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Anti-Pioneer
I once looked forward to forging my way through. You know, I once dreamed of blazing the trail, dropping bread crumbs behind me just in case, marking the map, spinning the compass.
But here I am. Anti-pioneer.
A roadside grave must hold that fire hostage now. I would ask where it went, but I already know the answer. I grew weary with each step into the unknown, and now, here I am, alone and, in a disturbing turn of events, quite content with it.
My suitcase stands in the corner of my apartment, and it still has the fading tags that mark the last journey I took. I don’t know why I never took the tags off. I guess it’s a reminder that I once was brave, I once took chances, I once gave love a chance.
It is empty now, half unzipped, the exterior looking rough and old.
I feel old too, but I am young, right? Just because my friends are miles ahead of me with regards to procreation and union doesn’t mean that I am lagging behind…does it? I am still just a baby.
At times, I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder whose eyes I see myself through. The funhouse mirror has distorted what I am, and I only can see myself stretched out comically or condensed down. I don’t know what I look like or who I am supposed to be anymore. My path is lost, the pioneer is dead.
This might be called depression. I wonder if depression is something you can touch with your fingers, roll through your palm, and say, “Yes, this is it. I know it when I see it.”
Or is it quieter, a creeping sensation that you’re being watched by something that expands and multiplies behind your back when you’re not looking and eventually smothers you.
If I kept moving forward, it wouldn’t overtake me, but I am the anti-pioneer, stagnant and stale, immobile and frozen. I feel the whisper of it behind me, but I ignore it for now, choosing to believe that things can be the way they were two and a half years ago when I (think) I was happy.
It wasn’t behind me then. It was miles away, because I was cutting the path, making the map, calling to others to come with me.
Now? I am alone with my thoughts, which, coincidentally, have bred the very depression that is lying in the shadows behind me.
I guess I’ve put up camp for the time being. I’ve lost the wanderlust.
Do you ever dream of me? Wonder what might have been if you hadn’t decided to follow her instead? I have no idea why I still think of you, and it pisses me off. It’s been two and a half years. Would you even know me now? I think about you. I wonder if you’re happy. I hope you are.
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Roadside Attraction
The empty shells of rubber
Lie like fragmented memories
Once functional, now defunct, still radiating
Clouds of past stress
Due to missed deadlines and unforeseen inconveniences.
Rubber rubs on asphalt, I stay
At 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock
Except when I am surfing the airwaves,
Searching for something other than the hum
Of tires that are trying to avoid a roadside grave.
A bloated raccoon, legs comically akimbo,
Stares with blown-out eyes
Housing maggots, beseeching me
for my self-pity. He says,
See? It could be worse.
Billboards flicker past, like bright slides
In a show I did not choose.
Aggressively persuasive, declarative,
Determined to direct my path—
Subliminal messages are for the weak.
Tourist attraction—LOVERS LEAP
Yes, they do, through hoops
Preset by society, but only for true love
I am afraid that I, being who I am,
Am not terribly familiar with that concept.
A restaurant begs—FEED YOUR CRAVE
Permission granted by propaganda,
Access denied by conscience
(and reality, really)
Do not attempt to tempt me.
A final command—EXIT NOW
My hands, they falter
(only slightly, barely perceptible)
Believe me, I have tried
And found that I cannot.
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On Phones
I suppose the phone, the one I purchased for status,
Felt like another brick I was placing in my self-constructed wall
To get away from, well,
You. And me. Mostly us.
The second-person pronoun escapes me
My words normally flow well
But this phone, it seemed it would not let me say
Those coupling consonants, those reassuring syllables.
I’m sorry for that.
This damn phone is too complicated, and I am only twenty-three
But really, this is just a rabbit trail to avoid saying what I need
To say to you, you who are so eloquent and well-read
And I, who is still holding the last brick and hating it for its complexity.
I’m sorry for you.
In the end, the question kept arising,
Does it matter?
and of course, the secondary question pulsing in the background
Does it matter to you?
And I, the woman of many words and many phrases
Stared silently at my stone, willing it to say it for me
But I could not.
And for that, I am sorry.
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Perceptiveness Proves Difficult
Not entirely sure when I came the conclusion of concluding, began the preparations for my trying-to-save-face-yet-still-escape exit strategy, but I do know it had something to do with the fact that the text messages had become paragraphs.
Yes, paragraphs. No more short and sweet messages of endearment; they had morphed into full-on proclamations of love, ones that I imagine would be read by the town crier in olden days and be written on a scroll in lovely, looping script.
That scares me. I am not sure my companionship is worth a paragraph-long text message.
They can always smell the uncertainty. This is my fault because I date highly perceptive men, men who see the smallest inconsistencies, wince at the dissonant harmony, cringe at the misplaced apostrophe, clench their fingers tightly when someone leaves a screw loose.
I have always been in my head at all times to a certain point, not wanting to come out to play, as it were. Of course, they all noticed when something was different, when I was more withdrawn than usual, forgetting to put punctuation that engenders text messages lighthearted (you know, adding an exclamation point instead of a period).
Punctuation says a lot, you know.
They always know. Perceptive partners make for a difficult disappearing act.
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Use Somebody
It seems like love is always too far away. It’s never just out of my reach; I am separated from it by canyons, it seems. I feel that it is an intentional reminder that I need to be close, but not too close, to love for it to feel real.
It always feels real for awhile, much like a tourist stepping onto the tarmac in a foreign country. You feel as if you belong there in that place in that moment. However, as time wears on and you step into the crowded streets, you become aware that you are just a tourist here; you will never truly belong. I’ve read all the tour guides and seen the documentaries, but I’m still just a tourist when it comes to love.
There is a large difference between what I want and what I need. I want someone interesting, someone compelling, someone intellectual. I need someone who will be a leader, who will take care of me, who will help me navigate stormy waters. I am becoming older, and I am realizing that what I need is much more important.
I keep circling back to the same point. Is this intentional? The psychologist in me knows that I keep coming back because my other relationships are lacking some quality that this particular one did have. It is easy to see. The promise of stability, of pretty futures for bright children, of reliability, of ease. This is all attractive to me. I could use somebody like this. Take it whichever way you want, because I have used him before, and I feel horribly guilty for it. Is it mean for me to try to repair the burned bridge? Am I selfish in that regard?
I just wanted to talk to him and tell him that I still dream about him. Because I do.
I could use him, but mostly, I think I might need someone like him. It’s not a flippant “Yeah, I guess I could do with someone like him.” It’s more like, “This is what kind of person I need to balance out my constantly tipping scales.”
Of course, this is all an early estimate. It could be different. He promises stability. Isn’t that what I need? Yes. I am getting older, remember. No need to date artists or hipsters or men who will never amount to much (not because they can’t, because they won’t).
It’s all confusing, and I’m not prepared to hurt anyone yet. It always ends like that, though. I hurt someone, which, in return, hurts me. I hate hurting, but it’s necessary sometimes.
Don’t decide yet. Wait.
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Too Much
Well, I guess you know by now that I’m feeling the pressure, the closeness of everything. I feel that someone else is breathing my air, and knowing that you know what I look like when I first wake up is more than disconcerting; it is life-threatening.
At least, to me it is.
I get the urge to be loved, but once I am loved, what does it mean to me? It makes me feel trapped, closed up, pent up like the proverbial bird that is beating its wings against the wrought iron cage, begging to be released from such a limiting state of being. If I were a bird, I would fly away from myself, circle back lazily in the air, observing what I once was and how my life once functioned, and then, I would fly away forever, forging a new existence and inevitably repeat the cycle.
I am not a bird. I am a stone, placed exactly where I asked to be placed. What does it mean when I no longer want the same things I said a year ago? I want to want the same ideas, the same notions, but I do not. What does that mean?
I am a constantly shifting being, changing before my very eyes, surprising even myself. My identity, however much I’d like to think that it has solidified at 23 years of age, is still uncertain. Is that okay? Normal, even? Do I want normal? Probably not.
I remember last March. I was quite lost, having seen just how hurtful the past can be. I had built a neat little wall around myself. Someone tried to break in. He courted me with red wine, Thai food and the promise of cerebral conversation. He thought I was amazing, but I never see it in myself. Perhaps that is the root of it all. They all think I am something wonderful, but all I see is a plain girl with hopes that may never be realized.
As usual, I found myself, slightly tipsy, lying on top of him, pressing myself down on his rough jeans. He looked at me and said that I was too much.
He meant it in a positive way. I turned those words over in my mind and realized something.
That was just it. I am too much. I am unable to be in one place for too long, for I am too much.
What am I to do now? Become less?
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It doesn’t make sense so don’t analyze it
I guess this is the best way I know how to deal.
In the beginning, when the rock has just crashed through the smooth surface of the lake, the ripples are close. They are perfect circles, spiraling out neatly from the first impact, making their mark, making a difference, making a scene.
Eventually, those perfect concentric circles become lopsided and faint. Eventually, they drift away into nothing, and it is as if the stone had never been tossed, the wrist never flipped, the move never made.
Is that the fate of everything of importance? What remains consistent? What will be permanent?
*****
The past is there for a reason, they say, but what do they know? The past has been crowding up my mind as of late, as it usually does with a change of seasons. Winter to spring makes me remember stealing flowers from the gardens of other people and riding bikes down quiet roads. I know it’s stupid, but I can still feel what you were like, even though I don’t necessarily want to.
I feel melancholy, thinking about what has been and what will never come to pass because it has passed on, left me behind, turned its back, whatever.
Part of me wants to just embrace it, remember it fondly. But I can’t do that. I’ve never been able to do that.
The greater part of me wants to say, “Fuck it,” but I’ve never been good at saying ‘fuck.’ The syllables always get tangled up on my tongue and flop out awkwardly like a fish on land. My friends and I used to say ‘what the pluck’ to avoid actually cursing. The accepted reason amongst us was that we would get in trouble if someone heard us say it, but in reality, we were too scared to say such a strong word.
I guess that now I think that saying ‘fuck it’ is okay as long as I don’t mean it too much. You can’t mean it too much.
*****
Just keep going. Don’t worry about the little things.
Advice that I wish rang true for me. I worry about the little things, because the little things lump together into One Big Thing and I can’t escape that reality.
Maybe in reality I’m difficult and unable to commit, but why? Some would say it has something to do with my past, but damn it, I just want to say ‘fuck the past’ for once and MEAN it. Why does it have to define me? Why? Why can’t I just throw it in the pond and be done with it once those circles dissipate? Can I dissipate with it? Can I reinvent, throw another stone in another body of water? Can I?
It’s more like ‘will I?’
Isn’t it?
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LIFE UPDATE
Life update (AKA important shit that I need to record for the sake of posterity—note the sarcasm):
1. 100: the number of days of school down.
2. 80: the number of children victimized by 10,000 (conservative estimate) eye rolls, which they have deemed to be my specialty.
3. 25%: the percent of reduction in my daily caloric intake thanks to a ridiculously busy schedule.
4. 230948230948324: the number of times I have wanted to either: cry, throw up, bang my head against the 15-year-old computer on my desk, call my mom and cry, call my boyfriend and cry, call my principal and yell, or call my students bad words. This is just honest, people.
5. I have a new toy (iPhone 4) which makes my old phone look like a calculator (both functionally and aesthetically). This makes the list of things that make me look like a cliche, pseudo-hipster girl in her early 20s grow ever longer. This list includes the fact that I now own two Apple products, drive a Prius, ascribe to a vegetarian diet, listen to NPR and read food blogs. In my defense, I actually like all of those things.
6. My boyfriend rocks. He likes good music, good food, and me. Oh, and he is a kick-ass writer who is probably going to be famous someday. I will ride his coattails to the top.
7. I want (no, scratch that. NEED) a cat. I am so lonely in Linn. My neighbor walks around outside of my window without a shirt on when it’s 20 degrees outside. Once, he had his jacket on without a shirt underneath. Oh, and he smokes like it’s good for him or something. Have I mentioned that I don’t like Linn?
8. I might miss the school a little bit. After all, I did get a lot of good nicknames out of it (SpEd Bro, Pippi, Principal Clownshoes, etc). I won’t miss it enough to renew my contract through.
9. I have decided that getting engaged/married/having a baby isn’t a pressing issue. Most of my peers would have me believe otherwise, but come on. I am 22. No need to set a timeline for engagement. I am happy just enjoying my time with my boyfriend. If I decide to move to be with him eventually, that would be great, but we still have each other if it doesn’t work out immediately.
10. I have a thing for Italian sodas. They are really good.
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Uh oh. I am in love, I think. I have been saving text messages to read when I get lonely, which is way more often than normal. Oh geez. What have I gotten myself into? Still excited, nervous, and scared. Still getting used to it all. Weird feeling. I haven’t been like this in awhile (if ever?) It will be fine. I need to quit worrying about whether he likes me or not. I think the issue stems from the fact that I wasn’t sure if he liked me for the longest time, and now that I think he does, I’m so scared that he’ll change his mind. It’s so weird. I am normally pretty confident about these things. He has done a number on me, to be certain! Oh well. He’s worth it.
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Very surreal. I sat in his house and pet his cat. I drove for twelve hours just to see him. I can safely say it’s the boldest I’ve been in awhile.
I felt quite empty and scared when I left. For the time that we were together, the loneliness I had been feeling was pushed into the corners and replaced with this complete happiness, an emotion I hadn’t felt in quite some time. When I left, the loneliness flooded back in and felt much more profound than before. I do not know how to put into words how I feel now, after the fact, but I do know that I am glad that I went. If nothing else, I will have the memory.
It is difficult for someone like me to handle this. I am too interested in logistics and certainty. Maybe I should learn to release this to fate, if that’s what you would call it. Let it develop naturally, I suppose. I just want it so badly. I feel as if this is a chance I would regret losing. I already feel too strongly for me to be able to escape unscathed if it should come to that. That is very scary for me.
Please let this work. I don’t think I could handle it if it didn’t.
