About three months ago, a friend of mine threw a party at her house. Although I usually don’t like to go to these kinds of things, I went out of a sense of obligation, determined to stay for at least a beer and a courtesy chat. It was one of those awkward kinds of gatherings, where the host worries whether enough people will show to make it “an event,” where those in attendance cling desperately to the first person they recognize, and where the chatter is directed mainly by the posturing of a few individuals who have decided to make the night theirs.
As I stood in the crowded entryway, sipping somewhat too frequently from my plastic cup, I happened to mention to someone that I was applying to the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Minnesota. “You are?” she exclaimed, and with a magical twist of her arm, drew towards her a lumpy looking fellow from out of the corner, “well then you HAVE to talk to Don, here. He’s our resident writer.” She disappeared, leaving him to shuffle and look embarrassed. Grudgingly, he said, “Not published, yet. I’ve got three completed manuscripts and a stack of rejection letters.”
I told him a little bit about my struggle with writing the personal statement and how challenging I found the whole process of defining the desire to write. “If it were you applying,” I asked, “what do you think you’d say?”
He thought for a moment, “Well, why do you want to write? I mean, do you want to be a writer because you like to write, or because you have something to say?”
Fair enough. The question made me pause.
See, I like to write. There is something inherently pleasurable in the process of recording and refining thoughts, organizing them first in one way, then another. There is something interesting in the challenge of translating experience into a clinking chain of words that readers can use to grasp onto. But that in itself is not sufficient reason to become a writer. That is what things like journals and letters are for.
I do have things to say as well. I have in my small life managed to construct for myself a rather complicated code of ethics and explanations. Behind every small act lies the shadow of a much larger significance. Everything means something, and it all fits together into a complex jigsaw of motivations and cogitative movements. A fair amount of my time is spent looking for that threshold moment of an idea, exploring the relationships between things and people and why happenings play out in the way that they do. Of course, that in itself is also not a sufficient reason to become a writer, though it is a perfectly good reason to become an analyst, a social scientist, or an historian.
Don was still waiting there with his either/or question lingering in the air. I panicked and blurted out, “I guess I have lots of things to say. I mean, not like a burning social issue or anything concrete like that, but, you know…”
I stopped and made myself return the question, “Why do you write?”
Don swept a suddenly indifferent glance over me and replied, “Because that’s the only time I get to talk to myself.” Then he walked away and I understood that I had been dismissed.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Intensive Care
I went to the hospital today to visit my Dad. I’m not exactly sure why I went, what that movement was motivated by. In part, curiosity, in part obligation. Perhaps more than a little desire to see him prone in bed or weak or to see some sort of imagined deathbed confessional. Perhaps a little out of the desire to see how my stepmother, Trish, would be in that situation.
In any case, I went down there and found him in the intensive care unit. The staff seemed a little apprehensive about me being there and only allotted me a small amount of time with him. They had to verify that I was his daughter. At first, I thought something bad had happened, but they reassured me that things had gone well.
I visited briefly with my sleeping father, touched his hand and counted the tubes in him. He startled at one point and opened his eyes to look at me. I asked him how he felt and he just closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. Not good, apparently. That’s when they kicked me out so that they could do work on him. I left two magazines and a Get Well card for him.
I asked the nurse if I could come back again in the afternoon. She hesitated and said perhaps I ought to talk to his wife about visiting arrangements. I asked if she was around and the nurse said I could look for her in the cafeteria.
I went down to the cafeteria and bought a coffee, then found Trish at a table in the corner. I slid around the table and sat down with her. Trish looked agitated.
Trish explained that the surgery had gone fine, but they had had to use the bypass machine on him, meaning that his blood was being mechanically pumped around in there. She said that sometimes patients like that have a hard time recovering their full mental acuity. Other than that, things were going well.
Except for one thing.
Enter Audrey.
Audrey, according to Trish, first appeared as a rosette form. Or rather, one day Trish had found a rosette form in the kitchen and asked Dad where it had come from. Dad said Audrey had dropped it off one day for him. Audrey, Dad told Trish, was an old friend from school.
Audrey, Trish assured me, was very homely, with fat rolls, and big coke bottle glasses. She was a widow with a gambling problem and would stop by the house on weekdays on her way to or from Mystic Lake casino. She only drops by when Trish is at work.
Last Thanksgiving, there was a knock at the door. Trish was preparing a small meal for just the two of them, and was therefore surprised that anyone would stop over. She opened the door and there was this fat, homely, coke-bottle glasses kind of person who introduced herself as Audrey.
She welcomed Audrey in and sent her down to the basement where Dad was working on his computer. When Audrey came up to leave, Trish asked her to wait a moment and ran downstairs to ask Dad if it was ok if she invited her to dinner at five. Dad agreed and so Audrey went to Mystic Lake and then returned a few hours later.
As they chatted over dinner, Audrey talked a great deal about this grocery store clerk named Charlie, who as Trish put it, sounded like a real loser. “He sounds like a real loser,” Trish said to her, “why don’t you join a social group and meet someone who’s actually worthwhile?” Audrey giggled and said that’s what Dad was always telling her too.
At this point, I interrupted Trish and asked her if she believed Audrey was having an affair with Dad. She said that she liked to tease him about it, called Audrey his “girlfriend” and stuff and that it was highly possible, since it was odd she only came over while Trish was at work.
But, Trish added, Audrey was quite homely. And anyways, she wasn’t really worried about what two seventy-year olds would be getting up to in the middle of the day at her house. And anyways, Audrey hadn’t seen her all made up and in high draconian gear. If she saw her like that, she’d know better than to mess with the likes of her.
Even so, Trish said, maybe I’d better go talk to the nurses about restricting visitor privileges.
In any case, I went down there and found him in the intensive care unit. The staff seemed a little apprehensive about me being there and only allotted me a small amount of time with him. They had to verify that I was his daughter. At first, I thought something bad had happened, but they reassured me that things had gone well.
I visited briefly with my sleeping father, touched his hand and counted the tubes in him. He startled at one point and opened his eyes to look at me. I asked him how he felt and he just closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. Not good, apparently. That’s when they kicked me out so that they could do work on him. I left two magazines and a Get Well card for him.
I asked the nurse if I could come back again in the afternoon. She hesitated and said perhaps I ought to talk to his wife about visiting arrangements. I asked if she was around and the nurse said I could look for her in the cafeteria.
I went down to the cafeteria and bought a coffee, then found Trish at a table in the corner. I slid around the table and sat down with her. Trish looked agitated.
Trish explained that the surgery had gone fine, but they had had to use the bypass machine on him, meaning that his blood was being mechanically pumped around in there. She said that sometimes patients like that have a hard time recovering their full mental acuity. Other than that, things were going well.
Except for one thing.
Enter Audrey.
Audrey, according to Trish, first appeared as a rosette form. Or rather, one day Trish had found a rosette form in the kitchen and asked Dad where it had come from. Dad said Audrey had dropped it off one day for him. Audrey, Dad told Trish, was an old friend from school.
Audrey, Trish assured me, was very homely, with fat rolls, and big coke bottle glasses. She was a widow with a gambling problem and would stop by the house on weekdays on her way to or from Mystic Lake casino. She only drops by when Trish is at work.
Last Thanksgiving, there was a knock at the door. Trish was preparing a small meal for just the two of them, and was therefore surprised that anyone would stop over. She opened the door and there was this fat, homely, coke-bottle glasses kind of person who introduced herself as Audrey.
She welcomed Audrey in and sent her down to the basement where Dad was working on his computer. When Audrey came up to leave, Trish asked her to wait a moment and ran downstairs to ask Dad if it was ok if she invited her to dinner at five. Dad agreed and so Audrey went to Mystic Lake and then returned a few hours later.
As they chatted over dinner, Audrey talked a great deal about this grocery store clerk named Charlie, who as Trish put it, sounded like a real loser. “He sounds like a real loser,” Trish said to her, “why don’t you join a social group and meet someone who’s actually worthwhile?” Audrey giggled and said that’s what Dad was always telling her too.
At this point, I interrupted Trish and asked her if she believed Audrey was having an affair with Dad. She said that she liked to tease him about it, called Audrey his “girlfriend” and stuff and that it was highly possible, since it was odd she only came over while Trish was at work.
But, Trish added, Audrey was quite homely. And anyways, she wasn’t really worried about what two seventy-year olds would be getting up to in the middle of the day at her house. And anyways, Audrey hadn’t seen her all made up and in high draconian gear. If she saw her like that, she’d know better than to mess with the likes of her.
Even so, Trish said, maybe I’d better go talk to the nurses about restricting visitor privileges.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
a hug
A gentle knock at the door interrupted the comfortable stillness of my uptown studio. I wasn’t expecting visitors, though my visitors rarely announced their intended arrival. I gave it a moment; I was in no mood to deal with another aspiring novelist or disgruntled student from my writing classes at the city college. I had my own problems. The knock came again, this time more persistent. There was urgency in this knock, it had the character hardly befitting a timid student. I was suddenly intrigued by this knock that shattered the comfortable silence of a humid Sunday evening.
“Hang on, I’m coming,” I directed toward the knock at the door. A quick glance in the mirror told me what I already knew; I wasn’t getting any younger. An aspiring writer, quickly approaching thirty, but my eyes were decades older after abuse from the perpetual party scene. Those days were behind me, and all I had to show for it was a couple of rotten stories picked up by obscure, independent lit mags and my writing classes at the city college. My dreams had faded, as had most of my friendships, let alone my relationships. It was romantic to be a writer with a dream in your early 20s, it was pathetic not to have anything significant published ten years later with the dream nearly erased. I was alone in every sense of the word.
I opened the door, and my heart stopped. It was her. I remember the exact moment I watched her leave for the last time at Los Angeles’s Union Station. I remember the way we held each other, promising safe trips, and frequent calls, holding each other so tightly, never intending to let go. I remember the sadness I felt in watching her turn to get on a train that would take her to San Diego. I remember the emptiness consuming my entire being when I got on the plane to go home to Minneapolis. I remember the pain in knowing that it would be months before I could hold her again. I remember the shock, the anger, the heartbreak when she told me a week later that I was too far away to be a practical love interest, and besides, she had met someone else. This was eight years ago, we hadn’t spoken since.
“Sean…” she spoke my name softly. She was still striking, looking much younger than I, though only a couple years between us, and my cute, charming girl next door whom I had fallen ridiculously in love with had grown into a confident, beautiful woman. And she was standing in my door.
“Why are you here?” I asked, feeling cheated. At the time I was absolutely convinced that there is one perfect match for everyone in this world, and I had known it in my soul that she was the match made for me. It had taken me years to get over her, to forget how beautiful, how wonderful she was. How special she made me feel about myself. To forget that last weekend we spent together in LA. I had successfully buried her in the depths of my subconscious, I had placed her on a corner shelf in a dark closet located on the outer most edge of my being. And suddenly she was at my door.
Her face had a determined look on it. It was obvious she had rehearsed what was about to come next, but her eyes told me she was struggling with the words.
“Sean, I’m getting married next month. I needed to do so with a clean heart. I needed to see you again.” Her voice was trembling now, I wondered what she was afraid of. She was the one who’d broken things off with me, I was completely in love, I was completely blindsided.
“I had to see you again,” she repeated, a little stronger this time “to make sure the feeling was gone, that I made the right decision.” This sounded very scripted, her eyes were seconds away from tears. She was so beautiful. It had taken me so long to forget her. I wondered if she had any idea of the pain she’d caused me. Of those sleepless nights when I replayed every conversation, every interaction, every emotion that I felt for her, that I had assumed we felt for each other. I wondered if she knew at all of the endless hours I put in on my bike, driving myself onward, aimlessly around the city, my legs burning in hopes that my heart would stop hurting, never succeeding.
Suddenly she burst forward into my little studio and threw her arms around me, pulling me close, holding me tightly.
“God, I’ve missed you” she whispered. My arms remained at my sides, neither embracing her, nor rejecting her embrace.
I got lost in her hug, her small yet powerful arms holding me, just as she had years before. The smell of her hair was the same, the feeling was the same, and then I was back in LA. I remember how that entire weekend she had hugged me without notice, holding me tightly as I returned her embrace with equal force and passion.
We’d lived so far apart and our times together were so occasional that we made our affection as tangible and as frequent as possible. We’d held each other so tightly back then, as if by not letting go we could escape reality. That she’d never go back to San Diego, that I would never leave for Minneapolis.
To me, her hugs had been an affirmation of her love for me. I was fully and whole heartedly in love with this girl, and to hold her close meant that everything was right in the world. I could get lost in her hugs, consumed by her passion. To her, I could only guess that her hugs had been a way of saying goodbye. Of giving me a little piece of herself to remember her by when she would inevitably break my heart. Which she inevitably did, one week later.
“You have to go,” I said, with more conviction than I could possibly feel. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“But…” she started to protest.
“No, leave.” I snapped, quietly but firmly. She looked up at me with those adorable eyes that I will forever be in love with. I could feel the sadness, I knew it all too well, it was the sadness of rejection that comes from being told that the passion you share for another person won’t be returned. Her sadness was my own, eight years ago. She turned and headed down the stairway of my building, pausing, she took one last look at me and without a word she was gone.
The greatest thing that had ever happened in my life had just left me for the second time.
“Hang on, I’m coming,” I directed toward the knock at the door. A quick glance in the mirror told me what I already knew; I wasn’t getting any younger. An aspiring writer, quickly approaching thirty, but my eyes were decades older after abuse from the perpetual party scene. Those days were behind me, and all I had to show for it was a couple of rotten stories picked up by obscure, independent lit mags and my writing classes at the city college. My dreams had faded, as had most of my friendships, let alone my relationships. It was romantic to be a writer with a dream in your early 20s, it was pathetic not to have anything significant published ten years later with the dream nearly erased. I was alone in every sense of the word.
I opened the door, and my heart stopped. It was her. I remember the exact moment I watched her leave for the last time at Los Angeles’s Union Station. I remember the way we held each other, promising safe trips, and frequent calls, holding each other so tightly, never intending to let go. I remember the sadness I felt in watching her turn to get on a train that would take her to San Diego. I remember the emptiness consuming my entire being when I got on the plane to go home to Minneapolis. I remember the pain in knowing that it would be months before I could hold her again. I remember the shock, the anger, the heartbreak when she told me a week later that I was too far away to be a practical love interest, and besides, she had met someone else. This was eight years ago, we hadn’t spoken since.
“Sean…” she spoke my name softly. She was still striking, looking much younger than I, though only a couple years between us, and my cute, charming girl next door whom I had fallen ridiculously in love with had grown into a confident, beautiful woman. And she was standing in my door.
“Why are you here?” I asked, feeling cheated. At the time I was absolutely convinced that there is one perfect match for everyone in this world, and I had known it in my soul that she was the match made for me. It had taken me years to get over her, to forget how beautiful, how wonderful she was. How special she made me feel about myself. To forget that last weekend we spent together in LA. I had successfully buried her in the depths of my subconscious, I had placed her on a corner shelf in a dark closet located on the outer most edge of my being. And suddenly she was at my door.
Her face had a determined look on it. It was obvious she had rehearsed what was about to come next, but her eyes told me she was struggling with the words.
“Sean, I’m getting married next month. I needed to do so with a clean heart. I needed to see you again.” Her voice was trembling now, I wondered what she was afraid of. She was the one who’d broken things off with me, I was completely in love, I was completely blindsided.
“I had to see you again,” she repeated, a little stronger this time “to make sure the feeling was gone, that I made the right decision.” This sounded very scripted, her eyes were seconds away from tears. She was so beautiful. It had taken me so long to forget her. I wondered if she had any idea of the pain she’d caused me. Of those sleepless nights when I replayed every conversation, every interaction, every emotion that I felt for her, that I had assumed we felt for each other. I wondered if she knew at all of the endless hours I put in on my bike, driving myself onward, aimlessly around the city, my legs burning in hopes that my heart would stop hurting, never succeeding.
Suddenly she burst forward into my little studio and threw her arms around me, pulling me close, holding me tightly.
“God, I’ve missed you” she whispered. My arms remained at my sides, neither embracing her, nor rejecting her embrace.
I got lost in her hug, her small yet powerful arms holding me, just as she had years before. The smell of her hair was the same, the feeling was the same, and then I was back in LA. I remember how that entire weekend she had hugged me without notice, holding me tightly as I returned her embrace with equal force and passion.
We’d lived so far apart and our times together were so occasional that we made our affection as tangible and as frequent as possible. We’d held each other so tightly back then, as if by not letting go we could escape reality. That she’d never go back to San Diego, that I would never leave for Minneapolis.
To me, her hugs had been an affirmation of her love for me. I was fully and whole heartedly in love with this girl, and to hold her close meant that everything was right in the world. I could get lost in her hugs, consumed by her passion. To her, I could only guess that her hugs had been a way of saying goodbye. Of giving me a little piece of herself to remember her by when she would inevitably break my heart. Which she inevitably did, one week later.
“You have to go,” I said, with more conviction than I could possibly feel. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“But…” she started to protest.
“No, leave.” I snapped, quietly but firmly. She looked up at me with those adorable eyes that I will forever be in love with. I could feel the sadness, I knew it all too well, it was the sadness of rejection that comes from being told that the passion you share for another person won’t be returned. Her sadness was my own, eight years ago. She turned and headed down the stairway of my building, pausing, she took one last look at me and without a word she was gone.
The greatest thing that had ever happened in my life had just left me for the second time.
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