15 november 2010

Posted on November 15, 2010

1


Sometimes I feel like I’m in love. My life didn’t used to be like this. Everything used to be in a line, held up in little boxes of my overly organized mind. Bookshelves, cabinets, cupboards with mugs for tea and cups for someone to get me a glass of water. I could walk the hallways with ease, with perfect precision inside my own house and it was wonderful. I had pinned down the horizon to the perfect angle on the globe and nothing was needed. I had all my web-footed friends in a line, and all my friends were easily understood algorithms. I could read your language, and talk for hours about your precise motivation for your innocent emotional crimes. Everything was within my arms.

And now I need everything. Not in a dependence, but in a hunger. I can’t quite ever say what I’m feeling anymore, which is exactly how it has to be. If all my feathered friends are not in the oceans and streams of life squawking away I’m useless. If you’re not standing on the bridge in the park, handing me a few tears of yours and telling me about how you miss this state it might not be the same. I have to learn to capture exactly how it felt when you put the gallon of milk on the ground. It’s not just you, but it’s all these moments that built what I am and this body that’s walking around with me. I don’t have to analyze them anymore. I don’t have to force myself to understand or take six years to figure out why you appeared–all I have to do is let myself feel them. To come inside after such a long walk, past the glowing orange sign in the middle of the night, and to find that all the adorable snowflakes that landed on my face like doves were not only making my face red but making my makeup run, this was important. It’s all important. It’s all about the cinnamon at the bottom of the mug. I still don’t know why you ever left that stupid note on my windshield (except to make ourselves miserable and unspoken), but I’m okay with this now.

Memories are no longer these lovely little chapters that I have to arrange in my mental library for reference for further long division. They are not for dissection in my mental lab filled with beakers to test you. They each are living things inside me. I relive them every year. You come back to me, year after year. Everyone comes back to me. Even the girl that I stayed up with until six in the morning on New Years Eve, and the person who I sat with in the parking lot at the mall while we watched the snow hit our Christmas City who I will love forever. But I am alright with this now. Everyone keeps a house of ghosts.

The benefit of basing my entire childhood in mathematics is that I get to completely rediscover a life that defies algebra in right now. Sometimes it’s just not supposed to make sense, it’s supposed to linger in your brain for a few weeks until you learn something. Your house and the walk through the leaves that final afternoon that messed with my head for so long, it was supposed to be there until I could learn to shut the door behind me.

The things that I have done for myself are paying off like I can’t believe. Even though I still worry in retrospect about my lack of official centerpieces, the day I wore that perfect dress that held to my skin all day was what I need to break free of what was keeping me from the life that has always been calling to me. The ocean.

I have to learn to recapture the perfection I feel when I look across the table. Every sensation, every perception, the orange sunset pouring into our living around four o’clock need to stay with me. I feel like I’m in love sometimes because I’m now to the point where I know that I can’t sit on the beach and tell the ocean what it looks like; I have to fling myself into the water and feel it rushing through me, whipping past my skin and carrying me until I am tired again. I am loved, I am free, and I’m in love.

Like she said, “I’ll cross oceans like never before.” (I can’t tell you thank you enough, I need to read that.)

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