‘talking about love is like dancing about architecture‘
a line in a script
although flawed
i wish i had written

one can dissect the end result
(foundation, walls, layout)
without ever fully understanding
the true beauty

all is rarely as it appears

sometimes
rules are meant to be broken
stepping outside the sandbox of physical laws
bending time
stretching space
redefining the notion of expectations

columns supporting columns that hold up columns
mutable walls letting or denying passage
windows appearing contextually
depending on the viewer
and how they choose to view

the word is my medium
i can’t dance
don’t dance
and usually don’t stand too near anyone who does
but in her case i would make every exception
publicly
spotlighted
gladly

there are exceptions to every rule
(including this one)

but i would return to university
immerse myself in the world of space design
eero saarinen
i m pei
frank lloyd wright
bathing in words and concepts
until i dreamt
every night
every day
of buildings and spaces and their endless forms

and i would watch the films
the ballerinas
the tap dancers
the performance artists
the gymnasts

and i would hire coaches
trainers
choreographers

and i would spend my remaining days composing
practicing
recording
perfecting the agar
on which to grow my experiment

because if i could one day dance about architecture
then maybe one day i can also
talk clearly about how much she means to me

a dot here
a dot there
misplaced pixels in a photomanipulated masterpiece
cracked enamel imperfection

kintsugi opportunity
reassembled with gold to highlight the cracks

but the cracks are how the light gets in

pattern-seeking behavior
almost led to a lifetime
looking for flaws where none are obvious

instead
now
seeing how all the tiny nicks and blemishes
add to the greater beauty
the uniqueness

change one thing
change it all
butterfly effect

the caterpillar wouldn’t want that

Why do I write, if not to be read?

Why do I live, if not to love?

Of course, both these questions are not as simple as binary switches. And yet they also are. Schrödinger’s musings — dead and alive, neither dead nor alive, until you open the box.

I spent so long wandering alone that I had forgotten so many — too many things. Never really aimless, but lacking any sort of real focus. Never really directionless, but drifting wherever the current took me.

Why do I write, if not to be read? Because it acts as some sort of ventilation, a pressure release. Because it’s easier to put words on paper or a screen than for me to vocalize, often. Because things deserve to be related and remembered, if only by future versions of me.

Paraphrased, because my memory ain’t photographic (though way more photogenic than it’s owner): “I think I drink less with you. I’m not as depressed.”

And I poked at that statement, laughingly and lovingly. But at the same time, I get it.

I used to wonder how futile it was, the idea of two humans dealing with mental illness partnering up. But as I aged, I began to realize that not only are more people emotionally imbalanced than I thought (and way more than will even admit), but those of us that understand ourselves are better equipped to understand and empathize with each other. That’s the sort of thing that’s crucial to communication, which is in turn crucial to any kind of successful relationship.

And, like I responded, “at least we can be less depressed together.”

Reading her words was (and remains) incredibly touching to me — I’ve always dreamed of moving someone enough that they created something for or inspired by me. It was never a goal — any more than winning the lottery, or whatever else you can imagine that requires more luck than anything else. But it was, like winning the lottery, a hope, a desire — something I never gave up on, even though there was nothing I could do to improve the odds.

And also, beyond the realized hope — the words themselves. So incredibly powerful, even in such a compact telling. For future reference, I was moved to (sincere) tears by the thoughtfulness of the moment.

Why do I live, if not to love? Because I never give up on my dreams, even if there’s more luck involved than anything else. Because sometimes, the current takes you exactly where you are supposed to be. Because I never stop hoping for everything in it’s right place.

post-dusk sky reverberates
a million lightning bugs
flitting, blinking in and out and in
printing a dazzling orchestral score
against a cloudless sky
and a wall of hilly meadows and trees

away from the city
like this
your head against my chest
reclining on me
left hands clenched loosely
lovingly
our own boko-maru

away from civilization
the way of life i’ve always known
surrounded by nature
and silence
and you
your voice resounds with such clarity
when you tell me those three words
i’m at peace

and i swear that each time a firefly pops
off then on then off again
i can hear the notes being played
strings, piano, gentle brass
ephemeral ambient undertones
never repeating yet clearly connected
pieces of a greater whole

away from the city
under these trees in the tall grass
your soft murmuration
vocals for the firefly symphony
a different kind of aria
a better kind of cantabile
this is a hill i would happily die on

post-dusk sky reverberates
a million lightning bugs
flitting, blinking in and out and in
printing a dazzling orchestral score
illuminating your beautiful eyes
two pieces of a much greater whole

You ever been caught in rapids, but more importantly outside of the boat? That feeling that you imagine your favorite jacket has when the washing machine starts on the churn cycle? Tossed about like a rag doll, unpredictably, painfully, and just hoping you can outlast it, no matter how battered and beaten you get?

Yeah. There you go. Take some normal life complications and then mix in an unhealthy pinch of mental illness (have I mentioned how wonderfully unpredictable that shit is?), and you spend your day playing with an imaginary Rubik’s Cube that randomly changes colors just when you think you’re getting close to solving a side or two.

But then… I remember things like this:

“The strongest steel is forged by the fires of hell. It is pounded and struck repeatedly before it’s plunged back into the molten fire. The fire gives it power and flexibility, and the blows give it strength. Those two thing make the metal pliable and able to withstand every battle it’s called upon to fight.”

And I remember that these life complications are just that — complications. Not unsolvable puzzles, or riddles without answers — just roadblocks. And I remember that it’s easy to give up and quit, but ultimately regrettable. And I remember what I’m fighting for, and how Important that thing is to me.

And I remember that that first song has a second part.

Is this a vague post that I may not understand someday when I read it back? Yup. Intentionally so, because the source of the complications is not the important part, as much as remembering that I know how to push back against my own head, and some hills are worth dying on, much less pushing through the fire and coming out stronger on the other side.

If I have one regret about the last decade (just short of, but who’s counting?), it’s that, at some point, I stopped moving forward, and just started… drifting? Maybe a better way of phrasing it is that I gradually downshifted from living to simply existing, passing the days and binge watching the TV shows and counting the bottles. (The pandemic didn’t help much, of course, but I can’t place all the blame there — my downshift started well before that.)

I’m not sure that it was a sudden change — I might never have noticed it if the trend hadn’t reversed itself in the last month. And it’s not that I completely stopped — I still traveled (to see Russ and Melissa and my family, primarily), still occasionally went to eat good meals at restaurants I wanted to try or revisit, made trips to the Botanical Gardens. But most of these things too were just smaller pieces of my patterned life, easy and low-risk, low-energy, low-demand of me.

Enter Natalie (coinciding, happily, with the gradual adaptation to the coronavirus). In just the last weeks, we’ve gone to see Dwight Yoakam, the museum, the gardens, a couple of restaurants, and bought tickets and made plans to see more bands and some stand-up comedians, and to spend some time on her family’s land in rural Alabama, and to travel to North Carolina (and hopefully Pensacola, if that plays out). And it feels like that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

A lot of this is definitely attributable to Natalie — a lot of these plans were her idea, or spoken desire that I acted on (look, there’s a decent chance I end up seeing Garth Brooks in a few months, and we all know that’s not *my* idea). But maybe even moreso indirectly. I’ve written previously about how inspiring (not the word I’m looking for — maybe it’ll come to me later) she is to me. Or maybe that is the right word — she has this outlook on life that is infectious, and I find it nearly impossible not to catch some of her determination — to travel, to see live music, to open up and live.

And maybe, too, she’s reminded me that living and experiencing is a lot more when you can share it with someone.

Most of the worst moments of my life have come when I was single, and (at least in hindsight) that doesn’t really bother me. I don’t like feeling like a burden to anyone, least of all a partner. And so my periods of unemployment or financial strain, my dance with CIPD — I’m okay with having dealt with those alone. But (‘Everyone’s got a big but, Marge — tell us about your big but!’) most of the really great and memorable moments have been celebrated alone, too. Specifically, I remember (hazily) when I won the Sidewalk Sidewrite award for my short screenplay Muckfuppet — I was in the audience, with little expectation of winning (the screenwriters who participate in Sidewalk have always been a strong group, from the very beginning). And they called my name, and my friend Ann had to tap me on the shoulder, because it didn’t register that that name belonged to me. And being disappointed for the next week, the excitement marred and dulled by not having anyone to be excited with me.

But I find that even the little things become so much more involving and memorable when shared. I’m looking forward to seeing live music — my bands, because maybe I can turn Natalie on to something new and different, and her bands, because seeing her happy makes me equally so — and to doing new and different things (like pointing out the guy fucking a pig in a piece of artwork), and to flying to see my family, and long drives to Florida and elsewhere, and seeing new places, and more, because all these plans will be shared and experienced through two sets of eyes.

Two is better than one, after all. Except maybe in the number tumors you have.