a café. Where I ordered a double macchiato and read my new book. And looked out the window. And in my heart, silently begged the two strangers beside me to invite me into their conversation. But they got up and left instead, as strangers do, and so I read my book some more. And I looked around at all the eccentric Cambridgites – society’s proud misfits that keep me somehow tied to this cold unfriendly city – and I noticed the man with the headphones and the Kant furtively trying to catch my eye, and then looking away when he did. I’m sure something in my demeanor said, Don’t bother trying to talk to me, I’m a New Englander just like you.

All these alone-people sitting alone in cafés. We hide behind our books and our furrowed brows. We pretend to be deep in thought when all we really want is for someone to say Hi. Or even just to offer a smile, rather than pretending to stare past us when we catch them looking our way. I’m one of them. I do that.

Last weekend at 1369 I did something uncharacteristic. Behind me I overheard two girls talking about how difficult it is to make new friends in Boston… and I did something I never do… I turned around and said “Hi.” I said, “I couldn’t help but overhearing your conversation…” 

But I’m not bold enough for this sort of social rebellion on a regular basis. And though I really did kind of want to talk to someone, I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to talk to anyone who wanted to talk to me first. You know how it goes. Because I’m a New England snob too. So I finally put away my book and left. As strangers do.

And I went home and cooked my usual weekend brunch. Fried up some onions and chili, some cumin and coriander, scrambled a couple eggs… Put my new Patty Griffin CD on the stereo (thank you Annie)…And thought about how I came to be here. How I came to be one of these alone-people sitting alone in cafés… And Patty sang to me:

I must have walked ten million miles, wore some shoes that weren’t my style, fell into the rank and file, so just say I was here a while, a fool in search of your sweet smile, ten million miles…

I traced my movements back through the years. How I came to be in the Northeast. How I came to move to the other side of the world. And back again. How I came to find comfort in cities where nobody knows me. How I came to find comfort in cafés behind the safety of books avoiding the furtive eyes of strangers.

And I wondered who I might have been with different friends.  I wondered what it would be like to live a life surrounded by people that give a shit. Does any girl get through school without being bludgeoned by her friends?

And then my roommate came out and slammed the door. Didn’t like my music. Or didn’t like my singing. Or didn’t like me. And this is how my life goes. Why I’ve come to prefer Alone.

Stretched out across my bed, I pull open the window. Try and let Spring in. By now the sky’s gone a fuzzy matte gray. Must be about to rain. Still, Spring might be ambivalent but the birds aren’t. Euphoric, they puff up their little chests and dance around. Warble and chirp. A gray squirrel leaps a branch carrying a nut the size of his head. My cat jumps onto the bed with big eyes, ears twitching back and forth. I spot a pair of cardinals – the only bird I know how to identify – red boys and gray-green girls. I don’t remember ever seeing cardinals here before.

Maybe I just wasn’t looking.

belt test

I’ve got a belt test tonight. I shouldn’t get nervous for these anymore, but I still do. This will put me one belt test away from black belt, as Dennis pointed out last night. He thinks it’ll be pretty cool to be able to say “my girlfriend has a black belt.”

Funny thing is, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. You set goals based on some sort of idealized notion of a transcended self, but when you finally reach the finish line, there’s no moment of transcendence, no shiny new you.

I guess because by then you’ve earned your achievement, you grow into it over time. And when you reach that line in the sand – the one you drew years back without any idea what the line really meant except that it was far from where you then stood – you realize that it’s just a line. And the line itself means nothing.

But maybe that’s the point.

When I set the black belt goal three years ago, I did so because I thought I needed a goal I couldn’t devalue. Like I did the masters degree. And the A average. And swimming butterfly at the state meet. But I guess what I didn’t get then, which I kind of get now, is that any goal that you actually achieve is going to lose it’s mystique once you get there. I think that might be inherent to the achievement.

I dont know.

But I’ve got a belt test tonight, and I’m kind of nervous, but mostly I’m just looking forward to beers at Christopher’s after.

mid life angst

It’s been ages since I’ve written.

I have nothing to say.

Where once were words, a gray smudge. A worn-down eraser stub. Blue lint. A nickel and two dimes.  A wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

Driving home from work: green-black trees stretched austere against the faded cerulean sky, slipping white into snow-covered earth. The landscape of my mind: high contrast. Gradations of feeling blanched out of the print. Over-exposed. Bound for the shredder.

How can a day take so much out of a person? The week isn’t so bad, the month, the year passes by almost too quickly — it’s just the day that kills you.

There’s almost nothing worth saying about the hours that make up these days that are killing me. “The medium is the message,” says that sage old Communicator from beyond the grave. The content is fine, the problem is in the delivery. This is what I keep saying when asked: I don’t mind my job, it’s the company I hate.

To say I don’t fit in there is an understatement. Mostly they don’t notice. Mostly they don’t see me. And it’s safer that way. But negation is exhausting. And some days I forget that there is more to me than just not being them.

I’ve long given up on trying to point out the emperor’s absence of suitable attire. Naked as a jay-bird, but nobody really cares. It’s just a charade. I’m the one who’s too literal. After all, it’s not about whether an idea is good or not, it’s about whether everyone else thinks it’s good. And moreover, whether everyone else thinks everyone else thinks it’s good.

It’s like being back in high school, with all the Cool-Kids and Wannabes. The Nerds have all been laid off. The Skaters and the Freaks were never hired to start with. What am I doing here? It’s like a bad dream. And I can’t remember my locker combination.

I drive home, thinking nothing thoughts. Nothing nothing nothing…and yet, why does my head feel like it’s going to explode?

I get home to Nothing To Do On A Friday Night. I want to bang my head against the wall. I want to hide under the bed with my cat. I want someone to be here to take me to a movie, to take me out of my misery, to tell me to quit whining. Or something.

But there’s no one. Just me.

I seek refuge in bourbon and oatmeal cookies.