I've been working quite a lot in the past few weeks. Fifty-ish hours or so, which isn't tremendous, but certainly not for amateur workaholics.
In my spare time, I've done nothing but read weird books, watch weird movies, and talk to weird people. It's funny; I can handle the working, but it's the spare-time stuff that's burning me out.
Example: a month or two ago, I read "Half-Asleep in Frog Pajamas" in a weekend. This book happens to be written in the SECOND-person. That is, "You are walking down the street, etc..." Like the "Choose your own Adventure" books. For probably two weeks afterwards, I was half-convinced, because of this book, and because I'd gotten so into it, that I was a stock-broker named Gwendolyn living in Seattle. I tend to get REALLY into stuff I read, as well as stuff I watch. For the past few months, I've been reading/watching a whole lot of very strange things: stuff that gives me ideas and insights that don't let up for days, weeks...
Yesterday, I rented "Breaking the Waves," which got me thinking about martyrs and some other things. Then I went to Lost Dog and read a few dozen pages of "Lolita," which got me thinking about pædophiles. Then I walked over to the Art Theater and watched "Quills," which got me thinking about random debauchery... With all of these things on my mind, all at once, I walked back across the South Washington Street Bridge wondering if I will ever be able to function like a normal human being again.
I walked back across the Bridge breathing heavily, trying to exhale some of the super-charged thoughts racing around my head. I wondered briefly, If I ran into somebody right now, would they think I've completely lost it? Have I got wild eyes? Am I walking too fast, as though someone's after me? Then I wondered, And if I had to talk to somebody, what would come out of my mouth? Would I be able to carry on a normal conversation about the weather, or would I spew forth some prophecy about the human condition? Was bad enough the first time I watched Twin Peaks all the way through and spent six months quoting Twin Peaks dialogue at random... I just wasn't sure. I hoped I wouldn't see anyone I knew, just in case.
...No such luck.
I ran into someone I knew while crossing Hawley Street. I didn't recognize her at first. It was dark and I was a million miles out in space. But a woman's voice called to me from under a layer of thin jacket: "Hey, Helena."
Recognition set in: a former co-worker of my mom's; a lovely woman with a million things to talk about, a million and one fascinating interests, and eyes as black and warm and intelligent and playful as possible. She offered me a ride home, and we talked about messy apartments, and habits of buying new underwear instead of doing laundry, etc.
Honestly, I love this woman. She is fun, she is brilliant, she's absolutely beautiful, and, while she's actually old enough to be my mom, she doesn't look or act any older than 25 or so: perhaps she's got a few more brain cells than your average 25-year-old, and a little more restraint, but you know what I mean...
Suddenly, for no reason, I despised her. A wave of intense jealousy washed me straight back across Hawley Street and dumped me into the Susquehanna River. There I was, getting into the car of one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, one of the most intelligent, strong, and fascinating people I've ever met, and I didn't like it one bit. There was something else, too...
Now, I am not a jealous person. I hate jealousy in all its forms. I've felt it before, and I've succumbed to it before, but I've never liked the feeling. It's a desperate, insecure, convulsively dark feeling, and it's horrible.
For some reason, I could easily envision Norman falling in love with this woman. Come to think of it, she looks like pictures I've seen of one of his ex-girlfriends. Come to think of it, they even have rhyming names. I felt sticky all over. If Norman had been present, I probably would have latched onto his arm, uncontrollably possessive. Of course, Norman wasn't present, and I sincerely doubt Norman's ever met this woman, but all the same, this strange and unpleasant feeling had attacked me, stuck me in the ribs with a little green arrow, and started twisting it. There was absolutely no reason, no rationale. But there was also no denying that, while I wanted to hug her for being so glowingly fabulous, I also wanted to yell, "And stay away from my boyfriend!"
Duh, Helena.
The feeling passed as quickly as it had come, leaving me a little nauseous at my own insecurity. For gahd's sake, Helena, what's WRONG with you? What the hell? You're happy with Norman, you have no reason to believe Norman isn't happy with you, and it's not like YOU aren't a total hypocrite for being envious, when you yourself are in fairly regular contact with pretty much everybody you've ever had a really emotional attachment to, and expect THAT to be perfectly okay... I felt like such a whiny, angsty high-school kid. A little mallrat girl who clings to her man as if, at any moment, he'll disappear, and glares suspiciously at everything that might have a hole between its legs, lest, if it didn't feel hated enough, it might approach and make a move on her man. Duh. How I HATE that familiar scene! Why did I suddenly identify so strongly with it?
I bid farewell to my friend, exchanged email addresses with her, and ran into my apartment to hide.
It was fifty-six degrees downtown a few minutes ago: warmer than Charlotte, according to the newspaper. A warm wind is blowing, and Helena, who is ALWAYS cold, walked all the way home from work today without a coat. At a few minutes past six, the sun is finally beginning to set. Springtime is arriving.
At the dawn of springtime, I always feel a touch of vertigo. The unfamiliar warmth makes me wonder where I am. I look around and see familiar buildings, familiar faces, but something more primal, a touch of déjà vu, insists that something is different, maybe a little bit wrong. My head aches and my hands are clammy. It's that feeling I get sometimes when I wake up in the morning and don't know where I am: sometimes I expect to open my eyes onto my old bedroom at my dad's house, sometimes I expect to be in my dorm at Santa Fe, sometimes I expect I've fallen asleep on my mom's couch, and I open my eyes to something I don't understand for a few minutes.
It occurred to me to take a little walk earlier, and enjoy the weather. I had to mail some letters anyway, so I went to the post office and ducked into the Greyhound station on the way back. I wanted to inquire about bus tickets. Bus tickets to where? And why? I didn't know, so obviously, I didn't inquire. Instead, I purchased a backpack, just like one I'd seen a girl carrying earlier in the day: a flimsy red thing with the Greyhound logo on it. It was cute and it was funny, and I liked it because it was so generic: a souvenir from a Greyhound station, Anytown, USA. No stink of New York City in its fabric, no Tulsa breeze inside it, no Asheville sunshine or Albuquerque highways dangling from the zippers. Not even a Binghamton postcard tucked inside: an anonymous, placeless red backpack, with no identifying marks: uncorrupted and liberated. Funny, how this backpack seems so alive in being so ungrounded. Funny, how Helena would like to shrink into it and spend the first spring-like day of 2001 hiding in the pockets of a dorky red backpack, readjusting herself to her surroundings and, well... herself.
Perhaps I would feel more like myself if Aaron was in town. Alas, I have to wait until Friday.
Am going to go watch mindless television, maybe "90210" or "Roswell" or something. Perhaps meditating on mindless TV will bring me back to myself a little. Certainly, I've given up all sources of deep thought for a few days.
Love,
~Helena*