There is nothing like a sunny day in Western Washington. Maybe it's because we see the sun so infrequently during the year. Everything is washed in these brilliant shades of blue and yellow. You can tell which trees are blue spruce, because they actually change from their usual drab greenish color to this freakish, otherworldly blue-green.
I actually felt the sun happen today. It was out already, but right around 12:50, it... happened. It was like an explosion; it just became so brilliant and warm that I thought for a minute I was standing next to a fire. So, I made an excuse to go outside. I made some coffee, and then insisted, to myself and everybody else, that I would not drink such wonderful coffee (New Mexico Coffee Company's Coyote Blend...) with that shitty 1% milk in it. Hence, I had to walk to the gas station at the corner. It's not far to the gas station, but to get there requires a short trip across a rather scary overpass known as "The Widow-Maker." But... it was sunny. Everything was golden and blue... So, I skipped along the edges of the Widow-Maker. Fuck sidewalks. Who needs 'em?
I'm in a good mood. I don't know why, but I'm in a damn good mood.
I'm going to tell an anecdote now that somebody told me a long, long time ago, when I lived at the Ghetto Palace in Binghamton. I don't remember who told this to me, only that it was somebody who used to read Wet Cleanup sometimes, with whom I'd struck up a conversation about something or another. I think we were chatting on some instant-messanger thing. I don't remember the context, and the details are a little fuzzy, but I remember most of the story. To whomever it was that told it to me, I apologize in advance because I know I'm going to get something wrong here...
So, this girl was at a concert someplace in Europe. Actually, it was a music festival -- the outdoors kind, with tents and multiple stages, and all that. It was summertime, and she was happily jamming out to the music when she met this German guy. She was an American, and didn't speak a word of German. They had no language in common. So, they didn't speak. They just danced together. They spent the whole day together. And that night, she spent the night in his tent.
She told me it was the most beautiful, romantic thing that had ever happened to her. Apparently, the German guy was pretty attractive, and I suppose they at least had some music in common. And from what I remember of the story, he was pretty good in the tent. And in the morning, she left, and she never saw him again.
Now, this girl went back to the U.S., but all the while, she was secretly hoping she'd gotten pregnant by the German guy. Not so that she could see him again, or have some excuse to find him. As a matter of fact, she had no interest whatsoever in seeing him again. But she wanted to be pregnant so that she could tell her child that its father was perfect, and that their love had been perfect. If I remember correctly, the girl was in school at the time, or was otherwise occupied, in such a way that it would be extremely difficult for her to raise a child. But she told me she was very distraught when her period came.
Even though I don't remember who told me this story, or what it had to do with ANYTHING, I absolutely loved this story. I've kept it -- this random internet-chat story told to me by a stranger -- floating around my brain for four and a half years. It's such a weird, twisted love story, and it's horribly cynical at the same time as it's lovely. It says that there IS no "perfect" person, and there IS no "perfect" love, unless you're fortunate enough to not be able to KNOW the other person. And in that case, you can let that person be perfect. You can impose all of these perfect things upon that person, and upon your relationship. I suppose that's why people fall in love with their penpals or their chatroom buddies.
I'm not sure why I'm telling this story today. I guess maybe because I've been trying to determine what the hell love is, and how you know who the "right" person is. A wise young woman (not the one who went to Europe) informed me recently that there are many "ones" sometimes. That a person is "the one" until they're no longer "the one," and then maybe somebody else is. Or maybe nobody is. A much more realistic view of things, of course, than I've ever wished to entertain, but that's what makes me an airheaded romantic, and her a wise young woman.
For a very, very long time after I heard the story about the German guy at the music festival, I suspected that "the one" for me did not speak my language. Or that maybe he was from Scotland and spoke English I don't understand. But now I'm not sure. I'm not sure what the point of love is, really, aside from the whole toe-curling feeling of delirium. I know there's some stuff about getting old together, and helping each other with the groceries, and changing one another's colostomy bags when you're ninety, and all that crap...
I think right now, I think of love like I think of Washington. There are these beautiful days with an abundance of sunshine and excitement and gold-and-blue all over everything... And there are those grey days when it rains... and rains... and rains... The grey days, though, are beautiful in their own way. And anyway, without them, there wouldn't be any blue spruces and all that. I think love is both of those things, just as Washington is both of those things.
Whatever. I have to go. The dog is doing something freaky, and I'm gonna go lock her in a closet so I can restrain myself from beating her...
~Helena*