I wonder when the revolution will come. I walk by the homes with the perfectly manicured yards and I wonder when they will all be set on fire. Will they know that inside, I am one of them? Or, will mine go down in flames, too?
Despite the pending revolution that I'm convinced is closing in on me, I can't leave. Could not dream of leaving. Ok, I can dream of it. Do dream of it often. Of leaving. Walking away. Or driving away. Far, far away. Of course, the eternally wise Harry Chapin reminds us that "you can travel on 10,000 miles and still stay where you are."
I used to drive by houses just like this one and wonder what it'd be like to live in one. To have a comfortable life. To take beach vacations. To take any vacation. To do more than work a 12-hour shift and then another just to have barely enough.
Of course, I deserve to be here. I went to college and beyond. I worked hard (and still do). This is what is supposed to happen.
But my heart is not here. Not today. Not tomorrow.
Ok, in fairness, a big portion of my heart is here. And this is the place I chose. I chose it by opening some doors and (forever?) closing others. I walked a path directly here. To the place where the fires will burn big and bright during the revolution.
Ours will go early, because we are close to the homes of those most justifiably angry. Close enough to taunt them with what they cannot have. Close enough that they drive by every single day on their way home. And dream. And spite. And say to themselves that when the revolution comes, they're going to burn us down to the ground.
We taunt them with family budgets that include sprinkler systems running day and night, luxury cars from Germany and Japan, high-end security systems, a carefree approach to shopping.
We see them at the restaurants on Sunday and we tip them small amounts. We mumble about not understanding why people have to be tipped. And say things like it's their fault they got this shitty job and why is it my job to give them tax-free income?
We make them take our groceries to the car, we complain loudly when we're not next in line, we yell at them because they didn't award our child the grade we know she deserved.
We laugh at the sad, aging cars that carry them on their way. We point out glibly that we give to the local food pantry and toss away our lightly used polo shirts to Goodwill. We don't even take the tax deduction, we're so generous.
And so, when the revolution comes, we'll burn. Or at least, our houses will.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Four
I'm buttoning up my white shirt. Easing up the knot on the black tie. Now putting on the dark grey suit. M is watching in her black dress. The same one she wears every week with a pair of smart black pumps. She always watches me dress. Well, always on Sunday.
We are both lean and reasonably fit. We walk everywhere and eat at the community center and rarely indulge in any sort of meal away.
I walk with her to the community center. This is always the happiest part of any week. The Sunday morning sun as we hold hands and walk.
Inside, there are 20 or so people. Sometimes as many as 30. All in their best. Despite dirt and evidence of hard work and hunger, they all look eager. There are just a few men and one of them has on a tie. The women all have dresses.
We have a community meal after service, and that's why many of them keep coming. It certainly can't be because of my rousing sermons. I'm typically measured, reserved, and thoughtful. M loves to see me. She says it is like a performance. She says she can see my heart when I speak. She says this is why she said yes. This is what she saw, had seen that convinced her that if I would but ask, she would agree.
After lunch, M and I make love. It is always best on Sunday. Sometimes, she barely lets me get undressed. I remain amazed at her. At her body, her desire after almost 10 years of marriage. My desire is strong, too. I want her more than anything. Want her happiness the most. It is always twice on Sunday. After the service and meal and before we go to sleep. Some weeks, that's all there is. Twice on Sunday. But most of the time, we'll find a few moments on a Tuesday or sometime on Friday evening. Or, I'll come in from a long, hot day of trying to recruit new church members and before she can even serve the meal she's prepared, I'll kiss her so hard she knows. And then, in the narrow hallways of the row house, against the wall or on the floor, we'll unite. I'm amazed at how our bodies respond. How we connect again and again and again. How sparks seem to fly. How perfect she feels.
I dream at times of a new way. A decent-sized home with a yard and some pets or maybe even a child. A car -- maybe both of us could have cars? Some more dresses and shoes for her. A new suit for me. A life that includes a sometimes vacation at a place with sandy beaches. Or a hike in the mountains.
But then, the night comes and my body aches with a need for sleep. And the beep beep beep beep of the alarm hits too early and we go on about our work and I smile and laugh and love this life. And when I am with her, just sitting bed reading, I want nothing more. But this one thing: For this to last forever.
And then I meet Mark or Carol or Jenna on the street at their usual places and I smile and we talk and they smile. Sometimes, I take one to eat at Subway and we talk about getting them a place at least at the community center and helping them find work. Sometimes, they want my help. M works on applications with them and I make sure they get up and turn them in, make sure they show up to the interview.
Sometimes, they're just hungry. But they all have stories and tales and sadness. Infinite sadness. And we share that, all of us. The infinite sadness binds us and brings us to a place of understanding, and sometimes of joy.
This can't last forever, I know. Or, I think. Or there has to be more. Or, really, we can't raise kids like this. It's just not fair to them. But now. Right now, this is forever. This is the best. This is all I want.
We are both lean and reasonably fit. We walk everywhere and eat at the community center and rarely indulge in any sort of meal away.
I walk with her to the community center. This is always the happiest part of any week. The Sunday morning sun as we hold hands and walk.
Inside, there are 20 or so people. Sometimes as many as 30. All in their best. Despite dirt and evidence of hard work and hunger, they all look eager. There are just a few men and one of them has on a tie. The women all have dresses.
We have a community meal after service, and that's why many of them keep coming. It certainly can't be because of my rousing sermons. I'm typically measured, reserved, and thoughtful. M loves to see me. She says it is like a performance. She says she can see my heart when I speak. She says this is why she said yes. This is what she saw, had seen that convinced her that if I would but ask, she would agree.
After lunch, M and I make love. It is always best on Sunday. Sometimes, she barely lets me get undressed. I remain amazed at her. At her body, her desire after almost 10 years of marriage. My desire is strong, too. I want her more than anything. Want her happiness the most. It is always twice on Sunday. After the service and meal and before we go to sleep. Some weeks, that's all there is. Twice on Sunday. But most of the time, we'll find a few moments on a Tuesday or sometime on Friday evening. Or, I'll come in from a long, hot day of trying to recruit new church members and before she can even serve the meal she's prepared, I'll kiss her so hard she knows. And then, in the narrow hallways of the row house, against the wall or on the floor, we'll unite. I'm amazed at how our bodies respond. How we connect again and again and again. How sparks seem to fly. How perfect she feels.
I dream at times of a new way. A decent-sized home with a yard and some pets or maybe even a child. A car -- maybe both of us could have cars? Some more dresses and shoes for her. A new suit for me. A life that includes a sometimes vacation at a place with sandy beaches. Or a hike in the mountains.
But then, the night comes and my body aches with a need for sleep. And the beep beep beep beep of the alarm hits too early and we go on about our work and I smile and laugh and love this life. And when I am with her, just sitting bed reading, I want nothing more. But this one thing: For this to last forever.
And then I meet Mark or Carol or Jenna on the street at their usual places and I smile and we talk and they smile. Sometimes, I take one to eat at Subway and we talk about getting them a place at least at the community center and helping them find work. Sometimes, they want my help. M works on applications with them and I make sure they get up and turn them in, make sure they show up to the interview.
Sometimes, they're just hungry. But they all have stories and tales and sadness. Infinite sadness. And we share that, all of us. The infinite sadness binds us and brings us to a place of understanding, and sometimes of joy.
This can't last forever, I know. Or, I think. Or there has to be more. Or, really, we can't raise kids like this. It's just not fair to them. But now. Right now, this is forever. This is the best. This is all I want.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Three
I stood essentially paralyzed on the cool white tile of a Kroger store. In my car was a diamond engagement ring I had just picked up. The evening was growing late, the night sky clear, dark, and lacking moisture. It was early December. In a matter of weeks, I would be asking the woman I'd been dating for nearly three years to be my wife.
I had stopped in for some ice cream as I was craving a late night snack. I was high on adrenaline and satisfied with how my plan was unfolding.
And then, I was paralyzed. M was there. Walking out as I walked in. Her dark hair framed her face and her darker eyes shone brightly in the harsh store light.
We met through a campus organization. She was still involved and I was working my first "real" job. I attended the meetings for the sole purpose of seeing her there. On the rare occasions she wasn't, my heart felt heavy.
We'd also run into each other in the library. I used the college's computers as I didn't have one of my own. We also had pleasant, if not intense conversations around school, politics, and our work/school activities.
At that moment, I was paralyzed. Immediately, I wanted to take the ring from my car, get down on my knee, and ask her to marry me. I could think of nothing else. I don't recall what I said. I certainly didn't mention the ring in my car or my plans. Though I know she knew of my girlfriend. I recall the look on her face the day she asked me what I was doing one weekend and I told her I was traveling to see my girlfriend. She made a few pleasant comments and then left. She never mentioned the topic again.
I still remember the overwhelming feeling in my heart -- that feeling that said beyond doubt "you should marry her."
As she walked out, I stood for a moment in awe of her presence and the intensity of my feelings. I walked to the ice cream freezer. Made a choice. Walked back to my car. I did these things without thinking. The cold night air brought me to some sense of reality. In the car, I admired the ring I had purchased. I thought about the night I would ask my girlfriend to become my wife. I thought about M.
M and I continued to be friends. To exchange emails. She once invited me to a dinner with her sister. But I didn't say yes or no and on the day of, sent her a message saying I couldn't make it.
She told me of her life, of her family, of the sometimes dates she would have.
And then in my inbox, some seven years after I'd met her, there was a message. It was from her account.
It was her mother. M had been killed in an apartment fire. She had lit a candle in her bathroom and apparently gone to bed with it still burning. The flames ignited the shower curtain and the bathroom and apparently she was unable to get out before it overtook her room. No one else in the apartment building was hurt.
Her mother noted that I was among a group of friends she had spoken of favorably and often.
I re-read the message again and again and again. I cried. I took a long walk in the summer sun. I cried more on the way home. I cried the next day as I opened my email inbox and saw the message, with her name, sitting there.
I still have that message. I read it from time to time. And I'm reminded of the poems we shared, of the clear connection we had, and of my inability or unwillingness to act "in the moment" at that Kroger store.
Going out, getting the car, getting the ring... asking her. Then explaining why I even had a ring in the car and why I felt the way I did would have been too much. It was a door too heavy to open. I didn't even knock. Didn't even indicate I wanted to come in. Stayed at a safe distance.
Because knocking might have meant a messy situation. A breakup with a woman for whom I had strong feelings. A period of uncertainty. A response that I didn't want to hear. It seems unlikely that M would have said "yes, I'll marry you." But it certainly seems possible that just by asking, more might have been offered. Or, that I ignored a clear, strong feeling of the heart and should have followed its messy path to explore the potential of M.
As long as she was alive and there were emails and meetings, there was hope. Maybe some circumstance would bring us together. And of course, my life with my wife was going amazingly well, so the need to follow that call grew weaker.
Now, I will never get an email from M. Never hear her voice or stare into her deep, brown eyes. I had a moment. I was given a chance. And I froze.
I had stopped in for some ice cream as I was craving a late night snack. I was high on adrenaline and satisfied with how my plan was unfolding.
And then, I was paralyzed. M was there. Walking out as I walked in. Her dark hair framed her face and her darker eyes shone brightly in the harsh store light.
We met through a campus organization. She was still involved and I was working my first "real" job. I attended the meetings for the sole purpose of seeing her there. On the rare occasions she wasn't, my heart felt heavy.
We'd also run into each other in the library. I used the college's computers as I didn't have one of my own. We also had pleasant, if not intense conversations around school, politics, and our work/school activities.
At that moment, I was paralyzed. Immediately, I wanted to take the ring from my car, get down on my knee, and ask her to marry me. I could think of nothing else. I don't recall what I said. I certainly didn't mention the ring in my car or my plans. Though I know she knew of my girlfriend. I recall the look on her face the day she asked me what I was doing one weekend and I told her I was traveling to see my girlfriend. She made a few pleasant comments and then left. She never mentioned the topic again.
I still remember the overwhelming feeling in my heart -- that feeling that said beyond doubt "you should marry her."
As she walked out, I stood for a moment in awe of her presence and the intensity of my feelings. I walked to the ice cream freezer. Made a choice. Walked back to my car. I did these things without thinking. The cold night air brought me to some sense of reality. In the car, I admired the ring I had purchased. I thought about the night I would ask my girlfriend to become my wife. I thought about M.
M and I continued to be friends. To exchange emails. She once invited me to a dinner with her sister. But I didn't say yes or no and on the day of, sent her a message saying I couldn't make it.
She told me of her life, of her family, of the sometimes dates she would have.
And then in my inbox, some seven years after I'd met her, there was a message. It was from her account.
It was her mother. M had been killed in an apartment fire. She had lit a candle in her bathroom and apparently gone to bed with it still burning. The flames ignited the shower curtain and the bathroom and apparently she was unable to get out before it overtook her room. No one else in the apartment building was hurt.
Her mother noted that I was among a group of friends she had spoken of favorably and often.
I re-read the message again and again and again. I cried. I took a long walk in the summer sun. I cried more on the way home. I cried the next day as I opened my email inbox and saw the message, with her name, sitting there.
I still have that message. I read it from time to time. And I'm reminded of the poems we shared, of the clear connection we had, and of my inability or unwillingness to act "in the moment" at that Kroger store.
Going out, getting the car, getting the ring... asking her. Then explaining why I even had a ring in the car and why I felt the way I did would have been too much. It was a door too heavy to open. I didn't even knock. Didn't even indicate I wanted to come in. Stayed at a safe distance.
Because knocking might have meant a messy situation. A breakup with a woman for whom I had strong feelings. A period of uncertainty. A response that I didn't want to hear. It seems unlikely that M would have said "yes, I'll marry you." But it certainly seems possible that just by asking, more might have been offered. Or, that I ignored a clear, strong feeling of the heart and should have followed its messy path to explore the potential of M.
As long as she was alive and there were emails and meetings, there was hope. Maybe some circumstance would bring us together. And of course, my life with my wife was going amazingly well, so the need to follow that call grew weaker.
Now, I will never get an email from M. Never hear her voice or stare into her deep, brown eyes. I had a moment. I was given a chance. And I froze.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Two
The people point and make sounds. They want to go over there or eat here or watch that. The sounds don't matter. The noise is purely functional. The sounds are forgotten as the doors of the Dollar General open and the stale, desperate breath creeps onto the sidewalk. And I am reminded.
I am reminded of the time I was walking into a Dollar General not too far from this one -- maybe 30 miles north, and the smell reminded me of a Dollar General in a town near where I grew up. I am reminded that I am often reminded.
As I ran the other night, I was reminded of a night like that one several years before when I was running next to the homes on a quiet street. While running on a quiet street and thinking about the homes, I was reminded of the homes we used to drive by when I was a kid. And so, the other night, while running, I was reminded of that night several years ago when I was reminded of riding around in a car dreaming of what it would be like to live in a home like one of these.
And I realize that now I am often reminded. That I rarely just experience events. That the heat from the sidewalk this June feels like the heat from the sidewalk last June and that I'm rarely present. I'm often drifting into a seemingly distant past. That I'm left wondering what happened to the last year. What happened to the time when I sat on a hot, black metal bench and felt the sting of heat? Why am I doing it again? And why can't I just have that one moment?
I do things like turning the radio up super loud and rolling down the windows so I can get lost. So for one moment, for thirty seconds or even a full minute I can be here. Experiencing the song, the music, the scenery as if for the first time. And then, I am reminded. Of driving to college and listening to this same song with the windows down and smiling and laughing.
The number of new experiences seems to be dwindling. The period of wonder and discovery is growing into a period of knowing and waiting. Even before I hit 40, friends from high school and college have died.
The number of years between what I call "total happiness" experiences is growing. 1993 shows up twice, 1994 is on the list, 1995, 1996, 1999, 2000, 2006, and 2011. There may have been more before 1993, but I'm thinking of my adulthood, mainly.
There have been a number of truly good experiences to go along with the euphoric moments. Perhaps I could have had more euphoric moments had I made different decisions? Perhaps I'd also be reminded of different things?
I feel as if I stare at the future knowing almost exactly how it will unfold. Somewhat absurd, sure. But, in the past, I stared at the future and had no idea what might happen. I knew certain events would occur (marriage, children) but didn't know when or how. Couldn't see them. Now, I can see the progression of a marriage, the growth of a child, my own aging process. I can see a career path and I can see the doors I opened and closed with various decisions.
And so the people point and make noises and Dollar General breathes on all of us as the hot sun burns the memories of the time I walked past a Dollar General and was burned by my memories.
I am reminded of the time I was walking into a Dollar General not too far from this one -- maybe 30 miles north, and the smell reminded me of a Dollar General in a town near where I grew up. I am reminded that I am often reminded.
As I ran the other night, I was reminded of a night like that one several years before when I was running next to the homes on a quiet street. While running on a quiet street and thinking about the homes, I was reminded of the homes we used to drive by when I was a kid. And so, the other night, while running, I was reminded of that night several years ago when I was reminded of riding around in a car dreaming of what it would be like to live in a home like one of these.
And I realize that now I am often reminded. That I rarely just experience events. That the heat from the sidewalk this June feels like the heat from the sidewalk last June and that I'm rarely present. I'm often drifting into a seemingly distant past. That I'm left wondering what happened to the last year. What happened to the time when I sat on a hot, black metal bench and felt the sting of heat? Why am I doing it again? And why can't I just have that one moment?
I do things like turning the radio up super loud and rolling down the windows so I can get lost. So for one moment, for thirty seconds or even a full minute I can be here. Experiencing the song, the music, the scenery as if for the first time. And then, I am reminded. Of driving to college and listening to this same song with the windows down and smiling and laughing.
The number of new experiences seems to be dwindling. The period of wonder and discovery is growing into a period of knowing and waiting. Even before I hit 40, friends from high school and college have died.
The number of years between what I call "total happiness" experiences is growing. 1993 shows up twice, 1994 is on the list, 1995, 1996, 1999, 2000, 2006, and 2011. There may have been more before 1993, but I'm thinking of my adulthood, mainly.
There have been a number of truly good experiences to go along with the euphoric moments. Perhaps I could have had more euphoric moments had I made different decisions? Perhaps I'd also be reminded of different things?
I feel as if I stare at the future knowing almost exactly how it will unfold. Somewhat absurd, sure. But, in the past, I stared at the future and had no idea what might happen. I knew certain events would occur (marriage, children) but didn't know when or how. Couldn't see them. Now, I can see the progression of a marriage, the growth of a child, my own aging process. I can see a career path and I can see the doors I opened and closed with various decisions.
And so the people point and make noises and Dollar General breathes on all of us as the hot sun burns the memories of the time I walked past a Dollar General and was burned by my memories.
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