16 April 2002 ~ Thinking about Norman...

So I'm just sitting here trying to figure out waht the hell I was thinking... I'm going through my archived entries, trying to figure out what the hell I was thinking... And I just cannot figure it out.

So far as I can figure it, this is how it went... Things were bad. Very bad. I remember feeling kind of sick a lot of times. I remember feeling very, very cold. I remember some days in which there was no feeling. I remember cash registers and people yelling at me. I remember Long Island SUNY-brats. I remember it being too cold to go to the front porch for the mail without a winter coat and a scarf. I remember a lot of grey. I remember old men hitting on me, old men trying to touch me, and young men yelling at me out of their car windows. I remember Van Camps pork and beans. I remember picking up bottles on the way home in order to return them for food money. I remember when Dave and Kathy stopped letting me bring the bottles home from work. I remember feeling stupid. I remember being TOLD I was stupid. I remember feeling out of place in jeans and tank tops and Converse sneakers. I remember feeling out of place because I was too young. I remember being the only 20-year-old in town who wasn't going to college.

I remember the Belmar, and merlot out of a box with Chris, and singing "Alive" by Pearl Jam.

I remember they turned my special place by the river into a dump. I remember they started playing dollar-fifty movies in my indie-film theater. I remember the stupid bitches at Lost Dog who were never, ever, ever nice to me (except one of them; one of them was nice. The others were bitches). I remember Aaron stopping by sometimes to pick me up, have me pay for dinner at Denny's, and yell at me for my various aspirations. I remember sitting on Norman's porch and wondering why the hell he would date someone as stupid as me. I remember walking home from work on the railroad tracks, and two kids throwing rocks at me.

I remember Tom Robbins making me laugh when nothing was funny at all.

I remember a caron of orange juice every day, ninety-nine cents at Giant; more expensive at the Hess Mart, but I never wanted to cross Main Street. I remember I was afraid to walk past the high school students out on the sidewalks. I remember sometimes they called my friends "faggot," and then spit on the ground. I remember THEY CLOSED DOWN MY LIBRARY. I remember the shitty radio: 105.7 always playing Creed, and 99.1 always having this stalker-DJ on at night. I remember the way the men at Sharkey's used to ask me what classes I was in, and if I wasn't in any classes, why was I reading?

I remember watching "Twin Peaks" maybe a couple times a week with Norman.

I remember never being able to escape the gloom of Peter. I remember smoking clove cigarettes and crying on my porch every night. I remember my messy house. I remember FOUR stupid house-mates dicking me over, and everybody wondered what was wrong with me that Jeff would have become so gawd-awful annoying once he lived with me, and what made Jo try to kill herself once she lived with me? I remember Kevin breaking into my house and taking my stuff. I remember kind of liking Alex, and then Alex told me he didn't want to go out with me because I was "too attached" to him. I remember bruises. I remember finding nasty porn on my computer. I remember having tea at Nathan's house and never wanting to go home, because Peter would yell at me for stealing "his" friend. I remember the person I loved telling all his friends I molested him. I remember people hating me. I remember feeling like it was everyone. I remember walking down the center of Route 434 on a snowy evening, hoping somebody would just do it for me. I remember never being able to forget those things, because they were always there.

I remember the first time I heard Modest Mouse.

I remember Seattle.

I remember sunshine.

I remember Lake Washington, Lake Tapps, the Puget Sound, the Snoqualmie River...

I remember the sweetest, blackest coffee in the world. And the sweetest, juiciest blackberries.

I remember Neil's voice. I remember Brian's voice. I remember Jane's voice. I remember seeing other people wearing jeans and tank tops and Converse sneakers. I remember giving directions to tourists. Mostly I remember sunshine.

I remember how it was pouring rain when I got home. And I remember Norman wouldn't touch me.

I remember how I cheated on Norman, and how he said everything was okay, and he still loved me, but he wouldn't let me touch him. I remember how long it was that nobody would touch me. I remember Norman instructing me to call him my "housemate," not my "boyfriend" or my "lover." I remember how I felt like a cheap whore. I probably was one.

I remember getting fired for using a management function on the cash register. I remember being forced to quit because they didn't feel like giving me more than 12 hours a week if I wasn't going to fuck the manager. I remember being told "you're really not a very good worker." I remember how Shanon promised me she'd hold my job open for me, and then she didn't. I remember them firing me without telling me why, the day after they saw me reading Marx in the break room on Labor Day. I remember walking five miles a day by myself in heavy traffic. I remember getting yelled at. I remember being fondled in the bathroom and nobody doing anything about it. I remember cleaning up vomit and piss. I remember being fired from Burger King for eating a French fry. I remember Wendy yelling at me not to work so slowly. I remember her yelling at me not to work so fast. I remember being told by almost every single one of them that I'd never do any better, ever.

I remember they asked me, those nice grown-up 'Greener boys, why on EARTH I was still living in my shithole of a hometown. That was after they'd made fun of me for kind of liking Radiohead.

I remember cold and sick and sad and alone. I remember never being able to forget. I remember feeling stupid. I remember defeat.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Do you understand now? Do you understand that I had to leave? Do you understand that I didn't have another option? Can you see that there were so many bad things, so much hurt, that it was hard for me to want to wake up sometimes? It wasn't that there wasn't anything good. It's just that sometimes everything hurt, and I had to keep my eyes closed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"...When you finally see how you can accomplish everything, there will be no end of self-confidence and joy. Try it. Go away and don't think of coming home. Go as one would like to walk by the sea at night, forever on and on under the many silent stars. Try it."
--Rainer Maria Rilke.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It wasn't that I didn't love you. I swear to gahd it wasn't that. The only things I'm ever really lonely for (aside from having a big apartment to myself) are you and my family and Lost Dog. I miss your music. Gahd-dammit, you have NO idea how much I miss your music. I miss your silly faces. I miss watching you smoke. I miss kissing you. I miss your smell of beer and skin and soap and Camels. I miss cuddling with you and watching "Twin Peaks" and teasing: "ohhhh, Harry!" I love you. Oh dammit, I love you.

It wasn't that I didn't love you. It was just that sometimes I hated everything else so much that I couldn't think about you. And sometimes I needed to run away, where I had some value to this world. Sometimes I didn't think I held that much value for you, no matter how much you held for me. Sometimes I had to run away, and in those times, I could not think of you.

What the hell was I thinking? That you could come with me? That maybe nothing would change? That maybe once I'd actually run away, I'd forget all about you, just become somebody who'd never known you? That I'd erase you and fall immediately, madly in love with someone else? I don't know what I was thinking.

I wasn't thinking.

I wasn't prepared for sleeping alone.

I wasn't prepared to sleep with anybody else and pretend it was you.

I wasn't prepared for the fact that I don't know when I'll see you again. I wasn't ready for you to be on one side of the country, and me to be on the other, and neither one of us can join the other.

I wasn't thinking.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"I was kind of lonely for you the other day," I said to you, kind of hesitantly, on the phone. "So I was telling Louise about the 'Highway To Hell Lullaby.'"

"The what?"

"The 'Highway to Hell Lullaby'? Remember?"

"I don't remember what that is..."

"Remember!? I asked you to play me a song before bed, and you started playing this really beautiful, soft, lullaby song? And I didn't recognize it for a little while, and then it was 'Highway to Hell'?"

"No, I don't remember that... But it sounds funny... Maybe I kind of do..."

"Norman! You don't remember the 'Highway to Hell Lullaby'? That was only a few months ago! Man, I knew it wouldn't take you long to forget everything... You probably don't remember any of the important stuff..."

"I remember the fucking."

"Yeah."

* * * * * * * * * * *

I dreamed about you last night. Something about an airport. We were both in an airport. You were taking a plane one direction, and I was taking a plane the other direction. But I missed my plane on purpose because I wanted to stay with you a little longer. And in my dream, you wouldn't even look at me. You wouldn't talk to me. I wanted to talk to you, tell you something important. And I wanted to kiss you. But by the time I'd succeeded in getting your attention, you looked at me with this really ugly look of disdain. You asked me why I hadn't gotten on my plane. I said, "Because I wanted to kiss you goodbye." You turned then and walked away. You got on your plane. And I woke up thinking maybe I'd never see you again. I whispered to myself: "oohhhhhh, Harry." I don't know why.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I've wondered a number of times what would have happened if I'd stayed in Binghamton. Would we still be together now? We probably would be. When I left, I was just beginning to feel like things were really, really wonderful. I'd stopped feeling afraid that I wasn't good enough for you. I'd stopped being so irritated by some of your annoying little quirks. When I left, I just loved you, and that was all. Maybe for the first time since we met, everything just seemed content and pleasing. Maybe, for the first time, I felt like we knew each other pretty damned well. Like we knew each other, and we LIKED each other. There aren't many people I can say that about. For the first time, it felt good, all the time. At least for me. I think maybe if I was still in Binghamton, we'd be together.

But I also think that if I was in Binghamton, I would just keep growing smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of me to love you, or to be loved by you.

Defeat...

* * * * * * * * * * *

I woke up to check my email an hour before class. You'd sent me an email -- around the same time I was having that dream about you and me in the airport.

You wrote that you're back on the "dating" scene now. You kind of asked me for advice on how to ask someone out. You wrote that you've been thinking a lot about sex.

On the other hand, I've stopped really caring about sex. I thought maybe screwing around with some people would help me to ease you out of my mind. But all it did was remind me of what a wonderful lover you are. And it made the people I've slept with stop speaking to me. All sex does for me is get me off and make me lose friends. It's not really worth it. I give up.

I wonder now, did you actually mean it when I said you didn't remember any of the important things, and you said you remembered the fucking? No, of course not; you're not so perversely shallow. Of course you must assign me some value a little bit higher than that in your life; something a little bit more important than just a lay. And I've grown accustomed to your making asshole-ish remarks like that, and I know not to get offended. I know you're just kidding. But sometimes, like when you send me a long email about the unending pursuit of pussy, and then in the last line say you miss me, I wonder. I wondered for a YEAR if I -- silly little uneducated, ignorant, space-cadet food-service professional that I was -- could possibly mean anything more than sex to you. I guess sometimes I still wonder.

I wonder why you remember having sex with me, but you don't remember the 'Highway to Hell Lullaby.' What else have you forgotten? Will the sex be the last thing about you and me to leave your memory? Don't worry so much; you're beautiful, you're a musician, you're a genius, you're sweet, and you have beautiful eyes. And you look younger than 28. You'll have that replaced in no time at all.

Oh Norman, I don't like it when you joke like that. I really don't like it at all. Sometimes it's funny, but it hurts so much.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I was going to ask Matthew the SexyBarrista out today. Just going to ask him if he wanted to maybe rent some movies this weekend or something maybe... But it didn't work out.

I stayed later in my class than I expected; I got to talking with my professor, the Goat-God, who was so astounded by my project that he didn't have much to say at all. So I kept kind of explaining further what I was doing, thinking maybe he didn't quite understand. Eventually, it was really just me doing most of the talking, and I missed the 2.30 bus downtown.

I did manage to talk to Matthew the SexyBarrista for a few minutes. I told him my professor looks like Pan, with really crazy greenish eyes, with a crazy streak of yellowish-red in the centers. And our eyes caught, mine and Matthew's, and we just smiled at each other for a minute, laughing about my professor the Goat-God. Matthew has beautiful bluish-green eyes. They look like the Puget Sound on a sunny day. I looked at them for as long as I could. And I thought of Norman -- about Norman asking ME for advice on asking people out, because in asking people out, it's understood that you want to fuck them. I thought about Norman asking me that first time if I wanted to go see "Chicken Run" with him. And, looking at Matthew, I just couldn't ask him out. Because maybe Norman's right: maybe asking somebody out IS just a fancy way of asking, "will you please assist me in having an orgasm?" Because maybe if Matthew DID say yeah, sure, he'd love to rent a movie this weekend, maybe we'd have sex and he'd stop speaking to me. And I'd have lost a friend, plus I'd feel like an asshole going to that coffeehouse again. And they DO have the best americanos I've EVER had. Or what if we actually started dating? And what if someday I had to run away for some reason, and he forgot everything about me except the sex? And what if he emailed me one day to bounce ideas off me as to the proper way to replace me with some girl.

Yes, there ARE worse things than being turned down. There ARE worse things than, "I'm seeing somebody, I wouldn't feel right..."

I couldn't ask Matthew out. He's sexy, and he has pretty Puget Sound eyes, and he's bright, and he's interesting. And I think he likes me, too. And I'd REALLY like to get to know him. But I just couldn't do it. Looking at those pretty eyes, I felt so small. I felt like some kind of damaged goods. I felt like I was eleven years old, and had a pitiful crush on some cute boy who thought I was gross and wanted me to stop following him around. I just couldn't say anything. I just froze.

I went outside for a cigarette. I bought a bottle of wine this weekend; a cabernet-merlot hybrid from Snoqualmie. It had a picture of the waterfall on the front of it. I love that waterfall. They filmed the "picnic" scene of "Twin Peaks" at those vineyards. So I'm a sucker; I just wanted to try it. I made myself promise not to open it though; not until I'd asked Matthew out. And if he said yes, then I could open it and maybe share some with him if he wanted. If he said no, then I would open it by myself, for being brave and asking somebody out. I was thinking about that sad, lonely, unopened bottle, and smoking my cigarette. And Matthew smiled at me and said, "I'll see you soon," and left. Those eyes and his dark hair make him seem kind of dangerous, but when he speaks to me, he seems a little bit quiet and shy. I felt like yelling after him, "Hey, want to get together Friday? I'll rent indie-films from Rainy Day and we can break open the waterfall-wine..." But I couldn't. Just couldn't.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Go as one would like to walk by the sea at night, forever on and on under the many silent stars."

* * * * * * * * * * *

It's midnight now. I'm going to Seattle tomorrow. I need to clear my head. If I wasn't so concerned with catching my bus at 9.00, I'd go down to the sea now. And I'd walk forever. On and on. Under the many silent stars.

~Helena*

PS -- Oh yes; I knew I was forgetting something of extraordinary importance... Happy birthday tomorrow, Drew.