Yesterday, someone logged onto the account of my friend who died in August. That green gmail light came on and brought all the Saturdays when that was the most welcome thing in the world, yay now we can talk. My heart flooded happy and drained cold. I sent a message anyway, because I couldn't not. Whoever it is is still there, still active, though not responding to chats. Is it his mother? Someone else? Are they going through and reading all his old e-mails, trying to piece it together? Would I do that, if someone died? Someone I loved? Would you? Could you let them go; would this be part of letting them go? 

I've been dreaming about him lately. Sometimes we talk the way we used to. We threw a ball back and forth and whoever held the ball had to be quick witted, one word, and throw it back, no beats missed. I mean we did this literally but it was figurative, too. Sometimes in my dreams he just comes and curls around me while I sleep, which is very sweet because even though I have mastered sleeping in the middle of the bed I sometimes find that in my sleep I've packed myself in with pillows. Or imaginary dead people, I guess. Somewhere I may still have a tape of us throwing a ball, sixty minutes of our brains dancing together, but I can't bring myself to look for it. Some things are better held in the memory.

Do you think I like being able to see the future? When they came with their clever present and I said don't let the wall down, do you think I told you because later it would bring me such pleasure to say "I told you so"? I never even say it. It brings so little comfort; certainly no pleasure. I see the destruction before it happens, the flames; there is nothing I can do to prevent it. It just means I see it twice: once in my mind and then once again. It doesn't make it better. Or I insist it doesn't, but maybe it does. Maybe knowing what will happen, seeing it first in my mind, seeing it alone, means that when the real moment turns I am ready. It still happens, still is awful. My city burning, my family slaughtered, the screaming. Maybe all that gets me through this is the slight detachment that comes from seeing it and seeing it again. I've seen it all before.

**

I keep wanting to summarize 2010 in some way to make it compact, foldable, something I can put in a drawer. Or maybe out on top of the garbage can. There were good things, I have to keep insisting: there were good things this year. If I made a list of pros and cons the pro list would be longer. It's just that the cons seem to occupy so much of my mind. It's hard not to feel like I'm a roller coaster, and the horrid carny running it, leering and taunting a girl in a short dress who is also me, and she'll be tempted and she'll go and scream and lose her sunglasses and possibly her dinner and she won't get a refund. I'm sure it was fun but I wouldn't do it again. No but I am trying to be good about it, to be positive. My friend died; two of my other friends had babies. My marriage collapsed; my friend got married and my sister celebrated her 10th anniversary. Freelancing pays less, but I'm not crying every morning from stress. CIRCLE OF LIFE, yo.

**

What else? There is this need to push through, to work beyond the pain, to focus on the goals and get behind the mule and put your shoulder to the wheel. There is the need to experience the moment, to be here now. They are at war. They are shouting and shaking their weapons at each other, and I cower in the DMZ and hope I don't get hurt. Yes yes you have a point. And yes, you too. Maybe we could work a treaty like, for three days we'll be some combination of ass-kicking and intellect and laughter, and then for three days we can stay in bed eating chocolate and reading pulp fiction and rubbing the fuzzy part of the blanket. Saturdays are wild.

**

We're going to Costa Rica, did I mention? Squire and I have taken on the wintery gray color of root vegetables and a change is needed. I rented a house on the beach for a month and we won't come back until we are freckle-coated, well-rested; as beautiful on the outside as on the inside. Because we are beautiful, even if we are not always pretty.

 When did quirks become an important part of who we are, where announcing them is something like a handshake? When did we stop slowly revealing our pet peeves, our little habits, peeling back layers of politeness and tolerance to reveal the secret lacy hidden underbits of our hatred of broccoli, our strong preference for soft rock in the car, our dislike of lightbulbs over 40 watts? When did we start wearing our underwear on the outside?

I ask because I do like revealing things, secrets, the hidden surprise that becomes a thing we have in common, another thing. "I love cleaning my ears," and "Oh! Me, too!" and our friendship takes that little step closer. See how we have that in common? That frisson of recognition, that suddenly revealed secret passage in the house we share. What else can we explore? Or even it can be a thing that we don't share, but you respect it about me and that is how we are friends, is that you set out the q-tips when I am coming to visit. That I remember that you like olive oil more than butter, except for with fried eggs. That we remember these things and catalog them to show how much we love each other, that we're paying attention. That's how it used to feel, anyway. I thought.

But now it seems to me that these are things people expect me to accept right off. "I can't sit next to a double-paned window!" or "I can't touch things made from cardboard" are not things I expect to have to respect. My sister and son have a visceral hatred of polystyrene, which is sort of adorable, and one way that I tell them I love them is by taking things out of the packing before I give it to them, or wrapping things in bubble wrap instead. But that is because I love them. I do not expect to be asked to accommodate a person who doesn't like to eat off of real silver the first time they are a guest in my house. And yet… (well, obviously not exactly that, as I haven't hosted Billy Bob Thorton, but) I do feel increasingly asked to deal with people's preferences in a way that frankly prevents me from wanting to accommodate them, because if they expect this level of intimacy from near strangers, what obsessive nightmare maintenance levels do they save for the people who love them?

I mean, I guess it is nice to know what you like and don't, and to tell people in advance so there's no awkwardness. I guess it is nice to go out and know that people are going to do what they can to make you happy, and that your happiness will make them happy, too. I guess. But to a certain degree I feel… what about my feelings, while I sit and watch you count the tomato cans and only take every third one? Do we really need to leave the restaurant because you don't like being served by people with facial hair? I dunno. Do we chalk this up to another reason to find me a Victorian nursing home ASAP, or is this something other, less rigid people notice and find annoying? Is there a polite response other than the weak smile, the yield, the suddenly-too-busy cut?

I've been reading about the woman (there's actually more than one person) who has hyperthymestic syndrome, and can remember everything. I am persuaded it is not a coincidence that she went by the initals AJ. Well actually I am confident it is a coincidence but it's interesting anyway. I don't think I have that, because there is plenty I don't remember, but there is so much I DO. For example arriving at the cafe to meet someone the other night, and I stood there for a minute thinking "How is this whole anonymous thing going to go?" when I already knew him. It goes without saying that he didn't remember me, but I told him anyway about where he was standing, who his date was, the music that was playing, and what we talked about, three years ago.

I wonder what AJ wants; I wonder what I want. I don't want to forget. I would like to put it away. Folded sweaters into cedar boxes that I can pull out when the weather is right but that are not crowding up the drawers of my every summery thought. I would like to have the past exist, but in the background.

And this lack of background means I have no perspective. Everything seems like it just happened. I had  assumed it was that way for everybody; that people who could not remember the stories were choosing to forget. "You can't hold me to what I said five years ago" I was told, and I thought: Why not? You can hold me to what I said. Word is bond, yo. But not if everybody forgets. And I am left with tangles of broken promises, or not broken or even abandoned: forgotten.  Promises that other people made, out loud in words or silently in deeds. I thought they were real forever but they are only real in my memory, now. And yet here I am, still holding them. The end of a jump rope after all the kids have gone back in from recess. Leaving me alone here to play with my memories.

I cry a lot. I mean really a lot. I cry because something is sad, okay. I
also cry because something is funny. I cry when things seem sweet. I
cry for death, sure, or cruelty. But I also cry at weddings, I cry any
time children are singing, I cry reading metafilter threads. Bob Marley
would not have known what to do with me. It is almost ridiculous.
Lugubrious. I think I wasn't always this way;
in fact I was talking to one of my old friends, and he said he'd never
seen me cry. Never. But people who have known me more recently just sort
of
take it as a thing about me, like how I sneeze never once but at least
three times. You just have to hand me tissues and wait till it's
over in both cases. It's gotten to the point where I can cry for a solid
hour before anybody says "what's up" I mean it's like how you don't
bother to say "Gesundheit" until I'm done, because really, it's boring.

And I think, I like to think, that I feel everything intensely, that
this is just part of me. You had a fight with your friend and I am
defensive and wounded with you. You are hot in the summer sun and though
I am fine there is a trickle of sweat down my back, I'm sure. Your
delight and I'm smiling so hard my teeth itch. It's like somebody dialed
my empathy up to a point where it's so loud that all I can hear is all
this feeling.

And then other times it's like: you know what? I'm sitting here
alone, and it's raining outside finally, and I'm reading Tennessee
Williams, and I'm crying because I've actually lost my personal mind.
Which is also possible.

"But I had to do it. It's my nature," replied the scorpion.

Let's
talk about the frog in the story, who represents everybody who has
been gullible, who has trusted their heart in the face of facts to the
contrary, who has agreed to do something in the hopes it would turn out
well with the full knowledge it wouldn't; who represents, in short,
you. You gullible trusting agreeable idiot. That is what the story
tells us, that the frog kind of had it coming. So you kind of had it
coming, is what I want to say. This is not strictly speaking the same
as you asked for it but it has the same wah-wah-wah
condescension. And it is as unfair as I told you so always
is. The only person who takes pleasure in saying "I told you so" is an
asshole. And the thing about the frog is that whether or not it was
told is not important: The frog knew. You knew. You knew how it would
end. Pushing off the shore with your strong legs, balancing danger on
your back, you wanted to get to the other shore because it was asked of
you and you always want to try, but you knew you wouldn't succeed.

So
why did you do it? I
think this part gets lost. We think about the scorpion all slithery and
persuasive, but I don't think the frog fell for that. I think the
frog knew it could be an awfully big adventure. I think you said:
"Look, I will not make it to the other side with the scorpion on my
back. I may not make it to the other side all alone, either. If I have
the scorpion, at least the conversation will be stimulating. At least
we will have some fun. And there are rocks and scary bits, and I will
do better with a navigator. The scorpion will help keep me pointed in
the right direction; I mean that stinger has to be good for more than
just the one thing, right?" That's what you told yourself, isn't it.
You got all caught up in making the journey interesting and succeeded
in distracting yourself from the destination.

All I'm asking
from you is that when it happens, when the sting of it hurts more than
you can bear, that you not be crying as you resign yourself under the
water. That you not say, "How can this be? How did this happen?"
Because you did know. You knew full well. Keep the story your story;
it's the only way to get out of this with some froggish dignity. Admit
that you chose it. Admit that you had a good time. And keep your eyes
on the shore in case there's mugwort there, which they say is an
antidote for scorpion sting. As your precarious passenger slides from your
poisoned back, one more strong kick can get you where you need to go.
Stay calm, to slow your pulse. And remember it's okay to ask for help;
it's just not okay to ask helplessly.

You said what you were going to do and now you have to do it. Because
that was what you said; you gave your word. You said here is the line.
You said cross that line and this is what happens. It's what you said,
you all but shook on it. Shook hands to seal the deal and shook in your
shoes in case the punishment were insufficient deterrent. There is no
punishment available that does not hurt you, too. Or I guess not
punishment but consequence, newspeak. And it's your line. If you weren't
willing to risk this result then you shouldn't have drawn the line.
Dragged your toe across the sand, finger through wet concrete, a knife
across your heart. Here's where can't be crossed. And it was crossed,
double crossed, crossed your heart, the cross you bear, cross-eyed and
painless. Only, it kind of hurts. You said what you were going to do and
now you have to do it. You don't have to want to do it, but you have to
do it. The idea is, the theory is, the plan is that this will hurt you,
but not as much as seeing the line crossed again will hurt. You can
say, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Though you like to hope that
isn't true. You're doing this because you don't want to be hurt. And
because you said you would. Can I wait a week? Sure. You can wait two
weeks. A month. You can spend years ignoring the fact that the line was
crossed, that the line is crossed again and again. But there was a
reason you drew it, and no matter how smudged it gets from being
crossed, you remember that it was there. And every time it is crossed
and you do nothing, it's you who is crossing it now. And that is part of
why you drew the line: to clarify to yourself later when you would need
to act. And now you need to act. You said what you were going to do and
now you have to do it.

I remember sitting on the edge of her bed. Her old boyfriend's picture
in a drawer somewhere now, and her new boyfriend out of town for the
weekend, which is why we were visiting. Me and Dave, who was really
sub-league for me except at the time I was not really capable of
interacting with my actual peers and he played guitar so he became
attractive to me. This was the fall after the summer when I gave
everything up. Most of my thinking at the time had to do with how
excellent and frightening it felt to float away, rid of ballast, no
ties. I cut off all my hair because it seemed a terrible encumbrance,
and then balanced this with heavy bracelets, silver rings. I was not
unconflicted. Deep down I knew that giving up what you want is not the
same as giving up wanting. Anyway sitting on the edge of her bed, and
he's brushing her hair, and then she's brushing his. Hers short and
blond, his long waves of golden chestnut, something for a girl to envy,
and I watched the brush going through her hair, going through his, the
two of them giggling together. I felt like I was watching monkeys
grooming, ridiculous. And I felt so absurdly jealous I wanted to cry. I
sat on the edge of the bed and watched another connection I had
imagined sever itself. Another rope cut.

I don't feel anything particular about that story now. It's a thing
that happened. I remember it so that I don't repeat it, so that I never
again find myself sitting on the edge of a bed close to tears for being
who I am or for wanting something for a moment, wanting anything, even
less than I deserve. It wasn't a good moment, but I got through it, I
got through worse, and I wouldn't trade the memory for the absence of
the pain it caused. Even if the scars are ugly, it beats the
alternative, which is for all the fire in my heart to burn out while I
stay in one place, tethered to a ground I know is uninhabitable.

He comes home from work to find her playing with the kids, and they sit
on the carpet together and draw pictures and he feels the day melt from
his shoulders.
If they don't have kids maybe he comes home from work
and she's made interesting cocktails and they have inventive and playful
sex.
One day they smash all the dishes so they can dress up in their wedding
clothes and go shopping for more.
Over dinner he tells her about his
day and she listens and they dress in costumes to act out the stupid
people until he doesn't feel the pain anymore.
They sneak homemade popcorn into the local multiplex and make fun of the
movies they're better than.
In the morning his ironed clothes are
laid out in witty positions and he goes to work again, smiling at his
luck.
During the day she works somewhere collecting stories for his amusement.
Or maybe she stays home and cleans the windows drawing secret messages
in her breath for him.
Weekends an adventurous trip or maybe a
dutiful one made fun by creative sidelines and thrilling insights.
They don't talk about ideas much, but they push boundaries and explore
inner worlds. He thinks about writing it down or painting, which will
please her because she loves how artistic he is.
I should never have
given them kids. Okay: the kids magically fade when children are no
longer fun to play with.
And then they grow old together and he reads her all the love letters he
ever meant to write her and she likes that a lot and forgets the rest.
They
die entwined and everybody sighs with completion.

Or one day he
comes home and the words she is saying are actually important and they
aren't about him but he has to pay attention. It's so demanding. She
wants to go back to school and maybe she blames him for pulling her out
of what she said was a waste of time. One day he comes home and there's
no dinner and she's crying and she throws a dish at his head, several
dishes and they don't go shopping afterwards. One day he comes home and
she says I have a life too, you know. But he didn't know, because she
never told him, because he never wanted to know. And he says let's go
scream at the trains? Let's capture a leopard, let's tap dance, let's
listen to the Shins? And she says Oh you assholes. This stuff works for
you because you are simple; I need more than that. And then what sucks
is that she doesn't evaporate, because she was real. Now they have that
pain to deal with, and no amount of soundtrack can make it better.

for clarity: Manic Pixie Dream Girls