So, it seems, whether we are ready or need more time, whether we are eager for change or reluctant to get off the couch and face what is happening, life marches on. The monotonous landscape of February instills in me a deep, powerful listlessness that I have found difficult to overcome. Despite the overwhelming amount of schoolwork I have yet to get a handle of, I have never slept so much in my life, nor have I felt as tired. Normally I would panic at the thought of my being behind in school, and yet...I don’t care... and would rather nap than think about it.
A dangerous mentality, to say the least.
Bryan and I, as I’m sure my nonexistent readers were able to gather from my latest post, are breaking up. This Sunday I will drive him to the airport and send him off to Salt Lake to interview with several architecture firms. I have never been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve; I survive such experiences by slowly dealing with my sentiments when I have the time to be alone and address them exclusively. I have no choice but to concentrate on school, a co-op and finding a place to live- well, attempt to concentrate, that is; as mentioned earlier, I’ve had trouble focusing as of late- and it must seem to those around me that I am unaffected by this break up. Regardless of how things appear, I am completely, entirely, and desolately broken-hearted, and will be for some time.
It helps that the reasons for our split are mostly technical, I suppose. There is no lack of love or trust; there is no betrayal, no inability to compromise or lack of desire. There is a young woman and a man eighteen years her senior who need different things. Bryan and I have always been best friends as well as lovers, and I predict that after we have had time to mend our wounds we will continue to be good friends. I will always love him- the things I love about him haven’t changed, after all- and I hope that he finds happiness, fulfillment, and contentment. I know he will.
As for myself, I hope that I am able to find a co-op, an apartment, and a way to fix my currently dysfunctional computer. DAAP’s ID program is highly regarded because of the co-op program, which allows students to spend a year and a half in different cities working in the field. Thank GOD for the program, because the actual classes can be something of a joke from time to time. The co-op experience is invaluable and thrilling; the jobs pay well and some are located in wonderful places: New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle, London, and so on and so forth. The trick, of course, is finding a job, which I have yet to do. I have submitted my portfolio, which is badass in every sense of the word, and I am waiting to hear back from employers. The wait is absolutely tortuous, and is resulting in my becoming a more humble person by the day. Not the worst thing in the world, I suppose.
My computer is functioning normally, with the exception of one very important modeling program that refuses to run. The problem, my papa speculates, is Windows (as always! I can’t believe I had to taint my perfect mac with that shitty OS). I am thus uninstalling and reinstalling windows today. Fuck you, winXP, fuck you.
*obnoxiously thrusts two middle fingers up at computer screen*
Later on today I’m attending the 20th century modern art exhibition with a couple of studio mates, after which we will return to one of their apartments to drink and make hot wings. Tomorrow I have to go check out renting a room in an apartment close to campus. I would have two male architecture students as roommates, which is not ideal, but you really can’t beat $209+utilities and a two second walk to DAAP.
Life marches on, as I said before, and I’m just going to have to trail behind and try to catch up. I hope warm weather will invigorate and inspire me. I guess I’ll just cross my fingers and wait and see.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
It feels like sacrilege to call you darling. I feel very differently from the way I felt last night, but that sentiment remains the same. I forget you completely between these spurts of regret and longing, when we’re sitting side by side on the couch, miles away from one another, watching the thing that was once our love whine and die. I hate myself for allowing these past months to taint my porcelain-delicate memories of you and what we’ve shared for the past three years.
The only thing, the only thing I want in this world is you, not as you are now- cold, hard, resentful- but as you were before, as we were before, when we ran to the world bravely, unafraid, so deeply, fervently, madly in love that my body aches to think about it.
Like clockwork I wake at eight in the morning, dry mouthed but not hung over. I sit on a stranger’s couch, a copy of a copy of a copy, a reiteration so distant that I have begun to fade and lose all distinction; once a possessor of an object so impassioned, so lucid that it vividly cuts into my mind like a scalpel into unblemished skin, now a reason for passersby to snicker with shrewd assumption: a stained shirt, smeared eye liner, half a bottle of rum.
Here, on a small couch in a vaguely familiar apartment, is where I grieve for you. I am alone; I will always be alone when I allow myself to feel this way. I am sorry I cannot do this in front of you. I mourn for you the way a mother mourns a son, a sister a brother, a fan a hero. We can never go back, I’m afraid, to the luscious delirium of yesteryears, the intoxicated fantasy of new love that we managed to suspend for three years. We can never love each other again without the stinging memory of this January’s cruelty and the things we have done. Already our love begins to slip out of focus and become a mirage-like haze down the road. The girls chat up their scandal at hand while I, deaf to their prattle, long for the original other. Masochistically my mind will float to you in the years to come; a soft breeze will blow on my face some sunny afternoon, and I will remember singing loudly to David Bowie while on our way down to North Carolina in a rented car, Bavarian bagels at servattii in the chill of early morning, moon pies brought home to me after a bad day, notes left on a studio desk, a man who cared, a man who loved, a man with the capacity to comfort, protect, hurt and torture me,
a man gone far, far and forever away.
The only thing, the only thing I want in this world is you, not as you are now- cold, hard, resentful- but as you were before, as we were before, when we ran to the world bravely, unafraid, so deeply, fervently, madly in love that my body aches to think about it.
Like clockwork I wake at eight in the morning, dry mouthed but not hung over. I sit on a stranger’s couch, a copy of a copy of a copy, a reiteration so distant that I have begun to fade and lose all distinction; once a possessor of an object so impassioned, so lucid that it vividly cuts into my mind like a scalpel into unblemished skin, now a reason for passersby to snicker with shrewd assumption: a stained shirt, smeared eye liner, half a bottle of rum.
Here, on a small couch in a vaguely familiar apartment, is where I grieve for you. I am alone; I will always be alone when I allow myself to feel this way. I am sorry I cannot do this in front of you. I mourn for you the way a mother mourns a son, a sister a brother, a fan a hero. We can never go back, I’m afraid, to the luscious delirium of yesteryears, the intoxicated fantasy of new love that we managed to suspend for three years. We can never love each other again without the stinging memory of this January’s cruelty and the things we have done. Already our love begins to slip out of focus and become a mirage-like haze down the road. The girls chat up their scandal at hand while I, deaf to their prattle, long for the original other. Masochistically my mind will float to you in the years to come; a soft breeze will blow on my face some sunny afternoon, and I will remember singing loudly to David Bowie while on our way down to North Carolina in a rented car, Bavarian bagels at servattii in the chill of early morning, moon pies brought home to me after a bad day, notes left on a studio desk, a man who cared, a man who loved, a man with the capacity to comfort, protect, hurt and torture me,
a man gone far, far and forever away.
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