Flight.

JaneSome musings on the week after my birthday.

When I look back to where I was a year ago and where I am today, well, the first question that popped to mind was really, what’s the difference? Sure, I’m a year older and the names and faces of my problems have changed some, but overwhelmingly the questions at the root of them are still the same. And there’s still Graham. Sometimes I think I really need to either give him the boot or tell him to commit…… but ultimatums never really work, do they? I suppose because, “ultimately”, there’s still you at the center of the issue, never taking a side one way or another, just letting someone else’s stomping tip your scales in the next direction.

And which direction is that? A circle can be deceptive. It seems like you’re going to new angles and directions, but really it’s all just different flavors of one arc. You’re not really going anywhere at all, except perhaps closer and closer to the center of whatever you’re winding yourself around, making it increasingly difficult to extract yourself and chance course. But sometimes, by the time you notice that, you’ve completed a few rotations and are well settled into the cycle.

The circles match the path of the earth, so whose to say when they’re wrong and when they’re right? But what I want to know is, if there is a way to travel in circles, where each circle gets larger than the last? Where you experience more with each rotation instead of less? Where—instead of becoming more firmly pulled down by gravity—if one can reach closer and closer, year after year, to the stars?

I suppose then the danger becomes being flung wildly off-course and shooting off in a single straight line, forever. But then again, it seems that in that case you would finally be flying.

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The Only Truth to the Universe

Its that time of year again…ratting around the city looking for new adventure, opportunities, and experiences galore! I found myself the other day stumbling through a warehouse of anything you can name and came across a powder blue nighty that reminded me of my first night with Jerome. Ugh…just when I thought I’ve medicated myself through all those past memories. I’ve been clear-minded on a path of renewing myself daily and seeking higher meaning to my life.

I’m ready to take my life and career to the next level possibly being part of something that is actually meaningful and has power to change the world. I’m tired of the same ol’ stories about love, sex, abuse, gayism, heroism, blah blah blah…what about something that is the only truth to the universe??

I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of instant gratification, satisfaction and perpetual venture to look for the next big. What about something that’ll gratify you forever and ever?? I may have found it. . . but it is still a sliver of a seed yet to grow. I think we may all be looking for that big purpose. And trust me, even relationships will last for a while and satisfy you at the moment, but very few will last a lifetime. I’m done.

To be continued…Sachiko.

Slalom as usual.

Sometimes I think he thinks he can just keep jerking me around. Like I’m a mailbox (or an ATM) he can visit when he’s looking for something. And then other times I see the poetry he creates on the stage and I know it’s all worth it. His insight into the human mind, into the human condition… that’s not something that can be taught.

And there I am, looking in from the outside.

But when the curtain falls and the cocktails are finished and the chorus boys have backed off for the evening, he comes home with me. And that’s the time nobody else can take away.

We didn’t have a very good Valentine’s Day this year, but since then it’s been getting better. We talked about the need to talk, and when I brought up the point that I felt like I spoke more to his assistant Christine than to him he seemed to really melt a little. Like he’d been so stressed out and frozen solid that it just took the tiniest crack to let the warmth flood in.

And then we went away skiing last weekend and that made up for everything. I’m a better skier than he is, and—not gonna lie—it was pretty great to beat him at something, for once! Oh, Gary. So many talents. Downhill is not one of them.

The rehearsal schedule is taking shape—I’ve been pretty proud of myself. Nothing like playing honorary stage manager and chief investor for a little while! Here’s hoping one of his deus ex machina-like investor schemes comes through.

All Dressed Up

JaneIt’s always at this time of year I catch myself switching from secretly looking at pictures of wedding dresses to covertly flipping through pictures of red carpet gowns. Oh sure, I pretend not to care about all that garbage, but let’s face it: I love a good dress.

Growing up, it was so fun to play dress up! Even today, as a culture we’re obsessed with it. But why? Why not?

Adornment. It’s got the word “adore” in it. We all want to be adored, don’t we? It’s tough to admit, and yet I have to admit I do. None of this humility BS—I want to decorate myself in feathers or sequins or pearls and run dancing into the sunset!

But what happens when you get there? I don’t know. I wonder, if Graham and I ever get married—will I still look at pictures of wedding dresses? Will I still watch “Say Yes To The Dress”?

Do the actresses who parade the red carpet the Academy Awards still long for the next time? Once you get there, once you are the muse, what do you long for? I wonder, if I ever got there whether it would be enough. Or if I would be compelled to want something else.

I hope if I ever do get there, that I won’t just want a bigger, flashier, more expensive adornment. I hope that if I ever get there I’ll want the opposite—the gift of silence: nothing but trees, sky, and the crashing of waves upon the shore.

But that’s probably bogus and romantic of me to imagine. Probably I’d want the dress.

Got the Part!

So, I got the part. We start rehearsals in two weeks. Great. “Aaron, why so glum?” Glad you asked. I have an issue. And that issue’s name is Jerome. Yup. He got cast too. There must be some kinda second chance program involved here. Get this: he’s understudying me. What the heck?! Am I in some kinda poltergeist or something?! I mean really. Do they think that he can actually handle the work load? The only thing that he can handle are those stupid protein sandwiches he’s always shoveling down his gullet. I’m sorry. I sound bitter. I’m not. I just work so hard for what I have and it bugs me that people can just walk off the street and into this business with a certain look and be half as talented (in his case maybe less) and take the express lane to success. I ran into him on the street and he said that “he had some super sonic ideas” and “it’s gonna be better than Street Bitches Death Match.” What does that even mean? Actually, I DO know what that means: HE’S AN IDIOT. And all I can hear in my head is my dad’s voice — “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.” Well, Dad, you haven’t met Jerome.

Gary called today. I wonder what he wants. I worked on a show of his a few years back. One of the top five most incredible experiences of my life. I heard that he’s written another show, and I’ve always been booked so I haven’t been able to audition. Man, what I’d give to work with him again.

I think I’ve solved the Debbie Debacle. I’m just gonna write her a note. How’s this: “Dear Debbie, You’re hot. Yours, Aaron.”

PRINT IT!

Feburuary 13th.

So here it is, Valentine’s Eve again. Or as Barney Stinson calls it, “Desperation Day.” Thanks, Barney. And it’s not that I’m lonely, I mean I do have someone. He’s just not here. And I know I’m not going to see him, we agreed not to do these “stupid commercial holidays.”

So why am I sitting here, staring at the DVD cover to my copy of When Harry Met Sally, not even remotely fooling myself?

He didn’t say it, but I know he’s spending the day with his wife. As I suppose he should. If I was his wife, or a wife at all for that matter. . . I’d expect to see my husband on Valentine’s Day. Even if I knew he was a high-fallutin’ intellectual elitist snob who wouldn’t know romance if it kicked him in the face.

I shouldn’t call him. I shouldn’t call. And I won’t. But it’s not going to keep me from wishing he would.  “I think I should hear her out,” he said. That’s what he said to me the last time I brought it up. “She wants to talk to me about us. . . and I think I should hear her out.”

That was six months ago. How have I become this passive? What did she say? Did she even say anything? Or maybe the whole point is that there’s nothing to say. It will either happen or it won’t. He’ll either leave her or she doesn’t. And I’ll either sit here, or. . .

Or what? Sit here? Is there an alternative?

I clearly need to make one.

The Dangers of Dating “Ordinary”

MaryOne thing that I’ve learned in my meager but colorful dating history is that it’s never good to have an ex-boyfriend who’s too ordinary-looking.  That average build, average height, average Joe with brown hair and the slightest hint of a receding hairline. No indeed, once it’s over you don’t want the person who incites in you a sense of sheer panic also be a person who looks like almost everyone on the subway.

I think maybe it’s for April’s sake, that I get so jumpy. I won’t even be thinking about him, and yet I’ll see him everywhere. And every time, I get that visceral punch in my gut, a twinge telling me to bolt.

It’s not that he’s dangerous, or mean, or anything like that. It’s just the way he left; he isn’t here at all. It’s like he erased himself from my life. I still wake up sometimes and reach over for him across the bed, expecting to find his scent buried in a pillow.

I never tell April, but I think she knows just the same. It’s amazing how much she perceives, how she can feel out my moods and can be so grown up as to comfort me. I don’t think I was that smart when I was her age! Perhaps I should have named her Athena. She’s already turning out to be stronger than her mother.

Graham.

Is this it?

Sometimes when we argue I can almost feel myself breaking away for good. Like I’m a bungee cord stretched to the breaking point and about to snap. And sometimes, I truly believe I’m going to do it, too. Snap. Leave. Move on.

That’s usually about the time I arrive home from fighting with him, or hang up the phone, or delete the offensive email.  I look up and see myself in my apartment, and suddenly I feel so trapped. Stuck. Staked in place. For what am I really? Not the bungee cord, no. I’m not flexible, or strong, or liable to break away. I’m the figure tied to the end of the cord, and he’s the one holding the string. I can see him, standing on my rooftop, stringing me along like a puppet as I bounce up and down at his request. And I bounce up and down, peeking in the windows of my neighbors apartments as I go, wondering if their lives are like this too. And all the while I hope he’ll reel me in and that when I get to my roof, it will just be him waiting there.

No strings, no games, just him.

And then, just when I give up all hope, just when I think he’s going to polish his ring and head home, his hand reaches down and pulls me up to the ledge.

And there he leaves me, hanging on for dear life, clinging to the ledge. It’s the perfect vantage point to see him turn around and walk away. But not before he clips my bungee cord to the chimney.