The Lost Pedestrian

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.

Here we are lying in bed on a cold dreary afternoon in a bungalow somewhere near south side of St. Louis, recovering from a voluminous brunch at the Southwest Diner.

I had the Medio breakfast.

You had the grande.

It was quite something, although I may be alone in that opinion.

The coffee was exceptional.

I dreamt that Laurie Anderson was singing one of my songs (entitled “63”). She sounded surprisingly bad at it, while I was expecting the song was perfect for her. At one point, she seemed to be mocking the lyrics. And I thought, “how disappointing.” Perhaps the dream reflected my own disappointment when I looked at a few pieces of my writing from last year … writing that I thought might have potential to transform into something else. But the writing was so flat and monotonous. I had higher hopes that are now dashed.

Perhaps my writing has become a good practice for typing. Nothing more. Nothing less. And if I could not type, I could not work. And if I cannot work, destitution awaits. If destitution awaits, I should not fear it, but embrace it. And then politely walk away.

12 seconds, I am guessing that this is the amount of time I have spent today thinking of someone other than myself. Or myself in relation to you. But always back to me. With no variation.

This amounts to 86,388 seconds of me thinking solely of me (or me in relation to you) each day.

Yet, I cannot find 1 out of those 86,388 seconds that was inspired, inspiring, productive, fruitful, thoughtful, creative, fulfilling.

Just about all of those seconds were quite forgettable, or at least non-memorable. The one thing I do remember doing quite a bit of, a large proportion of … summoning. Waiting for you to call. Waiting for an encouraging word, waiting for you to think of me as often and as closely and as longingly as I think of you. The you those 86,388 seconds accumulate to imagine.

But imagining you is a poor substitute for summoning you, which I seem incapable of doing. So instead there is waiting.

Each time they call, I convince myself beforehand that this will be The Call. This will be The Call where they tell me that they think we should end it. Whatever it is. The thing that needs an ending. I am almost certain of it.

And each time they call, I am shocked. Utterly shocked when what I expect them to say is not said. That the ending I expect is not how the call ends. I’m not sure how I would describe how the call ends, except that it lacks an ending.

But it could happen the next time. At least, I was given the chance to live to see a next time.

“Hi, how are you doing?,” she said as she passed me on the sidewalk. “Great!,” I said. And then she said, “I’m back!.” “Great!,” I said, even though I did not know where she was back from because I had never seen her before in my life. And then she was gone.

How long does it take to redeem yourself from transgressions of sensitivity and tact? I fear I have crossed the line again with this new person in my life. I thought we were doing so well until she told me we were not.

Which made me feel sad and self-conscious. And when I am sad and self-conscious, I behave like a sad and self-conscious person. And then I am not fun to be around. Not very smart or witty or entertaining. Not on top of things at all. Rather, at the bottom. Why would anyone be interested in being with someone like that?

So how does one get back to the top? How does one prove they can be the person they would like the other person to see them as? The true me. The me that doesn’t feel self-conscious. The me that doesn’t feel like it has to prove anything. The me that does not try to win anyone over.

Because I think the only way to win someone over is to stop trying to win them over. Just be.

Why does that feel impossible?

Today I caught under a deluge. I’m referring to rain.

But then there’s that other deluge I am caught under.

One deluge ended.

The other did not.

The deluge was so intense, driving through it with the visibility of a car in a carwash. I’m referring to the rain.

The non-rain deluge was even heavier and I was almost crushed under its weight, especially as it pressed against my heart. It nearly did me in.,

It might still do me in.