Monday, July 25, 2005

Some of the Things You're Not Writing About

#1 The clear-eyed silence between you and your mother. The way she held you at the end of the trip and how painful it must be for her to lose this connection with you; to love you but not to know what's going on with you. How, for the whole two weeks you hardly spent any time together, and how even on that four-mile walk to Puako you managed to avoid the topic of how you really were and whether you and your husband were still involved with that couple. But then how, at the end of the trip, on that last day in the laundry room, how she turned toward you and said, “hug,” and the way you stood together, so still, holding each other. Not one of those hugs where something is trying to be conveyed, a hug like “I love you” or “thank you” or “everything's going to be alright.” This hug was stillness and silence, and then the smallest sound coming from your mother in the moment when you realize that she has felt you, located you, her first child. And that was enough, just to find each other in silence, in a laundry room in Hawaii.

#2 What's going on between you and your lover, his wife and your husband. Where things are and where they aren't; what you're feeling, what the plan is, when you had sex with him last. What's up with that? You know, the whole story; the juice, the details, the drama. You're not really writing about that.

#3 How tight your jaw is, one week later and how it's still kind of sore, a reminder of the weekend-the E and the whole day up in the hills; the heat, the trees, you, walking around bare -chested, sun tan oil all over your body, and your husband, naked in the grown-up sized sand box, with a rake, for hours. Your lover, his wife, your lover, his wife and those easy moments when you wanted nothing from any of them. How all the roles fell away and even your anger at her for making it look so easy; her raven beauty and ability to be both the girlfriend and the wife, for making it seem like you were the only freak in the show, the only one who lived and lurked, who ducked and covered in the shadows. All that fell away and there she was, sister, friend, confident, the woman you share husbands with.

You're not writing much about that because you've taken a break from the narrative, the story line. You're still a part of the drama, but it's like you've forgotten your lines and a part of your brain has gone soft. You've stopped wondering how the story ends; whether the hero gets the girl or if good will triumphs over evil. In fact, you've forgotten what the play is about, and, as if in a dream, you find yourself roaming among the cast, but you've all forgotten your parts and there's an easiness to this, a new level of possibility, an opportunity actually to switch roles if you like, to become, for instance, the aloof lover. You could play that role, try it on, as you did last Friday when you had the pleasure of hearing his voice on your answering machine and then your ability to leave it at that. I mean, he said to call back if you felt like it, and the truth was you didn't.

#4 That you and your husband haven't made eye contact or spoken more than two sentences for going on 40 hours, not that you're counting. And how you kind of like the break and the ability that the two of you have to step away from one another like this. And while it's true that there is an issue at hand, not just a funk, the phrase your husband used to describe it, no, not a funk, not a simple peeve, but a real life makem or breakem issue having to do with money, while it's true that there's this big ol' something sitting there not being talked about because you can't, because it's too triggering, because you need a third party with you, someone who can listen and keep things fair, honestly, your attitude right now is fuck it. You don't want to resolve things just yet because you like your anger and your self-righteousness. You like having the power and knowing that he needs you and that a part of him must be feeling like a really sad piece of dung right now. I mean come on, a 46-year-old father of two, the owner of two cars and holder of a mortgage is broke again and doesn't have a plan. No, you don't mind the distance, you like the distance. You need the distance. You're just fine with the distance.

These are just a few of the things that you're not writing about now.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Lucky Penny

Are all pennies lucky?

Even this one, the one I see when I look down at my feet at the gas station this morning, half in, half out of my car, waiting for the tank to fill?

Even this abandoned penny; dirty and scratched, run over dozens of times by cars whizzing in and whizzing out, impatient and empty, all of us on the move, grasping for a greater piece of the pie.

Is the accidentally dropped penny, the one that isn't worth bending over for, this worthless circle of copper, the very same penny that is meant to bring me luck on this cold, summer morning? What else in my life is good fortune disguised as loss?

In the dream I had a week ago in Hawaii I only remember the words as I awoke, “lucky penny, lucky penny.”

Friday, July 01, 2005

gone fishing

deep sea diving. Home on the 14th of the month.