We didn’t know it was happening until it had already happened. Hundreds of emails, a few phone calls, one meeting in a bar, and suddenly we were on a bench in the middle of a composting display in some sort of living science center, neither of us truly sure what we were doing there. We said some words, but mostly we wanted our faces to be touching. Touching faces, we thought, was probably allowed, though none of it really was. We were both lying. Every second we sat there on the bench we lied: to ourselves; to our spouses; to our friends; to our family; to our employers, even. Breathing in lies and breathing out lies and touching our faces and sitting on a bench.
It was hot. Even though it was late September, we were in Texas, so of course it’d be hot. 91 or 92, possibly. Hot enough to make the navy silk dress I was wearing cling to my skin in a way I felt it probably shouldn’t, which made it an accomplice. Even my dress was lying. And how could it not? I fell and fell, and the very fibers in my dress fell with me, loving and spinning and clinging and sweating and lying and sitting and touching.
It wasn’t just faces touching that we wanted; it was everything touching, with nothing between us but the smallest amount of air possible. My lips found his, or his found mine, or they found each other. There was too much air still, and we couldn’t form a seal. Neither of us had kissed a new person in several years. Our tongues found each other. My breath quickened. Our teeth found each other too, bumping as we struggled to find a way to make our bodies fit. It was too new and too much of a lie. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, and he tasted it.
We heard yelling in the background. I heard yelling in my head, so when I heard the yelling I thought they were condemning us. Screaming, “Hey! You don’t belong here! You’re married to other people! You’re lying!” But the construction workers nearby were yelling about whatever they were building. A bulldozer’s engine roared. Orange plastic wrapped around us. Large pieces of lumber fell and clattered against one another.
There is a man in the sky, so high up that I can’t see him, and he is watching me all the time. He is kind and wants good things for me, but I should fear him because sometimes he gets angry and destroys things. He watches me to see if I’m good or bad. If I’m bad he might destroy me. But he loves me because he created me. He created everything: the world, my cat, my family, grass, ballet shoes, my friends, my white-blond hair, ladybugs, my Mom’s fried chicken. He loves everything he created until those things are bad. When things are bad, he destroys them.
We go to church to learn about him and to learn how to be good so that he does not destroy us. We don’t deserve his love because we are bad inside and not good, and he wants to destroy the bad in the world that he created. But church helps us learn how to be good, and we are good just by going. So we go three times a week. There is no choice in the matter because we want to be good so we won’t be destroyed.
He has a son who also loves us very much. He let us destroy his son, and then his son took the blame for all of us so that his dad won’t destroy us for destroying him. I didn’t destroy his son, but other humans did, and I’m a human, so I helped. His son died because we killed him because he loves us. We don’t deserve him, either, but we must believe that he was real and that he existed and that he died and rose again in order for us not to be destroyed. So we believe it because we don’t want to be destroyed.
If we believe it, we might get to join him and his son in the sky when we die. That’s where everyone who has died before me but after his son is. We don’t know about the people who were born before his son; they probably aren’t there, even if they tried very hard to be good. But all the people born after who believe are, including my two grandpas and my grandma. If I do a good job of telling everyone this story, then all the people I know will go there when they die too. We won’t be lonely or afraid in this place and it will be a party. It has gold roads that stretch forever and clear skies and only happiness. My cat probably won’t go there when she dies, though, because she doesn’t have the ability to believe. So she will be destroyed.
It’s no secret that this blog hasn’t been working for me. Ever, really. Or maybe just for those first few weeks. I haven’t been able to write. I’ve been crippled. I forgot how.
But my last blog post gave me an idea.
So, I have started another new blog. One that I am actually inspired to write for. It’s going to be fun! Yeah!
So, if you don’t mind, I would love it if you would follow me to my new home: http://remedialblogging.wordpress.com.
I promise to write there much more often than I wrote here.
I am in love with my life, by the way. And I plan to keep it that way.
I have a dog named Rufus, and I love him a lot.
Sometimes I call him weird shit, like “Lubba.” I don’t know why.
But he forgives me for it, and most of the time he even responds to it.
Sometimes I get sad when I think about the fact that he will die someday.
But he’s only four, so I try not to think about it too much.
Even though we both seem to be aging at a rapid pace.
He is the best sigher I know. He sighs like he invented sighing.
He sleeps with me in my bed when it’s not too hot because I don’t have central a/c because I’m poor.
In the mornings he makes me get up to feed him before the sun has even risen because I feed him only once a day, in the mornings before the sun has even risen.
After he eats he jumps back into bed with me, burps loudly, and then leaves to go sleep on the couch in the living room.
But when he hears my alarm go off an hour and a half later, he runs across the apartment, down the hallway, and jumps into my bed to greet me.
Sometimes he scratches me with his claws like he did this morning, but I know that it’s really just him expressing his love for me, which is so strong that he has to hurt me sometimes by accident like Lenny in Of Mine and Men.
Even though he hurts me sometimes, it’s my favorite part of the day. He reminds me that every new day is astonishing and beautiful.
Just like him.
I started a new blog. I know. Another new one. But I need a break from writing about my life for a while. So I’m going to write about my dreams instead.
You can read it at http://childrenofanidlebrain.wordpress.com.
Am I getting sick? I don’t know. I’m not hungry, and it’s 6:30 p.m. That’s weird. I think I have a sore throat. Why am I not hungry? I ate that sandwich I found in the kitchen at 4:30. It had mayonnaise on it and God knows how long it was sitting out. Maybe it’s food poisoning. But that takes longer than two hours to activate and, oh yeah, I have that sore throat. What am I going to do? Tomorrow’s Friday, and NYEG is coming to see me. And I’m getting a massage on work time tomorrow because my neck is fucked up because of work. It’s going to be awesome. My insurance is covering it. I’m getting a free massage on work time tomorrow. I can’t miss that. And I’m supposed to go eat sushi with sarahthe tonight. What if I have to throw up the wasabi I’m so bent on overloading myself on when I eat sushi? Jesus, can you imagine throwing up wasabi? It’s hard enough going down, when it only comes close to your nose. Can you imagine it COMING UP OUT of your nose?
Mmm. Sushi sounds good, actually. Maybe I am hungry.
Maybe I am okay.
Today I read a new blog (new to me) that made me want to write again because his writing is so goddamn good. I take this as a good sign, that good writing generally inspires me to write rather than showing me that I will never, ever be as good.
But then I look back at that last paragraph, and I used the word “good” four times. And then I realize that it’s not even a paragraph, it’s a sentence. One sentence. Four times.
I can’t write anymore, y’all. Maybe it’s a phase. I can’t even write about how I can’t write. I’m not blocked. I’m just nothing. Not a writer. Never was.
Also, there’s all those mistakes I don’t want to repeat.
NYEG and I decided not to move in together. He’s never lived with someone he was romantically involved with before, and I didn’t know if he was fully aware of what he was getting himself into, so I came to him to have the “but what about this?” conversation. There were a lot of “this”es.
At the end of it, I was pretty sure I’d freaked him out. He swore he wasn’t freaked out (pretty sure he was), but if I had doubts, then maybe we should just wait a little while to take that step. I told him I don’t have doubts, but I wasn’t sure that he didn’t. These words we were saying didn’t make sense to each other, so we dropped the conversation, and every once in a while now he jokes about how he won’t let me move in with him.
I’m trying to get him to sing/play a duet with me. He seemed open to it at first, but now I’m not so sure. I learned my part, anyway.