to be continued…?

April 20th, 2010 by alma No comments »

Love is tricky.  It’s hard to figure out why you care about people, sometimes.  Often, it’s just as hard to figure out how something that was so right has reached a point of being not exactly right.  It sucks, and it’s heartbreaking…but we do it over and over again because…well, when it is just right–it’s everything.

And that’s how this story goes.  Boy meets girl.  Girl meets boy.  It’s good for a while, and then, it evolves with our own evolution.  And like those old, comfy shoes that you loved for years, it starts to tear the skin.  And then, it’s just a gaping wound.  You could put a band-aid on it, and keep wearing those old shoes until you get gangrene.  Or you can recognize that it’s time to find some new shoes.

When we love someone, we don’t go into it thinking it’ll fail.  We want, with all our heart, to make it work.  But, sometimes, all that “making it work” stuff isn’t worth it.  I’ve always been the girl who made it work…to the point of freefall…to the point of broken bones…till I lost myself and hated the other person.

I’m not that girl anymore, and Jake is not my enabler.

Right now, we’re friends.  As much as exes can be friends.  I’m not sure about it, but I know I still care–even if I can’t really say it out loud…even if the current edge in my voice contradicts it.  We’ll be in each other’s lives, I’m sure.  We’re important to one another.

And, maybe, one day, this won’t be the case.  Maybe, one day, as friends, we will come back here and pontificate on our mutually single lives.  Maybe, we’ll still lean on each other.  For now, though, it’s been a good run.  I’ll see you on the other side.

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LUV ♥

March 24th, 2010 by Mila Jake No comments »

Dear Alma,

Reddish pink door surrounding a window pane reflecting Mila Jake, below which is written

LUV ♥,

Me (la)

Jake–

♥

Alma

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it’s you

March 21st, 2010 by alma 2 comments »

dear you,

This entry is risky.

I am, absolutely, a total girl when it comes to the romance thing.  I grew up dreaming of white picket fences.  I love nearly every romantic comedy known to modern mankind.  I once wrote a poem a day to the guy I loved.  I was engaged once and seriously involved (with the certainty of marriage) with another.  I love coming up with sentimental gifts and planning “us” things.

But I am also a recovering wannabe love cynic.  I used to be the girl who sneered at happy couples.  I used to criticize our generation’s entanglement equations as retarded and flimsy.  I rolled my eyes hard at the idea of marriage and children.

There are many reasons for this.  My Daddy was an alcoholic who cheated on my Mama and drank himself to death.  He had been married more than once.  He cheated on them, too.  Recently, in fact, while researching my family tree, I discovered a secret marriage.  I might have brothers and sisters I’ve never met.  I could be angry at him for that, and for a long time, I was just that.  It was difficult to reconcile the guy who loved my Mama and me so much with that hollow cad.  My father was full of contradictions.  But, really, all I need to know about him was how much my Mama loved him.  If she loved him like that, he couldn’t possibly have been that bad a person.  And, well, I loved him just as much–in my own way.  And, in his own way, he loved us too.

I learned a lot about love from them.  On one hand, I learned love was pretty tragic and an effort.  Sacrifice.  I learned to protect myself.  But I also saw firsthand how love can save lives.  My father’s love for my mother saved her life, unquestionably, and that is why I’m here.

I’m an odd duck when it comes to love.  I’ve always been the 364 mile an hour psycho, blurting out things inappropriately soon and then nosediving into some big thing.  Or–completely running for all I’m worth in the opposite direction.  I think this comes from my experience with life being much too short.  Every day of my life until halfway through my twenty-sixth year, I told my Mama I loved her right before I went to bed.  Without fail.  No matter where I was.  I learned to only do the things I meant…to tell people how I felt, even when I was too terrified to actually do more than that.

But my parents were not mushy.  I always knew how loved I was, but it was something they showed me through their everyday being there.  They were not huggers.  Love was shown with utility.  Some of the most meaningful moments involved Mama helping me get ready for school–how she combed my hair and put on my socks.  I learned that love was active, not descriptive.  I am very much my parents’ daughter in that way.  I am selectively affectionate.  Sometimes, I have trouble telling people little things that make them feel more secure.  I am better at being there…at holding a hand on a bad day…at calling to make sure you’re not still puking.

When I first jumped into the love arena, I was pretty clueless.  I didn’t believe in it for me.  I thought it was something I should do rather than something I actually would do.  Of course, that was doomed to fail.  I used to be someone who could stuff down my emotions for a while, but eventually, they’d bubble out and suffocate me.  I am also stubborn and loyal about everything.  So, I held on…tried to force it to work.  And then, it still didn’t.  Eventually, I gave up because I am–despite hints to the contrary–not a fool.  And not mean.  And it was both to stay.

The second one was the one with thorns.  It was the first “real” one–the first one that damaged me–and boy did it ever!  It was appropriate, though.  We were gonna get married.  There were many things right about that relationship, but life got in the way and things sped out of control.  I held on again, but this time because I wanted to.  Because I didn’t want to be wrong.  Because I didn’t think anyone would ever love me like he did.  And I didn’t really want them to.  It was there that I learned when to say when…how to identify the small things that didn’t quite work.  That relationship sobered me.  It made me bitter to some degree, but it also forced me to look long and hard at my own dysfunction.

Since then, I’ve grappled with near misses and mirages.  These relationships taught me to stand up for myself.  They taught me to preserve myself.  They also taught me what I didn’t want…what didn’t serve me.  A part of me built another wall.  When you met me, I kept my distance a little.  I was still effusive like I had been during my other bouts of idiocy.  But I only let you get so far for a long time.  Gradually, I opened up to you…then I ran away…then I opened up and then stayed with my arm up.  I keep opening up, and I think I surprise you by how much I can change in a heartbeat.  I’m amazed by the things I share with you–that I am capable of telling you things I have never discussed with anyone.  That scares the Hell out of me, too.

Sometimes, I struggle with telling you the things I want to tell you.  I want to stick my neck out and make you feel as special as you make me feel.  So, when the moment strikes, I let it go.  I probably say too much.  I probably act like some gushy girl.  It’s embarrassing.  And that’s why this entry is risky.  Because I’m gonna gush in front of the whole damn Internet.  And you’re gonna smirk.

I was on Facebook (eyeroll), and I saw your last status update.  A silly set of lyrics.  And I added my two cents.  And in that moment, I remembered exactly why you’re it.

I love that you are still goofy, even though you’re thirty-something.  I love that you are silly and share it often.  I love that you say inappropriate things while walking down the street when you’re talking to me, and all of Boulder has given you a doubletake.  I love that you send me smirking pictures.  I love that you go out of your way to see if someone’s okay when they’ve been discarded by their friends–even though they’re drunk.  I love that you don’t take things at face value and see through people’s armor.  I love that you are honest and brave about sharing your shortcomings.  I love that you own your past and learn from your mistakes.  I love how ridiculous you can be when you’ve had Coca Cola and how every conversation includes an imitation or twelve.  I love how talented you are and how you say things with insight and sensitivity.  I love that you can be a bit of a slut.  I love that you can keep up with me.  I love how you see the world–how you capture light.  I love that I learn from you and teach you things, too.  I love that you get misty-eyed when I talk about Mama.  I love that you leave funny voicemails for me, and sometimes, you get shy.  I love how you nickname me and poke fun at me.  I love that you steadfastly work on yourself.  I love that you’re an optimist who sees the beauty/good in the world–even though you’ve seen enough of the pain to last two lifetimes.  I love that you are open to joy.  I love that you smell good.  I love that you tell me the things I don’t always like and hold me accountable when I’m wrong.  I love that I don’t scare you.  I love that you see the person I really am when I’m too afraid to actually be that person.  I love your passion and your intensity.  I even love that you match me in my stubborn commitment to work things out when it’s wrong…even if it’s infuriating.  I love that I can talk to you about anything, and that you don’t (usually) roll your eyes when I’m rhapsodizing about my kitty’s furry belly.  I love that you respect me and laugh at me.  I love that we give each other assignments.  I love that we inspire each other to search for our family trees.  I love that we can play, and we can rant, and we can be quiet.

I just felt like writing that, and I apologize to all those readers whose eyes are rolling.  But it’s true.  And I had to tell you.  Because you help me believe in grounded fairy tales where the burn is slow and the friendship defines everything else.

<3

alma

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i choose you

March 1st, 2010 by alma 1 comment »

dear you,

If I close my eyes, I can imagine myself walking down the narrow sidewalk of Ada–down past the pink house on the corner, past the corner store to Federal.  I can smell Westwood lingering heavy in the air and the Marlboros.  I can remember waiting for her to catch up to us, the sun bright and glinting nearly every day of my young life.

He was the first man I ever loved, and perhaps, part of the reason I’ve loved every other man I’ve been drawn to in that way silly girls sink.

Memory is a funny thing.  I remember him towering above me.  I remember his strength and his wit.  But, like any good funhouse mirror, the mind can play its tricks.  My beloved hero walked with a cane and a healthy limp.  And he was five foot seven or something.

Still, it doesn’t quite matter.  Does it?  He’ll always be the man who was so tall, who could flip my world upside down just because he existed.

###

I most remember his laugh–how it took over his face when it rained hail the size of wayward donuts–how it filled his little red truck as we waited it out–how it appeared when his brother & I sang “I can take a little hint from you…I’d run away…I’d run away with you, baby” as we sped through Alamo Placita to some diner or movie theatre…some place where we could smile at each other while talking books or music or ideas.  We were best at the ideas.

We’d dance afterward…in darkened parks in my old neighborhood…in well-lit bedrooms in the suburbs.  No music required, just the push-pull rhythm of our elated hearts.

I wasn’t a happy person at the time.  It was something, rather, that I aspired to be.  I was, more than anything, scared.  I had been among the ranks of the feeling for only a short time by then, and I was afraid of losing it…of losing him…of losing everything.  So, I held on.  And I smiled, even when I didn’t mean it.  But he made me want to mean it.

###

I most remember his white knuckles.  And his corny laugh.  And his audaciousness.  He was the guy who’d take pictures of his freshly-showered, half-naked self and post them to the Internet.  He was the guy who Photoshopped his eyes so they were some manner of piercing azure.  He was good at holding on for dear life and pretend.  You either loved him or hated him.  At first, I was part of the latter–though oddly fascinated–until I joined the devoted former…and held on to him when I probably shouldn’t have.

What can I say?  I needed an anchor.  I was always good at the holding on…always good at seeing through people’s crap.  I saw through it to the person he “really was”–to the person I needed him to be.

I wasn’t a happy person at the time.  I was working hard to be whole–to make a difference–to reinvent wheels and plunging off cliffs at 360 miles an hour….at contolling the tailspin.  And it was good as long as I didn’t need him too much–as long as I was useful.  I failed miserably, on all counts, and found myself buried back down in the ashes of our collective ruins.  I needed him to extend his hand.  I needed him to be my bright, white light.  But, instead, he let me crawl through shit.

###

Somewhere between there and here, I got lost.  I gave myself away a few times too many to the wrong guy–the wrong dream–the wrong me.  You could say it was because I’ve always had a good heart.  I’ve always been uncompromising with myself, and for the longest time, I didn’t know who this person actually was.  You could say it was because I never had anything that I could depend on…except her.

The truth, though, is that I never had me.  That last boy who walked away from me…the last one who pulled the wool over my eyes so well I let him sully my bathroom…well…he was wrong for too many reasons, and I know I’m still angry…probably always will be.  I know his existence in my life makes it harder for you, most days.

I know I am more closed off, more suspicious, more defensive, and less–well–me.  Only I am exactly me.  The me I always had been until just before I met him.  The progress I made after that other boy left me…after he turned into something less than a stranger…well…one person does make a difference, and I know he made an impact in my journey to here.

But I want to thank him for that, actually.

I have this thing I do where I give myself away too easily.  Despite my independence, I often disappear in relationships.  I’m not a small person, but within relationships, I let people sit on me and hold me down…let them force me to do things I don’t mean.  And then, I hate them for it…for being an accomplice to my own subjugation.  But, as he often told me, “no one can make you small without your permission.”

I am quick now to see manipulation where maybe there’s just a pause for thought.  Perhaps, I just attract people who struggle with its siren’s song.  I don’t know, but I do know that — when I see it in you — I rail against it and stick that arm up for all I’m worth.  I will never be controlled again.  You will not take advantage of my good heart.  Sometimes, it makes me sad.  But I’d rather be the defensive girl than the one who drowned in his tantrums.

Sometimes, I struggle to see you because I struggle to see me.  I know it’s me because I’m the girl who hides.  My father taught me well.  And then, I get angry when you don’t know the interior of my heart.  Because I don’t have the vocabulary or the instinct to tell you.

For me…love is about teaching each other the language of our individual hearts.  It’s as much about deciphering hieroglyphics and hand gestures as it is about hearts and flowers.  When you finally speak the same language, you find inspiration.  Love wants to be inspired.  It wants to skedaddle off in fifty different directions like rogue sparklers in December.  It wants to learn your punctuation and wait for a pause.  It isn’t threatened by edges of tone or what isn’t said.

It isn’t about keeping score or getting our own way.

It breathes.  It moves.  It waits.

That’s what love is, and it’s why I’m in it–even when my body violently revolts against the tone of the voice you use.  Because you inspired me like no one has, and that is worth everything.

<3

alma

-~-

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dreaming of tuna fish

January 18th, 2010 by alma No comments »

dear you,

Tonight, I was working on one of the components of my final grad school project.  As always seems to be the case, I was starting it mere hours before it was due.  This was not the day I had planned.  I woke up this morning Hell-bent on relaxing.  My newly crafted to-do list said I was supposed to “pamper” myself, so I went about applying various home-spa treatments to my achy body.  When I stepped out of the shower, I slipped on a pool of water and went careening across the bathroom…wrenching my knee…and nearly reinjuring my newly healed leg…all because I recently tossed out my bath mat.  All because my two, sweet baby kitties have decided to hate on each other, and damn if it’s not sticking.  I know better than this.  I should have put a towel down or something.  I’m a smart girl, but I tend to do really stupid things sometimes…not because I’m stupid, but because I am sometimes impulsive and just bad at taking care of myself.  Well, I take that back…I am good at taking care of myself when I’m in some sort of crisis.  But the mundane day-to-day stuff often doesn’t make it to the smart sector of my brain.

The way my class works is, early in the week, we are supposed to write a paper and post it to an online forum.  Then, we’re supposed to respond to people’s stuff.  The class is assessment focused this time around, which means the focus is on whether or not we’re living up to the goals/objectives we set for ourselves.  Are our lessons aligned with our goals?  Is our map going to get us to ILearnedaLot-WhooHOO! or WhyDidIBother?Boo!?

As you know, I’m kinda neurotic about planning.  I’m quite analytical.  About everything.  TFA exacerbated that part of me because it gave me tools to diagnose things.  It took me a long time to get into their way of thinking because I tend to be less systematic about it, but it absolutely stuck.  And, now, I see everything in a very TFA way.  If there’s a problem, you set a big goal that will exceed what’s necessary to solve that problem.  Then, you backwards plan…setting little goals…kinda like rungs on a ladder.  There is a great deal of specificity about everything…language, actions, and outcomes especially.  And it’s all rooted in the situation at hand.  It’s all subject to constant revision.

I logged into our course site, and I went about responding to the people who responded to my post from earlier this week.  We had been asked to come up with three learning objectives for an assessment plan using an ABCD method outlined by one of our textbooks.  My project concerns a business I’m trying to launch, so it’s pretty personal to me and something I care a lot about.  Almost everyone had constructive, positive comments.  Except for one person in my class who said she “wasn’t trying to be a know-it-all, but…”  And then, she started saying I needed to be more by-the-book, but didn’t give me any specific criticism.

I immediately got defensive.  I know how to write a set of learning objectives.  I spent hours upon hours doing it…having my objectives scrutinized by people who consulted to top school districts.  I can write them in my sleep.  I wanted to know who this woman was, so I looked her up in our class directory.  She’s a store manager aspiring to be a professor.  This was her first Master’s level class.  I was furious and ready to crush her.  I brought out my big guns, analyzed things, and then realized she was kinda right.  I had satisfied the basic requirements of the assignment, but I could have been more specific.  I hated her passive aggressive manner of telling me, and she could have been more specific.  But it was not my best work.  I bit my tongue and told her I’d look at it more closely.

If it had been an isolated incident of me reacting harshly without fully thinking, I wouldn’t have been so irritated by myself.  But it hasn’t been.  I’ve been growling and defensive for days.  Despite my pledge this new year to bring more romance into my life, I’ve been severely analytical and reactive when I didn’t need to be.

###

As I was writing and revising my paper tonight, I watched my two cats play their territorial games.  Cleo has been my fur-baby since just after my Mama died five years ago.  She was sick when I adopted her and has always been docile and adaptable.  Until I adopted Fogg last March-ish.  They’re about the same age and both female, so that probably has something to do with it.  But there’s also the fact that they are polar opposites.  Fogg is obnoxious and an attention whore whereas Cleo is quiet and scared.  It’s been a difficult road with both of them.  Cleo lived out on the balcony for months, until sub-zero temps finally convinced her to come inside.  Now, she basically sits on one chair and runs whenever Fogg’s in sight.

Recently, I moved the furniture around in an effort to make my apartment feel more homey.  Cleo immediately freaked out, and Fogg decided this meant everything was brand new.  So, she went exploring…commandeering Cleo’s chair.  So, Cleo’s been sitting on my bar stool.

Tonight, Cleo was sleeping on the bar stool and Fogg was sleeping on the chair as I typed away.  Fogg woke up, tried to get my attention, and when she couldn’t, she ran over to the bar stool and jumped on sleeping Cleo.  Cleo, startled freaked…ran…and then growled from the floor as Fogg smelled the entire bar stool and rolled around it to mark her territory.  She then went back to the chair.  Then, she jumped in my lap.  And then, she ran into the bedroom.

Cleo again jumped on the barstool.  Fogg was nowhere in sight, but Cleo kept growling.  She finally stopped and then Fogg went back to the chair and fell asleep again.  A few minutes later, Cleo was growling again.  Because she started growling, she woke up Fogg…who again jumped on her.

It was funny to me because the behavior kinda reminded me of me.

###

All of my past relationships have fit certain patterns.  It starts out amazingly well.  We’re best friends.  We never fight.  Then, we start fighting tiny bits here and there.  But we weather them well.  Then, the fights get more frequent.  Then, it blows up…and things happen that make no sense.  Because it went from 12 to 360 in a heartbeat.  Our relationship is odd to me.  It took us so long to even acknowledge that we wanted to be in a relationship…so long in fact that we were in one before it was acknowledged.  And, then, it was like someone turned on some light…and we started fighting…and not just fighting about specific stupid things.  We were fighting about fighting.  I find it both frustrating and amusing…especially since December seemed to be about you needing to fight and this month seems to be about me needing to fight.  It’s heartening to know we are so well matched and so alike in so many ways.  But it’s horribly frustrating not being able to figure out why we’re fighting so much.

In any relationship, there’s a period of adjusting…of teaching the other person how to treat you and helping them deal with your trigger points.  I have many of them, and I know you do too.  I think a lot of our fighting is testing the other person…seeing how much they want this…making sure they’re not like the other people who disappointed us so badly.

And I think, a lot of the time, we fight because we both have a certain amount of expectation about what this new person is going to do.  It’s based on those old people, sometimes.  So, instead of me taking what you say at face value and assuming your innocence, I am holding you accountable for all those bad behaving others who came before you.  Because on some level, I’m protecting myself from them when I’m interacting with you.  You might not know how to say it in the way I need to hear it.  You might not speak my language exactly or understand my motives yet.  But that doesn’t mean you aren’t right.  And that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.  It’s just a matter of being open and not defending myself from threats that don’t yet exist.

It’s hard.  People come into our lives, and they leave their impressions.  We get used to being in a certain role.  We get used to reacting in a certain way.  And it stops being about us…you and me…and it becomes about all the people we aren’t…all those who aren’t.  So, how do you love in that crazy, passionate way we do without being harmed by it…without changing to the point of embracing our shadow?  How do we stay open and willing to hear and assume innocence?

I know I have a lot of stuff to work on.  I’m not perfect and never will be.  I honestly want to grow as a human being, and I never want to hurt anyone.  It is a struggle sometimes not to growl in the corner when the would-be attacker is dreaming of tuna fish.

always,

alma

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