Walking in the woods

The ground was frozen solid, the first real freeze of the fall. She made her way to the grove in the Wood, feeling that solemnity of the forest and of this annual pilgrimage. She always waited for the first frost to come, the frozen ground didn’t give way or leave prints, and soon the snow would blanket the woods and she wouldn’t be able to visit again until spring without leaving signs of her presence. Even then; the melting and the mud would make it almost impossible.

She had begun visiting a decade ago, though really it seemed much less. Sometimes when she looked down at her hands she didn’t recognize them anymore, they were her mothers hands. Somewhere in the woods a lonely chickadee called, and she was tempted to join in the song just for some company, “chickadee-dee dee, chickadee-dee dee.” The trees were clearing gradually and she could see young pines that hadn’t been here when she’d first started coming beginning to choke out the birch. Ahead was the boulder, it had seemed bigger on her first visit- and habit took her over to lay her mittened palm on the freezing stone. When she first started coming she would sit on this boulder for hours, preparing herself, trying to purify her soul for this pilgrimage. Today she swung on through the brush after only a minute. She didn’t feel the ceremony the way she used to. She was coming now because it was What Was Done, not because of any sense of true emotion. The ground slopped gently away and there was the creek before her, water trickling and dripping down mossy stone. Something was wrong. Piles of dirt on the bank where there had once been smooth ground and leaves. A gaping hole. The grave was open.

Inspector Graves hated watching incompetent people work. Not that her team was incompetent, but often she found herself having to hold her tongue and watch them come to conclusions that had seemed obvious to her since the first. This was the price of leadership she supposed, watching other people muddle through until they eventually came to her conclusions on their own. Today was not a good day. It had started with the instant coffee machine breaking, a gift from her ex that she hadn’t had to heart to get rid of, but didn’t want to keep in the house. It was only a year old but it had been hard used in the break room of the station.  So, no coffee for her.  Then the news about Kathy, the station's receptionist engagement.  She had been all smiles and showing off the ring-way too large on a fireman's budget in Grave's opinion, and there had been a lot of oohing and aahing over the way he asked.  Graves didn't like Kathy's boyfriend, his jokes about making Kathy stay home to make his sandwiches and fetch his beer seemed a little too close to the truth.  But then, no one asked her, so she stood there and smiled foolishly all the while thinking that she must be the only black souled person in the whole damn station.

And now a body.  Or, a possible body.  There wasn't much of it left, it had clearly been in situ for years, maybe even a decade.  And she had been standing in the conference room waiting for the decision to be made about who's body it was.  It had been found just over the line into the national forest, another few feet and it would have been on private property and the sheriff's office would have had jurisdiction.  It was state land though, which meant that she would get the body.  Eventually.

Listen

The beautiful thing is that you listen. When I’m nervous or anxious I remember the fact that every time that I’ve said “this is important to me” you have taken in what I have said and made the most beautiful things happen because of it.
I’m not always good at listening. I want to fill the world with words because they’re how I come to understanding; but even in that, when you told me you like my never ending spew of sentences I didn’t listen and instead apologized for the very thing you said you liked.

I have learned so many things.
I have learned that what you tell me to be the truth is always the truth; and that past hurts came from not asking. You do not lie outright.
I have learned that I have a lot of fixing to do for myself, and that this will be hard work. I’ve learned that I want it to be work, that complacency means I’m not loving as richly or deeply as I should be.
But the beautiful thing is that you listen to me when I blurt things out, and you let me struggle until I find a way to say what I need to. You give me the space to try and then you help.

I want to be better on my own, stronger. I don’t want to rely on you because we both deserve partnership, not dependence. This has been the hardest relationship I’ve ever had, in the best possible way. The difficulty doesn’t lie in giving up part of myself, or in ignoring lies, or trying to be better to deserve my partner. The difficulty is that I want to be better for myself. And for years I’ve been burying myself in the person I’m with, looking for the answers in another human that cannot possibly hold the key to my own self realization.

Maybe I’ll see you in a week. Or a month. Either way, I’m living my life in the best possible way. I’ve got a plan for my own fulfillment, and maybe it will change but it will only change if I want it to.  

It’s so funny that while I write this, echos of my past are messaging me on Facebook. Poor sweet kid, wonderfully nice and probably one of the people who knew my former partner and saw the cruel reality. Boy, you’re like 10 years too late to try to save me, I’ve got my own sword and a prince besides.

I don’t want anyone else in this world to stand beside me. I just want what I’ve always wanted, except now I don’t think it’s a perfect fairy tale. I’m in love with the rough edges of reality.

I wonder how many times I’ve written icy blue eyes on this blog. The thing is, as many times as I’ve written them, I’ve never had them before- not until now. I guess I saved the best for last. I guess I’ve always known that you were the one.

So you know what. I’m not ending this with a request, pleading or begging. Rather with a statement.
I love you
And I know that you love me too.
So babe, happiness is what we’re going to make out of this life, together.

Daymares

I’m still scared though. You ask me to go to a ball and there is a swell of giddy ness and a rush of memory that makes me sick to my stomach. I wonder if you remember the last time you asked. I wonder if you remember why I said no then.
You’ve made me see things the way you remember. I see where I hurt you, where I ran when I should have stayed. I’m afraid that I haven’t been able to tell you how I remember things. The number of times that I was confirmed in believing that I was second best. The amount of un-learning that I have left to do.
I wonder where the line is between telling you that I’m hurting and leaving the past behind. This is not a good week, family medical emergencies, moving, my opening a new season and trying to make decisions for the next year that will effect the next ten. Maybe next week. Probably next week.

Bottom line. I love you. That chapter of my life- our lives is over. I said that I needed to wait but my heart was breaking further and so now here we are, together at last. I worry though that I rushed it. I didn’t have time to put this to rest, if it can indeed be put to rest.

I know you love me. I trust you, here and now. I just need to remember that neither of us are the people we once were. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life learning to trust again. It’ll be worth it though. You’re worth it, and so am I.

Miranda ❤️’s Ferdinand

Go ahead, ask me to jump. Just tell me how high and I’ll leap for the stars.
Let’s run away and create our own world in the woods, they’ll never find us and so we can judge happiness for ourselves. How did I get so lucky? Years of settling and to think that I was thisclose to a lifetime of living in black and white. There is so much color in my world all of a sudden, I can’t even remember the names of some of these shades.

Three men have told me their intention of asking for my hand in marriage.
One gave me his grandmothers ring to try.
One spent far too much instead of just raiding the family vault.
One had no plan and didn’t see why it mattered.

I want more than a backyard bbq with Hawaiian shirts. I want more than a marriage of convince. I want more than a lifetime of regret and fear. I want love, respect. Family.
I have fallen more in love with each passing day, and it’s a new kind of grown up love. When I fell all those years ago I was still Miranda. I was ready to “call him a thing Devine,” for indeed I had not ever seen anything “so noble” before. You were “the first I ever sighed for,” but more has passed since then than a romp around an enchanted island.

Now, I love the way you cares for your family. The time and devotion that goes beyond duty. I love the way you insist that those around you take care of themselves. I loved meeting your family and seeing you at home, your nerves are the opposite of mine. I gabbled into nonsense and you were so quiet I was forever worried of putting my foot so far into my mouth that I gagged. I love the intention that you live with, that you care enough to ask for advice before jumping forward. Sometimes I forget to look before I leap. I love that you’re willing to think and plan for your future, our future.

I love that you call your house “ours.”
I love that you give me soft things, your hands and blankets and your love.
I love that you’re including me in your family gatherings.
I love that when I tried to tell you that our anniversary was the 10th you replied that it wasn’t, it was the day we met or the day we had sex (I only know one of those two dates for the record.)

I’ve got a feeling that this is going to be fast babe. We might shock the world. I might shock myself. But like any great love story, when you know you know.

I’m glad I’m not Miranda. I didn’t fall in love with the third man I ever saw. Well, maybe I did- but I tried out different kinds of love before allowing myself to admit that there is none greater than this. I have no more questions, no more longing for adventures or flirtations with the island’s natives. When I tell you I’m yours, it’s with a completeness I’ve never felt before.
I guess because the hang up I’ve always had is you.

Butterflies babe. I still get them when I talk to you, when you hold me. The funny thing is that we know each other so well but also not at all. You know my biggest heartbreak, my secret insecurities- and you’re just discovering my football team. I know how you feel about your dad trying to finish your camaro while you were deployed (even if you don’t remember telling me) but I didn’t know how you like your bacon cooked. Crispy, like me.

So yes. I’m ready to plan a future. I’m excited to be the best version of myself. Take the job in Scranton, or don’t take it- I’ll be by your side either way. You’re the kind of person it’s easy to fall for, and easier to love.  I hope that someday we’re telling our grandchildren a highly modified version of this story. Who knows, maybe I’ll print this blog out and stash it in my stuff to be discovered by a highly embarrassed son or daughter someday when I’m gone (you’re welcome.)

You’re it babe.
Forever.

Enchanted evening

Tomorrow is like Christmas and New Years and Halloween and my birthday all rolled into one. I keep reminding myself to not live for these weekends, to find the reality between and not wish my life away. But, I can’t help it. 

It’s nice to know that I wasn’t crazy all those years ago. It’s nice to hear that the good I saw in people was legitimate and the bad feeling I had in my gut about others was more than a hunch. I guess we got hurt by the same people, and we just did different things. I guess I ran when I should have stayed. I guess I should have just asked five years ago. I should have stop letting other people control the voice in my head that tells me right from wrong, false from true. I guess tomorrow is a new start. And with that comes letting go. I’ll probably hold on to some of these things for a while longer, but I’m excited to move forward together. 

I love you. Everything about you. I’m ready to make this work. We might be 11 years older, but you’ve still got your boyish charm and I’ve still got my naive ability to love first and question later. We’ve got this. 

Time hop

There’s too much wine and not enough food in my stomach, but I don’t care. My heart is jumping between my stomach and my throat and when he kissed me I couldn’t remember how to breath. Every touch is fire, and when he suggests a shower I realize it’s the same question he’s been asking for eleven years but for the first time it has a different answer. We take our wine glasses with us to the bathroom and run the water as hot as we can stand. Somehow there is music, and then my dress slips down around my ankles and once again I can’t breath. Naked we slow dance to country music and giggle into each other’s shoulders and let the steam engulf us until we are floating in clouds of intoxicated bliss.
Under the water we laugh and kiss but mostly play. Spitting water he turns and looks at me over his shoulder, and in that moment I think that I will see his grin for the rest of my life. It’s never the moments that you think you’re going to remember that get etched in your mind, somehow the history of the world, the history of us skips beats.
One moment I am laughing as he spins me, flying through the air with his hand on the small of my back to live fiddle music. Then we are in his room and I’m sliding my Walmart bra off, too shy to turn around, and lying down to feel his oiled hands sliding over my back. A semester later in the student lounge, late late and night and he’s straddling me before looking down and telling me that he’s never seen so much want in anyone’s eyes before.  Then the house on John st, his powerful arms throwing me almost off the bed and pinning me down until I can’t move, my struggles delightfully contained. And then, this shower. There are other flashes, the lake and the zombie movies- but they’re always just flashes. Looking back, there are so many delightful moments lost to time- before I had tried to catch them all, lock them in a trunk at the back of my mind to be taken out and examined at length when my thoughts inevitably turned into the could have, should have.
And now? With the possibility of a lifetime of moments to come, I know I won’t capture them all. And maybe I don’t need to. I hope, four decades from now I can look back and see more jumps in time. More flashes of blue eyes and soft hands on my skin.
This is more than I ever dreamed of. Or rather, it’s exactly what I dreamed of.

Maybe I’m crazy
But
As you’ve told me so many times
You like my crazy.
I miss you babe. I can’t wait to see you, meet your parents(again,) tell you all about the tiny baby shark that sat next to me for her happy birthday song tonight.  I know you’re out in the tundra enjoying your family time, but I’m selfish and I can’t wait for you to be home.
I love you
I always have
And
I always will.

Tidewater Autumn

Ferry rides and pumpkin patches and sandy beeches full of adventures and lust, I love the fall so very much. I feel beautiful and full of life and though I may have to have a long conversation with Ken (oops, sorry work dad) I don’t actually care right at this moment. I keep thinking it won’t get any better, but then we sink a little more into the every day routine and I ask myself why I waited so damn long for this.
I was so afraid for so long that I would allow myself the same foolish dreams that would crush  my soul when they were dashed, that I didn’t see what was in front of my face. The boy asked me to meet him at the airport when he got home from Afghanistan. As a wise heroine once said, “Catherine Morland, you are a fool!”
But no more obsessing about that. I have the best plans in motion, but I shan’t ruin the surprise- just in case you do sometimes click on the link that I’ve sent you half a dozen times. That grin, those sparkling eyes and the fingers that wander where they absolutely shouldn’t in any public place (you know I love it) our penchant to listen to NPR for hours and have real world conversations, your willingness to help me and all of my friends with any number of household things. Well. I guess you did make K— try to eat a worm in the second grade, so the least you can do is clean up the disembodied snake in her basement. But still. All the love, the everyday love in the grocery store, the silly kisses and the sweet ones. I’m willing to leave behind this place and this job, but you’re willing to try on breeches and a waistcoat.

Let’s go on adventures forever together. And let’s make it a fall wedding.

PS
My cat misses you. She’s been moping ever since you left, which is entirely unfair and I plan to pay you back in spades when we get our dog.

To Have Dreamt of You

When I was 17 I though Jane Austen was the end all and be all of my life. I wanted to live in her romantic witty world, I wanted to meet my own Henry Tilney, I peppered my Facebook wall with my favorite quotes from Northanger. When I first read the script I was so sad that one of my favorite hopeless romantic lines wasn’t included:

“Whether she thought of him so much while she drank her warm wine and water and prepared herself for bed as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a light slumber, or a morning doze at most, for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared, it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentlemen before the gentleman is first known to have dreamed of her.”

When I first heard “To Have Dreamt of You” I still wasn’t sure, how could I wander about the stage making doe eyes at Henry without having any reply to him? How awkward to have a love song entirely sung to you. I was so wrong. It’s my favorite, and the timing of this music entering my life was so perfect. I don’t know if this will ever be staged again, and so For posterity’s sake.


To Have Dreamt of You

Henry:
It must be very wrong to have dreamt of me
To have dreamt of me before I dreamt of you
To give your thoughts over to a fantasy
Be in love with me before you’re mine to woo

For every heroine is meek
Every heroine is mild
Set apart from all the others like a prize
And no hero ever writ
Won the day without a trial
Seeing love alight within his lady’s eyes

It must be very wrong to have dreamt again
As if there’s nothing left in life to do but dream
How your romance would end if you held the pen
How you’d write your story if you reigned supreme

And yet it’s altogether strange
And it’s altogether new
And I feel as though I’m in a far-off land
For in reflecting on my life
I seem to find I’ve dreamt of you
In a thousand little ways since life began

So if it’s wrong to dream at all we’re wrong together
And if it’s right, well then, we’re out ahead by far
And if by dreaming through our life, we make it better
Then there will never be two lovers blesséd as we are.

Ensemble:
May we be always a little fanciful
For without a dream, the world would never change.
And if we haven’t the right to dream at all
Then that sort of love is best left on the page

Henry:
But you are altogether real
And I am altogether yours
Bound in honor and affection through and through
And the wisest thing I’ve done
In this foolish world of ours
Was in daring to have dreamt of you.

Fallen

For the first time in a really long time, I’m back to widow white gown shopping and reading proposal stories online and daydreaming about my future and
It
Feels
So
Good.

The best part? He told me he loved me before I even had a chance to worry about the possibility that he didn’t, that he hasn’t. Sometimes what looks beautiful is really quite horrid. This is not one of those times.

2 days, 15 hours 41 minutes.
But who’s counting?

Fairy Tale Beginning

There is something sweet about late night kisses that go on and on into oblivion, your fingers making circles on my back until I’m purring in your arms. I remember these nights, I thought I had lost them blocked them forever but it’s not true. I remember them but now I see clearly what I couldn’t see then. It wasn’t a game, was it? The night you ended things and then asked me to hold you. When you told me even before then to wait and see. When you said you were obligated to do it in person, but that you were going to do it.  It was real but I was already too far gone to understand.

And if we had? If I had jumped then, when I was so full of unrest and darkness.  Could I ever have fought my way out the other side? Would I be the woman I am now? No, probably not. But I know now that you were always honest with me. That you cared for me, even as I fell in love with you I think just maybe you were falling in love with me too.

Butterflies, you said I gave you butterflies. Well babe I suppose it goes both ways, because I knew the moment I got your message that I was a goner. That’s why my phone buzzed in the cafe, exactly 25 minutes into our coffee catchup, my best friend ready to fake whatever emergency I needed. That’s why my fingers were tracing the bottleneck of my mango peach juice, imagining the cold glass to be your warm lips.  That’s why, when I finally made my way back to the office, I left you at the back porch and sprinted inside-grateful to find the dressing room unoccupied so that I could slump with my back against the door and sink ever so slowly to the floor in a puddle of long dormant longing.

The pitch of the roof in my room is just the same as yours was all those years ago. Do you remember leaving your window open all winter? That night when we watched bad zombie movies and I snuggled so deeply into you trying to capture your inner warmth. Or the time you brought out oils and smoothed my skin with your tender hands, expecting nothing in return and working the nervous energy out of my skin.

You taught me these kisses, and then when I turned up on your doorstep all these years later you kissed me again before I had time to think or be nervous or god forbid run. Right there in the car, making me squirm until I had to remind myself that I hadn’t taken the car out of drive and I needed to keep my foot firmly on the break.

I’m ready to fall back into flannel nights and the same running jokes we’ve had through years and all of our diverse relationships. I’m ready to believe now what you tried to tell me all those years ago. I don’t know what made me different from the others, or what made you stand out to me (that’s a lie, it was your sparkling eyes and your quick grin and your kind ear) but I know that somehow we are the only ones who matter. The mind-blowing sex doesn’t hurt, either.

Love. My love.

I used to imagine what I would do on the day that I heard you were married. Now you’ve  told me that not even me saying “I do” with someone else would have stopped you from trying. I’m glad. I’ve begged you for years, in my dreams and on these digital pages, to tell me that you wanted something more. I should have just asked you, as you said we could have been together for the last 10 years.

But again, I wouldn’t have been all of me. And I want to be all of me. For myself first, but also for you. So I’m glad. I learned so much, and when I meet your parents again- this time as your partner, I’ll know where I stand. Where we stand.

I can’t wait for our adventures. Everyone else is settled in the story they’ve written for themselves, and ours is just beginning.

Once upon a time...

Fame

I could never be a celebrity, this weekend has been living proof. Defending myself, and Chris (too much like a brother to be comfortable with this many women drooling over him) from the throng is something I hope I never have to do again. But. We did it. And the foremost Jane scholars in the world loved it. And the only things they didn't love are the things that we fought against for the last three years.

And so now, on to the future. Three more turns about the room with Catherine, three more nights falling for Mr. Tilney until I get to see my Wickham.

Goodnight Tilney,
Goodnight Woodston,
Goodnight murdered mother in law,
Goodnight cads,
Goodnight hyacinths,
Goodnight horrid mysteries
Goodnight Miss Morland.
I’m glad you came off the shelf.

Hyacinths

It’s funny how a little sleep can change perspective. And a tech run. And people knowing their god damn lines (myself included.)

I get to be the best and worst parts of Catherine. I can run from a room, “you must despise me forever” without a smidge or irony. I can feel a sort of triumphant delight. I can tell John Thorpe to go jump in the Thames and poor Isabella that she must be stupid to think me such a fool. I can fall in love after one dance without even learning his name.

And tomorrow, I get to live it all out in front of a sold out house  (with a 200 person waiting list!) They hyacinths, the picnic, the ball and the horrid mysteries. I’m so grateful for this. I’m glad to have my £3,000 pounds, though it took me longer than a *true* heroine to get there. And hey, my sister in law is a viscountess, so there’s that.

Cheers to opening, and remember that when in doubt, I can have my cake and marry Tilney too.

Valencourt

It’s closing in on one am, tomorrow I have a three hour marathon of a show and yet my brain still won’t shut off. All of the things I have left to stitch- a gown, a bonnet- if he was here I could ask him to pin up my hem, the lines I should run- I can’t forget how I reacted during the proposal because Amy said it was perfect; it was perfect because I was thinking about him but could I do that if he was in the audience? Should I ask Amy about the kiss or leave it be? Tim never really told me how he felt about it but then I never pressed him. It’s my job, my life’s work- can I give it up so easily? If I could get a job- a good one in pa that’s a step up, I could come back here better, stronger. Not until next year though. And then what if there isn’t one? Do I leave because I said I would? Battle the inevitable depression that circles whenever I’m not at work? Or do I stay and risk losing him? If I leave this, will I become a disappointment to my father? He only just said he’s proud of me. I don’t want to lose that pride.

The show, the show. I need to run the scenes with Isabella. I need to remember to walk more slowly during Valencourt. But it’s so strange hearing someone sing my name- Emily- not Catherine, it unnerves me. Do I sport with my Valencourt? “Catherine, he won’t ever love you.” But could he love Emily? Tim, not Henry. Tim. My Wickham. My Tilney? I hope so, god I hope so.

What shall I do if my stage brother tries to kiss me? I’m genuinely concerned. I shouldn’t have mentioned that Dave and I broke up. And sure, we flirted last spring but it was harmlessly safe- both of us I’m unhappy relationships but unable to act. I could never actually love him, it was a lark. Not like Tim.

I cannot become co-dependent. I need my own identity.   Who am I, really? I’m not Catherine anymore. I’m not 19. I’m proud of what I’ve done, what I’ve accomplished. I shouldn’t have hinted to Dave today, it wasn’t professionally unwise but damn it he was such a condescending ass- I wanted him to know that I’m successful without him. I don’t need or want his “professional assistance” because I’m actually better at this than he is:

Will Ken lose his faith in my if I leave? Will Nicole? Jack and Jacque will kill me, I know. But ohmygod the look ok the ex’s faces will be p r i c e l e s s. Remember when I said I was over him? I was letting him go because it was the noble, the right thing to do. Yeah, I lied.

What would Dolly do? She married a man twice her age, and they lived happily ever after. Except for the war. And her step-sons ptsd. And Jefferson. Fuck Jefferson. But not Kurt, he’s a sweetie and I hope I don’t lose him or Michelle if I go. WHEN I go. I think I’ve decided.

Shit, I’m really going to do this. This job is all I’ve ever wanted in my whole life. I’ve rocketed to the top of this field and I know leaving will change that. I’ll return and I’ll have aged out of roles. Maybe I’ll be a mother. People will have found another best and brightest. But I think it will be worth it, for the life we could build together.

Together, because I will not be dependent. I will keep my own identity.  What would Jane do?

She didn’t get married, but she wrote endless stories of women in love. Women who give all of themselves. Women who tell men to fuck right off. Women who change every part of themselves when they see a nice house and realize they have been in love the whole time.

What would you do Jane? And Dolly? Amo? Minna?

Germaine understands, I know. She left her whole world behind for a soldier, and she sometimes regretted it. Was it worth it to marry a mechanic from New Jersey? Do you miss France grandmother?

I miss him.
I love him.
Duh.

It must have been very wrong to have dreamt of him before he dreamt of me- but I did. I kept dreaming of him. I’ll never stop.

I must remember my blanket. My dressing robe. My bonnet. My corset. My book.

Everything a lady needs really, to fall in love.

Catherine, what would you do? Tell me what to do, please. How does my novel end? Am I a heroine after all?

Surprises discovered

I tried you know. I went boldly out into the world, I dated other people and tried on different versions of myself. I loved, fought, lost. I went years without speaking to you.
And yet.
You’re it. Done. The end.
Love is a beautiful place to be, and I’m
In
It.

Heartache

The problem is that I love you.
I can tell myself over and over again that I’m being deliberate, careful, that I’m letting myself have the time that I need to be with myself. I can tell myself that I have learned to let go and allow life to happen, the chips will fall where they will. But then, two words and I’m panicked at the thought of losing you- I’m planning to give up my whole life, my whole dream just for the chance to be yours. And I don’t care if it’s logical or sensible because it’s the only thing that my heart wants.
I’m afraid of losing myself but I’m more afraid of losing you. I can physically  feel a pain in my chest, sometimes it’s a dull ache but then unexpectedly it intensified into an acute pricking, pulsing whenever I’m doubting or fearful or unsure.
Do you mean it, really? Can I trust that this is real, that it’s not another in a long line of dreams born of longing? What if tomorrow you decide it’s not worth it, I’m not worth it. What if it’s a joke, a trick. Why should I deserve your love now, after all these years.

Some days I celebrate modern technology, the ability for instant gratification. The way my face lights up when I see your messages.

Some days I hate it, because it’s up to me to keep myself from going crazy. From sending missive after missive, begging for validation.

And that’s why I’m waiting, hoping and praying that these moments will pass and I’ll grow stronger in my convictions and belief in the truth of myself, of you, of us. That I’ll be able to put this anxiety behind me, that it won’t ruin something so good and so beautiful. That we could have a future.

That there is a future.

Soul searching

This is not real. There’s no way that after all these years of struggle and heartache I could come out on top. I’m not a winner, I’m a surviver.

But.

I don’t think it’s a lie either. I’ve tried to tell myself again and again that it could be some sort of cosmic hoax, that I should prepare myself to be b r o k e n. I’m very comfortable with being in pieces.

So.

If it is real, maybe all the pieces can be stitched back together. Maybe I can leave the past well enough alone and win myself a present.  And if I’m whole again, then who am I? Twelve years of being in pieces and slowly I’m unlearning and relearning me. I don’t need to be completed. I need to be complimented.

My cracks are going to stay, I couldn’t fix them with all the glue in the world.  But eventually maybe time will make them less obvious. And anyway, the Japanese say that mended things are beautiful (hah!)

If he loves me. If he really truly does. That means I can fall, right? No more fear of being caught. Fall of my own volition and pull the string to my own parachute.

Just. Don’t ask me to give all of me, please. I don’t know who I am if I’m not where I am.  Love me by wholes, not halves. I want to continue to discover all that I can be. Maybe that’s my fear. If I do say yes and fall, does that mean that I give over the control of my descent after all?

Once upon a time I was the girl crying tears of heartbreak, real or imagined. And now. Now I grin into my pillow. I wear white dresses in my dreams. I do soul completing work and then I talk to the person who fills that completed soul all the way up.

If.

This is real, don’t let me break it. But if it’s not, don’t let me wake. I want this dream. I want it now. I want it forever.
I have never been so
Utterly
Unequivocally
Happy.

Over you

Well, this is awkward. Went to re-find my old *fiction* stories but I had the most annoying habit of pretending that everything I wrote as fact was actually fiction which means the titles and labels are super confusing (thanks past Emily, it’s literally in your subheading and you still managed to fool yourself.). Every time I’ve ever said “the last time” it’s been a lie so I won’t pretend I won’t dive in again in the future, but here’s a short sampling of all the times I’ve been “over him” over the years.

Yeah.

Totally over him.

The nice thing is that the trauma has blocked so many of those early memories that it’s nice to remember some of the sweet times. We watched bad horror movies together- I had forgotten. Your window was always open and FREEZING. I forgot that I could hear your boots and tell you were coming. So anyway. Just one excerpt and I’ll stop. In a strange way, this gives me strength, confidence.  I can stand here now and know that I’ll survive anything the world can throw at me. I can know that I have no reason for heartache, not now. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s an interesting study in time travel. 

***

You wrap your arms around me and tell me to stay, stay; purring in my ear in that way you do. You're so very very good at that. He doesn't have to know, you whisper, caressing my neck, shoulder, warm breath in my ear. And she?I hiss in reply, What will you tell her?

 Anything, or nothing. What does it matter. Stay with me tonight. Stay and be warm. It's so cold out... the windows open and it's refreshing to be here with you. Why go back to a lonely bed?Shrug you off and move away. Lying on my back with my head turned toward you, leaving a pillow between us so I can't see your eyes. Goddamn those eyes. Breath in and out, in and out, and you are beyond exhaustion, I can tell in your voice.

So why not? Your breath is on my neck again, you know I hate that and love it too. You smell of beer and you need to shave, your chin is tickling my neck maddeningly. Sit up and wrap my arms around myself for a moment, gathering the strength to swing my legs out of your bed. Find the shoes in the dark-much easier then nights before when it was a shirt and bra and pants. Open the door noiselessly in that way that I learned months ago and turn to see your form on the bed. Well goodbye then, good luck with life."Want to answer with something sweet and poetic, but not so.

 Bye.

***

Here’s the thing about time travel. At some point, you must live in the present. I cannot keep going back and questioning my current reality. Not if I want it to survive. So, I’ll do my best to stay in the here and now. I’ll probably fail sometimes, I have years of assumptions and false conclusions to unlearn. I need to figure out how to say sorry- to him, to myself. 

Because I won’t jeopardize this for anything, if  someday it could turn into my reality. It would all be worth it. First though, I need to be whole- I need to finish all the stages of grief that I’ve cut short again and again.  Not for this man who’s worked his way back into my head (who am I kidding, he never left.) Rather for the things the other one did to me. I need to mourn the loss of my self identity and my trust. I need to find a way to move beyond it wholly. Because I want to be able to be all of myself. For me, and I hope someday for him. 

County Fair, Chapter One

There’s nothing better than the fair really. She had been to more than her fair share of counties and states, and they were all alike in their nostalgia of hometown pride. The first county fair was held before the country was a quarter of a century old, but somehow no matter how they started every fair seemed to long for the mid century graduate of a midway lit with electric bulbs and girls in crinolined skirts. This suited her just fine, it was always easier to find her a mark if he already wanted what she was selling.

Walking past the boulevard lined with hucksters calling for patrons to step up and try their “luck” at the decidedly rigged carnival games, she felt eyes on the back of her head. Pausing, she pulled out her compact. It had been her grandmother’s once, but she had filled it with her own special rouge. It’s mirror sent light dancing over her skin but in it she could see the man behind her left shoulder. He was talking to a buddy, but his eyes kept drifting to her waist and her bare shoulders.  There was something about his gaze  that was picking at the back of her mind, but the more she searched her mind the further it slipped away.  Mentally shrugging she dug in her purse for lipstick- American Beauty, her signature color. Checking the mirror once more, she slipped her things back into her purse and continued her slow walk down the avenue. A  man leaned against a display of  oversized stuffed bears in front of a wall of targets, water guns waiting at the ready in front of him.  

“Wanna play sweetheart?”

“Oh... no. Thank you but I’m terrible.” She was about to walk away on when a voice behind her made her pause.

“I’ll play for you, if you keep the prize.”  Turning she saw her mystery man, up close his blue eyes were softer grey and she could see the threads wearing at the edge of his green cap.

“That doesn’t seem hardly fair!”

“Sure it is. I got no use for a bear this big, but I been looking for a reason to show off for my buddies all afternoon. I win, you carry the bear and I can tell all of them I talked to a beautiful girl. Even trade.”  There was something about him that made her want to stop, but she was already in too deep. She knew it the moment he spoke. 

“All right then, swell.”  Grinning he hunkered down over the gin and waited for the attendant to half heartedly call for a challenger to 

“STEP RIGHT UP, STEP RIGHT UP.” At the sound of the buzzer the water made the little stuffed animals on their tracks climb higher and higher, until her champions hit the top rung as she knew it would. It was easy to pick a winner once you had been around for a while, and this guy may be a loser at any other place in the world but he was a winner when he was at the county fair. Grinning, her let her pick her prize- not an overstuffed bear but a soft little lamb that was looking neglected next to its gargantuan shelf mates. Thanking him, she turned to walk away but he caught her arm.

“Hey, you gotta boyfriend?” She felt color rising in her cheeks, somehow The straight forward nature of the question made her insides squirm. Romance is not what it used to be.

“No, I haven’t had a beau in some time actually.”

“Well then, mind if I walk with you?” 

“Sure, is your friends don’t mind.” He grinned, it was a little lopsided but no less charming.

“The guys are drinking bud over at the tent, they don’t know which was is heaven and which way is hell, let alone what I get up to.”  They set off around the edge of the midway, he was careful to match his pace to her high wedge sandals. 

“I haven’t seen your around here before.  Did you come down from the city or are you just passing through?”
“Oh, I won’t be in town long. Just a couple days- but everyone told me I had to come down here, I guess there’s a tractor pull later that everyone’s excited about.” She knew by looking at him now that she had him. His eyes lit up and she could see actual excitement in his smile.
“Yes ma’am, my cousins organizing it. Been a family tradition now since right after World War 2, my great uncle started it.”
“Well then I guess I’ll have to stay and watch, mustn’t I?” 

“I sure hope you do.” A crowd of teens swept past, girls in jean shorts- could they rightly be called shorts she wondered? Young men in shirts proclaiming their high school graduation year. They were near the food tents now, and she could tell that the pull of his friends and beer was getting stronger. She stepped in close enough to smell his musk, it was hot and still somehow he smelled like pine and hay and all sorts of nice things.
“I better let you get back to your friends, but I would love to see you later if you don’t mind.” She was looking right up into his eyes now, she could tell that having her so close tilting her head up to his was causing him an internal battle. The beer won, as she knew it would.
“I sure as heck don’t mind. See you around six? I’ll be at the west gate of the grandstand.”
“I can’t wait.”  She walked away, weaving through the crowd and feeling his eyes on her back.
She had him.

Dream kisses

Babe your kisses are keeping me up. You are 206 miles away (I checked) and all I can think about is the feeling of your lips brushing both my cheeks and then landing on my forehead, butterfly fast and so cherished. Had you ever kissed me that way before? I can’t remember, but I don’t think so. I close my eyes and all of a sudden you’re standing in front of me again, down a long line of friends and family and you’re eyes are on mine, pulling me towards you with the magnetism I’ve never been able to avoid-
No. Stop. I cannot follow that dream to its conclusion because if I do and it doesn’t come true, I may never pick up the pieces. It’s a survival habit to stop that one.
Toss and turn and try to turn my thoughts back to your kisses.
Kisses that trail down me and taste like red wine and whiskey, terrible idea to mix them on an empty stomach but we have and now I can feel the water and the wine caress my skin and you following after.
Is this what I imagined?
Yes and no. My imagination couldn’t go beyond the cramped and dirty communal shower stalls, the white curtains stained with who knows how many years of detritus. Hairs stuck to the walls from the girls who haven’t yet figured out how to clean up after themselves, squeaky flip flops that you have to grip with your toes in order to keep your feet from touching the stall floor.
And yet, in my minds eye you did kiss me. You kissed me and loved me and maybe that is true now. It is true now. If I am to move forward, I’ve got to believe what you say. And you do say it.
I wonder if you know how many creative ways I kept from telling you that I loved you, once. All the times I told you “I feel for you hard... head over heels... infatuated, intoxicated...” what I meant was love. Simple, as pure as my heart could be- I gave it to you. Before I ever broke. When I still believed in white dresses and Jane Austen hero’s. I thought you were Wickham, but maybe you have been Henry Tilney all along. Teasing, I never know when you’re being serious- with dreams and ambitions and the ability to realize them.
Let me be a part of your dreams, love. Let me be your Catherine. Awkward maybe, endearingly so. But trusting. Loving by wholes and not halves.
When all is said and done, I wasn’t ready for you before. Yes. You intoxicated me. I thought you were worldly and sweet- but it never would have worked. I didn’t know me yet. I’m still working it out. But- if I have children it will be with you. Only with you. Before,  that was all theory, but now- I want reality with all its sharp edges and hard work. I want to chase waterfalls and clean up messes with you. I want the white dress. I want the picket fence. Enough to give up my life’s work? Maybe. Probably.
I don’t want to be your almost lover. I want to be your forever.
I can’t believe this is real. But it is, somehow.
Maybe I’ll close my eyes and go back to your kisses and that long walk down the aisle. Maybe this time I’ll let myself keep walking to see what happens.

Unreal

My heart hadn’t been my own for so long, I wonder what life was like without you. I don’t want to know. I just read and re-read everything I’ve written and the only common theme is blue eyes and dimpled grins and dirty blond hair. I’ve murdered you, begged for  you, loved you, lusted over you- I’ve tried a million times to convince myself that I can cut you out of my life, carve you out of my heart. It’s never worked, I don’t think it ever will. I don’t want to. I want you babe, I want it all. The house and the kids and the dog that you told me once you wanted, the dreams I found when I was still more girl than woman, I want them all now more than ever.
Maybe this time it will work.
Maybe this will break me beyond repair.
Either way, I’m not willing to not try. You’ve been in my dreams for too long, I would rather be broken than live in this purgatory forever.
I guess this post is my one in roughly three of everything I write that’s about you.
I don’t care.
I love you. Now and probably forever.
So there’s that.
I hope you wait for me.

Whoosh

The day is warm, but not uncomfortable so. Summer is finally starting to turn, and for Charles this means more people walking the trails. More people to watch. More people to save. Every stride  he takes up and down the uneven stone steps is learned, he’s been walking this path every day for the last five years. Ever since she left him. He’s watched as the trail changed, noticed as trees fall over the cliff banks one by one and change the course of the creek subtly; in a thousand years the whole course of the falls will have changed, evened out- this land is living memory and Charles is a part of it.

He walks for her. 

Up and down the stairs like they used to do, when things were good and happy. Some days he feels like she’s still here with him. He always wears the same thing he was wearing the day she left- black shirt, black shorts and a smile. 

Today he’s watching a woman who’s standing on one of the bridges. He’s already passed her twice, once she was lying on a rock near the parking lot, staring at the canopy of leaves overhead. He didn’t recognize her then, but then she and her companion passed by him on the stone stairs  and their eyes met. Even as his mouth opened for his customary greeting he recognized her.

“Good day.” 

“Hello.” 

The couple is gone before anything else can be said, but now she’s standing there alone again- too good to be true, it must be a sign. She’s come back at last. Charles's  pace quicks towards the bridge, she is reading the graffiti on the rail, absorbed in the scratchings of faded romance and family vacations. Too easy. It’s too easy. 

Charles  is standing so close to her by the time that she realizes he’s there that she tries to step back, but the bridge railing cuts her flight short. It’s always this way, animal instinct is outsmarted by human preparation. 

“Good day, Elenor.” 

“Um, hello- I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” 

She steps to the right, and Charles shifts his weight almost imperceptibly to counter her.

“Oh no dear, I know you- don’t you remember me?” 

She’s starting to look frantically over his shoulder now, trying to find her boyfriend or fiancé or whoever she’s cheating on Charles with this time.

“No, I don’t know you and you’re sort of making me uncomfortable- I’m sorry I have to go.”

She turns to step to the side and in one fluid motion Charles’s hand is on her wrist and twisting it so that she turns involuntary, his other hand clamps tight over her mouth. For a middle aged man, Charles is in very good shape.

She’s writhing now and trying to throw off his hand to scream- but even if she gets does there is no one to hear. The cuckolder is already dead. 

“Elenor, come now. You don’t need to be this way.” Charles puts an arm around her neck and slowly, gently begins to apply pressure. She fights at first but eventually sags, and as she drops he scoops her into a fireman’s lift. 

With a grunt, Charles walks up the trail two steps at a time until he comes to Their Waterfall, the one with the cave cleverly hidden behind the cascading water. The whoosh of the falls are deafening, but Charles doesn’t mind. No one can ever hear Elenor over the noise. 

He slowly deposits her on a moss covered boulder, and moves further back into the cave to gather the necessary equipment. On his way he greats the other Elenor’s he’s collected, 9, 8, 7, 6, and 5 still have white bones, 4, 3 and 2 are covered in a soft fuzz of  algae. 1 is almost completely greenish  brown now. 

But ten, ten will be perfect. 

Charles hums as he prepares, singing their song to himself. 

He always finds her. 

Always. 

The first time

It's hot, it's always hot and sticky on nights of any importance.  Or maybe that's just how this emotion feels, hot and sticky with desire and need.  The bar was loud and smoky and perfect.  My hair is large and out of control, there is no amount of pomatum that can smooth it into the waves.  The are are  moments here, in this place, in between the overly false exuberance and sweat and dancing that I am finally LIVING.  There are moments when the demons are asleep.
***
She's at the bar, and she's the only one who has any truth to her.  She's not pretty, not really.  Her hair is too big and her face is too-well nothing.  It's unremarkable.  She'll probably have that face, looking just the same until she's an old woman.  She's leaning into the music in her chair, not really dancing but leaning all the way in.  I think, finally, it's time.  She's worth it.
***
There is a man at the end of the bar.  He's awkward, and he's watching me.  It's wonderful to be noticed, so I take extreme pleasure at being creeped out. He looks like he's never been out of the advanced mathematics field in his life.  Maybe, for him, I can be the glamazon the world thinks I should be.  I let my fingers trace the mouth of my glass beer bottle, slowly.  Maybe it doesn't look sexy.  Probably it looks ridiculous.  But he's watching. I lean into the bar, thrusting my breasts toward the ceiling in a ridiculously feminized motion, laughing at nothing when the bartender glances over.  Now I know I look ridiculous.
***
She's playing to me, I can tell.  She's arching her back and letting her too-big hair skim down the back of her neck.  This is my moment, if I don't look like a total nerd this could be it.  I put my glass down a little too hard and the water with lemon that I ordered earlier spills down the side.  It might not be liquid courage, but somehow she beckoning to me without even looking at this end of the bar.  I can feel my throat constrict, I'm sure my nerves are showing in my adams apple.  I don't plan what I'm doing and all of a sudden I'm in front of her and she's looking up at me, waiting for me to speak.
***
"Buy you a drink?"  He's forgotten to say the whole sentence out loud.  He doesn't know how to get the bartender's attention, that much is obvious.  I order two whiskey sours.  I'm not drinking alone.  My world is suddenly bright and shining, and he's lost all his awkward tendancies.  He's Cary Grant, or Clark Gable, or Humphry Bogart.  Electrified, I take his hand.
"Dance," I whisper shout in his ear but I don't have to explain, because we're already halfway to the dance floor.
***
She's become beautiful.  She's not a good dancer but she thinks she is, and the whiskey is making me realize that I don't need to worry, this is something I'm good at.   I'm good at women.  We're spinning and I'm trying to catch the rhythm of her hips but it keeps changing as she rolls and dips with this song that I know.  Everyone is watching her and I don't mind, because they're watch me too.  Her glory enfolds me and then we are both beautiful.  She is the one, this is what I've been waiting for for since I discovered myself in my mother's basement.
***
I think it would be delightful to take him home.  I'm not a predator, but he looks like he needs kind word and a kinder hand, and I can give him those things.  I've never done this before-taking a man to bed without knowing his name-but it looks to me as if he's never been to bed with a woman so I guess we're even.  It's my good deed for the night, and I'll wake up tomorrow morning to revel in the guilt and the shame of it all.  We're walking back up the long hill to my house and he is holding my hand.  The bar was delightfully warm and throbbing and now this air is perfectly freezing.  I need this.  I pull him under a street lamp and when we kiss for the first time, I feel every muscle of his body giving in.  He is mine.
***
She's beautiful still, standing on the grey-brown linoleum of the mid-century house that she must call home.  Her jacket is thrown carelessly on the table piled with old bills and the everyday detritus of pockets.  My hands are on her, grabbing her hips, pulling them into mine.  When she kisses me it's sour, hinting of the beer she had abandoned in favor of something stronger.  We stand there, clutching each other, willing our bodies together through the protective layers of clothing.
"Come with me."  It's whispered in my ear and it's too cheesy to be sexy, but it's sweet.  She's pulling me into the bedroom that must lie deeper in the house, but I can't help myself as a I slow down.
"I've never done this before."  I'm talking to my shoes, but she answers.
"I know.  I'll teach you."
I know she will.
***
He's on the bed and straining, he can't get his belt off and his hands are shaking.  He doesn't want to pull his pants all the way off for some reason, but he's fumbling with his boxer shorts beneath as if with  enough willpower they will just disappear.  He's awkward again, not a black and white movie star.  I can feel the self loathing creeping back and I will it to stay away for just a few moments more.  I prop myself up on my elbows, thrusting my chest toward him in what I'm sure is a ludicrous pose.  It works.  He stops fumbling and looks at me.  Then, he reaches into his pocket.  Good, he's brought protection- that saves me an uncomfortable search through the dark.
***
She is here and I am ready.  She's leaning up into me, and I know I can't resists much longer or the moment will be lost-I'll explode all over her bedroom and wouldn't that be a scene for her roommates to find.  I look down at her and she looks up into my eyes, greedily.  Pulling her face into my neck, she nuzzles my ear and whispers,
"Hey, You're amazing!"
It's time.  My pocket is empty, but my hand is full.  As the knife slides between her ribs she looks momentarily ecstatic, then confused.  She dies without fanfair.
She's the one.
She's mine.
My first time.

Feelings of yesterday

How does it feel now?
I was at your wedding you know, the first time he tore my heart out. Thinking about that night still makes me sick. I knew it was wrong, all wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe the truth of my life- not for years. You laugh, you and the rest of everyone who said I should know better. At 19, my virginal heart should have known better according to you.

So how does it feel?
It hurts, sure. You thought you built a future, and when you realized you were the only one with bricks and cement it was too late. I know how it goes, you spent moths thinking

“But it couldn’t happen to me!”
Oh but darling, it can.

The embarrassment it will fade, as you settle into your new place in society. You will define yourself on your own terms, because unlike the others (the ones you tortured) it couldn’t be YOUR fault, could it??

But here’s the secret, darling:
I’ve known since the very beginning. But why listen to me? I dated a whore, my woes is inherently flawed. I hope you enjoy the heartbreak, darling.
I did.