I see someone I thought I knew (however vaguely — still: thought I knew) doing something so entirely counter to what I would do in those circumstances that though what I want is to know if I don’t understand the circumstances, though what I want is to know how that could be the decision, though what I want is ever and always to be informed, to understand, to know better, I am afraid that this difference in approach is a drastic difference in morals, and that knowing that would mean I never knew them, however vaguely. And so I bite my tongue and watch and wait and later maybe when nobody’s looking I’m not there anymore because I probably was never really there to begin with, since it wasn’t where I thought it was, anyway.

It’s interesting how the focus has been on him for so long. How he came
to you, how he won you, how he was changed by you, how he felt when you left. Not
left: abandoned. I’m quoting. You kissed him awake and he listened to
you leave. And that’s all that gets talked about, and while that’s
certainly a good story, a classic, one for the poets, it’s not entirely
fair, is it.

Like take how they never talk about how he came to you; it’s like
he just was suddenly there. Like he arrived from nowhere. Like it’s not
possible that you wanted him to come to you, called him: none of it was
your idea. This ties in to the "conquering" idea which has always vexed
you; that and the "winning" — you are not some prize, dammit.

And it’s always like he arrived with nothing but his pain and his
past with which to barter. You had your own pain, a point nobody likes
to consider. The truth is: you both had things that you needed so badly
you’d decided you’d never get them. You both were well-covered in
tarnish to hide the imperfections: his dented pride, your gouged heart.
And because you both knew the truth about yourselves, it was easy to
see the truth about each other. They make like you healed him and you
like to think that’s true but you didn’t walk away empty-handed by a
long shot. Spit and cloth and ashes from letters you burned long ago,
and he handed your heart back to you; not repaired because it can’t be
fixed, but no longer something you had to close your fist around to
hide.

Or they talk about him hearing you go. One presumes
there were stairs to be descended. He listened to the music of your
footsteps as you left. Well: what was he supposed to do? He’s not
stupid after all, and sobbing after you is the one thing that would
have sent you off sooner. Without wishing to discount how hard it might
have been to stand there, clenching a jaw muscle or two, being stoic,
it is a lot harder to go downstairs knowing you’re doing the right
thing but also still having your eyes full of tears. And you couldn’t
look back because then he would have seen you cry; it cuts both ways
and it’s not like it was easy.

It’s hard to let go completely, and probably you never will: It feels
like letting go would mean denying it meant anything, and it did, it
did, it did. The goal is to be honest about it, not encapsulate it in a
caricature, and yet button it down somewhere so it doesn’t look at
you all the time with its what if? eyes. What if you had stayed? What
if staying had been what was meant to be, instead of leaving?

We talk about the past like we knew where it was headed just because
we know where it ended. We say something wasn’t meant to be, because
that’s how it isn’t, now. If you had stayed with him, he would not have
stayed in love with you. He was prepared for you to leave because
whatever he said, he wanted you to go. Anyway, that’s what you tell
yourself.

I am (nearly) forty years old and I still rarely make eggs without
getting a teeny bit of shell in there somewhere. My friend says cooking,
for her, is like editing for me: a compulsion. And here I am leaving
grocer’s apostrophes of eggshell all over. Hopeless. This morning for
breakfast I had zucchini and eggs and potatoes; the crisp edges of
properly fried zucchini mask the eggshell, though I think miraculously
this morning I made an omelet without breaking any more egg than was
absolutely necessary. I was
singing while I stirred in the potato: "Any weird you can cook, I can
eat weirder, I can
eat any food weirder than you!" and I’m sure Ethyl Merman rolled over in her
grave, but maybe she was dancing along.

Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, I made rice. "A
scant cup. A scant cup. A cup that is scant. That cup’s scant. That cup
can’t." WHY. Some people talk all the time to prevent their brains from
starting that pesky business of thinking but it’s like I’m treading
water in my brain sometimes to stop myself from floating.

Since I don’t walk Squire to school anymore, I am no longer
terrorizing the neighborhood with my early morning outbursts, standing
in the middle of the sidewalk laughing because I remember something
outrageously funny or chatting myself up in my phony French accent. I’m
sure everybody’s much happier. Nobody needs to see my particular brand of crazy before eight a.m. On Mondays when I go to the high school,
the old ladies on the tram all love me ’cause I give them my seat when
the pig men don’t, and then they (the ladies) always want to talk to me,
with their gold teeth and purple tints and whack makeup. They know
they’ve spotted one of their own in the making. Last week one of them
was nodding at me the whole way home, in other words giving me much
more positive feedback than your average high school senior, and I
wanted to give her my cheery smile but frankly it was all too awful in
my head and I just couldn’t. When she got off the tram she patted my
hand and I realized I was crying. Oh, my old ladies, the mascara is
roping down my cheeks and I am closer than I think.

Last week was entirely too long. If the weekend hadn’t come when it
had, I think drastic action would have been taken. I have high hopes for
this week, though. Not least because the Teletubbie House of Pain video makes me
confident there must be some real good in the world.

subject line from "White Dwarfs", a perfect poem by Michael Ondaatje.

I must enjoin you stay on this course! Cleave fast; it is sanctioned.

The boomerang is one of the coolest toys ever. Part of the reason that
the boomerang is a cool toy is that it wasn’t originally a toy but a tool.  Not a
tool like that guy you dated in college but a real tool, I mean one
that was good for something. A boomerang went out and killed your
dinner, which I have just confirmed is true because I looked it up. The
European ones apparently weren’t meant to come back to you which is
sort of not all that surprising but that’s not what I’m talking about.

So boomerangs are cool, they’re sort of exotic and foreign but not
entirely unfamiliar. They go and out do things for you. They can bring home
the bacon and they also, apparently, play music if you know how to hold
them right. They’re not exactly doing those things FOR YOU because
they’re not servants, you know. They do what they do because it’s their
nature. You send them out and they do what they were made to do and I
guess you could say that basketballs were made to go through hoops but
if you don’t think a boomerang is cooler than a basketball then I don’t
even know why we’re talking. A boomerang is a kerjillion times cooler
than any ball that you bounce, throw, or pass, and it’s even cooler
than a weapon that’s just a weapon because a knife only wants to cut
stuff including your fingers if you aren’t careful but a boomerang can
hang out in the field with you on a lazy windless day going out and
back, like a hawk without jesses.

I want to use words like elegant and sleek but in a way these fall
flat. Of course you can get some cheap plastic thing but we are people
of taste and plastic offends us so let’s talk about real boomerangs,
old school. They are so beautiful to touch, to run your finger along
that edge and know that this curve here, where all you want to do is
touch it, run your finger along how smooth it is and this thing that
you can barely stand to stop touching is the very thing that will make
it come back to you. I mean, if you throw it right.

And of course boomerangs come back if you throw them right, if you’re
not a big disgrace to the Aborigine race. The boomerang wants to come
back to you. It wants to rest in your hand again, to feel that it’s
gone forth and done what it was meant to do and now your lovely long
fingers are running along that curve again and that was so good, that
freedom going forth and that arc of longing and that return home.

But maybe you are too afraid the boomerang won’t come back. Maybe
you’re not ready for boomerangs. Maybe you should start with yo-yos,
you know. Something with strings attached.