Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2004 June
2004 May
2004 April
2004 March
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
|
| Hyperboles of the Heart |
| 04.13.04 (7:04 am) [edit] |
(I'M SORRY. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING ELSE I'VE WRITTEN. I'VE JUST BEEN WORKING ON IT FOR AWHILE AND DECIDED TO THROW IT IN UNTIL I GET BACK TO THE REAL STORY. ONCE I PUT UP THE NEXT CHAPTER, I'LL TAKE THIS AWAY. I HOPE, THOUGH, THAT YOU LIKE THIS
I
When I was little, I dreamed I would meet the perfect girl. She would be smart, pretty, athletic, and good in bed. But not too good, because then I'd wonder if she had had too much practice before me. I didn't care if she was Jewish (though my parents certainly did), but I knew she needed to be organized. I lived a cluttered life, and she would give me some balance. That's why I imagined she wouldn't be completely nuts. It's difficult enough to deal with one person.
And she would sleep erratically, like me. But we would keep the same erratic sleep schedule because I would want to hold her at night and because our conversations (and other pleasurable activities) would be fertile. We would talk about life, philosophy, and epistemological reality for hours into the night. And while conversing, we might even enjoy a good bottle of wine. But it couldn’t be too good, because we'd need to be frugal, especially after college, in the early years, when money would be tight.
And it wouldn’t matter because we’d be in love. She’d know it and I’d know it, and we’d be sure of it. We’d even say the words every now and then.
II
I met her in the middle of March. We kissed two weeks later. We slept together (in the same bed) a week after that. When my junior year (her sophomore year) of college ended, we had been naked together just twice.
We never did have sex. If my friends (back then) knew, they probably would have laughed. I wouldn’t have cared though. She was perfect.
Well, not quite. I mean, she wasn’t everything I ever imagined in a girl. She was ‘straight up’ about life and didn’t understand sentimentality at all. For her, two people engaged in a relationship because it worked right then, in the moment, and not necessarily anytime after that. She didn’t even believe in marriage, kids, or the unconditional kind of love. Yet, despite these shortcomings, she was still pretty close to perfect. And that was good enough for me.
III
When the summer began, she traveled to Ohio to teach the art of the trapeze at a summer camp, and I traveled to Argentina to “find myself”. We didn’t make any promises. “Relationships are rarely worth the distance,” she said. But I called her at the airport anyway. I told her that whether she liked it or not, I would miss her a lot… maybe even like somebody I loved. She said she would miss me too.
As I traveled around Argentina, I wrote to her often. And she wrote me back just as much. I imagined our letters were the kind that lovers wrote.
We returned to college in the fall. Everything was supposed to be perfect (or close to it). Sure, we had experienced a world away from each other, but I hadn't stopped feeling close to her.
I met her for coffee a day after classes began. She told me she didn’t want to be with me like that. She said, "The hyperboles in your head are different from the hyperboles in mine". I asked her what that meant. She didn’t elaborate. “If you want, though, we can still be friends,” she said.
A few weeks later, after she had refused multiple invitations for lunch, dinner, coffee, a moonlight walk… anything, she told me that even a friendship wasn't possible. “Let’s just let things fade, Barthes style,” she said. I asked her what that meant. She told me to read Lover’s Discourse.
V
When I was a little boy and I thought about “pretty”, I thought about her. I just didn’t know it yet.
We met over breakfast one morning in the university cafeteria. My girlfriend at the time introduced us. They were track teammates. “Natalie just qualified for the national championships in the 1500-meter race,” my girlfriend said. I congratulated her. She smiled politely. Then someone at the table said something about Kant and his absolutist views. A vibrant conversation ensued. I was lost. I didn’t know Kant. So I said the only thing I knew for sure: “There’s only one Absolut, and that’s vodka.” She laughed.
She wasn’t a supermodel, or even a Gap girl, but I don't prefer those types anyway. I like the natural, non-plastic kind. I imagine it’s because of my mother. Mom doesn't wear makeup or accessories and she’s prettier that way, I think.
Natalie didn’t wear make-up either. She didn’t need to. Her smile was bright, her eyes were deep, and her skin color and tone were ideal. “Coffee with milk,” she used to call it. Her hair was brown like her eyes, her frame was skinny and small, and she had no hips. “Running does that to girls,” she later told me. Her breasts (I should probably mention those) were small, but not too small. They were like everything else—just right.
VI
I didn’t see her for another week. If we hadn’t run into each other, literally, our initial meeting would have faded (maybe Barthes style?). Life would have been easier because, well, I wouldn't have known.
Natalie had had a long day. She had won another 1500-meter race (she would win them all that year), and then she rode the team bus for five hours back to school. During the drive she read The Alchemist twice to “catch the metaphors and allusions”. She was walking, exhausted, through the campus mailroom when I saw her.
I was tired too. I had played the “Beer Pentathlon” all night with my wrestling buddies (The game consists of ten drinking events; the winner retains his pride). I didn’t come close to winning, but at least afterwards, I could walk. I could think too, I thought.
Quite mindlessly (as it so happened), I bumped into her. I apologized. She laughed and told me not to worry. I asked her about the race and I wondered if she could smell the beer on my breath.
She couldn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. She said the race was fine, but that she didn’t want to talk about it. Instead (incredibly), she wanted to know how I had been.
“Your girlfriend has told me so much about you,” she said.
“I hope good things,” I replied. She smiled. We sat on a bench and started talking. The conversation was deep and, I imagined, mutually fulfilling. Though our paths in life up until that moment had been different and seemingly irreconcilable, we were (at least momentarily) moving in the same direction.
For instance, she had been studying Tolstoy. "His understanding of the dimensions of the novel and his command of language are like none other," she said. I told her that I too understood the weight of his words. In fact, I once picked up one of his books--Anna Carolina I thought it was-- and immediately, intrinsically, I felt how heavy it really was. She laughed. She said that Tolstoy would have liked my down-to-earth style. I shrugged my shoulders and agreed. That was just the beginning.
She told me she liked to read anything she could get her hands on because she wanted to better understand the intricacies and oddities of life. I told her I liked to write anything that moved me because, well, writing is in my blood. “My father is a technical writer for a computer company, and my mother is a typist for our county court.”
I felt comfortable with her, and I think she felt comfortable with me. She talked about different literary characters, and I talked about people in my life that seemed like literary characters. Our experiences, both fictional and factual, were amazingly similar.
She said that Nabakov’s prose was beautiful. "One can’t help but sympathize with Humbert Humbert … even if he is a despicable pedophile," she said. “Because his prose is too beautiful.” I told her I could relate.
"When I was a freshman in college, I kissed a fifteen year-old girl and, well, I though she was beautiful." She said I was a joker. I said she was pretty… even prettier than the fifteen-year old. Perhaps even the prettiest girl I'd even seen.
She blushed. “You don’t look too bad yourself," she said. I winked. She looked into my eyes and I looked into hers. "I need some sleep," she said. I agreed; sleep would be best. We went our separate ways.
When I got back to my dorm room, the sun was rising and my girlfriend had long since closed her eyes. I gazed down at her (she looked so peaceful), and shook my head. I slipped under the covers, held her tight, like I might hold a stuffed animal, and refused to close my eyes.
VII
When she awoke, I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. “We’re better off as friends,” I said. I wanted to let her down easily.
She agreed. She said she had been thinking of me as a friend for quite a while and that she just didn’t have the heart to tell me. I felt betrayed. Breaking up was my idea, I thought. I should get the credit.
When I called Natalie, a day later, I asked if she wanted to go on a walk with me. She said she couldn’t. "I'm trying to understand the nature and function of Faulkner’s literary misogyny,” she said. I told her there was nothing misogynist about taking a road less traveled. “You know the difference between Frost and Faulkner,” she said. I didn’t. But I wanted her to think I did. "Well maybe," I said, "But there's no difference between studying now and studying later." She agreed.
I got off the phone, changed my shirt three times, sprayed on too much cologne, and brushed my teeth too hard. Then she knocked on the door. She wore sweats, her hair was disheveled, and I couldn't have felt more enchanted.
I put my hand on my heart, dropped to my knees, and buried my face in the carpet. I was symbolically dying for her. She looked at me quizzically and asked if I was a regular Lazarus. I rose from the floor, gazed into her eyes, and promised myself I’d start reading. Then I tried to explain my actions: “I don't know," I said, "But for you, girl, I just rose from the dead.” Her eyes were tearing with laughter. I thought that was better than nothing.
She asked where we were going. I told her I didn't know. We walked outside and the sun was setting. “The orange sky and the purple mountains might just be the essence of poetry,” she said.
“Or a badly bruised pumpkin,” I reasoned. She shook her head. We walked towards the soccer field. The sun sunk below the mountaintops and the moon shone high in the sky.
She asked me about the meaning of life. I told her I wasn’t sure, but I would do my best to find out. She said, “Life is short and we should make each moment count.” And I was confused. Was life really that easy to explain? I didn't know. But I wanted her to think I did. “I agree completely,” I said.
“It’s amazing,” she said, “Our thoughts are so intimately linked.”
“Yes,” I said, “Amazing.” I pointed to a log beside the soccer field and asked her if we could sit. She questioned my intentions. “It’s the stars,” I said, “They’re beautiful.” We sat on the log. “A regular Emerson,” she said. I nodded. “That’s what they say.”
VIII
I wished, in that moment, that my parents had taught me a few rules of sexual propriety. I wanted to kiss her, and I was fairly sure she wanted to kiss me, but I was scared. I couldn’t risk being let down.
We pretended to watch the stars in the sky. Or maybe she was really watching them. But after awhile, I couldn't take it anymore. “Would it be terrible if I kissed you?” I asked.
Shooting stars blazed through the sky, and I never once bit her tongue. I didn’t even brush her teeth with mine, or make her choke. She asked me afterwards if this-- the walk, the question, the kiss-- was all planned. I didn't know what to say.
We didn’t talk about marriage or even our futures together that night. But it didn’t matter. That kiss was the essence of life… or something like that.
IX
As you already know, when I was a little boy, I thought a lot about my perfect girl. I knew exactly how she would be (if you’ve already forgotten, reread the first page). But after that first kiss with Natalie, I realized I had missed one fairly big part of the equation…sex.
I had been so hell-bent on making everything else perfect that I forgot to imagine the actual intercourse… the physical consummation of everything that’s right in our universe. What would it be like? Fast or slow? Long or short? Playful or not so much so? I had no idea!
And it wasn’t like I had never done it before. My first girlfriend liked to do it a lot. I think she liked it too. But she seemed to do all of the work. And anyway, I didn’t love her. I just, well, moaned.
Natalie was different. She was the first. And I was scared.
X
She didn't call for five days. I was sure she’d forgotten me. Or at least, she didn’t care. But finally, my telephone rang. She said she had received my messages but that her athletic and academic obligations had been overwhelming. “I haven’t had time,” she said, “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you. I have. And I hope maybe you could stop by some time tonight.”
I smiled. I had never imagined that my perfect girl would neglect me for five days. I had thought that to love is to love completely and to give yourself wholly and unreservedly to the other person. But right then, I realized I had been wrong. To love, I was sure, is to love whoever she might be and whatever she might do, even if it means having to wait sometimes.
When I entered her room later that night, there were magazine cutouts strewn across the floor. “Gremlins in your room again?” I asked. No. She was putting together a collage evidencing the progression of Phillip Roth’s life and work.
I looked more closely at the pictures and noticed a phallic trend. “Was he a porn star?” I asked.
She groaned. “No, but he probably thought he was. Have you read Portnoy’s Complaint?”
“I don’t need to,” I said, “My uncle’s last name is Portnoy and he complains enough.”
“You must be more cultured than you let on,” she said. I told her I thought so too.
XI
I am embarrassed to admit that I don't remember what happened next. I imagine that we discussed philosophy or maybe some recent New York Times editorials. Then, probably, we went on a walk and talked about the nature of life and love (or rather, the nature of our lives and our loves). I probably said something like, “I really do think there is such a thing as pure, unadulterated love.” She probably said something like, “No, actually, there isn’t.” Then, I’m sure, she told me to read one her hundreds of enlightening books. And by then, we would have arrived at the Moonlight Diner on Route 8. After a cup of coffee, it was probably late, certainly past midnight. And we were closer to my room than hers. That’s why we must have ended up there. Well, something like that.
We were kissing lightly on my bed when she grabbed my arm and said, “I’ve only had sex with one guy. And it hurt so badly. I could never imagine doing something like that again.” I didn’t know how to respond. I hadn’t touched her breasts, or even her butt, and already she was thinking about the consequences of sex.
“Don’t worry,” I said. She looked puzzled. I tried to elaborate. “I wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t want to do. And besides, some guys fit better than others.” She laughed. “What are saying about yourself?” she asked. I blushed and didn’t quite know how to respond. So I kissed her. Luckily, she kissed me back. But her body trembled.
I tried to make it stop. “I’m just scared,” she said, “I don’t know how this is supposed to work.”
That's not fair. You can’t be scared. Life, you say, is about letting go, trusting the moment. And here we are. In the moment. And you’re not letting go, you’re not trusting. I want so badly to understand. But I can’t, I won’t. Because at least my feelings are reliable. I’ve always been scared. I’ve always been wrong. And I’ve never let go. But that makes sense. Because I’m me and not you.. I’m irrational. A dreamer. I live in the past and in the future, but rarely in the present. And that’s why I need you. Because you do. Because you’re not scared. Because I want to be. And you can’t take that away from me.
But she couldn’t hear me. Even if I had screamed my thoughts out loud, it wouldn’t have mattered. I know that because she once told me so. “You might make a person think differently,” she said. “But you can never make them feel, really feel, differently.”
So I held her tight. Because I didn’t want to let her go. And I kissed her. Because I didn’t know what else to do. And she kissed me back. And I touched her. And she touched me back. And I took off her shirt. And she took mine off too. Then she stopped. She looked into my eyes. “I don’t want you to think I’m some Emily Dickenson or something,” she said. I told her I never had a girlfriend named Emily, and even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t confuse the two of them. She smiled softly.
I kissed her lips, her ears, and her neck. She reciprocated. I ran my hands up and down her stomach, over her bra, and around her face. She reciprocated. After awhile, she even humped me back a little. I knew she wanted me to remove her bra. But this time I was scared.
My fingers are stubs when it comes to bras. They will not and cannot unhook even the most user-friendly ones. My first girlfriend, the one who liked sex, told me after a month that she wouldn’t let me take hers off anymore. “It’s just too dangerous,” she said. I was more relieved than embarrassed.
“Is it that difficult?” Natalie asked. I didn’t respond. She took my hands away from her bra and she slipped it off with just a finger. The air was light, her breasts were beautiful, and I imagined I was floating.
After that, I thought the sailing would be smooth. So I touched her chest (her heart)… and… I knew that was all I needed to feel. Perfect love means ignoring the Little General even when he most wants to take charge, I thought. So I held her until morning.
And when she woke up, she turned around in my arms and looked into my eyes. “Who are you?” she asked.
I thought it was a silly question. “Who do you think I am?” I replied.
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” she said. She stepped out of bed and hastily dressed.
“There’s so much to do,” she said. I asked when I might next see her. “I don’t know, I mean, I can’t know. But hopefully soon.” She smiled and left. She had forgotten to kiss me goodbye.
XII
When I was a little boy, I imagined that love, the real kind, means knowing your lover better than anyone else, knowing her inside and out… but especially inside. Because that’s where it really counts, I thought. Somewhere deep down, there’s a part of her that won’t ever change. And I have to know that part.
XIII
We were hiking through green mountains and talking philosophy again. “Life,” she said, “and motorcycle maintenance are intimately related.” I couldn’t see the connection. “If you read more,” she said, “it will make sense."
“What if that’s not what I want?" I asked.
“Why wouldn’t you want things to make sense?” she replied.
“Because nothing in my life has ever made sense, and I figure things shouldn’t have to change now."
“What hasn’t made sense?”
“It’s a long story... ”
“I’d like to hear it,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
"Your story."
"Why,"
“Do I need a reason?” she asked.
I stopped walking. We were at a clearing near the top of a mountain. The trees around us were green and brown, but the hills in the distance were purple. “I guess you don’t,” I said.
XIV
Three days later, (and to nobody’s surprise), Natalie won the 1500-meter race at the track and field national championships. I wondered, while sitting in the stands, if I could ever show that kind of grace and confidence. I didn’t think so. Some people have it, I thought, and others don’t. But I didn’t care. I was happy, at least, to cheer her on.
XV
After her Championships finished, I drove back to school and she rode the team bus. During her four-hour ride, she read On the Road twice. She said she wanted to "better understand Kerouac’s sardonic madness." When she arrived home, I told her she had been amazing. She didn’t want to hear it. “Tonight is your night," she said.
“Are you sure,” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “If not now, then when.”
I laughed because I thought I had heard that somewhere. “But what about final exams?” I asked. (We were scheduled to take our last two final exams the next morning.) She grabbed my hand and walked me to the library. It was full of frantic students. So we went to the farthest aisle on the highest floor. “Nobody ever comes here,” she whispered. We sat, facing each other, on the carpet.
“Where should I begin?” I asked.
“It doesn’t really matter,” she said, “As long as you don't forget anything."
When the lights shut off (meaning the library was closed), we pretended not to notice. When the security guard walked by, swinging his flashlight, hoping to find stragglers, we pretended not to notice too. He walked back downstairs and locked the library doors. Only then did she let me stop talking.
XVI
Her kiss was soft, her breath was hot, and her body didn’t shake. But, still, I knew, she was scared. I didn’t mind though. Love, I thought, is knowing when to slow down and when to speed up.
And somewhere in middle, she stopped completely and looked into my eyes. “If I said you could have sex with me tonight, would you?” I didn't understand why she asked.
“No,” I said, “We have all the time in the world.” And I really did mean it.
But her eyes pleaded. “Please, tell me what to do. I'll do anything. I mean it.” I knew she would have. And maybe I should have. But I didn't. I held her. I didn't ever want to let her go.
In the morning, when the library doors opened, she went one way and I went another. Our exams, which had already begun, were in two different buildings. I walked away without looking back. I didn't think I needed to.
XVII
And now I’m looking back. I know she asked me to read A Lover's Discourse because it’s a logical (if not absurd) analysis of love. And I know she defended Absolutism because it asserts that the values and laws in this world are absolute, unchangeable and completely explicable-- something she so badly wishes for. And I know Tolstoy would have liked me because I am confused, like he was. And Nabakov's prose has nothing to do with my desire for another kiss from that fifteen year-old girl. His was artwork and mine was a drunken kind of lust. And Emerson liked to sit on logs. And Frost liked nature as a metaphor. And Faulkner liked two-dimensional southern women. And Jesus helped Lazarus rise from the dead. And Philip Roth is a pervert. And Emily Dickenson spent her life looking out a window. And there actually is Zen in the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I learned this because I imagined that somewhere, in one of those books maybe, I'd understand why we're not still together.
XVIII
And if she ever reads this story, she'll probably say something like, “You’re a liar, or at the very least, a fiction writer.”
I’ll pretend not to understand. “Huh?” I'll say.
"You changed my name," she’ll reply.
"Everybody does that."
"I was on the tennis team, not the track team. And I was never any good,” she’ll say.
“That’s not how I remember it,” I’ll reply.
"Well, it's true. And anyway, you're not that funny and I'm not that smart."
“That’s how it should've been."
“And you’re just as well read as I am. You've always been.”
“Don’t fool yourself.”
"It never happened in the library.”
“It could have.”
This girl isn’t me,” she’ll plead. “She’s a fabrication, an illusion.”
“No, Natalie, it’s you.”
"Then change the story. Make it true."
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was written on high,” I’ll tell her.
"What does that mean?” she’ll ask.
“It means I can’t change it. This is how it was supposed to be."
She'll pause to think.
"Well, at least tell me how it ends?"
"Huh?" I'll ask, momentarily confused.
"The story hasn't ended yet," she’ll remind me.
“Oh that… I know."
|
|
|
| |
posted by: newbie (reply)
post date: 04.13.04 (8:45 am)
Interesting
|
|
