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21 April 2008 : Every now and then.
Shared history is an unbelievably powerful influence. In my life, maybe not so much in yours. How important is it, really, to recognize the faces that will help you reconstruct the times and the places and the sounds of your life?
I don't know what to make of this, other than to tell you all that I was angry the other day, so angry that I snapped at waiters and held my breath and slammed jars on the counter and sat outside longer than I needed to, hoping if I caught enough breath at the right moment, I might cool off. I tried to keep it low, below the surface, where it would be occupied with surviving but not spreading its seed.
But the truth is, a few things have happened recently. Important things maybe not in the massive sweep of time that is my life as of late, but moments impressive and sparkling within themselves. I shared them, I do that - I have darlings near me all the time who want to know about why I am smiling, or laughing, or kicking the wall.
But what I wanted was to share them with someone who understood their significance in real time, someone who breathed the same air that I breathed when the first time around wove its way through the atmosphere. I wanted to say, don't you remember? can you believe it turned out this way?
I'd been thinking of the phone call for days. Thinking of what exactly I would say, how I would start out. "I knew you were the only one who would really get this."
As usual, I'd jumped ahead of myself. The big event never materalized, though not for lack of motivation on my part and that of others who cared enough to help me out. So I put off the phone call, thinking it would be better to wait until I had the news in hand for sure.
And then I didn't want to make it anymore. I wanted to be done with it. I was suddenly so tired of it resurfacing in my head every month or so, and hurting just a little bit every time. Once I'd decided that I wasn't going to make the call, the name showed up on my caller id and I was delighted for the chance to share a few more what-ifs, a couple more minutes of you're the only one who knows this part of me.
I didn't. I restrained myself; not from kicking doors shut and shaking the vinaigrette harder than necessary, and sadly not even from snapping at unsuspecting bartenders. I kept myself from taking that relief, from breathing in and breathing out the knowledge that someone was on my side, listening carefully.
The message I left in return was short and clipped because it was the only way I knew how. I can't be that book with the bent spine anymore, I can't jump into position every time an opportunity presents itself. I am new here, and I am fragile, and when I land wrong it hurts my bones.
That shared history, for me today, has turned out to be dangerous thing. Maybe I'm getting a little better at this. I'm just afraid that "better" will someday become synonymous with "heartless."
posted by lindsay at 20:17 ::
Shared history is an unbelievably powerful influence. In my life, maybe not so much in yours. How important is it, really, to recognize the faces that will help you reconstruct the times and the places and the sounds of your life?
I don't know what to make of this, other than to tell you all that I was angry the other day, so angry that I snapped at waiters and held my breath and slammed jars on the counter and sat outside longer than I needed to, hoping if I caught enough breath at the right moment, I might cool off. I tried to keep it low, below the surface, where it would be occupied with surviving but not spreading its seed.
But the truth is, a few things have happened recently. Important things maybe not in the massive sweep of time that is my life as of late, but moments impressive and sparkling within themselves. I shared them, I do that - I have darlings near me all the time who want to know about why I am smiling, or laughing, or kicking the wall.
But what I wanted was to share them with someone who understood their significance in real time, someone who breathed the same air that I breathed when the first time around wove its way through the atmosphere. I wanted to say, don't you remember? can you believe it turned out this way?
I'd been thinking of the phone call for days. Thinking of what exactly I would say, how I would start out. "I knew you were the only one who would really get this."
As usual, I'd jumped ahead of myself. The big event never materalized, though not for lack of motivation on my part and that of others who cared enough to help me out. So I put off the phone call, thinking it would be better to wait until I had the news in hand for sure.
And then I didn't want to make it anymore. I wanted to be done with it. I was suddenly so tired of it resurfacing in my head every month or so, and hurting just a little bit every time. Once I'd decided that I wasn't going to make the call, the name showed up on my caller id and I was delighted for the chance to share a few more what-ifs, a couple more minutes of you're the only one who knows this part of me.
I didn't. I restrained myself; not from kicking doors shut and shaking the vinaigrette harder than necessary, and sadly not even from snapping at unsuspecting bartenders. I kept myself from taking that relief, from breathing in and breathing out the knowledge that someone was on my side, listening carefully.
The message I left in return was short and clipped because it was the only way I knew how. I can't be that book with the bent spine anymore, I can't jump into position every time an opportunity presents itself. I am new here, and I am fragile, and when I land wrong it hurts my bones.
That shared history, for me today, has turned out to be dangerous thing. Maybe I'm getting a little better at this. I'm just afraid that "better" will someday become synonymous with "heartless."
posted by lindsay at 20:17 ::