Tuesday, April 29, 2008
This Sunday was April 27th, exactly 8 months since he first called me. And who'd have guessed that our relationship would be so prompt and aware of lunar calendars, but never fully aware of each other? My heart hurts. We have not talked since Sunday really, just passing glances down populated, working hallways. I want to hear his voice, and want him to miss mine. Nevertheless, I'll wait. There was no specific closure for either of us. He, masked by sunglasses, holding potted plants in arms too occupied to embrace my shrinking frame; curbside and so alone, it was only a "thanks for chatting" that ended our daisy tearing conversation. We visited the nursery that day. I bought a Wondering Jew plant to hang outside my kitchen window, such a beautiful color palette of sage and violet leaves now hang and need sunlight, demand water and crave attention. I am not Jewish, but feel the wanderer nonetheless. I will plant tomatoes and basil and hope that they flourish in my roof top's sunlight. A bag of potting soil, to be shared with him, sits heated and odoriferous in the backseat of my car. I will soon have to deliver my unused portion. The passing of the dirt. What metaphors, eh? The collective purchasing of plants to be nurtured, given new beginnings, seedlings that crave and require devotion . . . and then dirt. The literal unloading of our dirt onto each other, to be utilized for the purpose of nurturing simpler forms of essential life. Hmmm. It's sad and so very true, this relationship's demise. But how, I really wonder, that after 8 months without seeing a flower, a blossom or any fruit and receiving adequate care, did I ever think this plant, this man, would be fruit bearing? Winters are hard, weather is tainted by a warming of the globe and yet I still thought that he might change, and that I might be the sunlight to help him grow. Not so. My girlfriend told me just yesterday that I am but a girl standing, waiting and hungry beneath an apple tree hoping for a sweet, orange fleshed mango to drop. Alas, no mangoes, no apples either, just a tree with roots hidden down deep beneath the surface, protected by soil that might dirty my hands too much; grit forever stuck in my nail's beds. I hope that he can uproot himself, honestly. Because the saddest part of this scenario, my reality, is that I love a person who is focused on healing his own wounds - raking, tilling and excavating his earth - and yet can't allow himself the opportunity to flourish, fully. Without water we cannot survive, nor plants nor various arboreal types. And now it is time for me to tend to my own little garden, and hopefully watch it grow, threatened all the while by city air, unpredictable heat waves and water shortages. Maybe someday he'll come over for a caprese salad, an assemblage of roof ripened tomatoes and backyard basil, homegrown by yours truly. Or maybe, quite possibly and almost certainly, not.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I took a much needed Mental Health day from work yesterday. I ran errands and took care of some grown-up chores. I also made a visit to my local Kinko's, where a most delightful, Brooklyn bred man named Phil helped me with my little project. My Etsy shop is on hold for a bit while I figure out the date of my next photo shoot. In the meantime, however, I have selected some garments that will fare far better for sale in real, touch the fabric and test the zipper, life. These select pieces just wouldn't work on Etsy, due to odd, super teeny vintage sizing and slight fabrication snafus. Hence street shop!
My dear friend Mike owns my favorite coffee shop. He has been so generous in the past to allow little sidewalk sales to happen just in front of the store. This coming Saturday will be no exception. It also happens to be Faye's Video and Espresso's Birthday! So, I'm going to assist in crowding the concrete and hopefully contribute to peopling the store by extension. I have my garment rack and plan to have a stellar, visually intriguing merchandise set up. So yesterday, at Kinko's with Phil's energetic and sarcastic Brooklyn style assistance, I made tags for the clothes. This time I won't just end up giving everything away . . . I will make a profit. Sure, I'll welcome some bartering, but the price tag is just that: the price tag period. Don't I sound mean? Or maybe just firm? Or maybe like a business tycoon? Either way, I'm excited about my sidewalk business, so much so, that I've coined a name for this impromptu shop of mine. Ready? It's "Lion Tamer Vintage." What do you think? I'm using the above photo of yours truly as the card/price tag. Phil thought that mountain lion was my family pet. Apparently there aren't lots of mountain lions roaming the streets of Brooklyn, New York. On the back will be contact info for Lion Tamer Vintage as well as my Etsy address. Nothing like a little project to get my mind off of the other projects that are currently on hold, in limbo or simply unfinished. And by projects I mean bills, diets, and relationships. I haven't heard from the man I not so secretly admire today. I wonder if he'll call, and wonder if I'd answer. I wonder if I'll get to say my piece or if he'll beat me to it. If he'll be the one to say "I need time," or "things have changed," or "I can't do this." And if he doesn't say anything, what then do I? Taming lions is no joke. Wish me luck.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
What I am to you, is not what you mean to me . . .
These are lyrics, but really, they could be my words. I wish they didn't ring so true, but sadly, they tell truths, many, many. Tonight I met up with a friend for a beer. I tried to think it was just friends having a carbonated elixer, but after the man I visited became my patient and I his therapist, I realized that we misread each other. He pined about how badly he wants a girlfriend, someone to punctuate the Saturdays and Sundays of his rigidly scheduled weeks. He knew I had a dinner date, but not with whom. And after feeling good to have been mildly sought after by him yet again, I felt bad for knowingly departing to see the boy I've been spending all of my weekends with. I headed to his home where he made dinner for us. He played guitar for an audience of one, albeit in a posture that acknowledged the wall as his audience rather than my shrinking self. It was late, but we both missed each other and retreated to his familiar, dimly lit room. Talking nose to nose and then not at all, in words unspoken, we found solace in the comfort and ease and excitement of our two faces. And then it became "later than we thought it was." I interpreted these words as a signal to depart sooner than later. Unsettled, I mentioned my interpretation of the false invitation to go. Frustrated and feeling misunderstood, my sweet special friend felt aggravated by my tangling of his words. Why, I wonder, is it, that communication gets in the way of communication? I gathered my things, including my scarf and under utilized dinner ingredients, said goodnight and bid my fair, yet weighted adieu. Tonight, right now, I feel so very sad, so thoroughly confused and yet somehow empowered. Do I need now to make my move? To force him to realize that I could potentially cease being around at late hours, or even at all? Do we break our hearts in premature attempts to save the beating vessel, or do we wait and hope and pray that time will tell, will heal and maybe even surprise us with delights of love? I do not know. And I wish I did. I am at a loss. Imagining my days without him hurts my heart. It makes my already sore, pilates stressed muscles ache more. The notion of his presence no longer being a part of my reality, offers me little comfort, but instead dread. So, tonight, hoping that soon I will tell you of great sacrifice on his part and triumphant overriding of emotion and reason, I will instead ask of your advice, your thoughts and your strength to get through whatever it is this night represents. Life is short, love should be simple. That's the good stuff. The early eve man reminded me of just that; that companionship mends wounds and makes for time well spent. I only wish that my current flame knew that someone else was not just seeking my companionship and humor and wit and familiarity, but that he also knew that people who love us are the best cure for myriad ailments. I want to be his prescription for success. I guess, however, that I better start taking my vitamins first.