Passenger seat

I spent an hour trying to write this. I know what I want to say, and it’s not all that different from what I always say, but I’m stuttering tonight. Here was my introduction:

“I like those moments where everything converges, and suddenly you’re OK. Maybe you were not OK that morning: your neighbor chainsawed the shit out of something at 6 AM, and then you tripped down the porch stairs and broke your face. And, fuck, you’ve been crabby this week. No one’s been immune. And you know that habit you have of losing your wallet and spilling your drink? Somehow you did that to your entire life these past few months, though the chaos didn’t come from an unhappy place.

But while you’re saner and healthier than you’ve been in your entire life, everything still isn’t OK. Growing pains. Disorganization. Something. So you spend a lot evenings feeling like you have a concussion, or like you stepped on the wrong train and didn’t realize until you were halfway to Delaware. It’s not the deep terror and despair of evenings past; it’s a subtle confusion. Like waking up from surgery. You’re safe. You’re fine. But what the fuck just happened?”

But then I got stuck. I mean, I didn’t get stuck. I knew exactly what I was going to say, but I got embarrassed. I sensed misinterpretation. It’s just this: I was going to tell you about a moment where I felt that OK-convergence, and how it was a little like being in love, but not the type of love you’re thinking of. Not a romantic love, though close. Not platonic. What to call it?

It’s the type of love I feel when I get dizzy with OKness and I’m not afraid to die. When my blood runs faster, and my eyes focus, and I want to kiss you, but I don’t want things to get weird. Won’t things get weird? You don’t have to do anything with my love. It’s not a chain. It’s me saying: I’ve seen you to the bones, into the marrow, past all the gross pathology we don’t understand, excavated that place the skeleton protects. It’s my way of telling you that I’ll hold that place; that you don’t need to be embarrassed. You don’t have to call me. You don’t have to hold me back. I’m not asking for your fidelity, here.

It’s when I asked for the last bite of his cupcake, and he gave it to me, shoved it in my mouth after we ran down the steep hill at the Witch Hat Tower. When she and I had to walk around the building in the rain because we were laughing too loudly to be in the office. When I drank too much good bourbon and she got me a glass of water. When he turned bright red when we teased him about how funny his voice would sound if he said “I love you” to a girl. When he stood awkwardly over me by the jukebox at the show, trying to say to hello but failing. All these things! More things. Endless things.

I see you across the room, shifting inside yourself, preparing layer upon layer of body and face, and I want to take you to a quiet room. I have always loved too much; it’s made me awkward and cold because I have to play it cool. But sometimes they can tell. I want you to be able to tell. I’m old enough where I’m not as afraid of exposure. Just let me do this one thing, this reaching into your soft and spoiled parts so I can feel less afraid about my own.

You’re not going to believe this, but I’m going to link to a song to go with this post. You’ve probably heard it. And it’s not going to be cool. But it describes what I’m saying, you know? Here.

Posted by: Zosia | 05-29-2008 | 11:05 PM
Posted in: General