So on Saturdays, I work at the answering service. The job is not the most fun, but my coworkers mostly are the best. We get giggly over stupid shit. I think this is because we’re getting yelled at by the callers so much that we need to laugh where we can.

Today’s best typos:

Someone meant to say that the caller wanted a black plaque on the coffin they were ordering. However, some of my coworkers aren’t the best at spelling. So, instead of “include the black plaque” we got “include the black plague.”

OMG THE BLACK PLAGUE YOU GUYS.

Bring our your dead!

And the worst part was it was on this place we answer for where you can order coffins and grave liners and things, so we totally got giggling because we were all “the black plague! Man, if the black plague was included, what a great day that would be for all the funeral directors! BUSINESS WOULD BE BOOMING!”

Then, someone meant to write “the individuals” but didn’t double-check her message so when I got it, it said “teh individualos.”

Say that out loud. Doesn’t it sound so Spanish and debonair? TEH INDIVIDUALOS!

So we kept saying things like “teh individualos, Señor! Beware teh individualos!” in a thick faux-Spanish accent.

THEN, someone spelled Albuquerque as Albuquercue like it was barbecue, so we were saying that in all the different ways. Mine was Al-be-ker-koo. With a very long oooooo sound at the end. We were all going to take a road trip to Albuquercue to avoid the black plague and also to avoid teh individualos. Those nefarious individualos.

Albuquercue is FILLED with all teh nefarious individualos.

And THEN, right before I left, a caller called in and started complaining that his air conditioner didn’t work, and he was looking for a part. What part? His “compacitor.” Listen, he was REALLY serious about this. No, not his capacitor. No, not his compressor. His compacitor. Which I just Googled and it does not exist. DOES. NOT. EXIST. But a lot of people on the Googles THINK it exists, because they cannot spell. ANYWAY, so after the compacitor guy called, we were all “the FLUX COMPACITOR!” and “1.21 gigawatts!” and “we’re going BACK…to the FUTURE!” and if you think we’re not a., having a good time at the answering service, and b., laughing at the douchebag callers who think compacitors are a thing, you are doubly wrong, my little lemon tarts.

This is CLEARLY spelled wrong. It’s COMpacitor, bub.

Then I went to the theater and was a very good house manager and made people laugh and tore their tickets with FLAIR. It’s like a little added show, only you don’t even have to pay for that part. Nice, right? Seriously, I was on fire, yo. Actually, no. I was on the OPPOSITE of fire, because my fever is totally gone and all I have is a cough now and sometimes my nose runs randomly the most and I have to run and find a Kleenex and not all Kleenex are the best and some are scratchy and my nose is all sore right now, you know. STUPID COLD.

Then I was watching television and a commercial for this product came on:

This is a beer product that is also a malt beverage like a wine cooler and tastes like a margarita. I can’t…is there anything in the whole entire world, including organ meat, that sounds less appealing than this? Are people buying this? Like, to actually drink it and not use it to mock, or strip paint?

According to this review, they don’t taste like beer (which is what was the most confusing to me, because the commercial kept saying they had beer in them WHY WOULD I WANT BEER IN MY MARGARITA) but they DO taste REPULSIVE which is not at all surprising to me. They are malt beverages. I have not yet met a malt beverage that doesn’t give me a headache with the scent alone.

Listen, back when I did such things, my steady boyfriend was José Cuervo. I pretty much lived on tequila and tequila-based beverages. It got to the point where all I’d do was splash the tiniest amount of margarita mix in the big old glass of tequila, but still. It was KIND of a margarita. In spirit, anyway. Ha! Spirit. Get it?

José and I had a breakup many years ago, and we only have flirtations every now and then, which leave me feeling guilty and kind of disgusting. Damn you, José. You and your seductive bedroom eyes.

But even though I’m no longer a margarita connoisseur, I am fairly sure these fake margaritas in a can that seem to have beer in them would not be good. Not at all good. Terrible. Vomitorious. There were totally a zillion commercials on for them the other night, though. That’s why I don’t watch a lot of live TV. You can’t avoid the commercials.

My verdict: don’t drink these things. And if you do, don’t you even come crying to me, because I totally told you so.

This is kind of short but I’m sleepy. Listen, I had a FOUR HOUR TRAINING SEMINAR today. Four hours. And it was one of those seminars where they MAKE YOU PARTICIPATE. Here’s my take on forced participation: I’ll participate if I want to, but the minute you tell me I HAVE to, I clam right up. It makes me nervous when it’s not on my own terms. There was a lot of shit in that four hours that wasn’t on my terms, yo. But I did get to make a poster. I do so like making posters. That’s my jam.

Here’s to things randomly cracking you up today. But not things making you THROW up, and I’m fairly sure that malt beverage thingy would do just that. Blergh.

I see a lot of plays. I get paid for it now, for one thing. But I don’t just see plays I get paid for. I’m more than a little addicted. I see as many as I feasibly can. We’ve discussed this, at length; as a child, I always dreamed of living the kind of life where I could go to the theater whenever I wanted. I am lucky enough to live that kind of life now, and I honor that wide-eyed teenager every time I buy my ticket (or am blessed enough to get a reviewer’s comp) and sit in a seat in a darkened theater and let the actors spin their web around me.

They’re not always good. That’s the thing about any art form, really; some will be very, very good, some will be so, so terrible, and some will be just middle-of-the-road. This can be because of any number of things: the actors, the direction, the set, the costumes, the writing. It’s also sometimes because of the baggage you bring to the table, which is something that’s often overlooked; the play could be wonderful, but you might hate it because one of the characters reminds you too much of your abusive ex or your unstable mother-in-law or the set is just too reminiscient of the unhappy home you grew up in. It’s very seldom that everything comes together perfectly. It’s (and I know this is going to surprise you, since, as the Irish say, my bladder is close to my eyes) seldom I cry in the theater; all of these elements coming together perfectly doesn’t happen very often, and in order for me to cry IN FRONT OF PEOPLE (a thing I don’t often do, as weepy as I am – my crying is almost always a very personal and very private affair) the stars really have to align.

Today I saw a play that made all the stars line up perfectly. Better than that: it made me think. It’s still making me think, hours later.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a huge art person. I mean, I love art. I respect art, and appreciate art, and love going to see art. But I couldn’t tell you what makes good art, not really. Or how it makes me feel.

What really impresses me, more so than the art itself, are artists. The creativity behind making a work of art. The thought process. The type of mind that can come up with something like that. And the demons that live in a mind like that. I lump all artists into this category, by the way, not just traditional sculptors and painters. Writers, musicians, actors, dancers, anyone who creates something new that wasn’t there before. I believe that all artists have something in common, whether or not it’s obvious; that creation holds a madness in it. Whether it holds it at bay or it brings it to the forefront depends on the artist. Anyone who is creative, especially one who is good at what they do, walks a fine line with the darkness in their mind.

Red is about Mark Rothko. I knew very little about Rothko going into the show. I knew he was a painter; I knew he was an impressionist. I knew his paintings were blocks of color, almost painful to look at in their intensity.

Other than that, very little. My artistic education was lacking. I’ll be the first to admit it. We didn’t discuss art in high school, and in college, as long as you were taking some sort of art classes, you were covered, and my art was the billions of theater classes I was taking.

I like that he doesn’t look like a fancy artist. He kind of looks like an accountant.

The Four Seasons restaurant in New York City had just been built in the late 50s by the beverage company Seagram and Sons. (I think of Seagrams now, I think of wine coolers. I don’t know that they’d be proud of that legacy; apparently they used to be the fanciest.) They commissioned Rothko to paint a mural for the restaurant for a lot of money. He worked on them for at least a year or two, then visited the restaurant and decided, for a reason that’s never been completely explained, his paintings couldn’t hang there. He called Seagram up, gave him what is thought to have been a monumental tongue-lashing (Rothko was a firebrand, you guys) and sent him back the money. In the play, which I assume was researched, the amount was $35,000. In the late 50s/early 60s. He RETURNED it. The paintings were done, but he didn’t want them hanging in that restaurant.

The play (which won a number of Tonys in 2010) is about the years he spent working on the mural. In order for him to have someone to talk to (because it would be extremely strange for him to talk to himself for 90 minutes) he hires a young artist as an assistant at the top of the show, and the two of them spar. It’s a complicated relationship; a little father/son, a little teacher/student, a little peer to peer, a little antagonistic.

Let’s get the little things out of the way first: the acting was stellar. The set design was amazing – it couldn’t have been more of an art studio without you actually being in an art studio. They painted on stage, with paint flying. The passion was so palpable. The direction was tight and crisp. I had nothing at all to complain about.

It was the writing, though. The writing. Oh, my. John Logan’s script – such a brilliant work of art in itself.

The play was about the relationship between the two men, but it was also about art. Art on a lot of levels. First, the relationship between the artist and his or her work, but also the relationship between the viewer and the art. How the viewer should come to the work; how the viewer should view the work. How the work should make the viewer feel. How much the artist should art-design the viewing process – the lighting, the venue.

Even closer to my heart, it was about the internal struggle. The quote at the top of the post is from the show; Rothko compared death to the black and life to the red. When the black came for him, life was over. Everything he did was to keep the black at bay. He talked about how artists have to kill their muses (his being the Cubists, killing them with Expressionism); but when the up-and-coming artists came along (Warhol, Lichtenstein) and began to “kill” their muses, (i.e. him) he was furious – at them, for daring to challenge him, at the audience, for what he considered the dumbing-down of art.

“‘Pretty.’ ‘Beautiful.’ ‘Nice.’ ‘Fine.’ That’s our life now! Everything’s ‘fine’. We put on the funny nose and glasses and slip on the banana peel and the TV makes everything happy and everyone’s laughing all the time, it’s all so goddamn funny, it’s our constitutional right to be amused all the time, isn’t it? We’re a smirking nation, living under the tyranny of ‘fine.’ How are you? Fine.. How was your day? Fine. How are you feeling? Fine. How did you like the painting? Fine. What some dinner? Fine… Well, let me tell you, everything is not fine!!
HOW ARE YOU?!… HOW WAS YOUR DAY?!… HOW ARE YOU FEELING? Conflicted. Nuanced. Troubled. Diseased. Doomed. I am not fine. We are not fine. We are anything but fine.”

The passion in this. The fight against anything middle-of-the-road. Always straining for whatever is ultimate. Keeping the black at bay. The overwhelming need to create something beautiful, something that will last. Yes. Yes, I found a lot to relate to in this play.

Rothko, ultimately, was not able to fight the black. In 1970, he was found dead, having not only slit his wrists, but having overdosed on pills as well. The black won. He ran out of red.

He made something lasting, though. 836 paintings. Can you even imagine a legacy like this?

I left the theater filled with so many emotions. Hope and loss and pride and a deep feeling of being understood, somehow, by someone I’d never known, by someone who’d died before I was even born, by someone tied to me by something as tangential as a shared love for the creation of beautiful things and a brain that runs at a different frequency than the people buzzing around us.

I had a good day. The red kept the black most definitely at bay.

So it seems I am on the mend. This pleases Dad; he was quite sure I was dying. Every day I would call him he would say “ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? WHY WON’T YOU GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM? WHY DO YOU WANT TO DIE SO BADLY?” He didn’t seem to understand it’s not often one goes to the ER for a cold. Now that I’m getting a little better, he keeps acting like I’m FOOLING him. “Are you SURE you’re better? Maybe the illness is HIDING. Maybe it’s a FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY,” Dad says, very suspiciously.

What are your symptoms, ma’am? Oh, the common cold? THE HORROR! THE HORROR!

Nah. I’m ok, Dad. No worries. It’s just a cold. I don’t think it will kill me dead dead dead. Probably.

Second, and a lot more interesting than a health update: EXCITING VACATION NEWS!

Fast on the heels of my LAST vacation, I am already planning my NEXT vacation. Yes, I do actually work sometimes, why do you ask? (New job is going very well. I don’t think it’s technically new job anymore, is it? Since I’ve been there about five and a half months now? Probably not. And yes, it’s still great.) I don’t just plan vacations. I do work, too. Seriously.

Soooooo…

At the end of July, I will be going to visit my parents for a week. I know, this doesn’t sound like it’s super-exciting. But it totally is, for a PLETHORA of reasons. What, you don’t think I will give them to you? I totally will.

• I get to stay in my parents’ wonderful camp in the woods on a mountain, which is quiet and smells like pine trees and you can pretty much only hear the wind. It’s one of my favorite places in all the world. Also, I totally get to be a firebug and light all the gigantic campfires I want, which means ALL the fires. Dad laughs and laughs at the gigantic fires and my mom says things like, “Do you have the phone number for the fire department on the fridge? Make sure you have the phone number for the fire department on the fridge. Are you SURE it’s there? Maybe you should check, just to be sure.”
  

  When I see this sign, I start doing a happy dance. This is my park!

• There is no television at camp. Well, there is A television. But it doesn’t get any channels. You can, however, bring a DVD player or a VCR and watch things. There is also no internet. But, in news of PROGRESS and the FUTURE, if you have Verizon, you can finally get cell phone coverage up there. I totally switched to Verizon just so I could have cell service when I go home. I also was the most proactive and bought one of those Bluetooth keyboard things so it’ll be like I have my laptop, only it’s my cell phone. I know. I’m fancy. So yes, there can be blogging while I’m there, and I won’t have to trek to town to do it. As long as it all works out. Fingers crossed.
  

  It kind of looks like this. Isn’t technology grand?

• The time NOT spent watching all the television and wasting hours online will be spent reading and reading and reading. That is one of my favorite things about camp. It is quiet and you can read for hours. The main thing I’m planning on reading is the last book in the Song of Ice and Fire series, which I’ve started, but haven’t had the time to finish. Also, a thing that happens at camp is napping. SO MUCH NAPPING. And staying up late. And getting up whenever you want. And eating things you cooked on the grill.
  

  You know nothing, Lucy’s Football!

• Mom and I will be going to see A Streetcar Named Desire at one of my favorite community theaters. She has never seen it. I am very much hoping there will not be graphic sex scenes in this version like in the version I watched a couple of years ago. YIKES. This will make for awkward drive-home conversation and also perhaps she will feel the need to do some praying while in the audience.
  

  How has Mom gone her whole life without seeing Brando in the movie? SIGH.

• Dad and I will have some sort of adventure. In the past, we have gone to a wildlife center (to see otters!) and a fish hatchery (to see…well, fish!) and to the movies and to a craft fair and to a museum where there was a whole room dedicated to my famous ancestors. I don’t know the plan this year. I don’t want to be pessimistic, but there’s a good chance we’ve come to the end of things to do in the upstate area. STAY TUNED!
• There’s a possibility The Nephew might be visiting that week; if he is, ADVENTURES WITH THE NEPHEW!

And now, for the two things that I am MOST excited about for vacation…

MEETING VERY FAMOUS PEOPLE AND/OR CREATURES!

First, you remember who I said I would get to meet if I went home, right?

THAT’S RIGHT! HELPER MULE!

If you are new here, you might not remember Helper Mule, as he was very famous a while ago, (there are more Helper Mule posts, if you search for them) and there has not been much Helper Mule news lately. Helper Mule’s been flying under the radar. I got some strange news from Dad tonight that for some reason, Rooster (Helper Mule’s owner) bought like ten more horses? It’s all very confusing. I will get MORE info when I go home! WE WILL KNOW MORE ABOUT HELPER MULE! I will totally Helper-Mule-whisper him and we will become the best of friends! And of course, I will take ALL THE PHOTOS!

Second, and possibly (ok, fine, definitely, sorry, Helper Mule) more exciting…

…remember I said I was planning another out-of-country jaunt? IT IS TIME!

So I got my passport, and with my passport, I got a little passport card. This card is good for going across more local borders. Like the one into, say, Mexico. But am I going to be near Mexico? No. I am, however, going to be near Canada. RIGHT near it. And who lives in Canada?

LE CLOWN DOES!

(As does Sara, Le Clown’s amazingly talented and awesome wife, and Le Clown’s family. It’s not like he lives there all by himself like a weirdo and his family lives elsewhere. That’d be scary, right? And kind of odd.)

So, on one of the days of my vacation, I am making the trek up to the land of poutine and The Kids in the Hall and we are going to have an old-school hootenanny. Or we’re just going to hang out for the day and chat and talk and laugh a lot. Either way. I can give or take the hootenanny.

INTERNATIONAL TRAVEL, BABY! To meet some of my favorite internettians! It seemed silly to be only about an hour and a half from them and not to visit. Plus I am quite sure we will have most impressive adventures. Also Dad is very sure I will be killed in the traffic. He has NOTHING NICE TO SAY about Canadian drivers. Nothing at all. (However, do we find it at all worrisome he doesn’t think Le Clown is going to psychomurder me? He totally thought poor Andreas was going to psychomurder me. Either Dad’s getting soft in his old age or he’s just utterly given up on me.)

Dad sees a Canadian license plate and gets VERY ANGRY. “GO BACK TO CANADA!” yells Dad. I usually hide my face behind my hand.

It is now time for bed. I just watched The Office finale, and it made me cry, mostly because I’ve been watching it from the beginning, and it made me think of the person I was when the show started, and the person I am now, and all the people I’ve been in-between. Also, I kind of totally want a Jim. Can I have a Jim, please? Thanks, universe, you’re the best.

Happy weekend, everyone! I will be working and theatering and all the -ing-ing, I suppose. But I will attempt to stop in and wave briefly, how’s that? Awesome. Love your faces. Have grand adventures, every last one of you.

Also, I was supposed to see The Nephew tonight, and because I love him, I decided to cancel that. He doesn’t need my germs. It makes me sad, though. You know I love to hang out with my best little buddy more than almost anything.

So today Dumbcat and I are hanging on the couch watching bad television. I am trying to stay awake. He is not even trying. He’s been asleep all day long. Dammit, Dumbcat, way to be a good companion.

Today I have to mention that I have been nominated for THREE awards and isn’t that fancy? Yes, it is! Well, twice for the same award, but twice is twice, right? Right.

Most of you know my stance on awards. I find it very nice to be nominated, but I can’t accept them. Why can’t I accept them? Because they make you nominate a number of other blogs. And if you nominate other blogs, then you’re leaving some blogs out, and feelings get hurt. And I hate to hurt feelings. I hate to hurt feelings more than I hate to clean the litterbox, and that’s a lot, yo. So, as always, I am very thankful for the awards, and for thinking of me; it is most kind, and most appreciated.

So, the first award I have been nominated for is the Versatile Blogger Award. I feel like I’ve gotten this one before, right? I could go back and look but, well, sick. And kind of lazy. Sorry, world.

First I was nominated by meANXIETYme. Thank you!

Then I was nominated by Kat at Kat’s Den. And thank YOU!

Then I was nominated for the Very Inspiring Blogger award by Andrea at When in New Places. Also, thanks to YOU!

I am supposed to state seven things about myself and then nominate fifteen blogs. Well, I refuse to nominate anyone, as is my wont, and therefore I CANNOT ACCEPT THE AWARDS. Mostly because these things seem like a pyramid scheme, you see. I don’t like pyramids. All triangular like that. Sticking up out of the sand. Being all pointy.

SHADY!

I don’t know if there are seven things about myself you don’t already know, other than the things I’m not going to tell you because they’re mine. Oh, shush, we all get a few things that are ours. You can’t even tell me that you don’t keep some things just for yourself. So instead, here, I will tell you my top seven favorite cities in all the world that I have actually been in with my whole body. Yes, my whole body! Not just my toe.

1. New York, NY
2. Rome, Italy
3. Albany, NY
4. Sedona, AZ
5. Santa Barbara, CA
6. Rouen, France
7. Baltimore, MD

New York wins! You are not at all surprised by this, are you? Didn’t think so.

There you go. It’s LIKE seven things you didn’t know about me, only in NUMERICAL ORDER. (The top two haven’t changed since 1995. I’m pretty damn predictable.) Do I win going places? Yes. Also, I think it’s a sign I’m in the right place, life-wise, that where I live is in the top three. Because that means there are two places that are like dream vacation spots, but then coming home is in the top three. That’s good, I think.

So, in summation: thank you for the awards, ladies. I am honored and humbled, even though I can’t accept; the fact that I can’t accept is not at all your fault and completely mine. I so appreciate the thought, and give you many internet smooches for the gifting.

Before we go, let’s talk about a super-classy thing that happened here lately. And when I say super-classy, I mean like BEYOND classy. It makes me so proud I can’t even. CAN. NOT. EVEN.

(Props to sj for finding me that most excellent pie chart.)

So, Queensbury is about an hour from me. And in Queensbury, there is a Walmart. I mean, of course there is. Where is there not a Walmart? There’s probably a Walmart in Antarctica for all I know. (In that Walmart they would probably sell a lot of mittens.)

Apparently, you can get more than beef jerky and large boxes of Cheese Nips at the Queensbury Walmart.

Someone called the po-po and said, “You guys? There’s a Walmart employee doin’ the nasty back in the corner of the housewares section.”

Because nothing says “illicit sex” like a ton of flair on a blue vest.

So I guess one of the Walmart customers offered the employee some cash under the table if he…um…did a naked price-check for him in a corner? And the employee did? And then someone shopping for a new toaster was totally scandalized and was all “OMG MY EYES MY EYESSSSS” and called the cops and to jail the Walmart employee went, hopefully before someone had to call for a cleanup in aisle three.

I don’t know who to feel more pity for in this scenario, honestly. The employee, who is obviously making so little money that he had to take some (probably icky, let’s be honest) customer up on his offer of a quickie BJ in a corner? The customer who, for who-knows-what-reason decided to solicit a most-likely minimum-wage employee for sex at a Walmart? The customer who was going about his or her business and stumbled upon oral pleasure by the dishtowels?

Oh, Queensbury. This isn’t very regal behavior at all. Shame, shame. See, this is why I shop at Target. The most scandalous thing I’ve seen at Target recently is a price-check on some shampoo that was irregularly priced and a customer who was SO PISSED about that.

OK. I’m attempting to go to sleep at like 9pm tonight. Hopefully, by the time you read this, I am healthy and happy. Wise, I don’t know. I think that’s a lot to ask, to be honest. I’ll stick with healthy and happy for now.

They say you learn to be better at something, the more you do it. It becomes ingrained; it’s like breathing, or putting one foot in front of the other, or riding the proverbial bike. You learn something, you become quite good at that thing. You’re an old hand.

I don’t know if you ever learn to be good at losing things you love. You learn to be quieter about it, maybe; to not cry and wail in public, to keep the tears inside, to stiff-upper-lip the whole thing. It’s not seemly, you see. Not for adults. Children can cry over such things. Adults need to carry on. It is what we do. Or, at least, what we’re supposed to do.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I think back on things I’ve lost over the years: a beloved necklace, left behind in a move; a thirteenth-birthday gift, stolen from me on a bus; a lighter, given to me by a loved one, plucked from my pocket without my knowledge. And things less tangible, more esoteric: my heart, my trust, and at times, my mind, over one or the other or both.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

You can move past the loss of things. Things are…things. There will always be more things. You can replace what you’ve lost; if not with the exact thing, then something similar. Our lives are too weighted down with things, anyway. It’s amazing what you can live without, if you must; we can live on a shoestring, if it comes down to it.

It’s the people you lose that haunt you. It’s the people you’ve lost that fly behind your eyelids when you’re trying to sleep; the people you’ve lost, either to something like death, or to something less final, but somehow more painful. People lost to time, to stupidity, to misunderstandings piling up onto one another to make a wall you can never climb, an insurmountable obstacle separating you from where you want to be; people lost to fate, perhaps, if that’s your thing, events set into place long before you even arrived, blinking blindly, on the scene. The things unsaid follow you like lost children, tugging at your hem; the things you might have done to stop this endless numbing empty loss echo in your mind like catcalls down a long hallway.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

The boy with the ice-blue eyes and the musician’s hands who disappeared when my back was turned, when I was distracted with other things. The best friend who, behind my back, decided to do everything she could to ruin my life, all while smiling to my face. The poet who, one day, disappeared without a word. The friend who knew me better than anyone and chose a road I couldn’t travel with him, no matter how badly it ripped me in two to watch him go.

Maybe it’s not that you learn how to do something, if you’ve done it over and over, but you learn how best to handle it. You learn not to give all of yourself to someone, because if you put everything you’ve got into someone, and they leave, you’re the one who’s lost. You haven’t just lost them, you’ve lost all you’ve put into them. Every bit of it. And you are empty inside, because you’ve lost that part of yourself; that part of yourself you were with them, the things you did together, knew together; the things you shared with them. You learn to wall yourself over, to protect the parts of yourself you have left. You learn to hold parts of yourself back. And then when you enter into new relationships, you’re afraid to let your real self show ever again, because the last time you did, look what happened. You lost someone. You got lost. There is nothing left. That nothingness, it is vast. And you take it with you wherever you go.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

And this loss, you are alone in it. There is only so long you are allowed to wallow. There is only so long you are allowed to permissably be sad about losing someone you loved. You are expected to move on.

But what if you can’t? What if days, weeks, months pass, and it’s in everything you do? If you’re reminded of what you’ve lost by something different and new every day, stupid things, words and memories and songs, and you’re blindsided, you sometimes find yourself fighting back tears and you’re so fucking angry at yourself for not following the same timeline of loss that everyone else in the whole damn world seems to be able to follow? What if it’s gotten to the point you can’t even talk to anyone about it anymore, because you know, you just know, you’ve become that person that no one wants to talk to anymore, because you’re insufferable about the whole thing? What then?

It’s not like you could get it back, what you were with that person, even if they were to come back. Things are too irreparably broken. You’re mourning what you were, what you had, what you lost. You know you can’t get it back. So why the hell can’t you move on from it?

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. 

Eventually, though, you wall everything off. There are parts of you that you’ll never share; those belong to those people you’ve lost, and you’ll never get them back. They’ve taken them with them. You’ve lost them forever, like your necklace, your lighter, that thirteenth birthday present. You become cold and silent. You become so afraid of losing you are afraid to try ever again. You might have learned to lose, but mostly what you learn is to stop trying. Because no matter how many times you do it, losing doesn’t get easier. It’s not riding a bike. It’s not breathing. It’s death. It’s the death of the person you were. And once all those parts of you are dead, what’s left?

No, it’s not hard to master. Anything done over and over again becomes ingrained.

It’s just that what no one tells you is that it’s you that gets lost.

(Poem: “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop)

I’m leaving comments open on this post, but won’t be replying to them. I don’t know that I could bring myself to do so. This one’s a little too raw for me, folks. So, please know that I will read every one of your comments, and appreciate them wholeheartedly, and that my silence means nothing deeper than me having nothing else left in me to say about this. Thank you.