Squishy, Squooshy Love

Is it possible to fall in love with your friends? If so, then I'm in love with two of mine: Gina, and Matty.

I met Gina in graduate school. We were two single, single women in our mid/late thirties going to school in a small town full of married-youngs, this program stocked with talented twentysomethings. Each of us felt like an outsider. We were relatively traveled and worldly, for Americans, though I can't hold a candle in that regard. But that's not the whole story; we're both eccentric (I hear) and passionate about our writing. But in some ways we're very different; Gina is the funniest person I know. For instance, when driving she swears spontaneously, elegantly, a woman genius reincarnated from a sailor, while I only swear when I'm so angry I can't put together a sentence. Gina's driven, while I'm I guess lazy. And she's able to spontaneously and verbally articulate those things that come to me later, when I'm re-creating a conversation and wishing I'd said this and that, because in real life (and I may not give this impression, but it's true), I'm incredibly shy. Gina is a star, and I'm a dreamy idealist. Gina is brutally blunt and not afraid of conflict. I'm a smoother-over. Each of us, though, strives to say what we mean, and each of us feels deeply and passionately about the things we love. I can talk on the phone for hours with Gina, and I don't feel awkward while doing it (I'm not good on the phone, though I love getting phone calls!). If I could claim anyone for a sister, I would claim Gina.

Matty makes me see sunshine on even the cloudiest of days. Our friendship is just in its beginnings, but I feel that we've known each other for a very long time. I met him here, on Blogger, and then we met in person, and he's so beautifully honest about everything. He, too, is self-conscious (more light-heartedly than I am), sensitive, and observant. But more, here's a story: when I was maybe eight, my parents were good friends with another married couple. They were hosting a Japanese exchange student named Keiko. She was seventeen-ish, I guess, and she was cool in a way that went much deeper than language, since I didn't speak Japanese and her English was limited. Sometimes my parents would have Keiko babysit us, and while I don't think she was a babysitter, meaning she wasn't strict or parental or maternal, my brother and I always went to bed willingly when Keiko seemed weary, while with our other babysitters we'd turn into nagging, cajoling brats, pushing to stay up as late as we could. This willingness, because even though Keiko was older and in a position of "authority," she treated us with the kind of respect that children are not used to, and we loved her in ways we never loved our other babysitters. And when she went back to Japan, she wrote me weekly for two years, long letters on Hello Kitty stationery, and at the time I was so honored that someone who was like seventeen would keep in touch with me, an eight-year-old girl. I can't think of a clearer way to express this right now, but this story touches on how I feel about Matty -- it's roundabout, in other words, but it just begins to explain some things that I can't put into words because the story isn't literal; it's a feeling I have about him, a Hello Kitty feeling.

In an odd way, it's nicer to be in this kind of love than it is to be in romantic love. Because romantic love is exclusive, while friend-love wants what's in your own best interests, and it's more mutual, and it's less uneasy. It's the love that loves best. Which is not to say I wouldn't die to fall in love with someone I could sleep with, too. But if I ever meet this guy, he better understand that I'm also in love with my friends and that my feelings for him, for each of them, will be unique, and that I need to love as much as I can in order to feel complete.

I Really Do Like Bukkake, As I Think The Video Addresses Sufficiently Enough -- But I Only Like Bukkake In The Japanese Definition Of The Word

My question, though, is whether or not you share my fondness for Bukkake. Because I just can't say enough about Bukkake or my liking for him. In light of that, I choose to further specify what I mean when I say I "like" him. "Like" is a very vague and even neutral-sounding term. But that's only because the word "like" has become overused. To "like" is to "find pleasant." I find Bukkake pleasant as that first cup of coffee in the morning. I usually add a little bit of vanilla soy milk to my coffee, which gives it that Bukkake touch, especially on a perfect morning such as this one, when the light shines in through the kitchen curtains; outside that window, on top of the translucent skylight that brightens the stairway, I can hear the doves hooting -- when I look up, I can see their three-toed feet pressed against the glass.

My roommate, who owns the house, is already awake. I sleep all morning, if I can, while she takes naps in the middle of the day. Both of us do our dishes immediately after we use them, and I make sure to keep the rest of the house tidy. My own room, however, is extremely messy. That's how I "like" things, I guess. Though sometimes I do get tired of myself.

Springtime Is So Confusing

I keep tripping over my heart, and when I pick myself back up off the ground I find that I've forgotten my original destination.

* * *

First, a disclaimer: I write what I write, and if I feel anything about you in particular, I'll tell you. These poems are not about any one man or the collective, "men." They're meant to capture how someone might feel about another someone. Sure, I've felt these things myself, or I couldn't have written them. But the quality of my feelings changes from moment to moment. The poems represent how I might felt have felt at a particular time and under particular circumstances. I am a different person now than I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

Second, damned if I understand their meaning, anyway. My feelings in this matter are fleeting, and maybe the poems are really a way of representing how in spring, little storms blow through.

Third, I'm sorry to foist my poems on you. I am not a poet.

I

Stand Off

Well, you deserved it,
wouldn't you say?
Not that you really feel it,
that little bruise I gave to you.
Nothing hurts you.
All you feel is dread.

I feel it too --
the dread. I feel it
whenever you're around me.

I thought that you were different.
I thought that every person on this earth was different, too,
just as every star in the galaxy is different,
just as every mote of dust
is unique unto itself.

II

Dredge

You are unique unto yourself:
that's what I prize in you.
Deep, in you.
A prize unto yourself
so deep
I'll never dredge it up.
You require too much of me, and I --
I want too much of you.









III

Clash

Are you tender?
I am odd.
I'm seeking tenderness in others.
I am very tender.
You are very odd.

This Thing That I'm Writing

Is about new beginnings because now, the air smells like jasmine. It's spring in the city and I can wear a skirt without feeling goosebumps up my legs. I wake earlier now, less tired, more willing, though driven is not what I mean.

Something mellower now, something sweeter, less guarded, a dog lying down in the sun. My subject, I guess, is running in heels and eating more greens and the big-shouldered chef who reads books. I'm talking his smile, the softcover I sold him, and how nice his hands looked when he took it.

Do you feel it too? No fireworks, no splash, just a warm wind stirring the grass? And in the morning to wake on the ground, to feel safe in wide open spaces?

Coke or Pepsi?

The following is part of a questionnaire I ripped off from Matty's blog because I'm too lazy and tired to do much else.


What is your favourite TV show of all time?
Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.

What is your middle name?
"The Road"

What foods do you dislike?
Pineapple -- it's those pointy little cat's claws in the rind, the stringy texture, and the awful specificity of its flavor.

What is your favourite crisp flavour?
Huh?

Favourite Sandwich?
Ethan Canin and Jonathan Lethem.

Favourite item of clothing?
The cravat, the sock garter, the nehru jacket.
If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
Mongolia.

What colour is your bathroom?
Do you mind? I'll be out in a second.

Where would you retire to?
My chambers, of course. Are you going to barge in on me there, too?

Favourite time of the day?
Any time you open me a Boddington's.

What was your most memorable birthday?
Five. My favorite color: pink. My mother baked a cake with pink candles and set it on the table where she'd arranged a bouquet of pink roses next to a small pyramid of presents wrapped in pink paper and tied with pink bows. Everyone was singing and eating this sugary pink cake and taking my picture -- flash bulbs, kisses, and lots of questions that even at five I found asinine. My grandmother peered at me through her viewfinder. "Smile," she said. "Wave. Give your brother a hug." Her camera regurgitated polaroids, which she let fall on the pink tablecloth. Soon I grew dizzy with all the attention and then my cheeks and forehead began to flush. Since I wasn't feeling well I became very quiet, and I remember observing that nobody seemed to notice this but continued to photograph me in my pink party hat. That's when I puked pink cake all over my pink pajamas.

Beginning, then, on my fifth birthday and for a few years after I couldn't stand the color pink.


That was the seventies. Back then, my dad worked at a paper mill in Everett, Washington. His boss let him bring home irregularly cut reams of paper for me to draw on.

The morning after my fifth birthday, before he had to leave for work, my dad taught me how to make hats out of the newspaper. I practiced it several times, and I was fascinated with the process of folding those crisp lines. As soon as he finished his coffee and left, I went into my room and opened the drawer where I had a nice, thick ream of pink paper. I folded every single piece into a tri-cornered hat and then I lined the hats up neatly all around the edges of my bedroom. The sight of them made me feel nauseous. But at least I'd used up all that awful paper.

For the rest of my childhood, my mother remained stubbornly convinced that I loved pink, and not wanting to dash her hopes, I guess, I pretended to prefer it over blue and green and orange.

e e e

Now, though, I love all colors and I don't hide that from nobody, nohow. Especially red. Which is a whole 'nother story.

Where were you born?
Seattle, Washington.


Favourite sport to watch?
Boxing.

Coke or Pepsi?
Sake. Not hot, though, no way! I will only drink it if it's 110 degrees, precisely. If it's not, I'll throw the glass to the floor and crush the shards with my boot, then I'll toss my head, pull my coat snugly around me, and stalk out of the room. The room will be silent for a moment and then everyone will spontaneously applaud.

Vodka or Brandy?
Chekhov.

Jedi Mind-Trips and Teflon Identities

Someone's going to wish they hadn't . . .