31: When You Talk About Music / Never Is A Promise / Across The Universe

It's out. It's finally out, and it's taken two birthdays, a year and a half of Britain, 30 hours of being awake, and 16 days straight of work. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I'm sitting on my bed in the same spot as I always do when I'm writing these proselytizers. It's literally a basement with a single light. This bullet head lamp from an ex cranes above me like an oncoming train crashing through the dark and playing chicken with me. This basement is also home to red-hued daddy arachnids who jump, drop and bite, and this is where I spend my life.

On the "air" is an episode of This American Life from 1996. It has no preamble, it just gets into it: "[Dael Orlandersmith], [an African-American woman], transforms herself in this story into a loudmouthed Italian guy. At a wedding, this character meets a woman who reminds him of who he was before he got married and had kids: a guy who loved jazz, a different guy than he is now." Between the hours of 4 am and 6 am this morning, I remembered what I did in that last year and a half of school.

Our stories paralleled. He was unsatisfied. He watched the denouement as it happened--like a car crashing at four months per hour. And when he severed it, he put on his parachute and landed in another bed. Friends didn't cheer at his survival; they jeered at how fast he received mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

And this is how the story diverges. "He" could be Josh or Chris, or even the girl that came between them. Who you are and whom you hear the story from changes the shade of villainy... I still don't know how I'm seen. There's light on me, but not enough mirrors.

We talked about how we didn't talk. There was a moment when we kinda knew, or guessed at what we knew, but neither of us spat it out. Our friendship took less and less breaths, until it passed out. He went to England and I threw myself into work. In the interim year I erroneously placed blame on the heads of blonds and championed the witch hunt to displace the onus from myself. In that same year I kept potential lovers at bay because I didn't trust myself with anyone's heart.

(to be continued...)
* * *

I'm more like my parents every day. Today's lesson is how to distance yourself and make an exalted persona for yourself.

My parents are the favorite aunt and uncle of a lot of my cousins. They never throw parties, only occasionally go to them. They monetarily and emotionally support friends and loved ones to the point of being "rescuers," but they never ask or hint at for help in return. They take separate vacations. They want to know that the other is safe and constantly tell the other is loved, but it's hard to believe its more than just words.

My mom blatantly told me that she and and my dad were very different, but they loved each other. "We know each others faults and strengths, and we complement each other very well." She's right, in a way. I only see them stir a little bit, live kinda-lives. Two half-people must complement very well.

But that's unfair. I don't know their views, or their likes or interests anymore because I don't ask. I'm never around. At the same time, they don't advertise. I'm pretty darn sure that I have the same mentality as them. My parents and I are opposing goalies who will join the fight once the other does.

I don't have enough people in my life. I participate in other lives, but rarely invite others into mine.

(to be continued...)