Friday Night Lights

 There were very few, if ever, truly romantic moments in my life. I've had plenty lustful and spontaneous, to be certain, however "romantic"(idyllic) has an altogether different quality that is rarely, if ever, spurred by the consumption of alcohol and a throbbing pulse of the latest club hit.

I take you to one of the most vivid of my memory: the state game.

I was 15 and hopeless. Desperate to attend the game he said he would be at (I never confirmed this to be an invitation, but that would not stop me), I got two friends equally dizzy with the thought of an entire stadium of well-bred, (hopefully) Catholic boys to go with me. This was this stuff of miracles.

We arrived and I immediately sought out the object of my desire. I don't recall the approach, but I imagine it was awkward and forcefully "accidental". My friends made friends with his friends. We stood near them, in seemingly-staunch loyalty to the side we had chosen, and I imagine that was enough for a while. 

The chatter is indistinct, though I do recall the moment when he put his varsity jacket on my shoulders. Ah, the perfect touch of chivalry. It mattered not that he answered I was a "friend" to an inquiring eye. At some point, his arms were wrapped around me, probably with the hope of sharing body heat as I greedily indulged in his warmth.

We stood there, his arms firmly around my waist, as we watched the final minutes of the game. 

A win.

Somehow, it's snowing. The crowd is dispersing. We're standing there, huddled for heat, facing the field. The flurries gently covered the stadium, ushering the remaining fans out except for us.

I turn and gaze up at his hat, which has just enough snow-covering as to not be obtrusive. Some have fallen about his brows. With little reflection or intention, I happened to look up at the same moment he looked down. Our lips meet. The snow, the echoing remains of fanfare, and us. 

We stood embraced in the cold, without a care for the dripping noses or sore throats we would surely have later. This continued for some time, until one of us remembered our ride(s) home.

Romance is the indulgence in the accidental.

(One should note this was written some months ago -- I do not want to give undeserved credit to my 5am self.)

A Nostalgia Shop

I want to create the universe in which my goals are actualized and it's as easy as getting into the right car at the right time. (Midnight.)

I revise history in my mind. I imagine the present as if I could write the screen play while playing the part. (It tends to involve a lot of monologues.) My hyperactive imagination considers the dialogue to be a crucial element in constructing realistic scenes - it requires more than a few takes to get it just right. This tends to keep the mind occupied til the wee hours -- time better spent dreaming about living those dreams.

One of my favorite remarks to make about this tricky, tricky time involves having a squeaky-clean mind. (As you see, mine is quite dirty.) I stole the premise from a Liar, except instead of erasing the memories of a person, I would erase the past 1.5 years of my life. "In an instant", I add emphatically, and whoever is sitting across me, earnestly trying to relate, nods vigorously.

Like Icarus seeking eternal sunshine, I too may be making a dreadful mistake by trying to escape with such cheap machinery. I realize this now.

For although I say I can save the "good" parts - souvenirs of the almost overwhelming kindness and compassion I have encountered throughout this ridiculous test of strength, what would I save? A hospital band attached to a "get-well-soon" dancing frog doll? A half-eaten sleeve of the Saltines I practically lived off of? A borrowed t-shirt to sleep in? A train ticket to Connecticut in the middle of the week?

But what of words? hugs? An understanding about "calling anytime"? Cupcakes and cab rides? The juice. 10 different juices. "I admire you."

No context. I have a midterm tomorrow in a course that attempts to emphasize the importance of it.

Written accounts of exploits and a handful of letters left up to scholars to translate have had piles and piles of commentary attempting to reinterpret the interpretation -- and I'm trying to work off some receipts and recyclables.

Happiness is all about the baseline. And if these many months have made the ability to walk a block without wheezing something to rejoice over, then I suppose I should leave them be. I am quite fine being excited over the ordinary.


(I'll fix this later.)

Tuesday's Grey (And Wednesday Too!)

Romance.
Lying out, nerd-ily mapping out the stars atop a half-unzipped sleeping bag, while forgetting we're in a public park and there is some sketchy dog walker lurking around the bend.
Sharing a first kiss after the big football win as snowflakes gently fall around us, on us.
Furtively holding hands during the gooiest of songs at an outdoor concert, stealing knowing glances with each slight grip.

These are isolated events. And although our mating rituals now revolve completely around the local watering hole (devoid of all things warm and tingly, replaced with hot and sticky), we should take into account the importance of the ever-elusive "romance". The word itself is laughable, much like the varied attempts at it. I suppose it's because the "right" result is accidental. Or rather, feels accidental (enough). This is unfortunate, because not trying (i.e. waiting for the 'accident') is poor form. I refer, of course, to the "moment". The "gesture", of course, does require effort -- it is the effort.
(I'll finish this later.)

Romance is the umbrella term for the moments, gestures, and (often subsequent) feelings associated with the big L. (As opposed to the little l, which has its own, deceptively similar shenanigans to manage.)
(This too.)

Many have suggested that the feelings are there simply to cause problems. Easily tricked and confused with related conditions, such as a stomach ache or an anxiety attack. Is it lust? love? like? Some combination of these? I love your sense of style - want to rip off your shirt -- I think you're okay sometimes?
(...aaaand this.)

One of the Big 3 (religions) wisely suggested that one's life mate should stimulate the mind, eye, and heart. One of the most renowned sex educators of our time had a similar take: the relationship should have intellectual, emotional, and physical intimacy. But what if one branch is picking up the others' slack? What if the best possible score is simply a 2 out of 3?

I'm looking for inspiration. Triple-inspiration.
(Just don't be boring.)




(As an aside aside, you should probably know my absence is partially caused by my cheating on you with tumblr. I can't help it; it has pictures. Pretty ones.)

waxing nonsensical

I've been in hiding. A rabbit who digs a hole only to emerge among foxes. I have emails in the hundreds I've read and considered answering, texts sitting hopelessly, all demanding explanation. 
'Where are you?'
'What are you doing?'
I feel trapped by a need to explain and the explanation itself. Yet, instead of addressing basic human interaction, I resume focus on churning out words that require constant replacement and hoping someone will simply approach me without having to ask.

I've been muted. In a most cruel, Pavlovian way my throat's sharp rejection of utterance forces an opt for silence over commentary. Restraint over laughter. Although the torturous swallowing has come and gone with each cycle, I remain conditioned. Instead of projecting, I whisper. I don't know if this will subside. The recommended baking soda cure-all only provides temporary relief. I'd rather not chance it.

I'm bald and just nearing the point of washing my wig to make myself presentable to the public. or I could just stay hidden.

I'm in my own little bubble concentrated around my room and the hours most mortals take rest. I'm nocturnal now. 

Finals have provided a new impetus for hibernation and a reason to disregard hygiene. My android-like attachment (Central venous catheter), with its ever-pressing neediness and demands to be covered with skin ripping plastic every shower made cleansing seem much less necessary. Why change pillowcases I'm only going to cough into again the next night?

My room is a collection of dust bunnies. The ones that hop from one surface to the next, fearing Lysol. Apparently ceiling fans are meant to interrupt their stranglehold on my living space - I discovered this magic a bit late into my allergy attack. 

I'm not sure if this is melodramatic enough. 

Observation

His eyes look slow, sluggish, and unfocused. A glimpse would capture his visage dewy; upon closer reflection it is a sheen of perspiration from sedentary activity. His blazer appears to conform to his rounded shoulders like a shrunken cardigan. 

He will grow into his blazer, and his bad haircut. 

A protuberance escapes the vertical lines of an intentional shirt choice.

His complexion would have once suggested lively engagement in the outdoors, now merely reddish from losing a race up the stairs to a Domino’s box. 

His teeth remain as perfectly white as memory would allow against a once tender, now merely swollen, chapped mouth. 

Drink Up, Drink Down

I just threw up.

I’m sitting on a train to my first dose of my allegedly last round of chemo. I’ve been swimming in alcohol all week in preparation for the upcoming eight weeks of sobriety, which will include the notoriously blackout-able events of Fling and Hey Day. It's been done before by better men - I just hope I have some funny bones left to play.

The feelings of nausea and fatigue tinged with just the slightest drop of hopelessness associated with chemo tended to make me question the logic behind the hangover-inducing round at the bar. I made a note to myself – why on earth would I subject myself to this willingly? This is miserable. And stupid.

You start to appreciate clear-headedness when you are forced to drug yourself up with fog.

And yet here I find myself, mouth dry and throat irritated by my body’s literal rejection of my stupidity and feeble attempt to act like any other kid. The breaks in between chemo have been particularly notable for the opportunities to behave recklessly, yet they are supposed to be the times when I reflect on the beauty of being without inescapable discomfort, yet when given the opportunity to bathe myself in the toxic tastes of an (allegedly) happy hour, I jump at the chance to put myself through hell.

Absence may have made the heart grow fonder, but the anticipation greatly outweighed the activity (that’s what she said…)

Port

'How old are you?' 


she demanded, advancing like a cheetah on an antelope. 
I guess my submissive body positioning, makeupless face,  and tears at a standard procedure failed to project the maturity I thought I possessed, few years post-adolescent.

"21" 
I revealed, embarrassed by the combination of my fetal position and her tone of voice. I would have liked nothing more than to suggest an age for which it would be appropriate to burst into tears with needles and have my parents accompany me on hospital stays.

She, of the warrior-survivor sort, resumed with her interrogative tactics, interspersed with bits of "I've had worse" and "only idiots like you don't have ports".

She took my age as a desperate sign that I needed to be saved (as I should know better) and less than subtly conveyed this in her sales pitch. I would soon "come to terms with it" and "realize how much better off I'd be".

I wanted nothing more than for her to shut up and let me wallow in my melodrama over a bad vein.

She described her experience with cancer and ports confidently, with the strength I had so often feigned when discussing my own situation with those I felt would not be able to handle it otherwise. She discussed the port with the condescending tone reminiscent of the girls in elementary school who were the first to get burberry purses for christmas. I was slightly offended.

My mother's vapid alarm at 'yet another scar' did not help my case.

She further shared that she had a tattoo over her scar, to further the differentiation between us. She, wise and courageous, exhibited comfort with all things sharp and frightening. How special.

But, as I mentally defended, its not the needles that cause the hysterics so much anymore. No, with weekly sticks, pricks, and jabs I've have plenty of opportunities to display my ease and calm. My deteriorating veins, however, are another story. The tattoo'd woman above commented on how 'small' they are. Once upon they were referred to as "juicy"(I'm sure that was meant as a compliment..?). I'm not sure how I feel knowing that the pathways for my lifeblood have expirations. Or that I'm slowly damaging the infrastructure of my circulatory system with every injection. every hit or miss attempt to wrestle a vein into submission with a catheter. But please, put the disdain on drip and let it settle in like the rest of this poison. I'm used to it.

Had I been in a less fragile state, I might have lashed out at her. As many do when revisiting a situation in their minds, I reconstructed the flow of conversation with a few choice quotes.

Namely, I would combat the ever-present one-up-ing that tends to come up in the cancer conversations. For one reason or another, people feel compelled to relay how much worse off they are, as if to suggest I lost a contest for not being terminal and should just fucking get over it. You have hodgkins? I have non hodgkins. You had two bone marrow biopsies? I had 12.

I would probably also call her out, perhaps incorrectly, for casting herself as this tough, devil-may-care cancer survivor with a tattoo over the scar of a procedure I don't want to (and shouldn't have to) get. Or maybe suggesting that, although she's no longer the one in the hospital bed, she could try to show just the slightest amount of sensitivity to  someone whose shoes she professes to have been in not so long ago. I imagine she felt very pleased with herself, as she said she "would want someone to tell her" - the sort of phrase one uses when telling your exboyfriend's new girlfriend he's a cheater. I feel it to be far less appropriate in this situation. Though that could be applied to her preaching and patronizing in general.

it reminds me of the stereotypical pledge-fraternity relationship. You don't like getting lit on fire? Ya, well, I went through it so you should feel privileged for the opportunity.

Though, unlike a typical semester, there's no hell week (with reward of initiation) in sight.