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| I'm tired, so for now, i've stopped writing here... though it's not the greatest stopping place |
| 05.31.04 (2:18 pm) [edit] |
“So how did the conversation go?” you, the reader, ask. Well, I can’t tell you. Or rather, I don't want to tell you. I’m afraid you will read too much into his words or too much into her body movements, and as a result, you will develop ill-informed prejudices about two exceptional and dynamic characters.
Upon a moment’s reflection, I’ve decided to fill you in on the last part of their conversation. But if I do this, you must promise not to label them. Remember, he was nervous despite his apparent confidence, and she was enchanted by his eyes despite her suspicion.
“So do you have much schoolwork this weekend?” he asked.
“Yeah, tons,” she said.
“Well, screw it. I mean, just screw it. Because do you know what I think?” She didn’t know. “I think romance is dead in this world. I think you should come over to my room tonight and share a bottle of wine with me. I think I want to play a song for you on my guitar. I think I want to talk with you until the sun rises, and then we can do all that other bullshit that romantic people tend to do.”
“That’d be nice,” she said. She meant it. He could tell because she was smiling. “But I really do have too much work to do. I’m sorry. Maybe next weekend. And if not, I promise to do it sometime.”
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They didn’t share a bottle of wine the next weekend. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.
Eventually, as the weekends piled on top of one another, she forgot about his eyes and he forgot about the wine. But this time neither forgot about their beginning. She remembered the conversation: “he was very philosophical and mostly up high,” she admitted to her boyfriend. And he remembered his love for her: “she will always be the first,” he wrote in his diary. But though they remembered, and though their memories were good and even hopeful, their lives, like their emotions, were jagged and confused, and not yet ready to travel down a complementary path.
For example, despite her bawdy clothes and flirtatious nature, she really did have a boyfriend. He was the captain and star running back of the college’s undefeated football team. And though this boyfriend seemed to epitomize male perfection (i.e. he was tall, attractive, athletic, artistic, musical, and rich), she promised her friends that that wasn’t the reason she had fallen for him. “It’s because he’s a hopeless romantic,” she explained. Her friends didn’t believe her.
Let’s clarify that last sentence. Her friends certainly believed that her boyfriend was a hopeless romantic-- everybody knew that. But they didn’t believe she had fallen for him. “Either she’s in love with love,” one friend said to another, “Or she’s playing some really fucked up games. But she’s certainly not in love with him.”
“Or both,” another friend piped in.
The second friend was the wiser. Tatiana was in love with seduction, manipulation, and the other love games that so many of us so often play—if we can. And her conversation with Greg, the one you missed, evidenced that love.
She listened to him; she really listened to him. And she paid attention to him. And opened herself up to him. And touched him: on his arm, his hip, his thigh. She told him that he was special and even “one of a kind.” She had even promised to share a bottle of wine with him. “Wine is for lovers and old friends,” he later wrote. “We will be the former.”
Of course, they didn’t become lovers. At least not right away. She had a boyfriend, though she told Greg nothing of the sort, and she “wouldn't dream of cheating on him."
And though he gradually gave up hope that they would ever share a bottle of wine or a night under the stars, he was far from bothered by her absence in his life. “We all need a first,” he would later write, “before we can enjoy a second, third, fourth, and fifth.”
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| Part II (sorry, I've been away on a post-college graduation trip) |
| 05.30.04 (7:24 am) [edit] |
A year after their beginning (or lack thereof), Tatiana sat on a park bench reading Jacque la fataliste. When her eyes tired from reading too much, she’d look up at the sky and imagine that her life choices, the ones that seemed so difficult, really hadn’t been choices at all. Rather, they had been written long before on a typewriter somewhere up high.
Greg, by chance (or maybe it wasn’t chance at all), saw Tatiana on the park bench. If you’re like most readers, you’ll wonder where he was coming from or, at least, where he was going. And though his immediate past and future add nothing to the story, you’ll still want the facts, all of them. So here you go.
He was coming from a political science class where he had been investigating the usage of art, public and ephemeral art, as a political tool. And he was going to a coffee shop. He sipped coffee and tried to reconcile faith and faithlessness with his school’s Chaplain every Tuesday afternoon. They hadn’t yet been successful.
And maybe this information does have a place. Maybe he stopped walking when he saw Tatiana on the park bench because something in her reminded him that Tuesday with the chaplain would be no different. They would look far into faith’s eyes and he would not understand. They would delve deep into faithlessness’s heart and he would come up empty.
But he wasn't thinking so deeply.
He stopped walking when he saw her sitting cross-legged on a picnic table, with a book in her lap and a fire in her deep brown Latina eyes because, well, he was in love.
And this time, unlike all the times he had passed her before, he knew. They would talk. And she would fall in love with him. Well, [i]at least [/i]they would talk. And he’d ask her to share a bottle of wine with him that weekend. “It was written somewhere up high,” he would later write.
And you, the reader, are probably confused. You remember that just a year ago, he had sat next to her in a classroom. He was aroused by her, as was his professor, yet he didn’t ask her to coffee. He was timid and scared. And now a conversation? A bottle of wine? What changed?
Well…
A year before, Greg was tall but not athletic or toned. His arms and legs were skinny, but his stomach contrastingly showed a noticeable bulge. He didn’t mind though. He would discover a vaccine for AIDS, he knew, so his mind needed to take precedence over his body.
But things changed in the health center, before he met with the psychiatrist about his anxiety, when he fell in love with her. He knew right then, for perhaps the first time, that “a girl with like that would never go for a guy like me.” So he transformed himself. For the next year, he lifted weights, ran, and ate lots of protein. When he saw her at the picnic table, he was no Brad Pitt, he knew, but he might just be good enough for her, he thought.
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| the beginning of a new story |
| 05.18.04 (1:56 pm) [edit] |
Part I
Tell them lies and they will believe you
When you’re honest they will deceive you
If you love them they will just leave you
But if you play them they will be with you
(We could have all written this!)
It’d be a nice beginning if she had sat next to the boy in their first college class—we’ll call it Latin American philosophy 101. Or better, instead of sitting, she’d recline in her chair and splay her legs on top of the table in front of her. The professor wouldn’t ask her to sit up straight or put her feet down because, well, he couldn’t argue with her beauty. And the boy wouldn’t stop looking because, well, he couldn’t contemplate her beauty.
She was small and skinny, they noticed, like most of the girls they preferred, and sleek and seductive, they knew, like all of the ones they fell in love with. And her lips were like… "Rose petals that need to be kissed," the boy would later write, or "A songbird that inspires me to sing," the professor would later say.
For weeks, the boy and the professor didn’t notice that this girl’s intelligence rivaled her beauty… or maybe, that this girl’s beauty rivaled her intelligence. But it wasn’t either of their faults: she veiled her intelligence almost as well as she flaunted her body.
Her persistent classroom questions (not her answers) eventually gave it away. She said things like, "Bolivar is the liberator and founding Republican of Latin America… yet he was known to give unilateral orders to kill and torture diplomatic opponents. Is that Republicanism… or is it Authoritarianism?"
The professor, like the boy next to her, would be stumped. How could a girl with such sensuous curves ask such cogent questions? And though they imagined that there must be a catch, that she couldn’t be so perfect, they still so quickly fell in love.
"I want to ask her to coffee, or a moonlight walk, or even a romp in the sack," the boy wrote.
"But I can’t do it, because I’ve done it before," the professor said to a friend.
The professor, unlike the boy next to her, knew better. He was in a position of power, and consequently, he was powerless to take advantage of the girl. He had slept with a student once before, and the penalty hadn’t been worth the pleasure. He was determined to contain his fire.
It was a shame. This particular girl was turned on by smart, passionate, and powerful people… like her professor. But that story wasn’t meant to be.
So we turn to the boy who wasn’t very smart or powerful… We learn that he never followed through on asking the girl out either, and we wonder why. So we look to his journal. "I feel so passionate," it says. "But a girl like that would never go for a boy like me." And we understand that feeling because, well, we all feel that way sometimes.
So does the story end here before ever really beginning? Of course not. This wasn’t the real beginning. I just thought it would have nice if things started this way… tender and innocent.
The truth: this boy and girl, we’ll call them Greg and Tatiana, met inside their university health center. They were both freshman and somewhat anxious. He was waiting to talk to a psychiatrist about his anxiety, and she was waiting to be tested for sexually transmitted diseases.
They traded introductions in the waiting room, and they didn’t say much after that. But they didn’t need to. He was already in love (with her), and she was already nervous about the test.
Greg’s anxiety problems diminished with medication and therapy over the years, and Tatiana was nervous about the needles, not the results. She had been safe, she knew, but she wanted to be sure.
And though their first meeting was less than ideal, they smiled and exchanged greetings a few days later when they passed each other as while walking to class. He was hesitant to stop and say more because, he imagined, she might see through him. She was hesitant to stop and say more because, she too imagined, she might see through him.
(In those days, pretty girls tended to be wary of talking for too long with strange boys. They knew that boys were always falling in love for the wrong reasons.)
They attended a small and secluded liberal arts college. So they inevitably saw each other around campus. And because she was polite, by nature, and he was in love, by nature, they greeted each other whenever they saw each other on the street or in the gym. Eventually, they had smiled and said hello so often that they forgot how or even where they even met. It was as if their beginning—brief and slightly awkward, but very real—had never really existed.
Had they consciously forgotten? Or did forgetfulness just accompany the passage of time?
She forgot because she had no reason remember. She’d met many people since entering college, and he was just a face in the crowd.
He forgot because he loved hopelessly, and as we know, when one loves hopelessly, as he did, even imperfect beginnings become perfect. For instance, he still imagines that it all started in a classroom.
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| a letter i could never send! |
| 05.13.04 (6:01 am) [edit] |
May 8, 2004
Kathleen,
I am writing openly because I cannot imagine writing in any other way. As you know, I have philosophical troubles with truth and trust, so I try as best I can to be honest with the people I care most about. And that isnt easy. Openness and honesty are dangerous, as you know, because they tell us about things we arent ready to hear. But I think well be okay.
Kathleen, before you left the party with that boy last night, you whispered into my ear and asked me to call you later. I called twice that night, and once more in the morning. It was evident that you werent there, and in fact, that you never arrived home.
And if you slept with that boy (as I am fairly certain you did), I shouldnt have minded. Hes a good looking guy, youre a strong, young person, and you have every right to do whatever gets you off as you can justify it in your heart.
But I did mind; I minded very much. And it hurt.
I imagined that you had led me astray; I imagined that my conversations with you, the ones that seemed so real, really werent.
After I called your room in the morning, I decided to take a drive. I ended up at a state park a few miles past Bennington. I found a bench, stepped on top of it, paced slowly back and forth, and did what I always seem to do in existentially confusing moments I called my mom.
It was five am in Los Angeles, but she didnt mind. She wanted to hear everything from the beginning. So I told her about a friend that I had lately gotten to know better. I told her about dinner at my house, the first time, and the whatever-it-was special that I felt then and that I think this friend felt too. I told her about this friends boyfriend, and her disregard for him the second time we had had dinner. I told her that we drank too much over wine, and I that I had said something that maybe I shouldnt have, something that perhaps I didnt mean to say. I told her that this friend and I had planned to go to Boston today, together, but that she never came home. I told her that I had seen a different side of this friend, and that I was confused.
The first words out of her mouth were, whats new? She reminded me that things with me never seem to change. A new girl but the same problem, she said. And I pleaded with her. I told her that this time it was different. She agreed that it was probably different. I told her that it was painful and I didnt know why. She said that she once felt that way too. I told her that this friend is a slut, a whore. And she stopped me. She said something like, Life is too short and too complex to demean yourself and someone else by making silly judgments like that. You know better; youve told me so.
And I knew she was right. So I apologized, told her I loved her, promised to call her later, hung up, and stepped down off the bench. I realized that life, for all of us, is confusing and full of misguided and misinterpreted signals. The least I can do for you, for me, is mitigate my own confusion and maybe yours (but also maybe not), by processing my thoughts, putting them into words, and giving the words to you.
I walked through the park until I stood beside a river. I stared into the water, which reflected a distorted image of myself, and I asked questions. Is her relationship open? Did she really hook up with that boy? Did she sleep with him? Has she hooked up with others during the course of her relationship as well? Does she question her reasons and motivations for doing the things she does? What drives her explicit sexual behavior on the dance floor? Is it a feminist thing or maybe a rejection of feminism? Is it cultural or maybe personal? Does it boost her confidence when guys look at her that way, or feel that way about her? Does she need to be one step ahead? Is she trying to constantly reaffirm her strength her power over boys? She likes that power, I know, but why?
And somewhere on route 7, I stopped my car, stepped outside, jumped onto my trunk, lied down, looked up at the clear blue sky, and realized, like I often do, that my thoughts and emotions were wholly hypocritical.
(I am about to tell you something, Kathleen, than I have not said to any girl)
As you know, when I was fourteen my father sat me down, gave me a beer, and said, Greg, sexuality is expansive. You can learn to like anything. And I encourage you to do so. Just remember two things. First, never have sex with a man that just makes things too confusing. And second, never do a girl in the butt thats just gross. I laughed at the time, but later, I took his advice.
And Ive been umm lucky enough to experience a lot in the realm of sexuality. Like my father, I am not classically handsome or overly manly, but I have a funny sort of intuition with life and with girls. I tend to understand needs or desires better than most people, and my responses are automatic. I talk the way a girl talks in conversation, so that she imagines we are on the same page, I move the way a girl moves on the dance floor, so that she imagines she is good, I kiss the way a girl kisses in bed, so that she imagines we fit together well, and I do whatever she wants or fantasizes about in bed (as long as it has nothing to do with butts or boys), so that she feels comfortable sharing herself with me.
I could tell you stories, Kathleen, and Im sure you can do the same. But thats the problem. Sexuality can be a very slippery slope. On the one hand, I believe (and Ive been taught) that experience and openness is a good thing. On the other hand, sentimentality, for me, is so much better.
Ive usually resolved this conflict by experimenting inside the realm of relationships but all-to-often, those boundaries have been stretched. What happens when a girl wants to bring another girl into the mix? Or when a girl says that it would turn her on for you to kiss a guy? Or when you develop a strong emotional bond with someone else while in the midst of a relationship?
Or. you get the point. Sadly, or maybe not, when difficult questions like these have arisen, Ive trusted my heart and done what feels right.
I jumped off of the trunk, got in my car, and drove home. I was still sad, but I wasnt upset with you anymore. Because Kathleen, I dont know as much about you as maybe I should know I dont even know what happened last night. (If I did, it wouldnt change the content of this letter at all.) I only know that it's my place to understand and not to judge, and that if I had imagined something between us, it was probably nothing at all, or at the very most, alcohol.
When I arrived home, I put on my workout clothes and went to the gym. I worked out for too many hours. But when I finished, I knew how I wanted to end this letter.
Kathleen, I feel good about writing to you because these words are an honest and open representation (whatever that means) of me, and because there are no frills attached. Ive realized, over the years, that I cant and wont play games with the people that matter most in my life. Games are silly, counterproductive, and very tiring unless both people know the rules. Honestly and openness, on the other hand, create and sustain friendships like ours.
And so Kathleen, for you, I end this letter with the truth:
I am upset with myself for thinking good things about you. I am upset with myself for thinking bad things about you. I am upset with myself for judging you. I am upset with myself for not being able to understand that most things in life require understanding.
I am upset with myself for giving you a piece of my heart. I am upset with myself for giving a piece of my heart to you, a great girl with a nice boyfriend. I am upset with myself for not following through, finding the things that turn you on, and giving them too you. Mostly though, I am upset with myself for not being as good a friend as I should have been.
-Greg
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