Suddenly it’s Tuesday. Monday seemed like it lasted for about five minutes and the commute from home to office to work now feels like a blur. What is it about time and how it callously functions on it’s own schedule without any regard to people’s lives. I need weekends to be longer, my limited free time after work before I fall asleep (only to wake up at 3AM unable to fall back to sleep) to feel like days not mere hours.
I woke up a 6:59 this morning. You know how you do that, wake up on your own seconds before your alarm is slated to go off? It’s sort of disgusting, really. Am I so trained now that I no longer need that irritating, bone-shaking beep beep beeping of the alarm in the morning to get me going? Is my life on such a regimented track that it’s come to this – my own biological clock subconsciously getting me up and getting me to work without my brain even realizing it?
Suddenly it’s Tuesday and I desperately need it to be Friday and I can already tell that time is going to be a real jerk today and take its sweet little time. 10AM will feel like 1PM, 2 will feel like 5, 6 will feel like…midnight.
So trained am I that I was on the subway and almost to my stop when looking back I didn’t entirely remember walking out of my apartment. Or getting on the bus, or getting off the bus on 72nd and Amsterdam and getting on the 1, or putting clothes on for that matter. It’s like those scary moments when you’re driving, cruising at 65 (or really 75, but that’s neither here nor there), and you’ve moved from exit 3 to about exit 15 and you don’t remember passing by 4 through 14? You remember that at one point you were singing aloud to Air Supply, thinking that you really are all out of love, until scarily you pass exit 15 with an open-mouthed look of “wha??” and swear never repeat the incident to anyone, ever again (including the singing).
The only thing that snapped me out of it, causing me to look up from my book, was when the doors opened at 34th street and there was a man playing the saxophone on the platform in front of the cracked Penn. Station sign. The sound of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, not quite at the right 5/4 time signature speed, (this guy was no Paul Desmond), but I realized I was almost at work, and yes, thankfully, had clothes on.
Tuesday had officially begun, and Wednesday, slow to be sure, is only about 312 hours away.
February 27, 2007
February 22, 2007
Stop the world, I want to get off.
You like to think you’ve changed, but know that in a lot of ways, you haven’t changed at all. You’re still stupid, still think you can have control over your life, over what happens and who you let yourself care about - as though the heart has some sort of power button, a dimmer switch with the ability to bypass mistakes and regrets and skip out on the bad memories of the past that you can never seem to really ever let go of.
They keep resurfacing. And the time it may take for it all to really go away feels like too much. Infinitely too much.
Until time and feelings are all wrapped together in one hurdling mass, headed right for your heart, causing it to explode. And then you look at it, in little pieces on the floor, sections of days and months and moments. There it is. Your life staring back at you, showing you everything you did wrong, everything you regret, everything that now, seems so painfully clear.
Stay away, the pieces show you. Run. You will only get hurt. But when it comes to our hearts, we don’t know any better, and we always think that we do.
It creeps up on us when we least expect it. The sound of a name or the scent of an old perfume, and suddenly we’re back there, in the thick of our almost tangible memories, when our hearts were still intact, before the damage was done.
We go on. The bruises heal and this strong muscle keeps beating no matter how much you say you don’t care anymore if it stops. It repairs. It inwardly fixes itself, and you find you’re unable to let anything come near it: no caffeine, no trans-fats, not one day without exercise.
You tell yourself you have no choice now put to protect it. And so you continue on. Careful, guarded. Your heart in an icebox. Preserved. Protected. Numb. You don’t know if that will change. So you stop asking yourself the question.
It is what it is and there’s no going back, no stopping the world. And in the time it took for it to fall apart you think it will take five times as long for it to come back together again. Because it’s always easier to break something than it is to rebuild it. In the heated emotional moment it takes to throw a punch - hours have to follow in order for the swelling to go down, weeks for the bruise to fade. And that little scar in the corner of your eye never seems to ever really go away.
It lingers. A constant reminder of our mistakes, our lost opportunities, our bad luck, our bad timing or whatever it is that makes certain things happen to us at the moments they do. But we move forward. We have no other choice. We eventually accept that it is what it is, that there’s no going back, no stopping the world.
They keep resurfacing. And the time it may take for it all to really go away feels like too much. Infinitely too much.
Until time and feelings are all wrapped together in one hurdling mass, headed right for your heart, causing it to explode. And then you look at it, in little pieces on the floor, sections of days and months and moments. There it is. Your life staring back at you, showing you everything you did wrong, everything you regret, everything that now, seems so painfully clear.
Stay away, the pieces show you. Run. You will only get hurt. But when it comes to our hearts, we don’t know any better, and we always think that we do.
It creeps up on us when we least expect it. The sound of a name or the scent of an old perfume, and suddenly we’re back there, in the thick of our almost tangible memories, when our hearts were still intact, before the damage was done.
We go on. The bruises heal and this strong muscle keeps beating no matter how much you say you don’t care anymore if it stops. It repairs. It inwardly fixes itself, and you find you’re unable to let anything come near it: no caffeine, no trans-fats, not one day without exercise.
You tell yourself you have no choice now put to protect it. And so you continue on. Careful, guarded. Your heart in an icebox. Preserved. Protected. Numb. You don’t know if that will change. So you stop asking yourself the question.
It is what it is and there’s no going back, no stopping the world. And in the time it took for it to fall apart you think it will take five times as long for it to come back together again. Because it’s always easier to break something than it is to rebuild it. In the heated emotional moment it takes to throw a punch - hours have to follow in order for the swelling to go down, weeks for the bruise to fade. And that little scar in the corner of your eye never seems to ever really go away.
It lingers. A constant reminder of our mistakes, our lost opportunities, our bad luck, our bad timing or whatever it is that makes certain things happen to us at the moments they do. But we move forward. We have no other choice. We eventually accept that it is what it is, that there’s no going back, no stopping the world.
February 16, 2007
Honesty is such a lonely word.
Because no matter how old you get, when it comes to relationships, you still have no idea what you’re doing.
There are two people in my life who have, for as long as I can remember, had the most difficult time being honest. I’m not sure if it’s just honesty that’s the real problem here, or if it’s also due to their combined inability (let’s call them Jack and Jill) to figure out what they actually want. While I know that men and women love, and are very good at, playing games, and that they are so intrinsically different that most of the time I wonder how it is that relationships ever work at all – but you’d think that after all these two have been through (read: heartbreak, waiting out other relationships, drunken text messages, hours spent on carefully crafted emails, planned weekends away, trying to figure out what planned weekend away meant, more text messages…), that they’d want to capitalize on all this effort that they’ve expensed on not making the relationship work, and actually just be together.
But then again, just being together is difficult. No one seems to really know how to make that Being Together thing happen. Before the be-all-end-all of marriage, there isn’t a handbook, a guide, a signed contract that you can simply hand to the other person and say “here, sign this and we’ll, you know, like be together.” However Being Together inevitably takes having to communicate to the other person that you do, indeed, want to be together - and we all know that telling someone how you really feel is the emotional equivalent to standing in the middle of a busy street stark naked.
Remember when you were twelve, and that guy who was playing footsie with you under the table in the library sent his friend to ask you how you really felt about him? And then once the courage was worked up, Footsie Guy actually came up to you and said something like, “Hey Sara, look at me! I’ve got arms! Do think you'd want to be like, boyfriendgirlfriend maybe?” Maybe we all need to go back to such simplistic ways of communicating instead of spending months trying say that exact thing we feel without actually saying anything at all.
Jack and Jill are not, I believe, the first people in the world to forgo honesty. Women are too afraid to want what they want at the risk of losing the man they want - so they keep their mouths shut and pretend that “this is whatever it is, ok?” is enough for them. But it’s never just whatever it is. It’s always more or not enough and they’re left waiting it out, waiting and hoping to see if the other person will eventually grow up and mature to the level of the normal human understanding that when it comes to peoples hearts, “whatever it is,” isn’t anything to hang your hopes on.
And while I know men typically stay away from anything having to do with the words “feelings,” “commitment,” and “laundry,” as though they were black death itself, I find it hard to believe that they can be so afraid of honesty that they’d be willing to risk their own happiness because of it.
What we need to do is try to get back to our emotional roots, before we were exposed to the cruel world of rejection and loneliness as adults, back to the time when playground politics ruled and liking someone was as real and straightforward as PB&J.
Because isn’t honesty, when it comes to how we feel, really the best policy? Wouldn’t you hate to be Jack in ten years, waking up only to realize that you had spent the majority of your early-adulthood bouncing around between relationships you didn’t really care about just because you were too afraid (or too stupid) to go after what you really wanted?
Tsk tsk. It’s time to speak up - Footsie Guy wouldn’t approve of anything less.
There are two people in my life who have, for as long as I can remember, had the most difficult time being honest. I’m not sure if it’s just honesty that’s the real problem here, or if it’s also due to their combined inability (let’s call them Jack and Jill) to figure out what they actually want. While I know that men and women love, and are very good at, playing games, and that they are so intrinsically different that most of the time I wonder how it is that relationships ever work at all – but you’d think that after all these two have been through (read: heartbreak, waiting out other relationships, drunken text messages, hours spent on carefully crafted emails, planned weekends away, trying to figure out what planned weekend away meant, more text messages…), that they’d want to capitalize on all this effort that they’ve expensed on not making the relationship work, and actually just be together.
But then again, just being together is difficult. No one seems to really know how to make that Being Together thing happen. Before the be-all-end-all of marriage, there isn’t a handbook, a guide, a signed contract that you can simply hand to the other person and say “here, sign this and we’ll, you know, like be together.” However Being Together inevitably takes having to communicate to the other person that you do, indeed, want to be together - and we all know that telling someone how you really feel is the emotional equivalent to standing in the middle of a busy street stark naked.
Remember when you were twelve, and that guy who was playing footsie with you under the table in the library sent his friend to ask you how you really felt about him? And then once the courage was worked up, Footsie Guy actually came up to you and said something like, “Hey Sara, look at me! I’ve got arms! Do think you'd want to be like, boyfriendgirlfriend maybe?” Maybe we all need to go back to such simplistic ways of communicating instead of spending months trying say that exact thing we feel without actually saying anything at all.
Jack and Jill are not, I believe, the first people in the world to forgo honesty. Women are too afraid to want what they want at the risk of losing the man they want - so they keep their mouths shut and pretend that “this is whatever it is, ok?” is enough for them. But it’s never just whatever it is. It’s always more or not enough and they’re left waiting it out, waiting and hoping to see if the other person will eventually grow up and mature to the level of the normal human understanding that when it comes to peoples hearts, “whatever it is,” isn’t anything to hang your hopes on.
And while I know men typically stay away from anything having to do with the words “feelings,” “commitment,” and “laundry,” as though they were black death itself, I find it hard to believe that they can be so afraid of honesty that they’d be willing to risk their own happiness because of it.
What we need to do is try to get back to our emotional roots, before we were exposed to the cruel world of rejection and loneliness as adults, back to the time when playground politics ruled and liking someone was as real and straightforward as PB&J.
Because isn’t honesty, when it comes to how we feel, really the best policy? Wouldn’t you hate to be Jack in ten years, waking up only to realize that you had spent the majority of your early-adulthood bouncing around between relationships you didn’t really care about just because you were too afraid (or too stupid) to go after what you really wanted?
Tsk tsk. It’s time to speak up - Footsie Guy wouldn’t approve of anything less.
February 14, 2007
Today people talked about snow and love.
They talked about how cold it was outside, how the sleet this morning was pelting down on the top of their heads and the black slushy snow was clogging up the sidewalks. They talked about how much more snow other people got, how Rob in Syracuse got eight feet, and their cousin Rita got three in Chicago. “We were lucky, really,” they said. “Rob was out there shoveling snow that was over his car! You couldn’t see Rob’s car!”
Then they talked about their dinner plans and the flowers they got and the chocolates (that they can’t eat too many of) and teddy bears that were waiting for them at home. They talked about all the money they had to spend in order to keep Jackie happy, how the florist was out of roses this morning (that’s what happens when you wait to the last minute), and how now a card needed to be crafted after their 11AM meeting but before their 3PM out of office letterhead cardstock paper and the markers from the dry erase board in the conference room.
But tonight the snow has stopped, the roads (mainly) are clear. Rob out West might still be in trouble as it doesn’t stop snowing there until May, but Jackie will be happy (though her boyfriend won’t be able to pay March rent)
Snow and love makes everyone crazy, and by tomorrow it will all be gone - the snow anyway.
Then they talked about their dinner plans and the flowers they got and the chocolates (that they can’t eat too many of) and teddy bears that were waiting for them at home. They talked about all the money they had to spend in order to keep Jackie happy, how the florist was out of roses this morning (that’s what happens when you wait to the last minute), and how now a card needed to be crafted after their 11AM meeting but before their 3PM out of office letterhead cardstock paper and the markers from the dry erase board in the conference room.
But tonight the snow has stopped, the roads (mainly) are clear. Rob out West might still be in trouble as it doesn’t stop snowing there until May, but Jackie will be happy (though her boyfriend won’t be able to pay March rent)
Snow and love makes everyone crazy, and by tomorrow it will all be gone - the snow anyway.
February 12, 2007
Suddenly.
Life happens suddenly and it’s easy to forget how fast things can disappear.
Because we can’t think about time and how there isn’t enough of it, because it’s better to hold the hands of those we love than the hands of the clock, as they will always and forever move forward into the unknown, even when we don’t want them to - passing minutes and disappearing seconds that we can’t get back, that we cannot change.
It’s easy to find yourself at the exact moment realizing that everything is perfect a second before it all falls apart. And what do we do with change? Creatures of habit who can’t adapt to a life so drastically different than the one we’ve always known. The past and future are holding hands now, and you, stuck in the middle, don’t feel like time exists at all.
So you run. You run towards those passing minutes and disappearing seconds and try to make the most of them. You try not to Waste. Any. More. Time.
Suddenly. Life happens suddenly and it’s easy to remember how fast everything can change.
Because we can’t think about time and how there isn’t enough of it, because it’s better to hold the hands of those we love than the hands of the clock, as they will always and forever move forward into the unknown, even when we don’t want them to - passing minutes and disappearing seconds that we can’t get back, that we cannot change.
It’s easy to find yourself at the exact moment realizing that everything is perfect a second before it all falls apart. And what do we do with change? Creatures of habit who can’t adapt to a life so drastically different than the one we’ve always known. The past and future are holding hands now, and you, stuck in the middle, don’t feel like time exists at all.
So you run. You run towards those passing minutes and disappearing seconds and try to make the most of them. You try not to Waste. Any. More. Time.
Suddenly. Life happens suddenly and it’s easy to remember how fast everything can change.
February 10, 2007
Only love.
I was eight years old. I was sporting the haircut I had seemingly my entire childhood – short, chin-length with bangs. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car while my mother was driving. My feet didn’t touch the floor and I remember being able to look straight out and see my black and white saddle shoes staring back at me.
She was flipping through the radio stations, trying to find something to settle on for our little journey to the grocery store or wherever it was that we were going that day. I just remember that it was cold, late fall, and I had on my heavy wool navy blue coat that was keeping me insulated and warm as I watched her scan through the FM. I remember how she looked sitting there, the soft profile of her face from my low vantage point, the slow curving of her mouth, her eyes that shifted from the dial to the road to me.
And then she finally found a song - Gene Pitney’s “Only Love Can Break a Heart.” As I sat there looking out the window I didn’t understand what Gene was talking about. In fact, it seemed to me that all of the songs she had already passed – actually all of the songs I’d ever heard before – were all talking about the same thing.
So I looked over at her with semi-disgust and asked, “Why are songs always about love?” I remember the way her face looked, glancing down at me with eyes bright, as she smiled before taking a deep breath like she knew something I didn't, and simply responded: “Because what better thing is there in the world to sing about?”
She was flipping through the radio stations, trying to find something to settle on for our little journey to the grocery store or wherever it was that we were going that day. I just remember that it was cold, late fall, and I had on my heavy wool navy blue coat that was keeping me insulated and warm as I watched her scan through the FM. I remember how she looked sitting there, the soft profile of her face from my low vantage point, the slow curving of her mouth, her eyes that shifted from the dial to the road to me.
And then she finally found a song - Gene Pitney’s “Only Love Can Break a Heart.” As I sat there looking out the window I didn’t understand what Gene was talking about. In fact, it seemed to me that all of the songs she had already passed – actually all of the songs I’d ever heard before – were all talking about the same thing.
So I looked over at her with semi-disgust and asked, “Why are songs always about love?” I remember the way her face looked, glancing down at me with eyes bright, as she smiled before taking a deep breath like she knew something I didn't, and simply responded: “Because what better thing is there in the world to sing about?”
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