So much has happened. I can barely keep it all straight. Time and space seem curiously malleable right now. Is this real? It feels solid enough, I guess. Who knows? Who cares?
But that’s the thing – I do care. I need to make sense of it, to draw a straight line from Point A to Point B, connect all of the composite parts into one definable thing. Discovering and categorizing is what I do. I am nothing without my organizational skills, and my ability to ferret out the hidden details. I need to know more. What is this I want to define? Is it a place? A time? A thing? What is It? Is It me? Who is this where I am right now? Do I inhabit, or merely oversee?
I have been rushing a lot lately. That’s the only part of this that doesn’t suit me. The to and fro has a hold of me, and I need to put the kibosh on that kind of un-thinking before it sucks me back in. The overall goal has to be to slow down and dig in, not to speed up and float on the surface. One simply cannot get to the heart of the matter by treading lightly.
I started my new job last month. I fought long and hard to get it, and now that I have it, I find I’m…bored? I guess that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite seem right. Uninspired might be a better word. There’s nothing wrong with it, exactly. It’s a solid career choice, and a good company. I am not unhappy. My coworkers are decent people with whom I don’t mind interacting. My clients are fine. It’s probably the least angsty that I’ve ever been at a job, despite the insane hours. But it means nothing to me. I should feel something, right? Pride at doing a complex job that not many people could handle so easily? Or joy at being instrumental in bringing happiness to others? I struggle to find meaning in it.
Years ago, a psychiatrist told me I should just make others smile, and sometimes I remind myself that just being kind is its own karmic reward. The truth is that I found greater purpose at the front desk than in the events department, but the front desk doesn’t pay.
On a personal level, structured learning opportunities have dried up for the moment. I couldn’t afford to take another Spanish class, and my pottery studio has become so popular that the class, announced monthly, keeps filling up within moments of opening. The autumn session of Chorus Girls ended tonight, and I’ve decided that I won’t be performing this session.
I haven’t been able to devote myself to finding a new class in either October or November, and I need to keep an eye on that. Am I being lazy, or am I just overworked and overscheduled, and giving myself the extra breathing room that I need in order to not lose my mind? A tricky question, since I’m ever-inclined to lie to myself if comfort is involved. That being the case, as soon as I’ve written what I came here to write, I’m giving myself an assignment to find just one simple class to take between now and November 30th.
And then there’s the best bit. The being in love bit. The being loved back bit. In lighter moments I think that it’s the key to the whole puzzle. Other times I am frightened of what it means to open up to trusting someone again. This has been a big lesson for me, and I’m sure it will continue to force me to confront myself at all turns. I can sense that relinquishing control will be a source of great power for me in the end, but fuck, is this difficult. He has me fighting to explain myself, and in the process, I’m seeing through to me with new, appreciative eyes.
In the meantime, however, there’s the beauty and simplicity of the everyday. Someone who wakes up and makes me a cup of coffee, just because. The most beautiful smile, in answer to my delight. Explanations, silence, physical contact, shared humor, shared perseverance. Acceptance of my quirks, of my need to ask questions, and my insistence on defining us ad nauseum.
Tonight as I exclaimed again at the intensity, the confusion, he laughingly asked “Haven’t you been in love before?” I told him that maybe I hadn’t. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it?
I’ve been in love. In puppy love in high school, with the boy who kissed me in the rain and taught me to look for magic. Obsession with a dreamy musician who could barely regard himself, much less me, and who taught me to stop dreaming. Respect for a solid, capable architect who offered me respectability and solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of getting kicked around. Fascination with a writer who forced me to confront my fragile mental state, and offered me a way to grow into myself, finally, so very late in the game. But all of this was the quiet stomachache of mismatched socks. And between those pairings were other, even less appropriate, matches. I’m nothing if not persistent, and despite my jaded veneer, there’s a deep wellspring of hope buried here. I kept trying. The truth of the matter is that I’ve never been in love with someone who loved me back in a way I could identify, quantify, and believe. It turns out that makes all the difference.
But where does this get me? Time travel. Longer mornings. Longer evenings. Shorter workdays. A future that sounds pretty fucking fun. A man who speaks about who we could be together, and makes me hope to the gods that he’s right. I honestly wouldn’t mind sticking around to see 140 with him. Here I thought I’d be the first against the wall.
I’ve written myself into the prairie. I won’t bore you with more musings tonight. Instead, let me go and find a class. Maybe something on speaking to the dead, or perhaps I’ll take the tough way out and find a module on trading on the stock market, or making the perfect coq au vin. I’ll drop back by tomorrow to let you know.