Linguistics and Love

"Because he is playing soccer and you are playing football and we are hoping it's just a linguistic difference."
--George on the topic of George

lost my words

thank you for your love.

Today

For Cole on a Monday

“I was a little excited but mostly blorft. "Blorft" is an adjective I just made up that means 'Completely overwhelmed but proceeding as if everything is fine and reacting to the stress with the torpor of a possum.' I have been blorft every day for the past seven years.”
― Tina Fey, Bossypants


“To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time.”
― Leonard Bernstein


“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye


“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
― Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums


“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.”
― Stephen King, Different Seasons


“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”
― Philip Pullman


“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”
― Kurt Vonnegut


“Always be a poet, even in prose.”
― Charles Baudelaire


“You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.”
― Jack London


“People love a happy ending. So every episode, I will explain once again that I don't like people. And then Mal will shoot someone. Someone we like. And their puppy.”
― Joss Whedon

on the one who is away

That night you said words and the possible thoughts behind them scared me. I don't remember exactly what you said, but in the darkness I could feel a panic growing in side of me and I don't like being panicked. The intend of your speech was to see if we needed to redefine our relationship and I said "Why would we need to do that." Then you made me start first when you asked "Well, what do you think we are?" and I stopped any dialogue with a declarative speech act. I paused longer than I wanted to and the silence stretched to a stride or more and created a desperate void in the night between us. "I think we are just friends."
Just.
Friends.
And we are and it's all I have ever wanted out of my knowing you.
And you were silent.
And I ran from the quiet and said something about how I have always liked cities at night and I know you saw right through that.
So we hugged an awkward platonic hug and you got on your train and I got on my train and we left each other alone.
That evening I emailed you to let you know that I had gotten home safely and you wrote back "Good." the next morning and didn't talk to me until at a month and a half later.
You know what I noticed? Before that night you would show up on my Facebook and like most things that I posted or comment on things or start conversations. But after? Not a peep. I decided that the most plausible explanation was that you were busy with school.
Were you?
Or were you just giving me space?

Or did I hurt you?

You are dear to me. Know that. I am more fond of you than I would like to be, though this could be late night and loneliness and concern talking. But why did you have to do that? Why did I? You gave me a copy of my favorite poet's works and marked my favorite sonnet with the red bookmark though I didn't think to see what it marked until I was home. You know what bothers me?

You never said what you think.

I still don't know and I don't know if I would rather know or not. I would like to know that someone, you, who I hold in high estimation, values me beyond just friendship. But I don't want to be on the end of the conversation where I say: "Thank you but no." because that is what I would say. Why would I do that? I will create a list because I love lists. (You also seem to like that I like lists and I don't know what to do with that.)
1. I made a promise to myself Freshman year to guard against situations like this.
2. I am not attracted to you. Stronger: The thought of being attracted to you revolts me.
3. I don't enjoy your company as completely as I can when with other people.
4. I feel like I need to be a different person around you. Not better, just better. I cannot relax with you.
I talked to one of our professors once who brought up how late he got married and how he knew his wife was the one. He said that he felt that he could be completely himself with her, though that was not one of the things he was looking for. It just felt right. It struck me and I realized that is something I value. You don't feel right, so why am I so unsettled about this?

I just want to know what went through your heart.

an old piece found again

My optimism broke.
There’s a vague memory here in my hand
of feeling it give way under my feet,
cracking and snapping
shooting into a lovely scatter pattern
that I didn't even appreciate.
Not even enough to remember where
it splayed out on the path
and into the grass.

strangled silence

you took my words again
i knew just what i wanted to say
and then i turned around and saw your eyes
softening into the lazy afternoon light
...
...
...
and i forget.
i forget.
i forget about my latest story
existential breakthrough
or the eggs that we need to add
to the shopping list
so we can eat tomorrow.
...
...
...
and then you ask me what i'm thinking
you ask me what i mean
and again--
again--
again i am revealed a stuttering fool.

my worst nightmare.

again.
and again.
and again.
i voluntarily enter
the strangled silence

--the place where you are--

till my words are so twisted around
so pressurized
they drip. out. my eyes.

never doubt that i love you, darling.

i lose my words for you.

The way we empathize and mirror each other...

...is a strange thing. When I read your piece, Sand, I found my face twisting into that thing that Cole does where she frowns and huffs and puffs because she feels your pain. And I do to. We are all broken people but by the grace of God He loves us and helps us love broken people too. Which is wonderful when that broken person is someone with whom you can confide in and who cares for you too and terrible when that person is a wonderfully cute guy who resonates with all the right heart-strings.

Delayed Response

I got the text. I did.

A week ago--two? I looked down while walking, glancing at the talking, plastic box in my hand, suddenly shocked by the flame in my cheeks.

I turned to show it to Cole, and she did a little dance across the tile floor.

Beautiful--beautiful.--beautiful?--doesn't fit--don't have anywhere to put that. Spontaneous, unasked for.



Undeserved.



I didn't reply. The place for my words all filled up with feelings.


But I want you
to know
that I heard you.

what ran through my mind that day was you

We slept until we were rested, ate until we were full, and walked quietly down the street, tossing words into each others' palms as they blazed ahead, comfortable at their faster pace.

The air was washed clean by the rain and thoroughly scrubbed. Bright reds and deep oranges and crystal blue and grey shone from the buildings, sharp and pure. That day I felt so strongly the joy of having you standing right beside me, blood pumping through your body.

Onto the J from the K to Chambers to walk the Brooklyn Bridge. You walked it for me and I thought you wanted to be anywhere else until we reached the other side and you were sitting in the pleather red booth smiling, my scarf still wrapped around your neck just where I wanted it, the green far more beautiful next to your flushed fresh cheeks.

And oh the wind and sharp burning in our knuckles--familiar to me and harsh to you. I knew I could breath out there on the bridge where the wind would shove oxygen down my throat even when I couldn't open my lungs wide enough.

I never drew the bridge. It was full in my face and wonderful cold. Instead I watched you and the wires and ran my fingertips along the frozen rough granite of the arches. 

I can still feel it there under my hands. I can still see your hair wrapped around your neck by the wind and I would rather that than a drawing. 

And oh look at the familiar signs, sweet friend, of our for-this-moment home coming towards us and oh the joy that shot through me when you smiled there on the subway platform, looking side to side afraid that you would be caught happy. So different next to the pain that had settled over you, the pain I felt and tried to eat but then it only grew. The cigarettes you hated but loved because it was something to do. A glass-strewn barrier for you; a desperation I knew needn't be, but which I didn't know how to replace.  In that booth I saw the same face that flared up in the match light, both your eyes alive, penciled in under your eyebrows.

I tried to capture the sunset after I captured you. It was so empty and ugly in comparison that I deleted all the photos.