I just learned that I got a short story published. I told my friend Andrea that I’d been recruited, and she said we’d have to celebrate. That’s what I need, celebration. I haven’t been celebrating enough lately. I need to remember that life is wonderful despite its horrors, or even, because of them, the horrors burning away all weaknesses and impurities until there is nothing but pure, strong metal. I had started to learn how to celebrate life properly, then allowed myself to be influenced otherwise. No more. I made this decision last night, even before hearing about my story. If Donna wants to be unhappy and miserable, I should not allow that to affect me. Why should I be miserable just because she is?
A lesson Sarah still needs to learn. I know after I left her she went to bed and started crying again. I understand. I really do. She’s been betrayed, and betrayal hurts. But such betrayals can cause you to become stronger or weaker, depending on if you turn it into yourself, to burn away the weaknesses, or turn it outward onto other people, distrusting them because of the betrayal of another. If you do that, you cannot love again. You will have forgotten how to love until you learn to forgive, forgiving then everyone who was never guilty to begin with. She will then have to relearn how to see the world as beautiful.
That is what I’ve had to do again. I thought I had already done it once, but sometimes lessons have to be relearned. I think it’s because of my grandmother’s cancer. No one can understand my reaction to learning she has only a few months to live. They do not understand how I can wait to finish the semester before going to see her. The fact is, I know my grandmother would not want me to ruin the semester just to come see her. She would say my grades are too important, even though she wants to see me now. Also, people do not seem to realize that my grandmother is only dying -- she’s not dead. While everyone else will be mourning her death too soon, I will go home to celebrate her life, to talk to her about what is joyful and beautiful, to turn her fears and darkness into something beautiful if I can. She deserves to feel joy at this time, to be happy, not to be depressed. Why spend what little time you have on earth mourning your own passing? So many people do this their entire lives, not even having the specter of death lurking near. Enough of sorrow! Enough of sadness! From now on I plan to celebrate life, to see the beauty in even its sadness and sorrows, to make something positive out of the negative without building illusions to hide the horrors. Life is sorrows and sadness, but we can either embrace those sorrows and make it part of us, to become sorrowful ourselves, create illusions under which to hide the truth of sorrows and sadness, so doing nothing for it, or acknowledge its presence, but not its power, using these sorrows to recreate ourselves as something new and stronger, something more beautiful, something that can see the true beauty in the world. My grandmother is a beautiful person. It is that beauty I want to celebrate. I won’t mourn her death until it comes. Even then, I hope I have the strength to turn that into beauty too.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Chapter 23
Tonight, in my Readings in Fiction class, we talked about metafiction. It was defined as self-aware, self-critical, and self-reflexive. In other words, the author is very much present in the work, letting you know you are undoubtedly reading a novel while not allowing you to think you are reading anything real. In other words, this is a metafictional text. I had not heard of metafiction before coming here to UTD, and now that it has been defined for me, I’m surprised to learn I am currently writing metafiction. Of course, once I learned who were considered metafictionists: Milan Kundera and Don Barthelme, I guess it’s not too surprising I’m writing that kind of novel.
The fact that this is metafiction has all kinds of potential consequences. For example, not only can I do what I have been doing, weaving my own story loosely into the text and admitting that my characters are fictional constructs, but I could also directly enter the text itself as an actual character and interact with them.
Now, since Sarah has just broken up with Michel and this story is (more or less) about him, there is a danger of losing such an interesting character as Sarah (or at least I hope she is interesting to you). I think I’ll meet Sarah personally, talk to her, see how she is taking what she learned about Michel. But first, I’m going to have to find her.
I’m not sure where she hangs out. I hadn’t thought about that -- it was never an issue. Maybe she’s at a bar here in town. I could wander around town, see if I could find her. The only problem is, she doesn’t know me, so I have to be careful. I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of stalker.
But what am I thinking, looking for her? I’m the author, after all. I’ll just put her someplace and walk in, sit next to her and talk. So she is at a bar. She’s at Le Marquis, which I don’t think is really all that nice a place, despite the name. Not that it’s seedy. Hardly. More of a college-kid hangout. She’s sitting at the bar, drinking a beer, crying, ignoring everyone else’s inquiries. I sit at the bar, on the stool beside her, and order a beer, ignoring her crying. I know she doesn’t want me coming right out and saying something about it. I’m a stranger to her. I drink my beer and ask for another. Now, she’s stopped crying. She’s looking at me, wondering why I haven’t said anything to her. Minding my own business is far more irritating than making an inquiry. I look at her and ask, “Would you like another beer?”
“Sure. Thanks,” she says, putting her empty bottle onto the bar. I order her a beer, and let her take a few drinks. “Thanks,” she says again. “I’m Sarah.” I introduce myself and ask her what’s wrong. She shakes her head, then tells me about finding Michel fucking his roommate. I tell her he sounds like a real dick, and that she’s bound to find someone new who’s a lot better than him. She thanks me and smiles. I buy us both another beer. She says she’s tired of sitting in the bar, would I like to go for a walk? I’m always up for a walk, especially with someone as attractive as Sarah, so we finish our beers and are out the door, walking down the block, away from her apartment.
“My grandma just found out she’s dying of cancer,” I say. She says she’s sorry, then asks me about her. I tell her what I told you a few chapters back. “I really love my grandmother, though I know I’ve disappointed her lately. She thinks she and grandpa wasted all their money on my college since I'm now getting my Master’s in Creative Writing. I’m thinking about going to UT-Dallas someplace else for my PhD. They’re also disappointed because I’m living with my girlfriend, and they think that’s living in sin. They’re real strict Christians.”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” She looks disappointed.
“I guess you could still call it that. She won’t go out with me anywhere, she hates it when I touch her, except to have sex with her, and she hasn’t even had sex with me in three weeks. If you want to call that a girlfriend, then I have a girlfriend. She’s acting more like a roommate I kiss and say ‘I love you’ to occasionally than an actual girlfriend.”
“Don’t even tell me about roommates. That’s what happened with me and Michel.”
“Yeah, but I’m at least being honest about her still being my girlfriend. If she’d let me, I’d fuck her in a minute, but she won’t let me. Well, that’s not entirely true. She was going to let me, but she let me know she didn’t want to so strongly I told her never mind.”
“Most guys would have just fucked her.”
“I’m not most guys.”
“I can see that. Makes me wish you weren’t attached.”
“You’ve only known me for a half hour.”
“Still, I can tell you’re decent. Than counts for a lot right now.”
Well, I don’t know how decent I am. I do think about cheating on Donna quite a bit, especially now that she won’t fuck me. I fantasize about her friend, Maddy. I hate that about me. I thought I was better than that. I’ve always been a strict monogamist, philosophically. But now that I’ve actually had sex and Donna won’t let me have sex with her, I’ve discovered that, yes, I am human, and, yes, I do want to fuck other women. So much for being better than anything. To quote Nietzsche, I guess I’m Human, All Too Human, or, to quote the singer Rob Zombie, I’m More Human Than Human. What can I say? I can only point to myself and say, “Ecce Homo!”
I walk Sarah home, and watch her walk in, staying out on the front step. Still, I cannot cheat on Donna, even in a fictional space. Sarah says good-night before shutting the door behind her. I really have no place to go in this world, so I wander off into the night, out of the world, right off the very page.
The fact that this is metafiction has all kinds of potential consequences. For example, not only can I do what I have been doing, weaving my own story loosely into the text and admitting that my characters are fictional constructs, but I could also directly enter the text itself as an actual character and interact with them.
Now, since Sarah has just broken up with Michel and this story is (more or less) about him, there is a danger of losing such an interesting character as Sarah (or at least I hope she is interesting to you). I think I’ll meet Sarah personally, talk to her, see how she is taking what she learned about Michel. But first, I’m going to have to find her.
I’m not sure where she hangs out. I hadn’t thought about that -- it was never an issue. Maybe she’s at a bar here in town. I could wander around town, see if I could find her. The only problem is, she doesn’t know me, so I have to be careful. I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of stalker.
But what am I thinking, looking for her? I’m the author, after all. I’ll just put her someplace and walk in, sit next to her and talk. So she is at a bar. She’s at Le Marquis, which I don’t think is really all that nice a place, despite the name. Not that it’s seedy. Hardly. More of a college-kid hangout. She’s sitting at the bar, drinking a beer, crying, ignoring everyone else’s inquiries. I sit at the bar, on the stool beside her, and order a beer, ignoring her crying. I know she doesn’t want me coming right out and saying something about it. I’m a stranger to her. I drink my beer and ask for another. Now, she’s stopped crying. She’s looking at me, wondering why I haven’t said anything to her. Minding my own business is far more irritating than making an inquiry. I look at her and ask, “Would you like another beer?”
“Sure. Thanks,” she says, putting her empty bottle onto the bar. I order her a beer, and let her take a few drinks. “Thanks,” she says again. “I’m Sarah.” I introduce myself and ask her what’s wrong. She shakes her head, then tells me about finding Michel fucking his roommate. I tell her he sounds like a real dick, and that she’s bound to find someone new who’s a lot better than him. She thanks me and smiles. I buy us both another beer. She says she’s tired of sitting in the bar, would I like to go for a walk? I’m always up for a walk, especially with someone as attractive as Sarah, so we finish our beers and are out the door, walking down the block, away from her apartment.
“My grandma just found out she’s dying of cancer,” I say. She says she’s sorry, then asks me about her. I tell her what I told you a few chapters back. “I really love my grandmother, though I know I’ve disappointed her lately. She thinks she and grandpa wasted all their money on my college since I'm now getting my Master’s in Creative Writing. I’m thinking about going to UT-Dallas someplace else for my PhD. They’re also disappointed because I’m living with my girlfriend, and they think that’s living in sin. They’re real strict Christians.”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” She looks disappointed.
“I guess you could still call it that. She won’t go out with me anywhere, she hates it when I touch her, except to have sex with her, and she hasn’t even had sex with me in three weeks. If you want to call that a girlfriend, then I have a girlfriend. She’s acting more like a roommate I kiss and say ‘I love you’ to occasionally than an actual girlfriend.”
“Don’t even tell me about roommates. That’s what happened with me and Michel.”
“Yeah, but I’m at least being honest about her still being my girlfriend. If she’d let me, I’d fuck her in a minute, but she won’t let me. Well, that’s not entirely true. She was going to let me, but she let me know she didn’t want to so strongly I told her never mind.”
“Most guys would have just fucked her.”
“I’m not most guys.”
“I can see that. Makes me wish you weren’t attached.”
“You’ve only known me for a half hour.”
“Still, I can tell you’re decent. Than counts for a lot right now.”
Well, I don’t know how decent I am. I do think about cheating on Donna quite a bit, especially now that she won’t fuck me. I fantasize about her friend, Maddy. I hate that about me. I thought I was better than that. I’ve always been a strict monogamist, philosophically. But now that I’ve actually had sex and Donna won’t let me have sex with her, I’ve discovered that, yes, I am human, and, yes, I do want to fuck other women. So much for being better than anything. To quote Nietzsche, I guess I’m Human, All Too Human, or, to quote the singer Rob Zombie, I’m More Human Than Human. What can I say? I can only point to myself and say, “Ecce Homo!”
I walk Sarah home, and watch her walk in, staying out on the front step. Still, I cannot cheat on Donna, even in a fictional space. Sarah says good-night before shutting the door behind her. I really have no place to go in this world, so I wander off into the night, out of the world, right off the very page.
Chapter 22
It has been three weeks since I’ve fucked. Admittedly, the end of last week put us both out of the mood, considering the news about my grandmother. Still, three weeks is a very long time -- especially considering my libido.
When Donna and I first got together, she told me she was a nymphomaniac. She said she wanted to fuck three or four times a day, and I told her I’d see what I could do about that. In fact, when we first got together, we did just that. At least twice a day for a while, though eventually slowing to once a day. That was fine. Passions cool. But then once a day became once a week, and once a week became twice a month. Now its been three weeks, and I’m about ready to go out and find someone just to fuck them. I never thought I’d end up being that kind of person, someone who will do anything to get some pussy, but I have. I would be happy to only sleep with one woman the rest of my life, but Donna is making it hard.
The other day, I told her I was horny, so she came into the bedroom and plopped down on the bed, rolled her eyes, and laid there, looking at the wall above her. I asked her, “What?” and she said, “I’m not horny, Vance,” so I told her to forget it. I don’t want to fuck someone who is unwilling.
Donna’s passion for me has all but evaporated. I can tell, even if she won’t admit it. She says she loves me, but I don’t believe it. Actions verses words.
I just got finished eating. While I was writing this, Donna came in and asked me to go to Qdoba. We talked, or I tried to talk, before I left. She seemed unhappy. I understand. So am I. She said she talked to our friend Maddy, someone she hasn’t talked to much lately because Donna has been mad at her for her tendency to forget when she promises to be places. I asked Donna what was wrong, but she refused to talk to me about it. She said she talked to Maddy about it. She jumps on my case for writing stories about our problems instead of talking to her about them, then talks to Maddy about them and won’t talk to me. I think her refusal to have sex with me is a consequence of everything. She won’t talk to me or touch me or show me she loves me, so what else could the end result be? Donna has always said she separates sex from love, but I don’t believe her any more. I can’t help but think if we decided not to be a couple any more and that she could still stay here as my roommate that our sex life would return to normal, since then she really could separate the two like she says she does. Not that I plan to break up with her to find out. Still, I can’t help but think I’m right.
But we have left Sarah, Michel, and Jackie alone for too long. We can’t forget about them, even if my life is falling apart around me. Their lives, as mine, must go on. I cannot leave them, and you, in continual suspense.
As I’m sure you know, Michel cannot go on having sex with Jackie without Sarah finding out. She already suspects he does -- the question is, how is she going to find out? I say she suspects he is having sex with Jackie, but she is still enough in love to disregard those feelings. How, then, is she going to find out? As her passions cool, the barrier of being in love crumbles, and she begins to trust her senses, the smell of sex on Michel (it’s not just his being horny which makes that smell, but the mixture of his and Jackie’s fluids on him), Jackie always walking around half naked (Sarah came over and saw Jackie completely naked once. Typical female reaction: jealousy -- not directed toward Michel, but at Jackie’s body, with was thin and perfect. How could she not think Michel was fucking someone who looked like that?), the time she came over and Jackie was in a house coat, smelling like she’d just had sex, and she said Michel was in the bathroom and Michel came out in a towel, obviously having not taken a shower yet, though he said he was getting ready to. They argued for hours over that, and her feelings for him waned, but he convinced her (how bad she wanted to be convinced!) she was reading more into the scene than was actually there, that he really was going to take a shower, and that she knew Jackie walked around the apartment half-dressed all the time anyway.
But after a while, being in love can only be so blinding. Truths trickle to the surface. The person you imagined you were in love with turns out to be nothing like the person they really are. When that happens, and it will happen, always happens, you have to decide if this new person who has bubbled to the surface is someone you want to continue being with. Most people do eventually find that person, someone you can love even after the first year of being in love (where the pleasure-producing chemicals secreted by the brain are replaced by pain-killing chemicals, an apt metaphor for any relationship, I think, and one cleverly created by nature). No longer blinded by brain-chemical-induced happiness, you start expecting the one you were in love with to actually make you happy. If they do not (and mine does not. She’s so unhappy, how can she be expected to make me happy?), then you start looking for faults, problems, any excuse to leave.
It didn’t take Sarah a full year to realize Michel was having sex with Jackie. Since she suspected, her barriers were already unsteady. Her brain kept the pain-killing chemicals poised for release, knowing (so to speak) she would need them, even if she was not completely aware of it herself.
Her pain-killing chemicals were finally released when she decided to stop by Michel’s apartment unannounced. She gently knocked on the door, but received no answer. Both Michel’s and Jackie’s cars were out front, so she knew they were home. She tried the door knob. She was surprised to find the door unlocked. Since she was Michel’s girlfriend, she decided she was tacitly invited in. She heard groans and grunts coming from Jackie’s bedroom. Michel was not in the living room. She called out, “Michel!” and the moans and groans stopped. Rustling came from Jackie’s bedroom, then Jackie came out.
“What the hell are you doing in here? Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“I did. Where’s Michel.”
“He’s not here.”
“Bullshit. I know Michel. He’s too lazy to walk anywhere. You in there fucking him?”
“Fuck you. You’re not going to come barging into my house without being invited in and accusing me...”
“I’m not accusing you. I could care less what you do, bitch. I only care if Michel’s fucking your skanky ass...”
Jackie smacked Sarah across the face. “You’re not going to come into my apartment...”
“He’s in your bedroom, ain’t he?” Sarah shoved Jackie out of the way, sending her to the floor, her housecoat open, exposing her beautiful body, now at ungainly angles. Jackie sprung at Sarah, grabbing her by the hair, and jerked her away from her door before she could go in.
“Damn it, bitch!” Jackie said, dragging Sarah by the hair toward the door. “Now get the fuck out!” She opened the door, ignoring Sarah’s scratching and fists, and pushed Sarah out.
Sarah turned around in time to see Michel standing in the hall, naked. “Michel! Don’t you ever come over again. We’re through. I can’t believe you were fucking this bitch!”
“Sarah, please, let’s talk about this.”
“Not here,” Jackie said, slamming the door on Sarah’s face.
Michel grabbed his shorts and pulled them on and ran out to catch Sarah. She was halfway across the street by the time he was in the door. “Sarah! We need to talk. I’m sorry!”
Sarah turned on the center line. “Fuck you! Fuck you, you goddamn asshole! I can’t believe you’ve been fucking that bitch. There’s no telling what you gave me, what you caught from that slut. I’m sending you the bill for the AIDS test, and then I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
“Like fuck you are. You would have happily kept fucking her if I hadn’t caught you. I should have known better. I knew what you were like, what you thought of women. I’m some kind of feminist, huh? God...!” She turned to finish walking for her car, stepping out of the way of an oncoming pickup.
Michel stared at her, shaking his head. The door opened behind him. “You going to come in here and finish fucking me?” Jackie asked.
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood any more,” Michel said.
“You knew this was going to happen. You expected you could keep fucking us both without her finding out? If you had cared about her, you wouldn’t have asked to start fucking me when you knew you were going to start seeing her.”
“Nothing’s certain.”
“Fucking lame excuse. I’m still horny. I’ll get you back in the mood, just get back in here.”
Michel turned, still shaking his head, and followed Jackie into their house. Who was he going to get to read his novel now?
When Donna and I first got together, she told me she was a nymphomaniac. She said she wanted to fuck three or four times a day, and I told her I’d see what I could do about that. In fact, when we first got together, we did just that. At least twice a day for a while, though eventually slowing to once a day. That was fine. Passions cool. But then once a day became once a week, and once a week became twice a month. Now its been three weeks, and I’m about ready to go out and find someone just to fuck them. I never thought I’d end up being that kind of person, someone who will do anything to get some pussy, but I have. I would be happy to only sleep with one woman the rest of my life, but Donna is making it hard.
The other day, I told her I was horny, so she came into the bedroom and plopped down on the bed, rolled her eyes, and laid there, looking at the wall above her. I asked her, “What?” and she said, “I’m not horny, Vance,” so I told her to forget it. I don’t want to fuck someone who is unwilling.
Donna’s passion for me has all but evaporated. I can tell, even if she won’t admit it. She says she loves me, but I don’t believe it. Actions verses words.
I just got finished eating. While I was writing this, Donna came in and asked me to go to Qdoba. We talked, or I tried to talk, before I left. She seemed unhappy. I understand. So am I. She said she talked to our friend Maddy, someone she hasn’t talked to much lately because Donna has been mad at her for her tendency to forget when she promises to be places. I asked Donna what was wrong, but she refused to talk to me about it. She said she talked to Maddy about it. She jumps on my case for writing stories about our problems instead of talking to her about them, then talks to Maddy about them and won’t talk to me. I think her refusal to have sex with me is a consequence of everything. She won’t talk to me or touch me or show me she loves me, so what else could the end result be? Donna has always said she separates sex from love, but I don’t believe her any more. I can’t help but think if we decided not to be a couple any more and that she could still stay here as my roommate that our sex life would return to normal, since then she really could separate the two like she says she does. Not that I plan to break up with her to find out. Still, I can’t help but think I’m right.
But we have left Sarah, Michel, and Jackie alone for too long. We can’t forget about them, even if my life is falling apart around me. Their lives, as mine, must go on. I cannot leave them, and you, in continual suspense.
As I’m sure you know, Michel cannot go on having sex with Jackie without Sarah finding out. She already suspects he does -- the question is, how is she going to find out? I say she suspects he is having sex with Jackie, but she is still enough in love to disregard those feelings. How, then, is she going to find out? As her passions cool, the barrier of being in love crumbles, and she begins to trust her senses, the smell of sex on Michel (it’s not just his being horny which makes that smell, but the mixture of his and Jackie’s fluids on him), Jackie always walking around half naked (Sarah came over and saw Jackie completely naked once. Typical female reaction: jealousy -- not directed toward Michel, but at Jackie’s body, with was thin and perfect. How could she not think Michel was fucking someone who looked like that?), the time she came over and Jackie was in a house coat, smelling like she’d just had sex, and she said Michel was in the bathroom and Michel came out in a towel, obviously having not taken a shower yet, though he said he was getting ready to. They argued for hours over that, and her feelings for him waned, but he convinced her (how bad she wanted to be convinced!) she was reading more into the scene than was actually there, that he really was going to take a shower, and that she knew Jackie walked around the apartment half-dressed all the time anyway.
But after a while, being in love can only be so blinding. Truths trickle to the surface. The person you imagined you were in love with turns out to be nothing like the person they really are. When that happens, and it will happen, always happens, you have to decide if this new person who has bubbled to the surface is someone you want to continue being with. Most people do eventually find that person, someone you can love even after the first year of being in love (where the pleasure-producing chemicals secreted by the brain are replaced by pain-killing chemicals, an apt metaphor for any relationship, I think, and one cleverly created by nature). No longer blinded by brain-chemical-induced happiness, you start expecting the one you were in love with to actually make you happy. If they do not (and mine does not. She’s so unhappy, how can she be expected to make me happy?), then you start looking for faults, problems, any excuse to leave.
It didn’t take Sarah a full year to realize Michel was having sex with Jackie. Since she suspected, her barriers were already unsteady. Her brain kept the pain-killing chemicals poised for release, knowing (so to speak) she would need them, even if she was not completely aware of it herself.
Her pain-killing chemicals were finally released when she decided to stop by Michel’s apartment unannounced. She gently knocked on the door, but received no answer. Both Michel’s and Jackie’s cars were out front, so she knew they were home. She tried the door knob. She was surprised to find the door unlocked. Since she was Michel’s girlfriend, she decided she was tacitly invited in. She heard groans and grunts coming from Jackie’s bedroom. Michel was not in the living room. She called out, “Michel!” and the moans and groans stopped. Rustling came from Jackie’s bedroom, then Jackie came out.
“What the hell are you doing in here? Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“I did. Where’s Michel.”
“He’s not here.”
“Bullshit. I know Michel. He’s too lazy to walk anywhere. You in there fucking him?”
“Fuck you. You’re not going to come barging into my house without being invited in and accusing me...”
“I’m not accusing you. I could care less what you do, bitch. I only care if Michel’s fucking your skanky ass...”
Jackie smacked Sarah across the face. “You’re not going to come into my apartment...”
“He’s in your bedroom, ain’t he?” Sarah shoved Jackie out of the way, sending her to the floor, her housecoat open, exposing her beautiful body, now at ungainly angles. Jackie sprung at Sarah, grabbing her by the hair, and jerked her away from her door before she could go in.
“Damn it, bitch!” Jackie said, dragging Sarah by the hair toward the door. “Now get the fuck out!” She opened the door, ignoring Sarah’s scratching and fists, and pushed Sarah out.
Sarah turned around in time to see Michel standing in the hall, naked. “Michel! Don’t you ever come over again. We’re through. I can’t believe you were fucking this bitch!”
“Sarah, please, let’s talk about this.”
“Not here,” Jackie said, slamming the door on Sarah’s face.
Michel grabbed his shorts and pulled them on and ran out to catch Sarah. She was halfway across the street by the time he was in the door. “Sarah! We need to talk. I’m sorry!”
Sarah turned on the center line. “Fuck you! Fuck you, you goddamn asshole! I can’t believe you’ve been fucking that bitch. There’s no telling what you gave me, what you caught from that slut. I’m sending you the bill for the AIDS test, and then I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
“Like fuck you are. You would have happily kept fucking her if I hadn’t caught you. I should have known better. I knew what you were like, what you thought of women. I’m some kind of feminist, huh? God...!” She turned to finish walking for her car, stepping out of the way of an oncoming pickup.
Michel stared at her, shaking his head. The door opened behind him. “You going to come in here and finish fucking me?” Jackie asked.
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood any more,” Michel said.
“You knew this was going to happen. You expected you could keep fucking us both without her finding out? If you had cared about her, you wouldn’t have asked to start fucking me when you knew you were going to start seeing her.”
“Nothing’s certain.”
“Fucking lame excuse. I’m still horny. I’ll get you back in the mood, just get back in here.”
Michel turned, still shaking his head, and followed Jackie into their house. Who was he going to get to read his novel now?
Monday, November 14, 2011
Chapter 21
After receiving a $564 phone bill, I told my girlfriend I wasn’t going to pay it. She said if I didn’t, she was going to leave. I started helping.
I suggested places she could go to, we discussed what was hers, what was mine. I got to keep two of the cats. She kept the two she came with. And after two hours of such discussions, she said maybe we just needed some time away from each other. Maybe. I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know how I could spend any more time away from her than I do now. She stays up when I sleep, I work and go to school full time, and in the three hours between when I get off work and go to bed, she stays on the computer, talking in chat rooms. She's in class when I'm not, and often she's hanging out with Maddy. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think we could spend more time apart. If she left, I wouldn’t miss her, I’d miss the car.
I find this very disturbing. Somehow, our relationship has in many ways become like that of Michel and Jackie’s, only with far less sex. Also, neither of us are trying to sleep with other people. I feel like I’m just someone to fuck once a week (if I’m lucky) and support her. Why should I want to live like that? I want to go somewhere else for my Ph.D., but if I can’t save enough money to leave, I’m going to be stuck here in Richardson.
I don’t know how many other Americans feel like they are stuck where they are, but I’m sure it’s a common phenomenon. Why else would Americans move so often, more than any other people? I at least have the excuse of school. Not that being on the move is necessarily a problem. Who wants to be stagnant? Far too many, I’m afraid. But a nation needs those people too, people who can stay in one place and provide stability, a constant work force. That’s why socialist nations always restricted the movements of their people. With movement comes instability, and socialism is supposed to make society work like a machine. But we have since learned that society, like people and the universe, is not a machine. It is an organic being that cannot be contained like a machine. It must be given space to grow and expand. That, perhaps, is why so many Americans feel stuck. We often feel like we don’t have the room to grown and expand. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say all the characters in this novel feel this way. They feel like they are stuck (though none in truth are -- they only have to give themselves time to gain the ability to move. They only have to wait for the great mover, money).
Probably the one who comes closest to being stuck is Pat. She grew up in the same town she was living in when Michel moved next door to her. She never had any prospects of going anywhere, and did not have the money. She could not find happiness by leaving the community, so she tried to find happiness within it, with as many people as possible. She thought she could sleep her way to happiness. So strong was this belief, she even transferred it to her daughter. If happiness could be found through sex, what was wrong with her daughter having sex? Didn’t she want her daughter to be happy? With no other prospects open to her, she was left with this one perverse thought.
Michel, Sarah, and Jackie were far less desperate. They all felt stuck now, but they also knew they would be able to move on in the future, sometime after graduation. They saw their educations as tickets out of the city, out of the state, away from their families. The future gave them hope, the hope of movement, of life, even though Michel came to be trapped in Pat’s web of despair. She made it psychologically difficult for him to move, though he still had the material means to do so. Sarah and Jackie held onto their freedom, though, and never let it go.
And what of Michel’s characters, Bernard and Marcus? What was their relationship to movement and freedom? How did they join the chaotic dance? Marcus was the strange attractor around which Bernard moved. Stationary, Marcus was happy, playing on his computer, staying with Bernard, never going anywhere or wanting to do anything. But Bernard was not a stationary man, despite the stationary nature of his chosen profession. When he wasn’t writing, Bernard was moving, going places, visiting friends, traveling. He gave up asking Marcus to join him on his trips, and learned to enjoy himself without Marcus. The only time Bernard was unfaithful to Marcus was on his trips. He did not want to hurt Marcus, but the temptation when he traveled was often too great, and he rarely chose to resist it. Marcus never traveled, and he was afraid word would get back to Bernard if he was unfaithful to him in town, so he became unfaithful to Bernard in the chat rooms. No one there knew he had a boyfriend. His spirit was less faithful to Bernard than Bernard was to Marcus in reality. Some would argue that what Bernard did was worse, but at least Bernard always came back. Marcus, on the other hand, was always leaving.
All of this about Bernard and Marcus will eventually come out in Michel’s story, but I don’t want to keep including chapter after chapter of Michel’s novel, interspersed throughout this one. Some simply must be summarized, though I promise not to leave you hanging with their story. I’ll try to include at least occasional excerpts as Michel finishes them.
I suggested places she could go to, we discussed what was hers, what was mine. I got to keep two of the cats. She kept the two she came with. And after two hours of such discussions, she said maybe we just needed some time away from each other. Maybe. I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know how I could spend any more time away from her than I do now. She stays up when I sleep, I work and go to school full time, and in the three hours between when I get off work and go to bed, she stays on the computer, talking in chat rooms. She's in class when I'm not, and often she's hanging out with Maddy. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think we could spend more time apart. If she left, I wouldn’t miss her, I’d miss the car.
I find this very disturbing. Somehow, our relationship has in many ways become like that of Michel and Jackie’s, only with far less sex. Also, neither of us are trying to sleep with other people. I feel like I’m just someone to fuck once a week (if I’m lucky) and support her. Why should I want to live like that? I want to go somewhere else for my Ph.D., but if I can’t save enough money to leave, I’m going to be stuck here in Richardson.
I don’t know how many other Americans feel like they are stuck where they are, but I’m sure it’s a common phenomenon. Why else would Americans move so often, more than any other people? I at least have the excuse of school. Not that being on the move is necessarily a problem. Who wants to be stagnant? Far too many, I’m afraid. But a nation needs those people too, people who can stay in one place and provide stability, a constant work force. That’s why socialist nations always restricted the movements of their people. With movement comes instability, and socialism is supposed to make society work like a machine. But we have since learned that society, like people and the universe, is not a machine. It is an organic being that cannot be contained like a machine. It must be given space to grow and expand. That, perhaps, is why so many Americans feel stuck. We often feel like we don’t have the room to grown and expand. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say all the characters in this novel feel this way. They feel like they are stuck (though none in truth are -- they only have to give themselves time to gain the ability to move. They only have to wait for the great mover, money).
Probably the one who comes closest to being stuck is Pat. She grew up in the same town she was living in when Michel moved next door to her. She never had any prospects of going anywhere, and did not have the money. She could not find happiness by leaving the community, so she tried to find happiness within it, with as many people as possible. She thought she could sleep her way to happiness. So strong was this belief, she even transferred it to her daughter. If happiness could be found through sex, what was wrong with her daughter having sex? Didn’t she want her daughter to be happy? With no other prospects open to her, she was left with this one perverse thought.
Michel, Sarah, and Jackie were far less desperate. They all felt stuck now, but they also knew they would be able to move on in the future, sometime after graduation. They saw their educations as tickets out of the city, out of the state, away from their families. The future gave them hope, the hope of movement, of life, even though Michel came to be trapped in Pat’s web of despair. She made it psychologically difficult for him to move, though he still had the material means to do so. Sarah and Jackie held onto their freedom, though, and never let it go.
And what of Michel’s characters, Bernard and Marcus? What was their relationship to movement and freedom? How did they join the chaotic dance? Marcus was the strange attractor around which Bernard moved. Stationary, Marcus was happy, playing on his computer, staying with Bernard, never going anywhere or wanting to do anything. But Bernard was not a stationary man, despite the stationary nature of his chosen profession. When he wasn’t writing, Bernard was moving, going places, visiting friends, traveling. He gave up asking Marcus to join him on his trips, and learned to enjoy himself without Marcus. The only time Bernard was unfaithful to Marcus was on his trips. He did not want to hurt Marcus, but the temptation when he traveled was often too great, and he rarely chose to resist it. Marcus never traveled, and he was afraid word would get back to Bernard if he was unfaithful to him in town, so he became unfaithful to Bernard in the chat rooms. No one there knew he had a boyfriend. His spirit was less faithful to Bernard than Bernard was to Marcus in reality. Some would argue that what Bernard did was worse, but at least Bernard always came back. Marcus, on the other hand, was always leaving.
All of this about Bernard and Marcus will eventually come out in Michel’s story, but I don’t want to keep including chapter after chapter of Michel’s novel, interspersed throughout this one. Some simply must be summarized, though I promise not to leave you hanging with their story. I’ll try to include at least occasional excerpts as Michel finishes them.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Chapter 20
I’m sitting in front of my computer, an hour before work, and I don’t know what I’m going to write. That’s a nice way to start off a chapter. Maybe you’re sitting there thinking, “If you don’t know what you’re going to write, then what makes you think I will want to read it?” I can understand that, but please have patience - I’m sure I’ll come up with something...
I’m trying to peer into the lives of the three main characters, to see what’s happening to them, only my lens is fuzzy. I can see Michel returning home, unlocking the front door. He’s sure Jackie is there. Her car is parked out front. He opens the door to the sounds of two people grunting, breathing hard. When did Jackie get a boyfriend? Her door is closed, so they must be attempting a triathalon or something. He slams the door. The sound echoes through the apartment. He walks past the bedroom to get something to drink. He’s not really thirsty. Remove glass from cupboard. Clunk on table. Slam cupboard shut. Pour water. Put water back in refrigerator. Drink. Slam glass in sink. Walk heavily past bedroom door to living room. Turn on television. Watch the latest political nonsense with the sound up too high. After a few minutes, Jackie walks into the living room, wearing only a long shirt. “You want to turn that down?”
“Oh, is it bothering you?” Michel asks.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make so much noise.”
A man walks out of the bedroom. He has long hair to his waist, his arms covered in tattoos. His eyebrow is pierced, as is his lip and ears. With his shirt on, Michel could not see he had his nipple pierced as well. “Who’s this,” he asks, nodding at Michel.
“He’s my roommate,” Jackie says.
“You didn’t tell me you had a roommate. Where’s he sleep?”
“In here. On the hide-a-bed. I think his girlfriend would object if he slept with me.”
“I could see that. Has it stopped him?”
“No,” Jackie says. “You have a problem with that?”
“When was the last time he fucked you, and I’ll tell you.”
“This morning.”
“This morning! I fuckin’ ate you out!”
“I took a shower, Doug. Chill out,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes.
“Do you kids want to be left alone to discuss this?” Michel asked.
“Fuck no,” Doug said. “If she wants to keep fucking you, she can keep fucking you...”
“Doug, when was the last time you fucked someone?”
“That don’t matter...”
“Yes it does, you goddamn hypocrite. What makes you think you can fuck one woman one night, then a different woman another night and that’s all right, but it’s not all right if I do the same thing? Hell, you knew I wasn’t a virgin...”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were a...” Doug was smart enough to stop himself right there.
Jackie raised her eyebrows. “That I was a what?”
“Fuck. Never mind.”
“You’re right, never mind. Fuck you. You can get the fuck out of my apartment. You’re not going to treat me as less than human because I’m acting the same way as you. You can fuck off.”
“Jackie, listen...”
“You heard her,” Michel said. “Now be a good little boy and fuck off.”
Doug spun toward him, his mouth turning cruel, his eyes hot. Jackie stepped in front of him. “Doug, you heard me. Get out.”
Doug turned and walked into Jackie’s bedroom. He returned with his shoes on, everything put back in place, and left without saying anything to either one. As the door shut behind him, Jackie turned to Michel: “I hope you’re happy.”
“What?”
“Fuck you, bitch,” Jackie said. “Stomping through the house, slamming things around, watching the T.V. full blast.”
“You’re the one told him we were still fucking. Nice way to keep a secret.”
“Next time you hear me fucking someone, do me a favor and take a walk. If I’m fucking him, he’s on his way home. It won’t be fifteen, twenty minutes at most.”
“If that’s all they can do, what you need them for anyway?”
“They’re usually not thinking of other things while they’re fucking me, so it doesn’t take them as long, Michel.”
“So, you still horny?” Michel asked.
“What? Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but I just got me some dick.”
“And?”
“And, if you want to fuck so bad, get in here...” Jackie turned toward her bedroom. Michel stood to follow. “He may have finished, but I didn't. Oh, by the way,” Jackie said. “Sarah called. She wants you to call her back. I’m sure it can wait until we’re done, though.”
Pulling his shirt over his head, Michel said, “Yeah, I’m sure it can.”
I’m trying to peer into the lives of the three main characters, to see what’s happening to them, only my lens is fuzzy. I can see Michel returning home, unlocking the front door. He’s sure Jackie is there. Her car is parked out front. He opens the door to the sounds of two people grunting, breathing hard. When did Jackie get a boyfriend? Her door is closed, so they must be attempting a triathalon or something. He slams the door. The sound echoes through the apartment. He walks past the bedroom to get something to drink. He’s not really thirsty. Remove glass from cupboard. Clunk on table. Slam cupboard shut. Pour water. Put water back in refrigerator. Drink. Slam glass in sink. Walk heavily past bedroom door to living room. Turn on television. Watch the latest political nonsense with the sound up too high. After a few minutes, Jackie walks into the living room, wearing only a long shirt. “You want to turn that down?”
“Oh, is it bothering you?” Michel asks.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make so much noise.”
A man walks out of the bedroom. He has long hair to his waist, his arms covered in tattoos. His eyebrow is pierced, as is his lip and ears. With his shirt on, Michel could not see he had his nipple pierced as well. “Who’s this,” he asks, nodding at Michel.
“He’s my roommate,” Jackie says.
“You didn’t tell me you had a roommate. Where’s he sleep?”
“In here. On the hide-a-bed. I think his girlfriend would object if he slept with me.”
“I could see that. Has it stopped him?”
“No,” Jackie says. “You have a problem with that?”
“When was the last time he fucked you, and I’ll tell you.”
“This morning.”
“This morning! I fuckin’ ate you out!”
“I took a shower, Doug. Chill out,” Jackie said, rolling her eyes.
“Do you kids want to be left alone to discuss this?” Michel asked.
“Fuck no,” Doug said. “If she wants to keep fucking you, she can keep fucking you...”
“Doug, when was the last time you fucked someone?”
“That don’t matter...”
“Yes it does, you goddamn hypocrite. What makes you think you can fuck one woman one night, then a different woman another night and that’s all right, but it’s not all right if I do the same thing? Hell, you knew I wasn’t a virgin...”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were a...” Doug was smart enough to stop himself right there.
Jackie raised her eyebrows. “That I was a what?”
“Fuck. Never mind.”
“You’re right, never mind. Fuck you. You can get the fuck out of my apartment. You’re not going to treat me as less than human because I’m acting the same way as you. You can fuck off.”
“Jackie, listen...”
“You heard her,” Michel said. “Now be a good little boy and fuck off.”
Doug spun toward him, his mouth turning cruel, his eyes hot. Jackie stepped in front of him. “Doug, you heard me. Get out.”
Doug turned and walked into Jackie’s bedroom. He returned with his shoes on, everything put back in place, and left without saying anything to either one. As the door shut behind him, Jackie turned to Michel: “I hope you’re happy.”
“What?”
“Fuck you, bitch,” Jackie said. “Stomping through the house, slamming things around, watching the T.V. full blast.”
“You’re the one told him we were still fucking. Nice way to keep a secret.”
“Next time you hear me fucking someone, do me a favor and take a walk. If I’m fucking him, he’s on his way home. It won’t be fifteen, twenty minutes at most.”
“If that’s all they can do, what you need them for anyway?”
“They’re usually not thinking of other things while they’re fucking me, so it doesn’t take them as long, Michel.”
“So, you still horny?” Michel asked.
“What? Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but I just got me some dick.”
“And?”
“And, if you want to fuck so bad, get in here...” Jackie turned toward her bedroom. Michel stood to follow. “He may have finished, but I didn't. Oh, by the way,” Jackie said. “Sarah called. She wants you to call her back. I’m sure it can wait until we’re done, though.”
Pulling his shirt over his head, Michel said, “Yeah, I’m sure it can.”
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Chapter 19
Yesterday was an interesting day.
Monday, one of the graduate students was found dead in his apartment. It was later determined he committed suicide. Everyone in the department liked him, he had a fiancée who everyone agreed was wonderful, and he was beautifully handsome (everyone said he looked like Elvis) and a great writer and teacher, who all his students loved.
We don’t know why he killed himself.
Yesterday, Thursday, there was a memorial service for him at the chapel on campus. His parents were there. After hearing people say lots of good things about him, we went and planted a tree in his memory, then went over to the head of the Arts and Humanities Department’s house for a party. His parents were there. It would have been hard to tell why.
I don’t see anybody in this novel committing suicide, nor do I think they know anyone who would commit suicide, so I don’t know why I brought it up. Perhaps it was because it was such a strange day, moving from sorrow to hedonism within two hours. At the party, I think I heard the dead man’s name mentioned twice, early on, then nothing afterward. By the end of the party, everyone was drunk, except my friend Steve, who doesn’t drink. At the end, he was sitting at a table, reading everyone’s tarot cards, which is funny, because I know he doesn’t believe in them (just as I don’t believe them), though everyone is always talking about how good and accurate he is.
Steve read my tarot cards too. Every time someone reads my tarot cards, I know a few things are going to happen. One, I will get the death card. Two, the person reading my cards will look surprised and say something to the effect that this is the strangest thing he has ever seen. Three, in addition to the death card, I’ll have at least two other major arcana. This time, I got the devil card in conjunction with the death card, indicating my next year or two will be full of chaotic change. Nothing new there. My life has been in the grasp of chaotic change for years, since I started college.
He also said my life would be affected by someone else’s health problems. Currently, my grandmother is very sick. She was supposed to have surgery on her lung to remove part of it because of the presence of what appears to be a tumor. My grandmother is a hypochondriac, and I made the mistake of saying, when she first got the flu, that she had to get well, because so long as she was sick, they couldn’t do the surgery. Since my grandmother is also scared to death of having the surgery done, I don’t doubt she decided to stay sick. I would like to go see her, but I’m in Texas, and I have no money to go see her.
Steve also said that I had made the right career choice, but that my choice would be put into strong question. However, I should resist these pressures. Also, he said my career will be essentially stagnant over the next three years (let’s see, one more year for Master’s, at least four more years after that for PhD...).
I told Donna all this last night in bed, and she asked if he had said anything about us. I told her no. That, of course, was a lie, because Steve did mention something about a woman. He said I would be involved with a woman by the end of the year who I either already know or will meet this year, and who is in a position of authority over others. He did say this did not exclude Donna, because she could perhaps get a supervisory job, but I could tell, because of the way he said it, that he didn’t believe it was going to be Donna. So technically (and I know this is a big technically) I told Donna the truth. He didn’t say anything about us. When he did mention her name, he didn’t believe it. Of course, right now I couldn’t think of anyone else he could be talking about, since I wouldn’t want to date any of the women I know who are in a position of authority over others.
This reminds me of something interesting Donna said to me in bed last night. She has been on to me about marrying her for months -- almost since the first moment she moved in with me. But last night she said she didn’t want to get married again, that she would live with me and fuck me forever, but she didn’t think she was going to marry me. Personally, this doesn’t sound very good. This tells me that our relationship is breaking down -- though currently at a glacial pace. I think she has decided to leave me, but she knows we cannot afford to send her anywhere, and she cannot afford to move out, and other than that little Freshman girl, Maddy, she doesn’t know anybody she could move in with here, so she’s sticking around. She has been talking to this one guy from Birmingham on the phone quite a bit. She says he’s not very attractive (or so she’s heard -- I don’t think she’s actually ever seen him) but I still think she’s interested in him -- most particularly because he is bisexual, as is she. One of her fantasies is to be in bed with two men while the men have sex. She knows she won’t ever get that with me, but with this guy there is more than a distinct possibility. She spends hours on the phone with him, talking about lord knows what, and when our phone was turned off because the phone company was sending our phone bill to the wrong place (not that I minded that it was turned off, since that meant she could not stay on the Internet all the time, which meant she actually started spending time with me), she started making me take her to the phone booth to talk to him, leaving me sitting in the car for over an hour. I took a book last night, but I was too drunk to read more than two short stories. I think I dozed off a few times, then realized it was 3:30 in the morning, and sat up, buckled my seatbelt, and started the van. When she opened the door to ask what the hell I was doing, I told her I was going home, and that if she wanted to go, she’d better get in. In a surprise move on her part, she wasn’t angry (her most common emotion). She said she was trying to get off the phone, but he wouldn’t stop talking.
Again, I have no idea why I decided to put all this in the novel, since I can think of no way it relates to the book -- at least, in a direct way. Yesterday was just a full day, a day I guess I needed to talk about, get off my chest, out of my head. Some strange implications for me, that’s for sure - things that, as they change my life this year, will inevitably affect what I write in this novel. Maybe that’s why I included it. Maybe yesterday was the first day of a series that will cause my life to change. In that respect, I don’t see how it is any different from any other day, since one could say that about any day. Everything affects our lives, so we might as well appreciate everything that happens. But sometimes you know that certain events, certain realizations, certain things said are going to affect you in more profound ways than the activities of a more typical day. This, I think, is the prologue to a change in my life, and, therefore, a change in the book. I don’t know what it is going to be. We’ll just have to discover it together.
Monday, one of the graduate students was found dead in his apartment. It was later determined he committed suicide. Everyone in the department liked him, he had a fiancée who everyone agreed was wonderful, and he was beautifully handsome (everyone said he looked like Elvis) and a great writer and teacher, who all his students loved.
We don’t know why he killed himself.
Yesterday, Thursday, there was a memorial service for him at the chapel on campus. His parents were there. After hearing people say lots of good things about him, we went and planted a tree in his memory, then went over to the head of the Arts and Humanities Department’s house for a party. His parents were there. It would have been hard to tell why.
I don’t see anybody in this novel committing suicide, nor do I think they know anyone who would commit suicide, so I don’t know why I brought it up. Perhaps it was because it was such a strange day, moving from sorrow to hedonism within two hours. At the party, I think I heard the dead man’s name mentioned twice, early on, then nothing afterward. By the end of the party, everyone was drunk, except my friend Steve, who doesn’t drink. At the end, he was sitting at a table, reading everyone’s tarot cards, which is funny, because I know he doesn’t believe in them (just as I don’t believe them), though everyone is always talking about how good and accurate he is.
Steve read my tarot cards too. Every time someone reads my tarot cards, I know a few things are going to happen. One, I will get the death card. Two, the person reading my cards will look surprised and say something to the effect that this is the strangest thing he has ever seen. Three, in addition to the death card, I’ll have at least two other major arcana. This time, I got the devil card in conjunction with the death card, indicating my next year or two will be full of chaotic change. Nothing new there. My life has been in the grasp of chaotic change for years, since I started college.
He also said my life would be affected by someone else’s health problems. Currently, my grandmother is very sick. She was supposed to have surgery on her lung to remove part of it because of the presence of what appears to be a tumor. My grandmother is a hypochondriac, and I made the mistake of saying, when she first got the flu, that she had to get well, because so long as she was sick, they couldn’t do the surgery. Since my grandmother is also scared to death of having the surgery done, I don’t doubt she decided to stay sick. I would like to go see her, but I’m in Texas, and I have no money to go see her.
Steve also said that I had made the right career choice, but that my choice would be put into strong question. However, I should resist these pressures. Also, he said my career will be essentially stagnant over the next three years (let’s see, one more year for Master’s, at least four more years after that for PhD...).
I told Donna all this last night in bed, and she asked if he had said anything about us. I told her no. That, of course, was a lie, because Steve did mention something about a woman. He said I would be involved with a woman by the end of the year who I either already know or will meet this year, and who is in a position of authority over others. He did say this did not exclude Donna, because she could perhaps get a supervisory job, but I could tell, because of the way he said it, that he didn’t believe it was going to be Donna. So technically (and I know this is a big technically) I told Donna the truth. He didn’t say anything about us. When he did mention her name, he didn’t believe it. Of course, right now I couldn’t think of anyone else he could be talking about, since I wouldn’t want to date any of the women I know who are in a position of authority over others.
This reminds me of something interesting Donna said to me in bed last night. She has been on to me about marrying her for months -- almost since the first moment she moved in with me. But last night she said she didn’t want to get married again, that she would live with me and fuck me forever, but she didn’t think she was going to marry me. Personally, this doesn’t sound very good. This tells me that our relationship is breaking down -- though currently at a glacial pace. I think she has decided to leave me, but she knows we cannot afford to send her anywhere, and she cannot afford to move out, and other than that little Freshman girl, Maddy, she doesn’t know anybody she could move in with here, so she’s sticking around. She has been talking to this one guy from Birmingham on the phone quite a bit. She says he’s not very attractive (or so she’s heard -- I don’t think she’s actually ever seen him) but I still think she’s interested in him -- most particularly because he is bisexual, as is she. One of her fantasies is to be in bed with two men while the men have sex. She knows she won’t ever get that with me, but with this guy there is more than a distinct possibility. She spends hours on the phone with him, talking about lord knows what, and when our phone was turned off because the phone company was sending our phone bill to the wrong place (not that I minded that it was turned off, since that meant she could not stay on the Internet all the time, which meant she actually started spending time with me), she started making me take her to the phone booth to talk to him, leaving me sitting in the car for over an hour. I took a book last night, but I was too drunk to read more than two short stories. I think I dozed off a few times, then realized it was 3:30 in the morning, and sat up, buckled my seatbelt, and started the van. When she opened the door to ask what the hell I was doing, I told her I was going home, and that if she wanted to go, she’d better get in. In a surprise move on her part, she wasn’t angry (her most common emotion). She said she was trying to get off the phone, but he wouldn’t stop talking.
Again, I have no idea why I decided to put all this in the novel, since I can think of no way it relates to the book -- at least, in a direct way. Yesterday was just a full day, a day I guess I needed to talk about, get off my chest, out of my head. Some strange implications for me, that’s for sure - things that, as they change my life this year, will inevitably affect what I write in this novel. Maybe that’s why I included it. Maybe yesterday was the first day of a series that will cause my life to change. In that respect, I don’t see how it is any different from any other day, since one could say that about any day. Everything affects our lives, so we might as well appreciate everything that happens. But sometimes you know that certain events, certain realizations, certain things said are going to affect you in more profound ways than the activities of a more typical day. This, I think, is the prologue to a change in my life, and, therefore, a change in the book. I don’t know what it is going to be. We’ll just have to discover it together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)