The Lost Pedestrian

This is too embarrassing to speak about, but speak about it I must. It’s too unfunny not to speak about it. So maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I won’t. There’s certainly no shame in that. Lots of shame everywhere else. When you wake up in the morning and realize you have gained shame from the previous day, and the day before that, and the weight of the shame leads you to hate yourself … I can’t think of any self-help books that would tell you that it is healthy to begin the day with a proper amount of self-hatred and shame. And I don’t think it would be healthy for me to write one.

Maybe I won’t

But actually, if I was able to write a book, period, even a self-help guide to manifesting shame … not that I nor anyone would or should write such a book … but writing a guide to shame and getting it edited, proofread and published … how could I or anyone feel shame about that? Maybe writing an entire guide to shame and publishing it and selling it … how could I or anyone not feel a sense of pride about that. Using the topic of shame as a vehicle for annihilating shame.

Sitting on the train next to a woman talking to herself (or so I thought). I was kind of tuning it out until she started repeating “This boat is so small and the sea is so wide.”

My first thought was that this was the truest thing I’ve heard all week.

And then I was truly astonished to find out that she was reading my mind, verbatim.

“How do you do that … the mind-reading thing? Did you always have this gift? I am truly astonished” I said.

She was born that way, she said, as was her mother, as was her mother’s mother, and mother’s mother’s mother, stretching through mothers of mothers all the way back to biblical times. All the way back to Jochebed, who was both the mother of Moses and wife of Amram who was also her nephew, although she may have been Amram’s father’s cousin according to the Latin manuscript, The Septuagint.

Regardless of whoever Jochebad was, I was so impressed with the telepathic gifts of this woman on the train.

Even when she said, “don’t be too impressed.” She went on to explain that her ability to read other people’s minds was limited to thoughts about large bodies of water.

I said I was still impressed because she could do something I was pretty certain I could not do.

She said, “don’t be so sure.”

That might be true, I thought, but how would I know?

And then I began to recall all of the moments throughout my life when I was trying to express something vital to someone who was not really listening. I just assumed their minds were preoccupied with thoughts of the sea. But I always dismissed that assumption because it’s wrong to assume anything about anyone. No matter how many times your assumptions turn out to be 100% accurate.

“Now you see what I’m talking about,” the woman said, as she stood up and stepped out of the train, which fortunately had come to a stop.

I should have taken it as a red flag during our conversation when we first met when you asked if i had written my eulogy for my very much still alive mother yet. I thought that was rather peculiar, but you thought it was rather peculiar that I had never even considered a eulogy for the living.

Maybe I should have responded with a witty comeback, such as “No, I have not written a eulogy for my mother, but I’ve written the eulogy for YOUR mother.”

Except …

A. I don’t do witty comebacks.

B. Why would I say something like that to anyone?

Which led to wonder if one could write eulogies for a living. I assume such people exist. I’m certain there must be a demand for them. Perhaps you might need a license to do this at the professional level, not just as a side hobby for friends. But while you’re working to obtain a license, there could be a way to practice. You could write a eulogy for a friend in exchange for them helping you move into your new apartment. Perhaps your friend might choose for you to write the eulogy written for them. Perhaps your friend might like some control over what people say at their memorial. Or your friend might prefer you to write a eulogy for whomever your friend is mourning. Or trying to mourn. Mourning when everyone is expecting you to mourn never feels quite natural. Do you know what I’m saying?

Anyway, when you asked why I had not yet written the eulogy for my mother, I did think it was peculiar, but I also thought that maybe it was peculiar that the thought never even entered my head. Like, my head is too caught up in. the narrow little world it has inhabited to think of much else other than myself and my own survival. and about all of the point B’s I am trying to reach from point A and how I will get there. there are so many choices for how one can move from one point to another, it’s a wonder one can move at all.

when have I ever lied to you? or shall I ask when have I ever not lied to you? I have been lying to you for so long and so pervasively, that even the most startling rays of truth would feel like lies. damn lies. lies that deserve to be damned. eternal damnation.

why do I lie to you? to keep the fantasy alive. to keep it buoyant and floating on air. Or bobbing with the current of the sea. the fantasy has to stay alive or else one of us or possibly both of us will cease to exist in material form. To prolong the reality from setting in and destroying everything we have pretended to build for as long as humanly possible. Because if you abandon the fantasy, you abandon me and the one truth I am aware of is that abandonment is not very appealing to either of us. So why should we put ourselves through the ordeal of abandoning the fantasy that is us? It just doesn’t seem worth it.

The best lies are the ones that are so prolonged, they leave precious little time for even a momentary moment of truth, if there is such a thing.

I am playing with words instead of getting to the heart of the matter which is to tell you that I have been lying to you for at least 3 months. Not only that, but leading you on with more and more lies to protect you and shield you from the hurt I anticipate you will feel the very moment I shed light on the truth I have been hiding for well over 3 months. Why am I doing this? Why can’t I stop? What kind of person does this kind of thing and does not stop? You would probably not want to meet that kind of person.

We have such precious little time to meet anyone and here you have invested a large percentile of the precious little time we have left, invested it in exactly the wrong person. this wrong person who has taken away so much of your life, for what exactly?

Perhaps it’s best not to know, Why even ask?

I wish I could be good at things.

A lot of people I know are really good at things.

And there are lots of things they are good at.

Some are good. Some are really good.

I wish I could do something, even one of those things.

But I’m just not very good.

I would not even know how to begin.

I guess I could take a class or lessons.

It wouldn’t even have to be specific. It could be something like “Intro to Goodness Skills.” A survey class aimed at people who have not yet learned anything to be good at.

Some might say I am a good person, although I might not necessarily agree, or I would ask them if they could define their terms.

I guess we could all use some help. Even those who are the most good.

But then again, you could be the most good person on the planet, and still not be good at anything.

I realize that starting from ground zero will be a real challenge.

I’d have to be good at decision making in order to make a decision on what I should aim to be good at.

I guess this means if I were to take that Intro class, my final project would be an analysis of good decision makers, how they came to be good at that. If good decision making was something you inherit, genetically, or something you are trained for behaviorally.

But still that wouldn’t be enough. It would take much than a final project term paper in an Intro class to even begin to get good at something. Even if I got an A.

i was sitting at my computer. it may have been deep within my cubicle at work. it may have been on your balcony overlooking the calm turquoise sea. I was trying to meet a pressing deadline and as the moments passed and the clock was running out, I felt increasing panic over the deadline I was about to miss. And I began to consider the possible consequences of this failed assignment.

Which is when you appeared, serving a platter of assorted cheeses (gouda, white cheddar, swiss, brie, goat, havarti) and crackers (Wheat thins, saltines, Ritz, Triscuit, Goldfish, matzoh). I was so happy to see them and to see you. I could not decide which I was most happy to see. So I said, ‘thank you, but i’m not really in the mood.’ And you said, ‘mood for what?’ And I said, ‘you know, i’m not really sure.’ You walked away. And I found myself staring at the computer again, wondering why and how I managed to do the opposite of expressing the happiness I felt when you appeared. It’s no wonder you stopped being visible.

I returned to working at the computer which was now situated in an alley, in between a few dumpsters. Maybe this is what happens to people who miss deadlines and cannot adequately express themselves. But somehow I felt at peace. It was so quiet here in this alley, except for the low drone of a passing plane, and 1 or 2 birds chirping from somewhere. From where, I wasn’t sure, because there were no trees in sight. And I thought about birds and planes and I started to type a list of all of the creatures and objects I could think of that had wings.

I continued adding to this list for what seemed like many hours, until dusk settled in and the moon began to rise. I started to feel a bit more at peace about my work situation, knowing that my managers, the people who manage me, might accept my list as the completion of the project. And I had not missed the deadline after all. And I started to think it might be OK to die here, at this place, in this moment.

I was envious of you and not pleased about it. Far from pleased. Very very far from pleased. I wish I could be just as far away from this envy as I am from pleased.

Because you write voluminously and you have the discipline to write. And I write sparingly and lack in discipline.

Because people notice you. While I remain invisible to most. Except for those who I would rather not be visible to.

Was that even a sentence?

Because you have had so many lovers. While you rejected me as a potential lover.

Because you are so boundlessly talented. Awesomely talented. I freeze before your talent. But I do not cower. And I do not bow. But perhaps I should bow as a proper show of respect.

Because you seem to remember everything about everybody while I am too self-consumed to notice very much beyond my narrow range of noticing.

Because I wish I could be you.

But I don’t wish I could be exactly you.

I guess there are a couple things about you I would rather not be. I just have not put my finger on it. just yet.

She was daring me to play some sort of online word game which I flagrantly resisted, explaining that the only word game I would make time to play is the typing of words into this space. So I should probably thank her, I guess. Although I imagine she will think I am close-minded.

What will it take for me to end this relationship? It’s confusing when someone buys you 3 separate birthday gifts just when you are on the verge of ending things. I just didn’t have the heart. But I think she can still tell that my heart’s just not in it. Perhaps her challenge for me to play this word game is some sort of heart test. A really strange heart test.

So I question whether I have what it takes (courage? conviction?) to end things with her. Perhaps I can find someone to do it for me. I would gladly pay for such a service. I would pay top dollar.

I heard a voice say, ‘please, please, don’t make me write! not tonight! anything but that!’

And I said, ‘nobody is making you do anything.’

And the voice said, ‘that’s the problem. that’s the big problem. not knowing what to do unless someone makes me do it.’

‘That IS a big problem,’ I said.

‘A very big problem,’ said the voice.

I would have given anything to get out of there, but when they gave me a chance to exit … when they left the door wide open … I just stood there in disbelief. And then I told them how much I liked it there and I was sorry if I had given them the wrong impression. And I really truly wanted to stay. I wanted to stay more than I could say. And eventually they were convinced. And they opened the door for me and allowed me to retreat in to my little corner, where I began to devise a new strategy to escape. This time for good. The first non-escape was just testing the waters, without intending to disturb them. The waters, that is.

And now, I can hear the sky. I can feel the sky. I can see fragments of sky through the trees. And I stretch out to it, but I can’t touch it. I can feel it, but I can’t touch it. It’s uncanny.

I became an ancient astronaut today out on a mission to find out what happens to people who remain sentient and breathing, in spite of everything else.

I did not intend for this to be a solitary mission.

There is much on this mission that I did not intend to do. Which might explain why my mission will never be thwarted. In spite of everything else.

Tonight I think I broke something. And that something was us.

And this time we might be beyond repair.

I could have stopped the accident, I sort of let things fall apart. I did not even make an effort to keep things from falling apart. I did not even bother to look into how it might be possible to repair.

And now on my solitary mission, I must face the consequences.

of either my liberation or banishment. Or both

I’m trying to think of a way to end things with J in such a say as she does not even notice. So far I’m not getting any good ideas. Other than to point out how incompatible we are which is something I should have told her months ago–but this fear of being alone–and this fear of her lashing out at me in some form–makes a coward out of me. I hate to admit. In a public forum. Even if I am the only who notices.

Today my doctor told me that there really was not much point getting a second booster shot because people who get the 2nd booster are still getting infected and that I should wait until the Fall when MAYBE there will be some sort of an upgrade. I’m glad she was so out front about this.

Lately, I don’t even care all that much whether I get Covid for a 2nd time. It was exciting the first time, but now it just feels passé. And I enjoyed using my Covid sick days eve though I was not feeling all that sick. A little, but not enough to justify how many days I took off.

Why am I even talking about this? I guess because I have officially become one of those people who officially has nothing to talk about. This has been especially noticeable since I began a relationship with J who seems to want to talk almost every night. I have never been challenged in this way before. We have these long pauses in our conversations and the silence feels too awkward and the silence feels like pressure and I end up talking about things that are definitely not worth talking about. Like my credit car debt or car repairs or haircut or dentist appointment or whatever happened at work that day or the latest Republican atrocities or our families or future travel plans or my writing and art or movies or books or clothing or cannabis or declining vision or aching hips or job interviews or therapists or astrologers.

But all feels like chatter. If I had a forté, chatter would not be it.

This time it’s true. My fish hate me. All of them.. The platys, the Congo tetras especially. And I don’t do well when somebody hates me. I end up acting in a way that reinforces why they hate me. I do a clumsy job of cleaning the algae. I either overfeed them or forget to feed them at all. I watch them while they would be prefer to be alone. I aquascape the aquarium with plants they find distasteful. If I confront them and say to them that it feels like everything I do for them is wrong, they look at me incredulously as if to say, “that’s a good observation because everything you do IS wrong,” which is not a boost for my confidence. I’m not sure what to do about this. How to remedy this situation. I’m at a loss.