After a fantastic weekend spent haunted-housing and reading the muse's writing bits, I gathered up the courage to ask him to the theatre's monthly open mic. We had gone before on his suggestion, but I was still hesitant to ask. I mean, if you really like someone, you should start out a little nervous, right?
So around 4:30, I texted him and very vaguely mentioned that there was an open mic night to which I was going, that he could also be going to. And he responded with the affirmative.
This left me three hours to get ready. I went back and forth between outfits, briefly considered red lipstick(decided against that one), stuffed my boobs into my new and extra-supportive bra, and by 7:15, I was heading out the door.
...And then my phone buzzed. "It seems my plans tonight will be dinner, followed closely by sleep." Oh. Ok. I mean, it's ok, he works hard and sleep is important, so. I went back inside and changed from the cute shirt to one of my all-time favorites. If I'm just going to listen to music, I can sacrifice cute for comfortable. I sent a quick "Those are also good plans", which I hoped sounded convincingly nonchalant. Boys are dumb and disappointing.
The theatre was abuzz with sound checks and guitar tuning. I was hanging around the tech booth and having a chat with our lights and sound guy(One day I'll have to write about him; he's a kind soul, very knowledgeable, and he likes me because I can think on the same sorta scattered level he does). He rushes off to fix a mic or an amp or some other sound contraption, so I turn to head back to the box office for a moment.
Lo and behold, what should my eyes see but my muse, strolling in.
"What happened to dinner and sleep?"
"Yeah, well, I figured I'd come anyway."
This leads me to several possible conclusions. Either he genuinely changed his mind(which seems unlikely, as he'd stayed late to work on something and was coming directly from the college), he could tell I was dissapointed and felt bad, or he just plain wanted to hang out with me. All of these worked in my favor.
There turned out to be very little listening of music. We joked a bit, but most of it was talking about the pieces of story he'd sent me. It was like I'd opened this fantastic door; He just kept going about the setting and plot and characters. This world he'd built was so intricate. I loved every second of it.
A few times, he stopped himself, saying that it was dumb or that he was talking too much. I kept telling him that I asked questions because I wanted to hear about it, and that I genuinely enjoyed hearing him talk. And I thought, Is this what it's like when I talk about things? Do I stop myself as much? But(and here is a very important fact) my attention did not otherwise waver. I didn't tune him out or nod along. He just... He loved it so much, and it was so good to see.He even helped me with my current story.
It was a good night.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Friday, October 23, 2015
Love-struck Paranoia and Other Things
The most frightening thing about having growing feelings for someone is the fear that someone will know before you're ready for them to know. Be that the person in question, or a mutual friend, or, say, an entire department...
His fellow carpenters have always made jokes in the me and him department, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because we're the younger and newer people in the vicinity; or, you know, because I'm completely transparent in my affections(Does everyone know? Can everyone see? Should I maybe dial it down a bit or stop looking at him entirely?). It's probably just the first one. A coincidence of age and work.
Years of t.v. sitcoms have taught me, though, that there's something to the whole "everyone sees it before you do" thing. But the people in those situations never seem frightened or self-conscious, they never seem to question their own worth; Rachel never once asked herself "But... Why would Ross love me? What good am I?"
Because here I sit, wondering what anyone(especially someone so good) could see in me. I don't know myself. I can't imagine anyone looking at me and going "Hey! Wow! There she is!" And anyway, aren't I a little old to be believing in fairy tales and love stories?
And yet... As I find myself increasingly attached to him, I can't help but wonder if it's mutual. Surely he doesn't tell every stranger some of the things he reveals to me; I know for a fact that I can be honest with him in ways that I can't with anyone else. I even admitted the other day to not knowing what to say(and I am many things, but rarely speechless).
I'm terrified of being discovered before I'm ready, but am I ever going to be ready? Is this thing we have going to grow, or shrink, or level out? And(this is the biggest thing) what am I going to do if that happens?
Maybe someone should just reveal me already, so I can stop being scared.
His fellow carpenters have always made jokes in the me and him department, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because we're the younger and newer people in the vicinity; or, you know, because I'm completely transparent in my affections(Does everyone know? Can everyone see? Should I maybe dial it down a bit or stop looking at him entirely?). It's probably just the first one. A coincidence of age and work.
Years of t.v. sitcoms have taught me, though, that there's something to the whole "everyone sees it before you do" thing. But the people in those situations never seem frightened or self-conscious, they never seem to question their own worth; Rachel never once asked herself "But... Why would Ross love me? What good am I?"
Because here I sit, wondering what anyone(especially someone so good) could see in me. I don't know myself. I can't imagine anyone looking at me and going "Hey! Wow! There she is!" And anyway, aren't I a little old to be believing in fairy tales and love stories?
And yet... As I find myself increasingly attached to him, I can't help but wonder if it's mutual. Surely he doesn't tell every stranger some of the things he reveals to me; I know for a fact that I can be honest with him in ways that I can't with anyone else. I even admitted the other day to not knowing what to say(and I am many things, but rarely speechless).
I'm terrified of being discovered before I'm ready, but am I ever going to be ready? Is this thing we have going to grow, or shrink, or level out? And(this is the biggest thing) what am I going to do if that happens?
Maybe someone should just reveal me already, so I can stop being scared.
Monday, October 12, 2015
How a Heart Brakes
Last week, I decided that what my car really needed was a good old-fashioned brake flushing. Cars do need this done semi-routinely; every 25,000 miles or two years, the experts say. When was the last time mine were flushed? Hard to say, really. Jupiter was made in 2000, so probably... never.
Here's a quick how-to guide of flushing your brakes:
To be truthful, I didn't even ask him as some strange ploy to show off my mechanical skills, or as a cute date idea. I asked because he is my friend, aside from any other emotions I may have regarding him. So, we planned to meet at the shop on Sunday.
A fun part of working in the maintenance department of a large college with a motorpool is that I have a professional-grade garage for all my car-fixin' needs. Of course, as someone who is not a mechanic, I don't have a key, which meant I had to show up bright and early to meet our on-call guy and get him to open it for me. Dude is nice, we had some light work conversation, and he taught me how to use the lift. It was fun.
Now, having not established a time, I had no idea when the muse would be free in the day. When he texted me to establish a 3:30 start time, I was slightly less than elated. I mean, it was noon and my tires were off. So what's a girl to do? Get some filing done, that's what! Seriously. I can get more work done in an hour on a weekend when no one is there than I ever have during the week. Ringing phones, people in and out, bleh.
And while I worked, I watched the live stream from the International Space Station(while playing the classic rock Pandora station in the background). It was soothing. And at last, the moment arrived, and so did he.
So I explained, in the best terms I could, how this thing worked. To be fair, I was nervous, and maybe didn't do as concise a job as I may have otherwise, but it was ok. It was just... all ok. We did the thing(as best as we could-my rear two bleeder valves were rusted shut beyond help, so we could only flush the front two brake lines. Still an improvement), making fun conversation the entire time.
The thing about being around him is that I'm nervous the whole time leading up to the encounter. If I know I'm going to spend time with him, my stomach churns and my heart pounds and I just cannot find anything to do with my hands and do I look ok? God my hair is a mess and everything is wrong and... Then he's there. And I feel calm. Talking to him is so easy. I never feel like I need to lie to him or impress him. He said much the same thing, that he was glad he could say anything that popped into his head.
There was a point where I was telling him what really depressed me so much about moving was that most of the things I own are tied with specific events and memories, and that it felt like all that I am and was can be packaged into a finite amount of boxes. That it was all there, all of my self, sandwiched between a few slabs of cardboard. And, in a voice about half the volume we used for the vast majority of conversation at that point, he says "I don't think that's true." Which isn't necessarily a statement that only he would make, but the gentle sincerity of it makes me smile.
It just feels so great to have someone that gets me, that listens, that cares, that my soul feels good just being around.
Here's a quick how-to guide of flushing your brakes:
- Take off the tire.
- Locate your bleeder valve.
- When the brake is pressed in, open the valve, letting the air and nastiness out.
- Close the valve before the brake is released.
- Repeat until you get clear fluid.
To be truthful, I didn't even ask him as some strange ploy to show off my mechanical skills, or as a cute date idea. I asked because he is my friend, aside from any other emotions I may have regarding him. So, we planned to meet at the shop on Sunday.
A fun part of working in the maintenance department of a large college with a motorpool is that I have a professional-grade garage for all my car-fixin' needs. Of course, as someone who is not a mechanic, I don't have a key, which meant I had to show up bright and early to meet our on-call guy and get him to open it for me. Dude is nice, we had some light work conversation, and he taught me how to use the lift. It was fun.
Now, having not established a time, I had no idea when the muse would be free in the day. When he texted me to establish a 3:30 start time, I was slightly less than elated. I mean, it was noon and my tires were off. So what's a girl to do? Get some filing done, that's what! Seriously. I can get more work done in an hour on a weekend when no one is there than I ever have during the week. Ringing phones, people in and out, bleh.
And while I worked, I watched the live stream from the International Space Station(while playing the classic rock Pandora station in the background). It was soothing. And at last, the moment arrived, and so did he.
So I explained, in the best terms I could, how this thing worked. To be fair, I was nervous, and maybe didn't do as concise a job as I may have otherwise, but it was ok. It was just... all ok. We did the thing(as best as we could-my rear two bleeder valves were rusted shut beyond help, so we could only flush the front two brake lines. Still an improvement), making fun conversation the entire time.
The thing about being around him is that I'm nervous the whole time leading up to the encounter. If I know I'm going to spend time with him, my stomach churns and my heart pounds and I just cannot find anything to do with my hands and do I look ok? God my hair is a mess and everything is wrong and... Then he's there. And I feel calm. Talking to him is so easy. I never feel like I need to lie to him or impress him. He said much the same thing, that he was glad he could say anything that popped into his head.
There was a point where I was telling him what really depressed me so much about moving was that most of the things I own are tied with specific events and memories, and that it felt like all that I am and was can be packaged into a finite amount of boxes. That it was all there, all of my self, sandwiched between a few slabs of cardboard. And, in a voice about half the volume we used for the vast majority of conversation at that point, he says "I don't think that's true." Which isn't necessarily a statement that only he would make, but the gentle sincerity of it makes me smile.
It just feels so great to have someone that gets me, that listens, that cares, that my soul feels good just being around.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Storytellers
Why have we, as a society, given up stories?
Perhaps my particular sphere has been influenced by being surrounded by academia, but it feels like everything I read lately is overwhelmingly pretentious. Literary journals are chock full of pieces that follow some sort of plot line(I guess), but 80% of the narrative is introspective bullshit. Who cares about the whiny, white, male protagonist and his reflections on the society that led to this, that, and the other?
Don't get me wrong-There's certainly a time and place for things like that. Main characters are supposed to feel and react to things. That's what makes them interesting. But to focus on those feelings without making room for other characters and actual plot movement is foolish at best.
For example, take Wild(the book I so often quoted in my beach trip entry). Cheryl Strayed tells us, at length, how she feels about things. After all, she sets out on the trek specifically to think about herself and her life. We get to know her through these reflections, and it's great. But Cheryl also gives time to other characters-No one can forget lovable Doug or Cheryl's warm mother. She tells us of wide mountain ranges, hot deserts, animals and sounds. We experience the world through her, instead of just experiencing her.
And that's what I find lacking in so many prizewinners. I read to experience other worlds through identifiable characters, not read a biography.
The world needs stories. Stories can teach, and stories can be an escape from the load of bullshit that the world continuously throws our way. A good story, like Patrick Ness' A Monster Calls, can heal. I can only hope that one day, human beings try embracing the simple over the pretentious, and bring back the story.
Perhaps my particular sphere has been influenced by being surrounded by academia, but it feels like everything I read lately is overwhelmingly pretentious. Literary journals are chock full of pieces that follow some sort of plot line(I guess), but 80% of the narrative is introspective bullshit. Who cares about the whiny, white, male protagonist and his reflections on the society that led to this, that, and the other?
Don't get me wrong-There's certainly a time and place for things like that. Main characters are supposed to feel and react to things. That's what makes them interesting. But to focus on those feelings without making room for other characters and actual plot movement is foolish at best.
For example, take Wild(the book I so often quoted in my beach trip entry). Cheryl Strayed tells us, at length, how she feels about things. After all, she sets out on the trek specifically to think about herself and her life. We get to know her through these reflections, and it's great. But Cheryl also gives time to other characters-No one can forget lovable Doug or Cheryl's warm mother. She tells us of wide mountain ranges, hot deserts, animals and sounds. We experience the world through her, instead of just experiencing her.
And that's what I find lacking in so many prizewinners. I read to experience other worlds through identifiable characters, not read a biography.
The world needs stories. Stories can teach, and stories can be an escape from the load of bullshit that the world continuously throws our way. A good story, like Patrick Ness' A Monster Calls, can heal. I can only hope that one day, human beings try embracing the simple over the pretentious, and bring back the story.
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