Things seem to happen in alliterations for me, more so than in 3s. Even though The Wizard Of Oz is one of my favorite movies, I rarely get to say “something, something and something, oh my!”. It’s one of those satisfactions I’d really like to experience; I hear it’s all about the simple pleasures. Odd numbers like Sunday seem to elude me, so does grace, so the thing left to do seems to be to evenly distribute myself into compartments, signing off each drawer as I go. Pull out the half pink, half white Formica ones out of my old dresser, it still breathes somewhere around here, and you’ll find initials in green on every side as if proving my multiplying presence(s) through my possessions (Pr+Pr+Po=Not quite). As if my magnitude couldn’t be contained within one plywood cubicle, but I guess it’s late to be encouraging these insomniac musings. I’ve since eliminated all dressers from my room.
This year has been all about minimalism. I walked into my room one day and I hated everything inside it, the clutter was exasperating, so I went on a bender and threw most of it out, often things I’d later regret not having. I did it all to the tune of pop music, truly my life’s passion, the real kind, Cyndi and her fun, Kylie and her white outfit, N’Sync and their farewells, Backstreet and their comebacks, The Spice Girls and their wisdom, B*Witched and leur vie, Britney and Madonna.
When I looked back at my room, the colors were gone. It felt light, like I could breathe, like all this shit I was holding on to for decades (you only need so many early 90’s Ricky Martin-with-long-hair and no-clothes-on magazines) had been low-key suffocating me and I hadn’t realized. It reminded me of the frog in Al Gore’s truth, with the pot and the boiling water, you know the one… It took a while, easily 3 to 4 months of living under the rubble of my life’s work. Spring (and Summer) Cleaning at its finest, secretly seeping into the other compartments of my life, helping me to rid myself of people that weren’t worth the work or the time or the effort, of the unrealistic goals I’d set for myself for other people, the shoes… the unseemly amount of shoes I’d gathered, 4-inch and 5-inch unwearable (but hot) heels I climbed on for years to join my boys in some half-ass vogueing… Those were donated, the shoes and the memories.
My friend said she started to clean out her closet, too, with one dress in mind, a yellow dress she wanted to get rid of. She said she decided to try it on before definitively tossing it out and found that she looked amazing in it, so she kept it. She went on to do the same thing with most of her clothing items, pop playlist and all. Trying them on made her feel beautiful and sexy during a generally terrible week. I didn’t try my stuff on; I simply looked at it and threw out what didn’t fit. Years of compulsive shopping have honed my sizing skills by eye but, in doing so, I might’ve deprived myself of the personal dialogue. Reflection, it seems, lives in the closet.
But of course I would say that, I’m currently crushing on a chick (Cu+Cr+Ch=not even close).
Anxiety shoes up in a timely manner (whoever said Puerto Ricans are always late?).
She was here, and now she’s gone, and we talk, but we haven’t had the talk. The “what does this mean? What do we do? What are the rules? What are we doing?”, those ones, the conversations that need to be had. Not that I’d know what to say. I’m the emotional equivalent of a 3-year-old with a shitty diaper. I can recognize the feelings, but verbalizing them is like pulling teeth. Intimacy is a construct, I know that, but it feels like a construct that was built while my life was on pause. I’m a Sim, and you’re bored of me, so you stopped my entire life and placed four walls around me, no windows or doors, so my needs decline and I devolve into a tomb. I’m not trying to be dramatic (I just am??), but that’s how it feels when I’m put on the spot with my emotions. Not that she’s doing that. At all. She’s actually incredibly patient. This is just irrational me going insane after not having the conversation, which is why I like getting the conversation out of the way, even early on, like cutting cancer out before it metastasizes.
I quickly grasp that talking this out means possibly figuring out the near future for myself, which is nerve-racking enough, but also factoring in someone else. It also means weighing absence and measuring distance, and sharing economies. It’s not my intention to witness Wittgenstein’s world (wi+Wi+wo=I’m over this) unravel between us, it’s my intention to verbify the word “despite” or “beyond”.
Sure, pansexuality, but what about polyamory?
We need to talk. Love, like-like, sex. What it is, does it look like anything? What it feels like, does it feel like anything? Because I don’t feel any different than I did before she was here. But I could stare at her forever and I could smell her forever and I could hear her speak about whales and boats and the Mayans a long ass time. I would grow fig trees, and build ruins and age them thousands of years if she was ever close to running out of things to say. I’d watch Finding Nemo a million times and learn to speak humpback, I would kayak to Puerto La Cruz, triple life-jackets and all for those empanadas she talks about.
Conversations that need to be had, but this is different. I’m not a big “the difference between men and women is” person, generalizations like that are wildly unnecessary. Seriously. But I only just realized, I don’t know how to date chicks, I don’t know how to flirt or care for them, I can do them, but that’s not enough. Enough would be a tenderness that spans hundreds of miles, candor that bears fruit which is sweet and genuine and kind and doesn’t need to translate. I think. Is that enough? Is it more than that? Less? Does it feel like anything? The only reference I have is Gossip’s Love Long Distance, and that doesn’t seem a trustworthy source. I legit wonder, because I don’t feel any different than I did before she left, I don’t feel anything. I can eat and sleep and breathe just fine without her, but I could sing Jarabe de Palo’s El Lado Oscuro until the cows come home.
Reflections really do hang in the closet, between prints and basics.
I just didn’t think I’d have to try them on this time, but that might just be completely coincidental compartmentalizing. (Co+Co+Co=Oh my! Mischief Managed.). We don’t need to figure everything out now, all these irrational ramblings are essentially moo points, but I found a pair of socks mixed with my own today. They’re not my colors, they’re hers, but they fit me perfectly, so I wore them.
I guess they’re mine now. Does that mean anything? Because I feel different with them on.